fallenesspoetry

[fallenesspoetry]

hii are you taking request for ressler fanfictions?

Hi, dear!

I'm so, so sorry I haven't replied earlier (yikes, it's been more than a month), I'm not checking this blog as often as my others.

I'm pretty suck at requests tbh, because even if you give me the idea, it will spun out of control into this 200k monster, and I'll probably let it die at 50k... Yeah.

However, if it's something short, 500 words-2000 words, like a scene or a "moment" you’d like to see in canon, I could try. My muse needs a kick in the ass, so hit me up here.

I used to write Ressler/original female character (pwp included), but now I'm not really into that... If you have some Ressler/original male character (not necessarily sex but chemistry or funny dynamics, even if it's a crossover), I'm pretty much game. AUs are welcome as well, if you're into that. And I'm def game into solo-Ressler stuff.

Just be warned that I like my Ressler to be more of an asshole rather than a lady's charmer (I had the lady's charmer stage before xd), and not everybody like it xd

Cheers!

[fallenesspoetry]

My Xmas gift for three most important folks who keep lifting me up from any mess I've gotten myself into:

@resslerette1 - thank you for your support and love! <3

@yddraigwyllt - thank you for the love, and for teaching me that even 200 words matter if you put yourself in them <3

@randomprivateer - thank you for the cheers and laughs, and *cues Britney's songs*, you-know-what <3

Give it some love on Ao3 as well, please.

I'm driving home for Christmas, yea

Well I'm moving down that line

And it's been so long

But I will be there

I sing this song

To pass the time away

Driving in my car

Driving home for Christmas

When her foot presses on the gas pedal, the car’s engine murmurs softly, obediently speeding up across the freeway. On the bridge, roadway lights bow their shielded heads in a greeting as she passes them by. The falling snow is thumping at the windshield—thud, thud, thud—an impatient kid stomping his feet because Christmas isn't coming fast enough.

Inches from her car's right wing, a navy Corolla cuts in front of her—

She slightly taps at the brake, so that her car—well, not exactly hers—wouldn't kiss the Corolla’s ass. The windshield wipers slide across the glass again, axing icy snowflake bones off into thin air.

“Honestly,” she mouths, struggling with an urge to actually teach this dumbass a lesson. Because, honestly—some folks are asking for it.

The fog is spreading across the windows, making driving this unfortunate piece of wheeled metal even more miserable than before.

It's an insult. To her and her craft she's spent honing for the past decade. Muscle cars. Racing cars. Armored vehicles. Humvees.

But this?

She shoots a glance at the rearview mirror.

A tall ginger-haired man is asleep on the backseat, his freckled cheek pressed against the window, the corner of his mouth wet with saliva. His eyelids flinch, eyelashes—flutter in his dream, but he doesn't wake up.

His multi-layered disaster of tees and shirts and jackets begs for an iron. An empty gun holster on his belt—she's not stupid—is peeking from under his unzipped cotton jacket. He's not wounded—she checked, against her best judgement—and his pulse is steady. Calm but steady. There are no empty bottles or anything pointing out he's either drunk or high. Instead, she'd only found a few bottles of water and some McDick's paper bags reeking of burgers and pickles.

The only reasonable explanation she could give—except, of course, the fucking-FBI-badge for “Donald Ressler” in the glove compartment—is that this guy has probably been to hell of an assignment—undercover, maybe, since the badge wasn't on him, and the casual clothes—and then his system has had enough...

In any case, this—any of this mess—isn't her business. Her business is to take this goddamn vehicle and the merchandise to her contractor.

She glances at the gun laying next to her on the front passenger seat.

*

“...How are we doing?”

“You set me up! He's—”

“An FBI agent. Is he injured?”

“Drooling against the window. Listen, I'm not a kidnapper, I'm—”

“I've asked you to retrieve a vehicle. And you did it just fine. Whatever merchandise it comes with, is none of your concern. Just follow the instructions and be here at seven sharp.”

“I’m not a miracle worker. The snowstorm—”

“My dear, it's Christmas, have a little faith.”

*

She tries a heater knob—nothing.

You must be kidding me.

What the hell, she's gonna ask the old prick to double her fee.

[fallenesspoetry]

My The Blacklist Poetry is finally completed!

Read/download the .PDF

[fallenesspoetry]

Just thought I'd share this here too, my gift for this year's Valentine's day for @resslerette1 .

Falling snow, tossed and thrown by gusts of raging wind, twirls into cone-like craters and bangs at the log cabin windows. A giant, ten times enlarged snowfall hammer is hitting them, and the window frames—the last frontier on the snowstorm's way—let out a helpless screech. Another tide of snow thrashes in a clamorous cannonade over a pane.

Jesse wraps her hands tighter around the steaming mug of hot chocolate, piercing into the snowfall. A worrisome wrinkle is nestled between her brows as she is trying to discern anything past the whiteout. It's supposed to be noon, but everything has blurred into whiteness, the clock on the wall—an only witness of current reality.

The blizzard strikes again—with a visceral howl, fiercely sprinkling another cascade of snow against the glass. The flames in the fireplace—troubled rattlesnakes—hiss in return, displeased. Jesse feeds them a kindling, and the flames' tongues gratefully lick the wood, crackling joyfully at their feast.

She hears an engine's roar—

just the wind clawing at the windows, reverberating all over the cabin.

Sleazy and cold “what-ifs” are creeping under Jesse's skin. She pulls on her sweater collar and starts pacing—or, rather, maneuvering—across the living room, crammed with a sofa and two armchairs, stacked piles of newspapers and car repair mags, and a large bookcase, taking up all the wall's space.

“Damn it!” Her feet, wrapped in wool stockings worn over skinny pants, slide across the wooden floor. She manages to keep her balance but doesn't stop pacing, this time—across the rug.

Dear God, I swear, when his sorry ass lands on the porch, I'll...

A thud follows—and Jesse turns her head in the direction. She hurries to the front door just in time to see a familiar silhouette stepping inside.

Ressler, or, rather, a five feet tall snowman, with two grocery bags at his feet, is shaking up the snow off his parka. He unzips it and hangs it on the rack. Taking his knit beanie off, he gives Jess an apologizing smile, his cheek dimples deepening. Tiniest snowflakes are shimmering in his strawberry blond hair, and his forehead, nose, and cheeks are reddened as if someone has rouged them.

“I honestly thought I'd make it till—” Jesse crosses her arms against her chest. A part of her doesn't want to admit that for an agent—ex-agent, she mentally corrects herself—her sleep is tighter than a baby's. And another part wants nothing more than kicking his ass back into that goddamn weather. Preferably, naked. The imagery almost costs her the “pissed off girlfriend” look.

“..but guess I didn't,” Ressler deadpans, not aware she had to stifle a giggle: him running around the log cabin, freezing his butt—and other, also important parts—off and asking to let him in... What a sight. “'Kay, shoot me,” he draws in closer and raises his hands, a shadow of his Cheshire grin lies on his lips.

“Jerk.” Jesse softly punches him, her fist sinking in his sweater. Oh, she'd tell him, tell him a lot! And he'd know better, he'd know better than not waking her up, and ignoring her explicit ask not to go, and...

His closeness numbs her resolve to the point she doesn't pull away when Ressler leans in for a kiss, his hands cupping her face. When his chapped lips brush over hers, one of those odd things crawls into her mind—the blizzard has left her mark on him too... Jesse could swear, she now knows what it smells like: pine, moisture, and cold. Not the usual chill easily tackled with warm clothes; rather a penetrating, all-consuming, guttural coldness. Lifeless. Dead.

His palms, cupping her face, slide over her shoulders to rest on her back, and Jesse instinctively presses herself against Ressler, hoping to give up as much warmth as she possibly can. She gently grazes her lips over his, slowly sucking on his lower lip. Not meeting any resistance—quite the contrary, an attempt to lead she brushes off with a nibble onto his lip—she threads her fingers into his damp hair, her fingertips stroking his nape.

A brief instant, before their lips meet for another kiss, she looks into his eyes.

A snowflake, almost indiscernible, melts on his eyelash.

[fallenesspoetry]

Give it some love on Ao3!

...Red sits at the center of a poker table, his wrists chained to the surface. Despite the unfavorable circumstances—as far as he's concerned, a temporary inconvenience—he is glowing like a polished chip, smirk clung to his face.

He glances around, searching for familiar faces. Men, confined in tuxes, cufflinks glistening under the ceiling lamps. An assortment of women's attires, each teasing a décolleté, more ample than the other. Gems on necklaces, magnified in the champagne glasses.

Pretentious disguise.

The guests—delinquents, criminals, crooks of all sorts—are clustered around the table, all eyes on him:

the Raymond “Red” Reddington himself, flesh and bone.

“How's your wife, Jamal? Filed for divorce, I hope?”

Two security guards rush to the table, and, after fruitless attempts to reason with the man, escort him out.

The floorman, a golden griffin embroidered on his jacket's sleeve, approaches the croupier, leans over, and whispers something in his ear.

Red doesn't need to hear the words to know what he says: their table needs an eighth player. Vetted by whoever is behind the curtain for tonight’s game.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay...”

The croupier, wearing an apologizing smile, shuffles the deck of cards, occasionally asking someone to pick a card and memorize it. A trick as old as the hills, yet almost everyone falls for it.

Red accepts his Martini cocktail from a waitress—his chain is loosened just enough for that—and takes a sip. A burst of citrus hits his nose; the liquid permeates his palate, swirling on the tongue between pure coldness and floral sweetness, slight bitterness imprinted at the tip.

Savoring the taste, he contemplates.

Death threats have already become a part of his routine—almost like a steaming cup of Hacienda La Esmeralda, and a pain au chocolat in the morning.

However, now is different. Someone in his team has been compromised—a kidnapping like this isn't planned overnight. Surely, Dembe must have figured it out already. If he knows, the cavalry is on their way...

“Mister Reddington, fancy to pick a card?” the croupier asks him, a polite smile on his face.

“I'll pass, thank you.”

Red finishes his Martini, watching the floorman approach the table. He gives a small bell near the croupier a tap and announces:

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We're delighted to inform you we're all set. Our new player is Ronald Powell...”

Indifferent to whoever is about to join the table, Red takes out a toothpick from his cocktail glass and sucks off a green olive.

“Evening, gentlemen.”

To his utter disbelief bordering with disappointment, Red recognizes the FBI's one and only, Special Agent Donald Ressler.

At least, he's made an effort to blend into the environment; instead of the usual off-the-rack nightmare—a black tailored two-piece contrasting with his ginger mane, this time messy, not gelled.

Dembe went to the feds? Could he, really...? Unless... If—and that's a big if—by some wondrous coincidence, the FBI has located him first, it'd be foolish to refuse considering the circumstances.

“Red,” Ressler grins at him, taking an empty seat.

The words halt on his tongue—Ressler sits way too far to exchange something meaningful than a courteous greeting.

“Glad you could make it, Ronald. The flight must have cost you a fortune.” Ressler holds his gaze for a moment, his face acquiring a delicious “Don't-you-dare” expression, and Red takes another Martini off the waitress's tray. “Don't look so glum, enjoy the show while it lasts,” he salutes him with a drink.

As Ressler makes himself comfortable at the table, the agent's facial expression—an unparalleled example of a poker face—seals his decision.

[fallenesspoetry]

1,2 comrades will need it, but anyway.

Many thanks to my co-author @yddraigwyllt. You're breathtaking <3

THE DEVIL TO PAY

Finale

///////////////////////

Reddington takes a glance at his watch—Brimley’s been working round-the-clock for almost five hours, and Ressler is tight-lipped all the same. Doesn't speak a word or a coherent utterance.

He screams.

Reddington doesn’t hear him; he sees Ressler’s tensed muscles, veins on his neck bulged and strained under pressure, his mouth opened wide—a little more, and it’ll pop up in half.

He removes a pair of earplugs and then opens a beer can, lifting the tab neatly, and the foam bubbles over the narrow edge. A glass of Cabernet—a sacrilege under these circumstances, however you look at it. It's highly unlikely that a bodega in a working-class neighborhood has the craft Octoberfest beer in stock.

[fallenesspoetry]

An AU where Ressler and Hatley are ambitious senators from rival parties who are running for President of the US in the upcoming election.

Neither of them is willing to lose. Politics is a dirty game, after all.

[fallenesspoetry]

An AU where Ressler tracks down Raymond Reddington to Venice and ends up attending the Carnevale di Venezia undercover as a visitor—Donald isn’t really hoping for much since it’s rumored to be the last place anyone’s seen Red. Reddington might be on his way to Sicilia, as far as he knows.

What Ressler doesn’t expect, is to share a dance with the Concierge of Crime himself…

[fallenesspoetry]

An AU where Ressler and Prescott are members of the CIA’s assassination team. When their next mission makes flop, they both are forced to go rogue.

//

I dedicate this to @randomprivateer - thank you for introducing me to our boys and ‘The Enemy Within’;

and @yddraigwyllt - you and your fics are my constant inspiration!

[fallenesspoetry]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252286

Alright, lads and lasses, my amazingly talented friend @yddraigwyllt and me are bringing you a long-awaited shake-up for your thirsty fan fiction needs.

WARNING: 18+, triggers of all sorts, pRoblEmaTic cOnTenT included.

Pairing: Prescott/Ressler

An extended fuck-TBL-canon scene from 5x03 on the parking lot.

He reads the long con answer in Prescott’s eyes: run, Agent Ressler, and all evidence on Hitchin’ case will come up; run, Agent Ressler, and the steering wheel fingerprints of this car is going to be the proof against you in the case of a murder cover-up. Run, Agent Ressler—abroad, if you make it there in time, of course.

Ressler knows he wouldn’t make it, and that’s why he doesn’t flinch, letting Prescott put his hands all over him. Prescott squints, the shadows veiling an insane twinkle in his eyes, and leans to Ressler’s ear.

[fallenesspoetry]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252286

Alright, lads and lasses, my amazingly talented friend @yddraigwyllt and me are bringing you a long-awaited shake-up for your thirsty fan fiction needs.

WARNING: 18+, triggers of all sorts, pRoblEmaTic cOnTenT included.

Pairing: Prescott/Ressler

An extended fuck-TBL-canon scene from 5x03 on the parking lot.

 He turns his back to Prescott, intending to leave, but Prescott’s fingers clutch at his arm above his elbow in a steel grip wringing his muscles, and the piercing pain shoots up to his shoulder. Prescott spins him around with an abrupt jerk forcing him to stop.

“You’re carrying the bodies, doing my bidding, Ressler,” Prescott’s voice is almost gentle, yet it doesn’t match the sharp jerk, which has caused Ressler’s arm to grow numb. “And you will until I set you free—and until then, you are my bitch.”

My bitch. The light goes out in Ressler’s eyes, but he forces himself to stand upright—he even grins right in Prescott’s face.

[fallenesspoetry]

I’m finished SUDDENLY 40-pages (-ish, it hasn’t been edited yet) fic about… *dramatic drums* PRESSLINGTON! *cheering, applause* No one expected this, and I’m first of all.

[fallenesspoetry]

@yddraigwyllt​

My amazing co-author Gwyllt wrote this American Gods drubble. Show him some love, please <3

Zorza wieczorna

[fallenesspoetry]

@yddraigwyllt

An Invitation

- a fic by my amazing co-author Gwyllt

“I need your help.”

Prescott’s voice sounded ordinary but Ressler’s gut shrunk. He knew what “help” Prescott needed. Again.

[fallenesspoetry]

@yddraigwyllt

Die Interimsliebenden

Gwyllt ft FalleNess

18+ Donald Ressler/Henry Prescott

An unpleasant turn of events, but one never knew what could work in that kind of situation. If Prescott was here somewhere, in that case, so...

“Actually, yes, my friend recommended this place to me,” Ressler raised his hand, his thumb pointing vaguely over his shoulder, either on the wall or into space. “He’s already here, I’ve seen his car in the parking lot.”

 “What’s his name?”

For a fraction of a second, panic tightened his throat—Name, name, what’s his fucking name?!—but then it popped out from his memory.

“Henry,” Ressler said, trying to calm his heartbeat. “Henry Prescott. Like this high, dark hair...” He lifted his hand slightly above his head, looking for a trace of recognition on the musclehead’s face.

“Oh, you are a friend of Mr. Prescott,” the musclehead droned and suddenly stretched his big lips in a smile. “Please, come in.”

[fallenesspoetry]

@yddraigwyllt

Neubauten 

by Gwyllt and FalleNess

“Listen, Agent Ressler, on what grounds are you arresting me?” Prescott didn’t move, and Ressler wasn’t an asshole to shoot for no reason. “Isn’t it the part where you ask me to come with you and answer some questions?”

[fallenesspoetry]

“SNOWBLIND” - CHAPTER 4, “OVERDOSE”

“We don’t have much time, Donald.” He casts a quick glance at his Rolex. ”Do you have a plan, at least? As far as I remember, impromptu tricks don’t fit your profile."

Not even hiding his mockery. Fuck.

Ressler whacks the Concierge in the face with the gun. Reddington staggers but keeps upright.

“I never thought you had it in you,” he spits a wad of blood on the ground.

Plan?

The meaning behind the question escapes his mind, and Ressler closes his eyelids, inhaling slowly, drawing as much oxygen as he can.

Plan. Yes. Of course, he has a plan.

“When was the first time you talked to anyone?”

The words drift away from him. He opens his eyes, and it hits him—the park’s gone… He turns around, realizing—the park is gone, and they are standing in the alley.

Get out. Fast. Something remote. Construction site, abandoned church, anything.

“You need a qualified—”

Ressler pushes him against the brick wall, shoving the Glock under his chin.

“I’m fucking fine.”

“And I’ve seen a report telling a different story,” Reddington argues, unfazed by his response.