FalleNess

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.

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.

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

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.

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’;

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.

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.”

Me @yddraigwyllt fanfiction works.

Grab your Googltranslate, Russian dict, your Russian friend, anything, anyone, whatever, and READ THIS IMMEDIATELY BECAUSE IT’S SO SO SO FUCKING GOOD

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26822521

Fuck me, I almost cried at some scenes, for real. This is def not the thing I expected, too, but hooooooly shit, it’s amazing.

18+, Gen, Presslington (Red, Ressler, Prescott)

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

- a fic by my amazing co-author Gwyllt

“I need your help.”

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.

Neubauten 

by Gwyllt and FalleNess

“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.”