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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

agenttrevor:

@criimeconcierge liked for a starter!

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    One day, Victor thought, he’d take up a job that didn’t get him stuck in suspicious situations at odd times. Flower arranging, maybe. He could do a stint as a librarian, and no one would try to kill him on a daily basis– he was pretty certain people didn’t get that up in arms about late fees. As it was, Victor’s day had taken an unexpected turn for the unsavoury, and he’d have to admit that he wasn’t exactly enjoying it. Just now he found himself leant against the brick facade of a half-abandoned building (complete with broken window and the door smashed in for full effect, of course), trying and failing to get his lighter to work.

     “Fuck,” Victor swore lowly, frustration clear in both tone and expression as he leant his head back against the brick and let out a short sigh. He was on edge enough, at this point, that when he opened his eyes to see someone else nearby it set off all kinds of alarm bells– whether that was entirely reasonable or not. It probably wasn’t. Still. Victor opted for his very favourite method of dealing with problems, and talked at the guy. “Alright there, mate?”

There was a reason Red held so many abandoned properties across the globe ––Nowhere better to engage in underhanded dealings than a place that was owned, but left to apparent disrepair. It was a solitude afforded to him, one of the important pillars of his existence, so when he was interrupted by the sʜʜᴋᴋ, sʜʜᴋᴋ, sʜʜᴋᴋ! of a lighter in the otherwise silent air, his guard went up. It wouldn’t be the FBI or any other of the alphabet soup organizations, none of them were careless enough, which made the situation potentially more [dangerous]. His fingers curled around the handle of his gun, the position not obvious from the stranger’s position. 

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“Perfectly fine. You look like you need a light,” with his other hand, he proffers his lighter, butane, one of those fancy ones that always lights, no matter what. The bit of copper in the path of the switch turns the flame green as he lights it, holds it out. This stranger may not look like a threat at first blush, but Red was never one to let his guard down until he was  a b s o l u t e l y  sure. Closing the top with a flick, his other hand joins the one on his gun, behind his back, as he sizes the other man up. “And what are you doing out in this area at this time of night? Are you lost? Perhaps your – phone needs a charge?”

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