Resslington - Blog Posts

I wanna show you a great many things about me, Donald.

The Blacklist Rare Ships Week Bonus day: Free Theme

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 7: “Crazy in Love”

Day 5: “Come on Closer”. Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler.

Look at Donnie’s smile! At that time Donald was smiling yet.

@theblacklistrareshipsweek, Day 7, “Crazy In Love”.

Does delivering a cut-off head of the guy who murdered the love of your life qualify as a sophisticated flirt?

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Day 6: Nectar Like Lips/Whisper My Name

A/N I just had some fun with this one!  ____

“You have to give the USB drive to Reddington.” Cooper’s voice rings sharply over the small microphone in his ear.

“That’s gonna be a problem.”

He’s standing in the middle of a party – thank God for Aram’s ability to forge invitations. The local bluebloods and their rich posse are gliding over shining marble and in between tables dressed in silk and gold. Donald can feel his pleb breeding stick out like a dying rat amongst songbirds. He’s seen high society, but this is something else.

On a buffet, there are exotic birds killed and splayed out like delicacy. On another table, something is squirming in a bowl. A lady dressed in what he can only assume is a white leopard’s pelt, plucks a tentacled creature out of the bowl ad pops it into her mouth.

He feels the vomit push up into his throat.

That tight upper-class laughter sprinkles over the sway of conversation. Donald tries not to look as uncomfortable as he feels. He halfway expects someone to chase him out on principle alone. Where the fuck is Red? He wants to get out of here.

A familiar laugh pulls him to a sudden halt, he turns to find Red sitting cozy and happy on a purple sofa surrounded by a few smiling women. They are dressed about as scantily as he has seen in any nightclub, but he supposes the solid gold necklaces and stilettos shimmering with diamonds make it upper class.

“Reddington,” he says, already heading over.

Red glances up, his eyes flashing something sharp for a second before softening into the same old look of dark amusement. “Ah! My good friend, Donald!” he waves at him, clearly a little drunk, “What brings you to this little jamboree?”

“I came to give you –“

Red waves a hand, “Oh, come no. I thought you’d come to visit, to share in some delightful conversation and to expand your pallet with some exotic foods.”

The image of a squirming bowl of tentacles makes his stomach churn, “No, thanks.” He says, “I just need to –“

“Then kindly speak to me at a later date,” he says, smile sharp, “I’m sure it can wait.”

Red turns back to his women, dismissing Donald.

There is a long moment where he can’t think, his anger crawling up in his chest at a murderous speed. He’s halfway tempted to throw the stick at him, but then he might compromise the information. It’s already wrapped tight in a bit of silicone…

A thought comes to him.

Turning his back, he slides the USB stick into his mouth, then he heads over to the lady on Red’s left. While Red is busy with the other woman on his right, he taps the lady on the shoulder, giving her a nod of his head and a wink. She blushes a pretty pink and quickly stands to make space for Donald.

Once settled he reaches up and taps Red on the shoulder.

Red barely has a chance to open his mouth in surprise, when Donald pushes in close and slams their lips together. He can feel Red freeze under him, his mouth still slightly open. Smiling to himself, Donald quietly pushes the stick onto Red’s tongue waiting for him to take it.

Red responds, but not in the way Donald thought he would.

Two hands grip him by the sides of his head, keeping him in place as Red takes the stick and plunges his now free tongue into Donald’s mouth. He gasps. A full-body shudder shoots straight through him. His own hands grabbing for purchase on Red’s suit even as Red shifts his head for better access. Donald responds through shock or need, he’s not sure, his mouth shifting over Red’s, eager and wanting –

Red pulls away, his eyes now warm and soft, “Thank you for bringing me that,” he says softly.

Donald can only nod. His voice has run off somewhere.

Then Red leans in close, lips brushing his ear, “I’ll give you a proper thank you later tonight.”

Donald swallows, and nods.

@theblacklistrareshipsweek, Day 6: “Nectar Like Lips”

A Resslington mix for their non-verbal interactions ;)

You are the boat who’s sailing across my flesh

1. But the flesh is weak and without reason // 2. I see you left a mark up and down my skin // 3. I’ve got to remember this is just a game // 4. за мной следят в замочную скважину, ты следишь // 5. если любовь, значит всё сгорает // 6. I know that you’re burning out for me // 7. You have poison in your heart // 8. Through you I’m living my worst desire // 9. I will wash off all the dirty, dirty thoughts I had about you // 10. я хочу найти письмо в пустом конверте и прочесть тебе

Day 5: Come on Closer

Red braced himself against the car door, his cuffed hands gripping the leather seat in front of him as the driver took a violent turn around the corner – tires squealing over the tar.

This was not exactly how he had planned his Saturday morning. But somethings just could not be helped. Particularly your own kidnapping. 

They all righted again with a jerk. The driver clapped off a few choice insults in Arabic, his voice high with growing panic.

“You should listen to your friend,” Red drolled, “The FBI are quite adamant to have me in their possession, and this won’t end well for either of you.”

The passenger turned in his seat, whipping out his pistol to point straight at him, “Shut up!” he snapped and sat back.

Red shrugged, “Only trying to be helpful.”

Another violent jerk tossed him to the right side this time. He once again grabbed the seat, the ensuing momentum making his insides churn. Damn, he hated car chases. When he righted, they were next to the ocean, still keeping a blistering pace.

The driver’s voice climbed higher up on the panic threshold, and Red peered around the seat. He smiled.

Charging down towards them was a black FBI SUV, and by his guess, it was most likely Donald.

“He’ll swerve!” snapped the passenger.

“He won’t,” said Red, already grabbing the seat belt to click into place. “I can guarantee you that.”

Another few panicked words were exchanged, should they slow down, or keep going? The gunman glanced at Red then at the driver, his face was soaked in sweat his eyes shining bright with fear and terror, but also thick with anger. “Don’t swerve. They don’t want to hurt him!”

“You’re going to play chicken with a man who doesn’t understand the meaning of self-preservation?” he chuckled, then sat back, relaxing his entire body, “I wish you all the luck in the world.”

Another few panicked words, rising higher and higher, until the driver’s nerve faltered and swerved at the last second. 

The impact ripped through his bones, making the car rip and jolt over the tar. Shattered glass shot by him, and for a moment everything spun, he closed his eyes against the nausea, he felt the car tilt, heard the terrified screams of his kidnappers and they came to shaky stand still. The world silent after the screams.

Dazed and out of it, Red shook his head, trying to sit as still as possible. He jumped at the sound of gunfire, two shots, and then his door was ripped open.

Donald, a little bloodied and clearly shaken by the crash was standing next to him. Red offered him a light smile and in an instant, all the tension just seeped out of his body. “Hey,” said Donald, reaching out to the cuffs, “You okay?”

Red held up his hands, “Dazed, but in one piece,” the cuffs clinked open and he rubbed his wrists, “You’re very late Donald.”

He smiled, revealing bloodied teeth. “Yeah?” glancing around he made sure no one was near – his two kidnappers already dead –  before leaning in close to press a quick kiss to his cheek, “I’ll make it up later.”

The ensuing warmth made him smile like a fool, “I look forward to it.”

_____

A/N: Agent Ressler has a death wish. That is all.

@theblacklistrareshipsweek Day 4 - “The Things You Do Aren’t Good For My Health” (kinda loosely…) _____________________________________________ iii. push, strike & kill (i’m not going)

„See, this is what I love about you.“ A soft hand ghosting over hot skin. „You throw yourself into this completely and without any fear, even though you know I can’t give you nearly enough. You surrender, you sacrifice your everything for me. And I love your devotion.“ Goosebumps; shallow breath. „Your addiction. To me. To us.“ Gentle candle light. Smooth, silky sheets rustling. The hand never stopping. „Your naive belief that if you just let yourself fall deep enough, you’ll be able to catch yourself again. But you can’t, Donald. You’ve laid down your life to me, harbouring illusions of safety and romance that you know I can never make real, because I just take and take and take. I suck the life out of you and you don’t even realize it. Or maybe you do and you just get off on it in that perverse way that you love it when I make you suck my loaded gun, knowing full well a tiny slip of my finger will have your brains splattered all over the wall.“ A faint laugh. Fond, sparkling eyes taking the pale body in; memorizing every spot over and over again. „God, Donald, I love that about you, I really do. Even more than I despise it. That self-destructive way of yours, giving over your life to me when you should hold on to it with everything you’ve got. Driving yourself closer to a sweet, loving suicide because you can’t help it, tightening the rope around your neck because you know how much I love that sight.“

[Keep reading on AO3]

Day 4: The Things You Do Aren’t Good For My Health/I’ll Take Care of You

He wakes up to the intense burn of a florescent light. His eyes sting against the glare, piercing straight through his skull, and it takes a long time before he can properly see through the blurring pain.

The machine next to him is incessantly beeping, making the growing headache spike. Hospital. What the hell am I doing in a hospital?

The tubes catch on his arms as he tries to get up, but sudden strong hands are on him, holding him down, gently but firmly. Something is wrong, he doesn’t know what, but something is very wrong.

“Donald, please calm yourself.” A man with a hat is standing next to him. His eyes betray a level of intense exhaustion, but they are filled up with worry and kindness. His doctor?

“You were in an accident.” He comes to sit next to him on the bed, his smile a little relieved. “I’m glad you’re awake,” The man glides a gentle hand over his forehead and briefly into his hair, making him shudder, “You got hurt while saving my life, remember? Typical,” there is a sweet fondness in his voice, “But the doctor’s say you’re going to be fine.”

He shakes his head violently, ignoring the pain. “No…” he struggles again, “… wrong… no.”

Again, strong hands hold him down firmly – he spares a glance to the tall black man next to him and his heart contracts again.

The kind man pushes himself close, grabbing his face in both hands, forcing him to look him in the eye, His expression is fiercely compassionate, but growing with worry. “Donald, just breathe, and tell me what is wrong.”

He blinks, feeling the slide of tears slip into his hair, “Don’t know… “he shakes his head, “Don’t know who I am.”

The expression falls slack, all the softness and compassion shattered in an instant, revealing only a horrible look of surprise and sharp pain. He has the terrible urge to apologize, to at least try and remove that look utter devastation.

When the man finally pulls away, he is already firing off orders to the few others in the room - and there is the doctor, and probably a nurse. 

He turns on his side, trying to block out all the noise, he curls up and desperately tries to remember who he is. ____ A/N: I’ve always wanted to write an amnesia fic, but it never comes out the way I want - the whole point of reading a paring is to see their interactions. When one has amnesia, then it kinda defeats the purpose, because that individual isn’t himself anymore. So you’re technically writing an OC with another character XD Anyway, a short drabble is a good way to get it out of my system. Thanks for reading! :)

Day 4. “I’ll Take Care of You”. Or “The Things You Do Aren’t Good For My Health”. Reddington/Ressler.

You can interpret it both ways.

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.

@theblacklistrareshipsweek

Day 3, "Hands All Over"

Red had to give emergency medical aid to Ressler in Anslo Garrick which involved a lot of touching. But these two find excuses for physical touch throughout their relationship. Whether it's slapping on handcuffs, a pat on the shoulder, gentle care or a full-body hug, our #Resslington pair just seem to get more touchy as the years roll by.

I had to!

(Not my gifs. Credit to the original gif artist/s.)

#donald ressler #raymond reddington #resslington #the blacklist rare ships week #TBLRSW

@theblacklistrareshipsweek, Day 3 “Hands All Over”.

Pain is love, pain is love Drag me into the drain of your heart

“Pain Is Love” by Spiritual Front

@theblacklistrareshipsweek, Day 3 “Hands All Over”.

We are the same endless desire, devotion like emptiness I’m so in love with you, desperately in love with you Devoted to you as I

“Devoted To You” by Spiritual Front

Day 3. “Hands All Over”, Resslington. Partially whump, but everyone’s seen the show, eh?

Day 3. “Hands all over”. Resslington.

Does anyone have a hand kink? Because I do.

Day two: Damn your eyes

There has always been something about his eyes that fascinated Red. Donald’s job, his moral compass and his blind loyalty to his ‘FBI’ has always bored him to tears. But his are eyes an entirely different matter.

They are like the coolest pools of green, a sonnet can easily be written of their depths, their sheer intensity, their honesty. His face might be resilient to showing emotions, but they have no such qualms. Burning like fire, freezing like ice, softening like heated butter. They show what he’s thinking – without his consent.

And more often than not, when turned to Red they are hardened like steel, ready to be forged in the fire to be burned into a flaming weapon.

It never fails to make him smile.

Donald is not without passion, not without merits. Red often wonders what it would be like to turn that passion to something of real value. To send Donald into deserts and jungles to liberate those who cannot liberate themselves. He knows he would be marvellous at it. Donald was born to protect and defend; he would take to it like a Knight to his sword.

But it’s not to be. Donald has been sealed into the core of his FBI, he’s been crafted and moulded into something unbreakable. Even if Red could convince Donald that he can help people, the man would never turn his back on his team.

It angers Red, only serving to make him jaded and bitter towards Donald when the thought comes up. Donald takes it, let’s the punches land like bombs against his shields, keeping his face impassive and his words measured.

But his eyes burn, with fire, with anger and brimstone. And Red remembers why he endures all his failings.

He just can’t get enough of them.

Day One: When I first saw [You] Reddington

A/N Jumping in on day one for the “TBL Rare ships week”, despite the fact that I’m already two days late XD I’ll have to get cracking to catch up!  _____ I wanted to punch him! Nothing has ever brought me to that level of sheer ferocity than the day I met Raymond Reddington.

After breaking into the building, my team and I had carefully picked our way down the dark passages. The tunnels had been hot and humid in the Vietnamese Jungles. We’d met with some trouble on our way through, and my team and I got separated in what I could only describe as a damned labyrinth.

By sheer luck I’d burst into his room. Decorated in soft cream panels, tasteful silk sheets on the four poster bed, and a deep red carpet. I was baffled that such a room could exist in the grimy tunnels I’d just left. But I’d quickly recovered and aimed my gun, the thrill of having him in my sights almost making my hands tremble. To this day I regret not firing immediately. 

“FBI!”

He spared me a lazy glance over his $1000 sunglasses, a bubbling glass of champagne still in hand and a look of utter bemusement on his face. Curious yet half-way uninterested at the same time. Like a peculiar bug which had stumbled onto his plate, but not into the caviar just yet.

“Get on the ground!” I’d yelled, gun aimed at his head. My team had gotten pinned down somewhere, chances that they would even get here in time would be a miracle in of itself. Dembe, dour and serious, had pulled out his own gun, pinned in turn on me, but a casual wave of Reddington’s hand had most likely prevented him from blowing my head off.

“Ah,” Raymond had said, taking a long sip of champagne, “Another dog sent to chase me, let’s hope this one can keep up.”

I would, I always would, but catching him would prove impossible. I hadn’t known that yet.

The flash of anger had me almost baring my teeth. “Get your ass on the ground, Reddington!”

As a response he’d chuckled, and I could see it for what it was. A dismissive action meant to make me feel small and worthless next to him and his posse. “Agent Donald Ressler, is it?” he’d asked, clear disdain in his voice. Like plucking the words up with tweezers to prevent himself from touching them.

I wasn’t surprised he knew me. But I didn’t like the look in his eyes.

“You have a lot to learn.” And the world exploded.

Many years has passed since that first day. Part of me still hates everything that he is, from that hated suit and hat, to that quiet composure and his utter disregard for my experience and achievements – like a sour cocktail I have to drink every fucking morning. We work for him now. As lackey’s and hunting dogs, as pathetic and disposable as they sound. But a dog gets some affection from his master. He gets treats and pats and recognition for the work and loyalty he offers.

I get nothing but disdain, eyerolls, cutdowns, insults and sneers.

I hate that it’s so, but mostly I hate that I care. Hate that every time he does acknowledge my achievements and good deeds, I preen like a good dog, I wag my tail and I want to reach up to his face and do something completely different than punch.

@theblacklistrareshipsweek Day 2, “Damn Your Eyes”.

 Do you think you’d love them all the same? (and even if) You’d lose everything, faith too. You gave your blood And the rest of that ridiculous crown And all your rags for just one dollar.

Lyrics from “Jesus Died in Las Vegas” by Spiritual Front

@theblacklistrareshipsweek

Day 1, “When I First Saw You”. The scene which made you fall in love with your ship

It was my engagement with you that ended that relationship.

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