This is one part of a (maybe) two part series exploring characters from NBC's The Blacklist.
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Agent Ressler walks down the hall of his apartment building, fed up with trying to catch Red and Liz. Or, at least find out how to bring someone to justice. His body is still on high alert from the hostage crisis that served as an escape cover. To be honest, he enjoys the high. It makes him feel strong. He'll certainly need a wank tonight.
As he walks down the hall, he hears a step behind him.
Turn. Draw. Aim. Process.
Tom. Ressler thinks to himself, seeing hooded figure of Tom Keen, his piercing green-blue eyes and crooked nose gazing back at him. His body relaxes. He knows he needs to not catch Tom today if he wants the truth.
"We need to talk" Tom says. His voice, slightly hoarser than normal.
Inside Ressler's apartment, sitting on the couch, Tom takes the coffee that Ressler hands him and looks into the flaccid brown liquid. He smells the expiration date. As he sits on the couch, he tries to formulate the words to describe what needs to happen. He looks up to see Ressler leaning against a dresser, the palms of his hands on the top of the wood. Tom's eyes are drawn to Ressler's chest. It flexes in this position. His pecs are full and strong, his nipples are visible through the shirt. Tom's eyes drift upwards to Ressler's shoulders, round, detailed. Even through the shirt, he can see the details of each muscle.
"I thought you were out of all this," Ressler quips.
"I did too. I have barely any contacts, barely any money, and no knowledge of where they are."
"Then why the fuck are you here?"
"Because I want in."
"In. In how?" Ressler crosses his arms, his biceps nuzzled against his chest. He crosses one leg over the other, his thighs aching against the pant material that is tired and worn from the repeated stresses of the blacklist.
"Appoint me a special convoy of the FBI."
Ressler laughs. One hand moves up to his head and brushes through the ginger locks on top of his head. Tom can see the freckles that straddle the border of hair and forehead. They exist all down his face, and no doubt down his body. Even with his body getting little sunlight, Tom knows that this gorgeous ginger must be freckled all over.
"You're serious?" Ressler says, coming off the laugh, "You're wanted for dozens of murders, and no doubt guilty of more. You tried to kill me twice. You destroyed Liz, sent her spiraling into this mess"
"You can't blame me for this mess, Donald. For my mission? Sure. For this mess? Hell no."
"If you hadn't've"
"If I what?" Tom stands up. The coffee in the cup sloshes onto his hand, and his sweatshirt and the floor. He knows that he should engage the argument. He knows how to win, but he is so weak and tired and defeated from the days of running, he just buckles and looks down at his clothes. He collapses back down onto the couch, drops the cup, and buries his hands in his face. Tears stream.
Ressler watches as this spy, this killer, this..villain collapses into a heap. His arms uncross and he stands, as if to go fix something. But what? Even when Liz cries, he has no way of fixing it.
He crosses the room. Sits on the couch. Hesitates. Puts an arm over Tom's shoulders. Tom is sobbing, his wails are loud, his defenses are non-existent. He slowly falls into Ressler's chest. As Ressler rubs his back, he feels the muscles and tendons, strong, stretched. There is not an ounce of fat on him. Ressler feels envy. His gut, though strong and muscular, is still slightly out, his abs slightly hidden.
"Tom, I."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Tom, I."
"How the hell am I supposed to be a person now?"
"Tom,"
"How can I ever"
"Tom" Ressler pulls Tom's head up and stares into his eyes. Ressler's eyes purvey the pointed architecture on Tom's face as he speaks.
"Do you want in because you care about Liz or because you're scared about yourself?"
"I,"
"Because, either way, the Bureau can't help you with that."
"But," "But. I can help you with one of those."
Ressler leans in and plans his lips on Tom's. Tom's tenses then relaxes, his hand goes up Ressler's arm, stopping on his biceps, and squeezing them. Ressler's hands come up Tom's neck, caressing and caressing the stubbly smoothness of his jaw and chin. His hand then clamps down on Tom's neck as he swings he body to straddle the now confused stud beneath him. Tom panics, thinking he's being choked maliciously. It's only when he feels Ressler's fat, hard cock grinding against his abs that he relaxes. He opens his eyes to see Ressler staring down at him, drooling with excitement. Tom struggles to breathe, but trusts the hunk above him. His cock strains against his jeans, desperate to get out and find flesh to meet.
Ressler suddenly leaps off Tom.
"Come on, let's go." He almost shouts as he runs to the bedroom ,disrobing on the way. Tom stands slowly. He undresses, unzipping his hoodie, and letting it fall to the floor, his muscled forearms now exposed. They flex and flair as he pulls off the white T-shirt revealing his glorious abs, tight chest and muscular arms and shoulders. They are lightly dusted with brown hair. He drags his hands up his torso, savoring the feel of his abs and the hair that leads down to his cock, still screaming to release. He lingers on his nipples then brings his hands to his throat, choking himself and savoring the control over his own air, a feeling he knows he won't have again soon.
The hands move down to rub the length of his cock, desperate to escape. It points across his left leg, hard and strong. His hands traverse the shaft.
One hand dips below to massage his balls, then comes back up to pull on the hair on his chest. The light tugging is so powerful. He moans and shudders, slightly buckling over. The hand continues up. It traces his lips and detects the little hairs emerging from the skin. It breaches the lips and two fingers go into his mouth, right to the back of the throat. He pulls out his hand and smiles. Still no gag reflex.
He unbuckles his belt.