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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
"Fuck! My legs shot. Not sure I can walk on it."

Damn. This was a tight spot, and there wasn’t enough time to properly treat it. The flames were closing in, and the air was barely breathable, thick with ash and heat. His throat was dry and hot, he tried to hold his breath when he could. 

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“Let’s splint it, quickly. We’ve got to get out of here, the place is caving in.” One good thing about a burning building, the decimation around it, there were pieces of wood and metal that made an effective splint. It didn’t take long for Red to tie up the pieces around Miles’ leg, keeping it from moving too much, and providing an improvised tourniquet for the bleeding wound. 

Once he was sure it would hold at least long enough for them to get out of the building, Red helped him up. “Come on, lean on me. We’ve just got to get out of here, no problem.” 

mockeryofreason:

▷▷ @criimeconcierge

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It was a better room than usual, but still not can’t be paid off to not ask questions better. He had spent some time mapping the place out, the walrider making note of anything significant. He had started dicking around in the kitchen - running coffee, mostly - when he heard Reddington come in, but he doesn’t give him the time to talk.

“Have you ever been to Louisiana?” He asked, stopping long enough to take a couple of pain pills ( with his back carefully to the man. ) before he faced him, all tired eyes and ragged scars, and old flannel. Maybe it was anxiety; he knew they had work to do, if they were going to make any headway with Murkoff, but he felt distinctly unsteady, and he wanted to take the conversation anywhere else, if he’s being honest. If only for a few minutes, maybe give him the time to get on top of it.

It’s a tenuous relationship he’s forged with Miles, one that he thinks they’re both still getting their bearings with, so he’s let the young man do his own thing for the most part, only assisting him in continuing to stay under the radar and to start setting up some sort of plan. There was much to do for a company with as many fingers in as many pies as Murkoff. 

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Red’s nearly assaulted by the question, but it doesn’t show. Something he’s always been able to do is come up with a story at the drop of a hat. “Yes, many times. New Orleans Jazz…nothing beats it!  And the atmosphere is something that simply cannot be recreated.” And there it was, his lead-in. “Once, I got lost in the Marigny Triangle. It was misty and late and I got completely turned around, couldn’t even tell if I’d been walking in circles! I was about to panic when I heard the sound of steel drums being played. Now, that wouldn’t be altogether out of the ordinary, but this is at two in the morning. For a moment, I thought it might have been some sort of Jamaican angel, so I followed the sound of the music,” he smiled, remembering, “It was so beautiful and ethereal, but every time I thought I was getting close they moved further away from me. I never did find the drummer/s, but I did find Elysian Fields Avenue, and thus my bearings, and was no longer lost. Maybe it was a Jamaican angel.”

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mockeryofreason

replied to your

post

:

I’m having a weird issue on Tumblr and it’s…

Have you checked xkit too? I’m pretty sure there’s an option in there, but don’t quote me on that. All else fails, you could also check the browser itself.

I haven’t checked xkit yet, but my friend’s an xkit developer and they didn’t see anything anywhere that does that, and even so, why would it only do it on SOME people’s blogs??

@tcmbond I’ll check, i don’t even know what I have to look for but I’ll look.

mockeryofreason:

@criimeconcierge

Miles Upshur, formerly a freelance investigative journalist - well, still was, he supposed, but his activity had all but bottomed out after Mount Massive - was a terrifying sight in and of himself, between the height he had over most people and the scars he’d collected inside Mount Massive. The most obvious were the long, winding scars stretching over his features like nightmarish willow branches.

( he still remembered the cold bite of the stone wall he had been thrown into. )

In that moment, though, the booth he was at was taken up by a small laptop, a notebook, and the plate and cup of coffee he’d ordered. He didn’t seem very inclined to touch his food, picking away at the keyboard with the ruined things he called fingers irritably instead. If the laptop lasted to the end of the year, he’d be surprised; if it didn’t kick the bucket he would almost certainly run it over, and his joints ached dully due largely in part to the colder region he was staying in, but he was trying to keep a clear head long enough to finish—

“Don’t mind me, keep eating that ghastly attempt at eggs benedict. I’ll let you finish and then we can talk.”

The voice belonged to exactly none of the patrons he’d previously been aware of, voices that had registered in the walrider, and the reaction is immediate- previously tired, half closed eyes are suddenly wide and alert when they snap up to see who had spoken, tension suddenly winding through his muscles before he sat up straight. He looked like a deer in the headlights, and then as wary as if he regularly found himself looking up only to find a barrel of a gun. He had the scars to show that probably happened at least once or twice.

“I… uh,” he looks up, past him, searching the diner for anyone else who was crashing breakfast. Or… dinner, he hadn’t exactly slept and he was beginning to lose track.

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“Actually, just… got it for the coffee,” he said, raising a brow. He seemed stuck on his words for a long moment, but he gets there, and his shoulders relaxed, slumping slightly. Now he furrowed his brow, glanced over the ( huge mess ) on his table, then looked over at him again with raised eyebrows, like maybe the guy had grown a second head. His first thought - why are you at my table? - was discarded quickly before he moved to a better one, the walrider picking up the slack where his human mind was too tired to think as solidly as he otherwise would have. “Why do you want to talk to me, exactly?”

Almost no one was completely invisible from the likes of Raymond Reddington, but Miles had gotten really good at leaving very little paper–or visible–trail. That didn’t mean anything to Glen and Leonard. Took them a while, but they tracked him to a seedy motel just south of Bangor, didn’t look like he intended to move too much in the near future, and Red’s flight had gone quite smoothly. The leaves were starting to turn, perfect Maine weather. Maybe he’d stay an extra day and visit that little chowder shop near the water. 

This Miles Upshur looked rough, whatever Murkoff had done to him, it showed in more than just his physical injuries, there was a lingering weight that was almost visible in his whole body, demeanor, and the aura around him. It gave Red pause, if only for a moment, before he took his hat off and sauntered over, making himself right at home, even putting his hat on some of the man’s papers. 

He was frightened, caught off-guard, and who wouldn’t have been, after what he’d been through at Mount Massive? “Really, eat! You look like you could use it.” He was looking a bit…gaunt. 

Red’s brows furrowed, “You couldn’t have just ordered coffee? What a strange cafe.” Raising a hand, he beckoned a waitress and ordered himself a coffee–decaf–and hoped it wasn’t the usual sludge that tended to be served at podunk diners like this. She was back quick enough with a full cup, which he tried and only grimaced a little bit. 

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As he poured the sugar, Red smiled. “Miles, you can’t expect to put all that footage out and not have someone come  l o o k i n g  for you, can you?” That seemed to put the fear of God in him, so quickly he added, “Relax, I’m here to help,” a hand stuck out to the side of the laptop, “Raymond Reddington. It appears we’ve got a common enemy in Murkoff. They’d always made me… uncomfortable but I could never quite gauge why, and now, well. I know more than I think I ever wanted to.”