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iamthehousethatfloats · 5 years ago

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I smushed together Family and Holidays... SCROLDIE WEEK

This is set in my Hearts of Gold universe, and so as per usual it is FLUFF and ANGST galore. Della and Donald are both here, just accept it. It’s Christmas. And Scroldie week.

💖🎄🥂😭

Dickie and Goldie arrived at McDuck Manor on Christmas Eve. Goldie had been hesitant about coming so early, it was a little too close to ‘normal’ for her liking, but Scrooge had pulled out his trump card and she’d stood no chance.

‘When was the last time Dickie woke up on Christmas morning, surrounded by her family?’ Scrooge had asked, knowing exactly what he was doing, the sly bastard. ‘She’ll miss half the fun if you only get here at lunchtime.’

And so, as he knew she would, Goldie caved. Of course, the side benefit to this was that Scrooge got to wake up on Christmas morning with Goldie curled around him, mildly hungover from last night’s egg nog contest. He kissed her awake and she snuggled close to him, and their lazy lovemaking that morning was serenaded by a chorus of laughter and squeals of delight echoing from downstairs.

Goldie hadn’t expected presents. From Scrooge, maybe, he was sentimental like that, and maybe something small from Della and Donald, but she hadn’t anticipated the kids would have a gift for her, all wrapped up under their enormous tree.

She unwrapped the golden grappling hook, with its remarkably unsubtle rope of blue, green, red and pink, and went very quiet. Huey, Dewey, Louie and Webby piled on her in a candy fuelled group hug and she pretended to hate it as she tried not to cry.

Lena handed Scrooge and Beakley matching wrapped parcels, uncharacteristically shyly. Each contained a family photo, that Webby had insisted taking months before, and Lena had complained about at the time. There they all were, their strange, complicated little family. Scrooge and Goldie, Dickie and Lena, Huey, Dewey, Louie, Webby, Donald, Della, Launchpad and Mrs Beakley. Only Lena had photoshopped Goldie out of the one she gave Beakley, a fact which made both women laugh out loud.

Everyone gave Dickie a present. She could barely move for paper when she was done. A new lens for her camera, paint brushes and art supplies, boxes of hair dye, a new patchwork waistcoat, comic books and candy galore. Her grin was wide and her arms ached from the hugs she couldn’t help but dole out. Goldie watched it all with a soft smile on her face, and Scrooge threaded his fingers through hers and held her close.

As the morning went on, the kids few wilder still. All except Dickie. Once the rush of excitement had ebbed, her smile began to falter and she migrated to the sidelines while the younger kids played. Goldie noticed, of course, and when Dickie took a moment to slip out of the room, Goldie squeezed Scrooge’s arm and nodded in her direction, communicating silently before getting up to follow her.

She found her out in the hall, staring up at the framed painting of Scrooge, Donald and Della that hung in the place Goldie knew Dickie remembered another family portrait to be.

‘Dickie? You okay?’ Goldie asked, coming up behind her. The girl jumped, and wiped at her eyes. Goldie’s heart clenched just a little.

‘Oh sure Gigi, I’m fine.’ Dickie replied, her breezy tone sounding anything but. ‘I just got a little... emotional I guess. I never thought I’d see a holiday like this again, with family and everything. It’s just... almost too perfect. I mean I know it’s not... it’s different and that’s weird, but at the same time it’s sort of the same, you know?’

Goldie put her arm around her granddaughter.

‘Kiddo, if you’d told me a year ago that I’d be here in McDuck Manor on Christmas morning with you, and Scrooge and his ten thousand children, I’d have laughed you out of the room. I may not know exactly what you’re feeling right now, but the weird part? I’ve got that down.’

‘You know we don’t have to stay.’ Dickie said, immediately. ‘I don’t want you putting yourself through all this if it’s just for me. If it’s too weird for you we can go, we can just have a nice day, you and me.’

Goldie paused, weighing up the options. She didn’t believe Dickie wanted to leave, not really. She was having a wobble, and that was to be expected, but she was where she belonged, with her family at Christmas, and pretty soon her head would be turned again - but only if they stayed.

‘Oh sweetheart,’ Goldie sighed. ‘As much as I might like to deny it, I want to be here as much as you do. Honestly? Don’t tell your Grandpa, but this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.’

That afternoon, while Mrs Beakley prepared dinner and the other adults took a much needed break from the merriment, Goldie took Dickie and the kids abseiling down the side of the Money Bin. Della joined in while Donald stood at the bottom with his head in his hands, ready to break whatever child’s fall he needed to.

Miraculously, they all survived, and Dickie waited until they made it home to tell Donald about the last time Goldie arranged such an activity.

After eating their weight in Christmas dinner, and falling asleep in front of the TV while the credits of Christmas on Bear Mountain rolled, the kids all dragged themselves up to bed.

Dickie woke around 2am, to the sounds of a ruckus from downstairs. Panic struck her at first, but then she recognised her grandmother’s wild laughter and crept out of bed to investigate.

She arrived to find an absolute scene of chaos in the living room.

Scrooge and Della were hunched over the coffee table, going hard at a snap game. Goldie and Beakley were cheering them on, several empty bottles of champagne at their feet.

Donald looked to be the only vaguely responsible adult present, and even he was swaying tipsily.

‘DICKIEEEEE!’ Goldie cried, spotting her suddenly. ‘Get over here, you miraculous miracle child, you!’

Dickie laughed and shuffled over to where her exceptionally drunk grandmother sat, and found herself immediately pulled into a clumsy hug.

‘Granddaughters are the greatest, eh Bentina? That’s what we were just saying. You’re the greatest. You and Webby, the greatest.’

‘Absolutely.’ Mrs Beakley nodded, sloshing her class of champagne over the carpet and paying it no mind. ‘Here’s to being Grandmothers!’

‘Grandmothers of wild, amazing granddaughters!’ Goldie cheered, and the two women clinked glasses. Dickie snorted with laughter and wished she had picked up her phone before coming downstairs. This was the kind of quality blackmail content she could use the whole year round.

‘SNAP!’ Scrooge yelled suddenly, as Della groaned and dropped her head on the table in defeat. ‘HAHA!’

‘You didn’t play fair, Uncle Scrooge,’ Della complained. ‘Half the time you called snap when there weren’t even two cards there!’

‘Poppycock,’ Scrooge dismissed. ‘I see two cards, I get the points. And really it was two against one... because there are two of you right now! Look at that, all those years with no Della’s and now we’ve got two of ye!’

‘Okaaaaaaay, I think it’s time for bed, adults,’ Dickie laughed, reaching out to grab hold of Scrooge before he fell over. He looked mightily surprised to see her, and delighted too. ‘You’re all going to regret this so much in the morning, hangovers last forever when you’re old you know.’

‘The cheek!’ Scrooge sputtered, while Goldie collapsed into giggles at the sight of his indignation. Dickie managed to get her grandparents to their feet and Donald managed the same with his sister. Mrs Beakley waved them away from her spot on the sofa, declaring she would absolutely be fine and would go to bed any minute. Dickie had no doubt whatsoever that she would still be on that couch in the morning.

She managed to get Scrooge and Goldie up the stairs safely, and thought it best to leave them to their own devices from there. After this much alcohol, and at this close proximity to a bedroom, Dickie knew better than to stay within hearing range. She kissed them both goodnight and wished them a Merry Christmas, and left them to it.

Back in her bedroom, Dickie settled in her bed and reached under her pillow for her sketch book.

She’d been working on her drawing, she was getting pretty good at it. Goldie had gotten her a tablet for Christmas, despite not knowing what the heck it was, and she couldn’t wait to start turning her scribbling sketches into digital art - she was taking a course next semester.

Until then though, she contented herself with her sketch book. She sat in bed, illuminated by the bright full moon, and flipped through the pages. She’d gotten quite good at Scrooge, and Goldie of course was no hardship. But there was one face it had taken her a while to get right. It scared her at first, how much she found her mother’s face fading in her own memory, but she had finally gotten it right. She lingered on the drawing of Dawson McDuck, her feathery white blonde hair and her crinkle of her eyes, her multitude of beaded necklaces and the tiny dream catcher earrings she always wore.

Dickie hadn’t shown her to her grandparents yet. She wanted to... but she’d wanted to get it exactly right first. Finally, she had. She would show them tomorrow, she thought to herself, and in a way, Dawson would then exist in this world too, if only in mind.

Dickie ran her fingers along the line of her mother’s beak, to where it drew up in the corners with just a hint of a smile.

‘Merry Christmas, Mom,’ Dickie murmured, smiling back. ‘I miss you. I miss you all, so much. But I need you to know that I’m okay. I’m with Grandpa and Gigi, and... I’m okay.’

Dickie laid back down in her bed, the drawing propped up against the wall so she could see it from her pillow.

‘Goodnight Mommy,’ she whispered, as sleep claimed her at last.

#scroldie #scroldie week #scrooge mcduck #goldie o'gilt #dickie duck #dawson mcduck #SORRY FOR THE ANGST #holidays #christmas #family #ducktales #hearts of gold #duck fiction

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ball-jointed-dragon · 6 years ago

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I need to get this off my chest

For those who do not wish to look at my personal problems, please scroll on. These thoughts actually become very personal and deep for me.

For most of my life, I’ve been, and still am, a rather angry person. I get mad at things easily, and it takes me a while to let things go or simply forget about things that make me sick to my stomach.

Going through elementary was easy, because back then, all anyone cared about was the playground, who you were gonna sit with, etch etch.

I never had a problem with this. I was that kid with one friend and books who sat on the bench and read. However, there is one vivid memory from elementary about that one friend.

I’ll say her name was Penny. Penny was my friend. Hell, she let me come over to her house. She was the best. But the others didn’t like me. I got angry, I hit, I yelled, and many other things. So, they decided that if they couldn’t hurt me, they would hurt Penny...

One recess, everyone surrounded Penny. What they did still pisses me off because I know it was because of me.

They all, at once, screamed. Think about it. 15-20 kids, screaming at the top of their lungs, not too far from you. It was awful. It was deafening, almost.

I went to the teacher and told, but they did nothing. They probably thought I was trying to use my ‘privaleges’ that I ‘had’ cause I was the kid with a huge scar on her forehead, I was the poor baby who got ran over AND drowned.

They paid me no mind.

Not too soon after, I had to leave. I had to go see my dad, who was in Montana, because that was what the divorce papers said.

I don’t remember a lot there. I do remember being alone, and preferring it that way. I remember still being angry, being manipulated by my sisters, and slowly starting to pick up bad habits.

I stopped going outside because what was the point? I stopped playing with others because they only wanted to hang out with one or more of my siblings, not me. I stopped participating in games because I felt like I was jamming myself into a place I didn’t belong.

I turned to art during this time. I was shit at it, but I started taking it seriously. I showed the teachers, and they pushed me to keep going. I also turned to writing, and started getting positive feedback from the readers.

But my home life was still bad. My dad was lazy and angry. He only wanted to play video games and would yell at us if we did anything he seemed bad. He made it hard for me to get a simple book that was 50 cents while my sisters could get pants for over $15.

My own father encouraged me to steal. At first, it was a card for Mother’s Day. He claimed that it cost less than a dollar to make, but here we were, being charged over a dollar for it.

The next time was a bigger thing. I had money from my grandmother, and I didn’t have enough for a cross necklace, something I wanted during a time when I felt that I needed to get closer to god (it didn’t work out btw). He encouraged me to reach in and grab it, then walked off, starting to take it off the thing.

I said I didn’t wanna steal it, I didn’t wanna be like him, going to jail for something that was avoided. My sister even offered to help buy it.

My dad decided to slap me in the Walmart.

Apparently it was the best way.

He put the necklace back and I cried quietly for the rest of our trip.

There were many other factors. My five other siblings could turn abusive. I had to share a small bed with my two sisters while my step siblings got their own room or had a bunk bed for the two others (there were two sisters and a brother, hence the bunk bed for one and single room for another).

My stepbrother threw fits and his mother would yell at him and send him to the corner. We hopped from house to house. I was in some bad relationships, extremely unhealthy ones.

I had a breakdown once, and I got grounded for it because my stepsister called my dad while I sat screaming, holding my head and throwing things.

He claimed that it was unnecessary.

I came out as bi and he said that I only thought that because of anime women. He didn’t take my art seriously and simply called it ‘anime’.

My siblings and I were mass-grounded, and my dad would never come up with an end date, leading to months of being grounded.

My dad twisted the image of my mom into this irresponsible, evil, vile woman who would treat me worse, and that I would be better off here.

I started feeling like I was pathetic, a loser. The feelings only grew stronger.

My dad did a lot of good things, but there are other things I can’t forgive him for. I’m sure I’ll remember more as I go along.

I moved back with my mom for a bit, about a year, and things... I dunno.

I couldn’t tell if things were good or bad because I was so tired at this point.

I was overweight, I was eating unhealthily and I still do. I didn’t do any exercise and I was angry and going through puberty -or at least the start of it-. I became the overweight, antisocial kid who had anger issues and drew on her worksheets and got good grades.

I sat at a table and made friends with the people there. We even had a club. The club didn’t last for long.

I once ran for something and I surprised people by getting popular people to sign the thing.

I shelved books and was in a play. A kid came up to me while I was working and asked for a book recommendation, so I gave him a book to read and sent him off. He came back later to say that he was glad he asked me.

Despite all these good things, I was starting to hit a bad patch of school. One I couldn’t avoid- there was a bully.

He loved to target me. He was bigger than me, and he wore glasses, and looked like he was overweight and blushing all the time.

I think he was higher up grade-wise, and he might’ve been the ‘loser’ of that group. So seeing me, he decided he’d hate me.

There was a rumor that started in my middle school in the 7th grade that I was a devil child. I was evil, and angry, and I said morbid things that I thought were cool and funny. Not only that, I called myself ‘snow’. God, I cringe so bad.

This bully started calling me that every time he saw me. Five days a week, every time we had a break between classes. He always called me that.

I hated it, but I already told the teachers, and what could they do?

There was once, however, that he got caught in-action. We shared a PE class. The locker rooms were on the far sides of the place, so I came from one way, and he came from another.

I sat down first and had all my things laid out nice.... only for him to kick my things, throwing one of my boots across the room and forcing me to go get it.

Of course I cried - I was a kid who was fed up.

The teacher yelled at him and forced him to do something- I can’t remember.

During the few last days of school, I passed by this kid on my way to shop class. Having had a bad day, I heard him say devil child. That damned nickname...

I turned and screeched at him to stop before bursting into tears, going to my desk and crying.

A few kids comforted me; but I was so angry and tired that I told them my version of the truth:

No one cared about me until I was crying.

I still think it’s true.

I go back to dads, meet my ex boyfriend, and of course I have a problem.

By this point, I’ve written a story that was being well responded to. In middle school, we had these tablets, and I managed to get into my email. I saw a review in PE class and I was so happy that I started telling the boys nearby that they’d never make a story as good as mine.

One of them spoke up,”I can. Once upon a time, you died. The end.”

I... I was pretty crushed. I started crying and I shut up. I moved back, dead set on staying at my high school for the entirety of it.

Freshman year. It was... I can’t say. It was such a jumble of anger and being sent to the principals office. I was given detentions and suspensions. I had a few friends.

One of these friends was... super strange. She was clingy, she was far too touchy-feely and she was unpleasant. I stayed the night at her house- it was trashed, and she.... did stuff.... while I was in the room.

She held my hand even if I didn’t care, and she jumped up onto me while we were in the pool. It got to the point where my family thought she and I were together.

We stopped being friends, I even started avoiding her. I feel a bit bad, but she later told me her boyfriend wanted to marry her and get her pregnant and sent her sex toys, and smelled bad, so I think I dodged a bullet (sorry if that seems rude).

I got attacked by a girl in the lunch line cause I accidentally touched her butt and she freaked.

Kids avoided me because they knew me. I sat alone. Then, I found this lovely lady. She was my friend. She let me tag along, was my partner in class stuff, and introduced me to a friend I’ll call Ami.

She... she moved away, that same year. She had a lot of family issues and I wish her the best.

Sophomore year is a year I spent talking to Ami and in turn Amis friends. We were content, but these boys... and these girls... I had issues with a lot of people. I didn’t know how to shut my mouth and blew up at people if they bothered to say a negative thing about me.

There was a time where I was playing a game. This game plays classical music as you play it, and the setting was as low as it could go before I couldn’t hear it anymore.

One girl took issue with it and complained, even though she played music louder before. We argued; I went to the office and told them what happened, and I ended up being suspended for not wanting to give my phone over.

Thankfully, it was a couple of days before a vacation, and I got good after, so.

I dealt with a lot of people who would fight with me (I probably started a lot of them), and I dealt with self esteem issues because, in my mind, I was overweight, ugly, and I couldn’t shut my mouth for five seconds. Everything had to be memememenememene.

I felt that my friends weren’t my friends, that I was just butting in, ruining everything. I’ve been told that someone didn’t wanna be friends with me because I was so rude and I started fights.

Junior year.....

I can’t remember a lot. I remember some.

I remember laughing a lot more. I remember smiling.

But bad beats good..

You see, I’m still overweight, look ugly, and have no real redeeming qualities. I’m super negative about myself, and while I try to be nice to the people I call my friends, I feel as if I’m driving them away.

I still have anger issues that I’m working on. I lost a job because of these issues (actually I just picked up a boy and gave him to his mother and she complained, so))

I argue with freshman boys because they’re pains in the asses who think they’re better than everyone. I was in a cooking class with these boys, and I fucking hated them.

They had a big soap bottle and yet they felt the need to take everyone else’s soap bottles. I got defensive over the things in my kitchen, and they started mimicking me. One even made a poster saying ‘stay out of my kitchen’ and hung it up on my cupboards.

We used brown sugar one day. After cleaning up, I walked off. The teacher came over and said that my kitchen wasn’t clean. I was confused.

Then I saw what she meant.

My clean kitchen, was now covered in brown sugar.

The boys took a handful of brown sugar and just threw it..

They stole other things from our kitchen and mimicked me all the time.

I once wore a Jacksepticeye shirt, and they started saying that ‘Jacksepticeye is gay’ and that he was ‘cancer’.

I told the teacher. The experience made me feel sick to my stomach and made me want To scream because they decided to pick apart something they didn’t know because I wore a shirt of it.

I admit- I was rude and angry and cross with them st times, but the level of things they did...

In this same class, you’re supposed to have four people in a kitchen.

I started out with four people in my group. Then two. The. Three (one was the girl I stopped being friends with). Finally, I was alone. No one wanted to cook with me.

So I made everything myself. I worked better alone, that’s what I always said.

It didn’t stop the pain and loneliness.

Another class I took was for childcare.

Despite being as hardworking as I could and trying to be good at the class, the teacher didn’t like me. I knew it was because I was rude to the other kids at times. I also once had a bad year with her previously.

One day, we needed to group together. I didn’t want to, but she forced me to get into a group.

She claimed I was being antisocial (later she said I was intimidated by the other students) on purpose. It got to the point where a different teacher demanded to know why I chose that day to be antisocial.

There was another day where we had baby food. We tasted some, liked it, and some people called dibs. I didn’t know that the fan had already had a dibs, so I was eating it. Suddenly, the teacher called to attention that the can I held was CLEARLY not mine.

We argued with each other. A girl said I should have been listening and I snapped that she needed to shut her mouth.

I ended up sulking in my chair. I bought a replacement later on (68 cents apparently gets people’s panties in a twist).

The final class I wanna talk about is my PE class. The teacher then had a student learning to be a teacher. She got to host games for a day, and chose a game that she said I could be in a box area for.

Well, a boy threw the ball as hard as he could at me from a few feet away and slammed it into my face. It hurt. I told the teacher/student, but she made everyone to the plank and tried to change the rules. I kept giving her comments, which she said she didn’t want, and I told her she’d get them anyway.

These boys... I HATE.

They could be a step away, and they’d STILL throw the ball as hard as they could! They yelled insults, threw in people’s general direction, and just.. ugh.

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deejadabbles · 7 years ago

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So @imaginesonimagines was asking advise on digital coloring and asked me to give a detailed sort of tutorial on how I do it, so here it is! I’ve never done a tutorial so hopefully it’s decent!

I’ll be using a very simple bust sketch of an OC for all this, hopefully his face doesn’t get too boring for you haha. So, since I don’t have a tablet whenever I want to digitally color something I drew on paper, I go over the lines in pen to make them pop more, take a picture of it with my phone (or scan it) and upload it to my laptop.

Next you open the saved picture up in Gimp and add your first layer. I personally like starting with coloring the skin as (especially with bust portraits) that’s sort of the “center piece” if you will. But it doesn’t really matter which part you start with, just pick a section/piece you want and name the layer.

Now in the “layer mode” section click the “multiply” option. This mode allows your base line art to show through any coloring you do as long as all the layers are set to this mode.

On to the actual coloring! I usually use the “paintbrush” tool when coloring as I find it gives the cleanest, simplest texture. I also tend to make the brush size really large so I can just do a couple swipes, since I trim the coloring down in my next step anyway, might as well make it quick, right? NOTE: When using the multiply setting colors are always darker when used on the actual picture than how they look in the color selection box. It’s a bit annoying but you get used to it.

Then I just use the eraser to trim down the swipes of paint to the areas I actually want colored. This part can be a bit tedious since I usually just keep making the eraser size smaller and smaller as I go, specially to get all the nooks and crannies. Oh! Another useful thing to know is that if you don’t like something you just did (a swipe of the eraser, the color you used, etc) you can go to the “undo” tool thing under the “edit” tab up top. It’s a lifesaver here even more than in other programs tbh.

Now on to the next section you want to color. Making a new layer for each section or each time you change colors is important because it isolates each part you’re coloring from each other and protects it. I can go wildly over the lines of the hair because I can erase the extra without fear of erasing the skin I just colored.

After adding a new layer I just repeat the “color and trim” technique.

Usually I lump coloring the eyes into the same layer as another object bc I’m lazy and don’t want to make a whole layer for something so small. But it’s most useful to lump them in with an item that’s far away from the eyes so it’s easier to color each, in this case I just put the eyes in the same layer as the tunic. Now something else I wanted to share is a trick I do with the eyes to make them sparkle! After I’m done coloring the eyes I set the pallet to an off white/near white color, and drop the “opacity” down (usually to 50-60), then just dab at the eyes to make it look like light is shinning on them. It’s just a neat little touch that I’ve always like, and having an example of changing the opacity could maybe help you in your own technique in the future~

Welp, that’s about it for my process, since I mostly do flat color (I’m shit at shading), once you’re done just export it! I hope this helps you out and if you have any more specific questions feel free to ask!

#coloring #traditional and digital #idk what else to tag this or if I even want to but???#imaginesonimagine #traditional sketch digital coloring #easy coloring #easy digital coloring

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sorrydearie · 8 years ago

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Glimpses (3/3)

Summary: Lizzy is slowly coming to terms with her growing feelings for Reddington. - Read on ao3 / tumblr

It’s a quiet evening - no blacklister, no national security threat; and if she closes her eyes Liz can almost pretend that she’s just another normal person enjoying a lazy Sunday in. It’s a welcome change from chasing criminals because as much as she likes the satisfaction of going to bed knowing that she has saved lives, Liz enjoys this just as much - listening to the quiet pitter-patter of rain against the windows while she’s safe and warm inside, tucked cozily into the corner of her couch with a cup of hot chocolate numbing her fingers.

A few days ago Red had waltzed into her kitchen, confidently proclaiming that making a good cup of cocoa was a lost art (one which he excelled in, of course. One didn’t take a class with a French cuisine chef just to come out of it making a “watered-down brew that would rival that abhorrent stuff they tried to pass as chocolate in the Armenian prison Dembe and I once got stuck in on our way to-”). He also took the liberty to stock her embarrassingly bare cupboards with dozens of sweet syrups and gourmet chocolate sprinkles imported from Holland.

Red has taken up what Liz mentally refers to as ‘his’ side of the couch, legs leisurely stretched out on the floor in front of him, his head angled slightly towards her so that he could ask her opinion whenever one of the trivial tidbits on TV peaks his interest.

They’re watching a documentary on ship restoration which caught her eye when she was looking for some background noise to accompany the long-suffering sighs aimed at her late-night paperwork the other day. Mostly because it looked like something Red would enjoy, which apparently is enough of a reason to scramble for the remote control and hit the record button on her DVR.

Still, she finds it surprisingly interesting.

(Although she isn’t above admitting that most of her enjoyment of the program is derived from watching Red’s obvious enthusiasm. Liz is quiet fond of the way his eyes light up in child-like wonder as if he’d love to set out and try it himself - buy a rusty, old, water-worn vessel and fix it all up again.)

Liz gives a content sigh, feels a bit like a cat lazing around in the afternoon sun as she snuggles further into the couch’s cushions.

Closing her eyes, Liz thinks that she had better be careful. She was quickly getting used to this, used to having him around, used to sharing these small moments of intimacy with him - just the two of them tugged away in a safe and quiet corner of the world. It was positively domestic - which is utterly ridiculous, of course. Because he is on the FBI’s Most Wanted list and she is a rookie FBI agent, and that should be enough for anyone to know that they don’t do normal or ordinary or domestic.

Still, she likes these moments more than she’d have thought. Which is why she needs to be extra careful not to slip up and do something stupid.

(Like skipping over that line they once drew oh-so carefully into the sand).

The Hart of Dixie soundtrack is blasting through the speakers of her phone while Liz is busy washing her new favorite blouse - the one Red brought her from his latest trip to Lisbon (the one which curiously, heartwarmingly matches the tie he got for himself on that very same trip).

Liz isn’t too find of washing things by hand; she’s always afraid of accidentally messing up halfway through and ending up with a shrunk, puppet-sized version of her clothes. She could probably just ask Red to take her things to his usual drycleaner, but she doesn’t want to be a bother.

Plus the repetitive motions - hypnotic and soothing as they are - give her some time to think. About what she’ll make for dinner, and about whether she should take the trash out now or wait until tomorrow morning. About when she’d have to renew her gym membership again, about whether she should get her hair cut professionally or invest in a pair of scissors and do it herself instead. About how handsome Red had looked in that beige suit he had worn the other day.

(One of these is not like the other.)

Liz groans in annoyance at herself.

Lately, she finds that she’s been getting incredibly sappy. She tries hard to remember if she has ever felt this way about Tom (or about any of her previous boyfriends for that matter), but she really can’t remember a time when a single glance at Tom’s socked feet sent her heart racing (- which, of course, is an absolutely ridiculous and truly pathetic reaction to have, no matter to whom the feet in question belong).

It’s just that with Red everything seems so significant; every little moment is infinitely precious to her. She wants to treasure every glance, every smile, because with him every little habit tugs at her heartstrings: The way he flicks his tongue against the inside of his cheek in thought. The way he chuckles (deep and throaty, slightly breathless) whenever she manages to catch him off guard. The way he can effortlessly wait for 20 years to open a bottle of Cheval Blanc, but has absolutely no patience for smartphones or tablets. The way his lips fit around a cigar - slowly, gently, sensuously.

Sometimes she wonders, too. About the things she doesn’t know (yet - the romantic in her adds optimistically). Wonders how the nape of his neck would feel under her exploring fingers, wonders if he’d tilt his head to the left or the right when being kissed. Wonders if he’d gasp or moan or whimper if she fitted her body snugly against his and nipped at the round little scar on his neck - her mark on his skin.

With another exasperated groan Liz drowns the blouse and decides to take a cold shower. Maybe that’ll help to clear her head.

When she was in college Liz spent a good deal of her spring break holidays looking after people’s apartments. It was easy money - watering plants, feeding birds or turtles or even the occasional pet amphibian. She had always liked to make a game out of guessing the homeowner’s personality traits based on their interior decor.

Still, usually these homes had come with an intact heater. One that didn’t require a dent-worthy kick just to get started.

“So did you teach Modesty to jump against it whenever she’s feeling cold, or what?”

Liz throws an annoyed glance at the rusty old control panel. If she had known that the heating system in Red’s apartment essentially looked like the set of a post-apocalyptic global warming film she wouldn’t have bothered asking if she could stay over. She might have just as well stayed at her own place instead - broken heater and all.

There’s a long-suffering sigh from the other side of the phone, and Liz can practically see Red scratching his sideburn in thought.

“Have you tried the outlet on the right-hand side? The one with the two markers on it?”

Liz rolls her eyes - more at her own naiveté than at Red’s unhelpfulness. Because whatever made her think that Red - the man who showed up in a three-piece suit to help her paint her kitchen, the man who squinted at the IKEA instruction manual until she couldn’t take it anymore and asked Dembe to assemble her new bedframe instead, the man who had handpicked goons especially for repairing broken dishwashers - why the hell did Liz think that he’d possibly be any help with this?

While Red is still rambling on - trying to remember what did the trick the last time (“a bottle of scotch and the truly delightful company of one Lucy Melbrook” - her lips twitch in barely-concealed distaste), Liz steers determinedly towards Red’s bedroom.

Modesty is still sitting on the couch right where Liz left her earlier, her slow-blinking eyes fixed on the latest episode of Jessica Jones playing on TV. “Don’t eat my ice cream,” Liz mouths accusingly at the cat before ducking into Red’s bedroom.

In a matter of seconds she’s rifling through his closet, fingers brushing against the soft suits and crisp shirts. The smell of fresh laundry mixed with the lingering traces of Red’s cologne tugs at her heart and makes her want to climb into the closet like a child searching for a safe haven during a violent rainstorm.

“Did you get it?”

“Hmm?” Balancing up onto her tiptoes, Liz tugs at one of the neatly folded sweaters lying on a shelf just above her head. Its material feels wonderfully warm and soft; and wow, what a pity, Liz thinks, that Red’ll never see it again because from today on this sweater will come and live with her.

“Oh yeah, sure. It’s working now.” She lies and - momentarily putting the phone aside - quickly slips her freezing arms into the sweater.

On the other side of the line Red is switching topics again, audibly content with the knowledge that she is safe and warm.

Things are quickly spiraling out of control, Liz thinks as she takes a tentative sip of her drink.

Red is hovering around her like a fretting mother hen, the dark look in his eyes clearly betraying his worry. Earlier, he actually pressed a glass of brandy into her hand as if she were some Victorian romance heroine suffering from bouts of hysteria. He even offered to have Dembe run down to the local pharmacy to fetch some vitamins for her.

All because she fainted.

At least that’s what he thinks and Liz’d be damned to correct him. She’d rather have him think that she’s stressed out from catching blacklisters than see the embarrassed discomfort she’s guaranteed to find on his face if he should ever find out that she had merely stumbled over her own two left feet in an attempt to kiss him.

Well, no. That isn’t quite right either. Because saying that she had tried to kiss him would imply an active role on her part, as if she had made a conscious decision to do so when in fact it was more of a passive thing; an automatic turn on her heels to press a quick peck goodbye to the corner of his mouth as if that were a completely normal thing between them.

Her saving grace was that he had turned away the exact moment her brain had caught up with her body, causing her to stumble into him in a flurry of limbs and erratic heartbeats (also, there might or might not have been a humiliating shriek on her part).

Red caught her, of course. If she closes her eyes she can still feel his strong hands grasping at her arms and back, pulling her flush against him (and wow, maybe that whole damsel in distress metaphor wasn’t so far off after all).

Liz steals a look at Red from the corner of her eye. Right now he’s probably trying to come up with a non-offending way to offer her a vacation; Liz can practically hear him wondering if it would be too forward of him to suggest flying her out to some exclusive spa in Luxembourg (fun fact: she isn’t so sure that she’d tell him no).

All the while, she’s sturdily keeping her face turned away from him. Have him think that she’s embarrassed about this whole thing, alright.

But it had felt so right. Completely natural. As if kissing him hello and goodbye and something in-between was an integral part of their relationship, like feeling the warmth of his hand on the crook of her elbow whenever they walk side by side, or the way her eyes tend to drift to his lips whenever he launches into one of his maritime-themed parables.

Liz sighs in resignation and takes another sip of her brandy.

Oh well. Maybe someday.

Sleep comes easier now.

Her once so frequently fraught nightmares starring murderous husbands and the paralyzing panic attacks she encountered during her time on the run from the FBI are slowly ebbing away. She barely wakes up covered in sweat anymore, even manages to keep her eyes closed when she hears the ancient floorboards in her new home creak and groan at night.

The dog helps, too.

Liz is so glad that Red took her to that shelter. She hadn’t realized just how much she missed Hudson (missed having someone who didn’t judge her for eating ice cream for breakfast, who was happy to see her no matter how messed up her makeup and hair was after a full 11 hours out in the field) until this one started wagging its tail at her, happily jumping up and down whenever she returned home from work.

And it’s so nice to have some of that old routine back, too: Getting up at 6 am for an early morning jog around the park, relaxing at a café during lunch break, the dog resting comfortably at her feet, or taking late afternoon walks around the patch of forest down the street.

Sometimes Red joins them.

He’s quiet taken with Kansas (and oh, there’s a story, too. About how Red had laughed at her and admitted to always having wondered whether she had named Hudson after the river or the Sherlock Holmes character), and Liz isn’t shy to admit that his obvious love for Kansas had factored largely into her decision to pick this particular puppy from the joyfully-barking lot.

“Shinrin yoku,” Red breathes after a while. “It’s a word the Japanese have for moments like this; strolls through the woods where you soak up the sun falling in through the leaves. I find them incredibly memorable, don’t you?”

Liz tears her eyes away from Kansas who is bounding animatedly through the bushes, most likely chasing an imaginary mouse or squirrel or bird.

Red’s eyes are closed, and for a moment the sight of him - the cool winter light flickering in mosaic patterns across his face - takes her breath away. Liz feels her fingers twitch with the urge to reach out to him, to tug him closer, to let her fingers trace over the light falling onto his face.

With effort, Liz turns away. Shrugs her shoulders.

“Not too many leafs around though.”

Red opens one eye, briefly looks at her before closing it again and heaving a sigh as if put-out.

“I see poetry is lost on you.”

She huffs in indignation, but takes a step closer anyway. When he starts to move again - further down into the depth of the woods, the branches overhead casting their shadows in an artful crisscross pattern onto the wistful expression on his face - Liz gives a contented sigh and slips her arm through his.

It’s Thursday evening which means that it’s video game night at Aram’s.

Liz doesn’t know how he did it, but somehow Aram has managed to receive an advanced copy or some highly anticipated video game (Liz secretly suspects that he’s used his FBI credentials to get his hands on it, made up some excuse about needing the game for national security reasons), so now she’s giggling uncontrollably while her avatar is chasing zombies around an alpine holiday resort.

Sometimes Liz thinks about asking Aram to invite Red over, too. She thinks he’d enjoy it - not the actual games (she’s quite certain that he’d be terrible at those, if she’d ever get him to play, that is) but rather the quiet comforts of spending an evening among friends (real ones who didn’t try to shoot him as soon as he turned his back on them). The only thing stopping her from asking is that it would probably make Aram uncomfortable to hang out with Red; Liz can just imagine him fidgeting on the couch next to Red, always sneaking glances at Red’s glass to anticipate when he’d need another refill of his drink.

(Still, she’d love to one day persuade Red to race her in a round of Mario Kart, thinks it’d be so much fun to watch him laugh and snicker as he leaned this way and that, shoulders bumping against hers with every turn.)

Although he’s certainly warming up to modern technology, Liz thinks as she smiles fondly down at the phone in her lap.

Lately, Red’s made a habit of texting her. They’re mostly quick messages (always perfectly worded, no misspellings or cute emoji, but rather matter-of-fact instead) letting her know that he’s leaving for Brussels or Stockholm or Milan, asking her if she needed a ride to work, or - on more than one occasion - offering up sarcastic remarks about Ressler’s downrightalarming inabilities as an agent of the US government (or as a human being, if you’d rather interpret the frequent comparisons to mindless robots this way).

Right now, her phone’s screen is lighting up to display a short but endlessly sweet Sleep well, along with a promise to have Dembe arrange a meeting with her as soon as they are back in the country.

With a smile on her face that is just this side of besotted Liz puts the phone away and focuses back on the game, all the while feeling a tingling sensation inside her chest at the thought that he is thinking about her even though he is currently halfway around the world.

Liz’s least favorite subject in school had always been English. No matter how much she had tried, somehow she had never been able to grasp the concept of rhetorical devices - the similes and metaphors and anaphora (the trying smile of her homeroom teacher still haunted her to this day). She still remembers sitting down with Sam in the evenings, sapping distractedly at a glass of grape juice while he tried to explain to her the subtle nuances of literary irony.

Now, looking at Red, she thinks that she finally understands.

When he had asked her to their latest meeting point, Liz hadn’t been able to suppress the laughter that had bubbled up inside of her, because really? The International Spy Museum?

He doesn’t seem to mind though. Just chuckles self-consciously at himself, and Liz wonders if he even cares about how ridiculous he looks striding through an exhibit dedicated to suave film noire spies and larger-than-life double agents in his black coat and leather gloves (and yes, the fedora - of course).

Liz keeps her eyes glued onto him as he looks at a set of ancient television screens playing scenes from various le Carré movies. There’s this look of childlike awe plastered onto his face, and Liz can’t quite keep her lips from twitching in fond amusement whenever he discovers a new piece that peaks his interest (something newer, something shinier yet).

She doesn’t mind seeing the exhibit even though she’d rather look at modern art than black and white photographs of gentleman gangsters (she’s got her own to look at whenever she wants anyway). But still, she feels incredibly pleased that he has asked her to accompany him. She’s always eager to learn something new about him - things he’s interested in, things he’s passionate about.

Liz secretly suspects that he doesn’t care too much about this blacklister, that maybe all he cared about was finding a reason to ask her to the museum. Which is completely ridiculous of course, because she hopes that by now he knows that she would have tagged along without an imminent threat of national security being dangled in front of her like a carrot on a stick.

Suddenly, a group of tourists clatters past them right and left, and Liz can feel Red step into her personal space to avoid losing her among the throng of animatedly chattering Europeans.

Liz - suddenly finding herself eye to eye with the violet swirls of his Paisley tie (the one he got from his trip to Lisbon, Liz notes smugly) - tilts her face up to offer him a shy smile that is half annoyance at the sudden lack of privacy and half amusement at the absurdity of the whole situation.

He doesn’t return it though; merely keeps his eyes trained on her, a bit pensively, before slowly cocking his head to the side. For a second Liz thinks that she could probably never grow tired of looking at him - of simply standing still in the rapidly revolving world just to take in his face - the sharp cheekbones, the sweet upturn of his nose, the miniscule wrinkles around his eyes - so unbelievably full of joy and laughter for someone who has undergone so many hardships.

After just a moment, her breath hitches in her throat as she feels his hand slowly move from its resting place against the small of her back. She tries hard not to shudder as she feels it brush along her hip, his fingers burning a trail through the thin fabric of her blouse, and Liz swallows hard at the tingling sensation, can feel it deep inside her belly - a burning, hot desire to grasp his lapels and pull him impossibly close.

But then his hand gently, tenderly clasps her own in his, and Liz is left with nothing but lightheadedness at the sweetness of it all (at the sweetness of him).

Smiling shakily, she gives his hand a squeeze, even as she mentally cherishes this moment: the feel of his hand, the warmth of his skin against her own, the texture of his slightly rough, gun-trigger calloused thumb as it brushes shyly over her knuckles.

It’s all a bit too much and yet not nearly enough.

Slowly, the tourists move on, fluttering past them once again to look at a set of black and white photographs taken during the Cold War in East Berlin in one of the adjoining rooms. Their chatter gradually dies away and leaves them in a contemplative silence.

For a split second Liz is afraid that he’ll let go now, move away from her as if nothing had happened, launching into one of his stories to shatter the remnants of their intimacy like a hammer thrown into a glass window. But to her surprise, he stays close, doesn’t let go of her hand as he gently tugs her towards a set of coal sketches in the corner of the room which he “can’t wait to show you, Lizzy! They are truly marvelous!”

As he shares his thoughts on the drawings with her, Liz repeatedly finds her attention drifting to his thumb which continues its absentminded brushing over the back of her hand, and Liz can’t help but grin uncontrollably as she leans a bit closer into his side.

When she looks up at him a moment later her smitten smile is mirrored on his face.

Inwardly swearing to herself to never wear shoes again, Liz sighs in delight as she slips out of her heels and props her aching feet (sans murderous high heels) on the coffee table. As much as she adores the thrill of going undercover with Red she could really do without the shoes.

She nips at her glass of Merlot, her eyes never leaving Red’s form as he snoops through her things. There’s this look of utter fascination on his face which she finds absolutely endearing, as if he’s looking at Van Gogh’s sunflowers instead of her assorted trinkets.

“You don’t mind, do you, Lizzy?” He asks absently as he moves on to her book collection, and for a moment Liz allows herself to wonder if he’s surprised by what he finds there.

She doesn’t read much, doesn’t find the time for it between chasing criminals and attending high-end functions in painful shoes. But when she does get around to it it’s usually non-fiction (the ones which are both interesting small-talk material for undercover missions and just boring enough to make her fall asleep in no time after a long day at work) or ( - her recent favorite) - absurdly predictable dime store crime novels.

Liz shrugs. “Well, you let me go through your things, so I guess it’s only fair. Plus, you don’t honestly think I believe that this is the first time you’ve gone through my stuff.”

“Oh, that’s not fair, Lizzy!” He gives a disappointed click of his tongue, and Liz rolls her eyes at his exaggerated (and completely unfounded) display of hurt. “There are a lot of your things I haven’t gotten a chance to see yet. Like your photo albums or your old college yearbooks.”

He pauses for a beat. “Or your underwear drawer.”

Liz snorts in amusement and tries hard to keep the laughter from spilling out of her.

“Keep dreaming, Reddington.”

#68 comes with a truly ridiculous nickname (“The Phantom”; and you know you’ve chosen the wrong moniker if even the Concierge of Crime can’t keep a straight face when saying your name) and an even more outrageous background of crime (a graphic novel-worthy origins arc if there ever was one).

They are at Red’s latest safe house. The whole interior is very modern, very simplistic. It’s a bit bare for her taste, and if the barely concealed look of annoyance which appears on his face whenever he accidentally bumps into the oversized lamp looming large in the very center of the living room is anything to go by, Red isn’t too fond of the apartment either.

His things are easy to discern against the cold art deco backdrop. There’s a single record (Miles Davis) leaning against a set of silver picture frames filled with stock photo images of artificially smiling families; and the stack of international newspapers (English, Russian, French; all heavily dog-eared) on the coffee table does surely not belong to the same person who has gone through the neatly organized arrangement of arthouse+Architecture brochures lying abandoned on the far corner of the couch.

Lying spread-eagled among the papers is an edition of Rushdie’s Midnight's Children, its cover still new and shiny, and Liz feels her heart flop around in her chest as she remembers having fleetingly mentioned that it was her favorite only a few days ago.

She wonders if that’s why he bought it. Of maybe he had simply thought that it sounded interesting and worth checking out. Or maybe just wanted to see what kind of stories she liked (so he could pick his anecdotes accordingly). Or maybe he wanted to read it so he’d be able to discuss it with her, something along the lines of ‘Oh, speaking of #13 and his irksome penchant for setting fire to church buildings - what did you think about Rushdie’s use of religious imagery?’.

Whatever his reason, Liz doesn’t care. Because the only thing that matters is what she’ll take away from this (and this is what she chooses: Red reading her favorite book simply because he cares about her.)

There are footsteps behind her, and when Liz turns towards him it’s with a blinding smile on her face.

Liz feels like dozing, and if the band stays true to their apparent penchant for slow-paced songs she’ll be asleep in a matter of minutes.

They are at some cozy little vineyard restaurant somewhere in Calabria, Italy. The food is great, the wine is wonderful, and surprisingly enough the company is getting along for once. For some reason Red is on his best behavior and even Ressler manages to bite down on his usual hostility towards his self-proclaimed nemesis.

Maybe it’s the school-trip feeling of chasing a blacklister abroad, or maybe it’s simply the lovely atmosphere - romantic live music, the stars glowing brightly above their heads, the crispy evening breeze ruffling their hair…

Liz steals a glance at Red from the corner of her eye. He’s sitting right next to her, politely listening to Aram’s ramblings about some new online game or other (Liz is convinced that Red doesn’t even understand half of it; as far as she knows he has never even played a single game of Snake on that ancient flip phone of his). His thigh is brushing against hers whenever he leans forward to take a sip of his beer, and Liz is thankful for the extra warmth his body exudes.

There’s a woolen blanket draped over their laps. Earlier, Liz had used it as an excuse to scoot up closer to him when she had noticed that he had barely been covered due to some misguided attempt to let her have most of it. Idiot.

In order to keep herself from falling asleep Liz lets her fingers play absentmindedly with the paper wrap on her beer. It’s some local brew, dark and woodsy - if there’s even such a thing. She has never been good at actually tasting alcohol; she had always been more of the throw-back-your-head-and-down-it-all kind of girl.

She yawns, her eyelids heavy. Maybe she should just excuse herself and head to bed. The pastoral four-poster bed in her hotel room (an upgrade from their FBI-sanctioned 3-star motel - courtesy of their favorite criminal) looked simply divine, and Liz can’t wait to throw herself onto it and never move again.

She’s just about to get up when all of a sudden she’s wide awake again. Because beneath the blanket Red’s fingers have brushed against her thigh.

It’s just a quick, fleeting touch of the tip of his fingers against the bare skin where her dress has ridden up, and yet it has practically set her nerve endings aflame. His cool fingers felt so good against her summer-heated skin, and for a split second Liz can’t help but imagine what it would feel like if he’d keep going, if he’d let his fingers trace up the inside of her thigh and slip beneath the flimsy fabric of her dress…

Liz doesn’t think it was intended though, cannot quite imagine that he’d be daring enough to want to rest his hand on her knee or thigh. But after just another moment his intention becomes clear as his hand finds hers under the blanket, his fingers slowly slanting over hers.

It feels so wonderful that Liz can feel her heart burst. She wants to cry, wants to laugh, wants to turn towards him and beam at him. The only thing stopping her is Ressler and Aram and Samar sitting right there with them, and while Samar probably wouldn’t even bat an eye, Liz is sure that Ressler would make a scene.

Careful not to give anything away, Liz turns to look at Red’s face. He isn’t looking at her, instead he’s nodding at something Ressler said, the perfect picture of an engaged listener. Liz knows better though, is quite certain that in his mind he’s thinking about her because all the while his thumb keeps brushing soothing patterns over the back of her hand.

And it’s so sweet, so endearing, that suddenly Liz is finding it difficult to breathe.

Hours later, he’s walking her to her room.

He’s staying at a safe house just out of town; at some cozy, little apartment filled with Greek figurines (she’s badgered Dembe into showing her some pictures of the place), so this must be a huge inconvenience for him. He could have just left with Dembe right away, she wouldn’t have minded. Still she’s grateful for this, grateful for the few extra minutes his lingering affords her with him.

But just the same, something feels off about him.

For one, there’s none of his usual flair - the confidence, the infuriating smugness, the nonchalant devil-may-care attitude he usually dons on like a second skin - it’s all gone. Instead he seems smaller somehow. Almost nervous. All the signs are there anyway - the uneasy huff of laughter, the biting of the inside of his cheek, and - yes, there it is, the constant drumming of his fingers against his thigh, the brim of his fedora squished against the soft wool of his suit pants.

He looks as if he’s working himself up to say something important, and Liz wonders if this is it. If they’re finally crossing that one line that’s still left in the sand, a glaring bright red reminder of what cannot be.

Within seconds, her heart is racing painfully inside her rip cage, drum-drum-drumming away to her frantic thoughts (about when she had last applied lip balm, about if her perfume was still smelling fresh and flower-y, about whether she should rest her hands on his shoulders or against his chest when he finally moved in-).

But all of a sudden Red seems to snap out of it, merely nods at her and palms his fedora back onto his head. And before she can make sense of what just happened between them (or rather: what hadn’t happened between them) he’s turning to leave. It’s just that Liz isn’t quite ready to let him just yet. Not now that they’re halfway there, not now that her treacherous brain has dangled taunting images and daydreams of what could be in front of her.

“Red - Raymond. Wait!”

He turns to face her once more and Liz has barely enough time to register the surprised look on his face before she’s closing the distance between them.

(And oh - oh!)

His lips feel absolutely wonderful - so soft, so warm against hers that she has to bite back a moan.

Red has gone completely still though, and Liz thinks that she must’ve caught him by surprise because wasn’t this the logical culmination of all that has passed between them in the last few months? Of all the stolen glances and loving touches, all the fond smiles and little gestures, all the glimpses of what could be if they’d only be brave enough to try?

And suddenly she’s scared out of her mind - scared that with just one kiss she has ruined everything, that she’ll drive him away, that he’ll never look her in the eye again. Feeling desperate now, Liz brings her hand up to rest over his heart. It’s racing erratically beneath her fingers, and Liz is glad for it, glad to feel that this is as real to him as it is to her.

And then he’s kissing her back - finally.

Liz can barely keep herself from breaking away and squealing in delight. Her whole body is brimming with excitement; she feels like a kid on Christmas morning, only that this is better because she is pretty sure that this isn’t just a one-time-only- but rather a forever kind of kiss - fumbling fingers and squished noses and breathless sighs.

When they part Red is beaming at her. Warmly. Brightly.

#THe Blacklist #lizzington #lizzington fanfiction #Well that's that!#so glad this is finally finished tbh #next up will be something darker which I'll hopefully get around to posting once i'm back from my trip to London #I hope you'll stick around for that one too :D #glimpses

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