NAPS
HOVER
Indie Raymond "Red" Reddington from NBC's Blacklist. Private. Selective. Mun/Muse 21+. Dark Themes present. Please read rules/bio before following/interacting. Written by Erick

whcwashe:

“It’s not — it’s not voodoo, it’s called scrying …” lips press into a line before she launches into a full explanation. She barely understood it himself, she wasn’t about to try and explain it all properly to him. That wasn’t why he was here anyway. Reaching down to scratch behind bowie’s ears, she continued on towards the kitchen to grab two glasses and sighed. At least he’d managed to charm the dog somehow, it was a minor relief, if nothing else. 

image

“Right. Great.” Used to it. Like he’d be back. He said he’d call again, it wasn’t exactly surprising. But she hadn’t expected her life to take ANOTHER turn in the middle of all of the twists it had already taken. She’d barely gotten a handle on her own abilities. She’d still hardly slept a whole night through. She didn’t need to add criminals to her list of things to be aware of, but – well. Here they were. She nods, setting two glasses on the table as she comes back, settling across from him with a sigh. “I don’t – I mean, I haven’t, but he doesn’t – I’d hate to make him go out of his way …”

Red waved his hand at the correction, “Yes, right, whatever it’s called. First time I’ve actually seen it work. I’ve had my fill of smoke and mirrors. It was refreshing.” If she’d tried to explain, he probably would have cut her off. He looks out of place in the apartment, his sharkskin suit reeks of money, money the likes of her and her fiance wouldn’t see for years–if at all. But it was quaint. From what little he’d learned of her, it fit. 

image

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Liv. One might be inclined to think you’re unhappy to see me, and when I came with a gift, no less.” She’s sitting so far from him, but he supposes that’s natural. He realizes he exudes the aura of a predator, someone to be wary of, and she’s right to trust her instincts. Once the glasses are there, he pours them each a few fingers. “It wouldn’t be any trouble at all, it’s part of his job.” Dembe was more than his assistant, more than an errand boy, but that was part of his job description. “I feel like something Mediterranean, how does falafel sound to you?” The glass was held aloft, “Prepare yourself for the best tasting tequila your tongue’s ever had.”

  1. criimeconcierge reblogged this from whcwashe
  2. whcwashe reblogged this from criimeconcierge