Posted in Criminal Minds, Hawaii Five-0, NCIS, Rule 63, Short Fiction

tBS: War Brides

Title: War Brides
Author: darkseraphina
Fandom: NCIS/Criminal Minds
Prompt: Rule 63

Characters/Pairings: Spencer Reid/Aaron Hotchner, Antonia DiNozzo/Steve McGarrett
Genre: historical AU (yes, really)
Word Count: 1990
Notes: So, I wrote a historical AU. And a Rule 63 story. At the same time. This is what happens when you spend time reorganizing a history section in a bookstore. I have no regrets. More seriously, I’m Canadian and that means that war brides are a large part of the post-WWII identity of my country; more than 40,000 brides from Britain and thousands more from Germany, the Netherlands, France, Italy, and other nations immigrated to Canada in the years after the war. Some faced poverty, others rural isolation; some faced abuse and suffering. And some made happy lives, despite the strange circumstances and the difficulties of a world recovering from war.

Synopsis: They were more fortunate than most, even far from home and soon to reach a strange country.



They were luckier than most.

It was an odd thing to think, hundreds of miles from home while on their way to a new country to meet husbands they hadn’t seen in years. They’d been at sea for days and the war was barely over.

Still, they were lucky for the war was over and they had survived as had the men they’d wed days before being sent to the front lines. Though they were sailing to a new land, it was one that spoke the same language as their own. Their families were an ocean behind them but they’d found a friend in each other to ease fear and homesickness.

Spencer leant against the railing of RMS Queen Elizabeth, watching the dark smudge of land along the horizon. She’d calculated their position based on estimated speed and her knowledge of nautical charts; they were past the coast of Canada and soon to pass Boston, the final leg of the trip between Southampton and New York.

“Almost there,” Nina said softly, round tones giving away her upper-class breeding. Spencer’s accent was pure London despite years at Oxford, first under the guardianship of her mentor, Dr Gideon, and later as a student of mathematics. It wasn’t her accent that had drawn looks then, but her age and gender; women were permitted within the hallowed halls of Oxford but only begrudgingly, and sixteen-year-old girls more so than most.

When war broke out it hadn’t mattered that she was nineteen and female to the War Office. Her gender was a blessing for once, as it meant one less man pulled from the front lines to do the work needed at Bletchley Park. Spencer had been challenged, by both the work and the people, but there was nothing she regretted from her time there.

It was at Bletchley that she’d met Aaron, an American army captain attached to the War Office as an interrogator. It was in the nearby village that she’d married him, two years after their first meeting and two days before he was sent to rejoin the Americans, seven weeks before Normandy.

It was September 17, 1946. Spencer Hotchner had last seen her husband in April of 1944.

She touched a creased letter in her skirt pocket. It was the last of many sent over the years, having arrived only days before she boarded the ship. “Yes, almost.”

Nina leant back against the rail, arms draped across it as she lifted her face; the sun was thin, but it was there. For days the ship had been battered by storms, forcing them to stay inside and many to battle seasickness. That wasn’t a problem for her, not after years spent flying everything from Tiger Moths to Spitfires.

She was the granddaughter of an Earl and Italian immigrants; raised amid grand rooms and manicured gardens and expected to marry well. The Paddingtons wished for a well-connected husband while her father wanted him to be rich. Antonia, called Nina, had never concerned herself with a wealthy life, only one that was hers.

When the war started, she hadn’t joined a women’s organization as a director, the way Peeresses and their daughters had; she hadn’t signed up as an ambulance driver like Princess Elizabeth. She’d joined the Air Transport Auxiliary and learned to fly.

It had horrified her cousin Crispian and worried her Uncle Clive, but Nina had done right by her country and enjoyed herself immensely. The work was hard and dangerous, but they’d made the most of every day, and even more of the nights.

It was on such a night that she’d met Steven, a Navy officer. They’d been celebrating in the pub and he had offered a truly terrible line only to make up for it by buying a round. He’d also known how to dance, which Nina found terribly attractive in a man. They’d been married a month later.

When he’d been sent to Sicily, she’d gone three months without a word; more than once she’d found an S. McGarrett on the casualty lists but always of a different rank or nationality. The letter that finally arrived had mentioned that he’d been ‘a little shot up, but fine’ and little else. Her blistering response had threatened to set the mailbag on fire and ensured he’d never gone more than two weeks between letters again.

A child ran by, obviously enjoying some time above deck, mother following and calling in French. Nina and Spencer grinned; as they both understood French, they caught the woman’s creative scolding. Of the hundreds of women and children on board, less than half were English.

“Are you frightened?”

“Running into a Jerry on reconnaissance while you’re flying with empty guns is frightening.”

“Nina.”

“Terrified,” she admitted. “And you? I’ve more time to wait, but you’ll meet Aaron again soon.” Having been discharged, Aaron lived in the Capitol as a barrister. The trip to New York was only the first part of Nina’s journey; she would take a train to San Francisco, then another ship to Honolulu.

“His mother is going to hate me,” Spencer mumbled.

“Probably,” Nina said cheerfully, ignoring Spencer’s frown. “A posh bird from another country who stole her lad’s heart and left him to pine all this time? Fortunately, your husband doesn’t live with his mother. Think about how many women on this ship will be living in the same house as their mother-in-law, and be grateful.”

“I’m grateful he lives in a city, one with libraries. I like a ramble in the countryside as much as anyone,” Spencer admitted, “but I’m not interested in living there.”

“Countryside means something quite different for us than Americans, but I agree; the first thing I asked Steven when he asked for a dance was if he was a farmer.”

“Nina.”

Unashamed, Nina shrugged. “Better to be rude than to fall in love with a man whose life would make you miserable. Don’t frown at me, you had the sense to marry a barrister.”

Since it was true, Spencer only asked: “Are you packed?”

Many war brides carried only a single bag with them as they joined their husbands, but they were more fortunate. Nina’s family and Spencer’s husband both had money enough to pay for passage rather than depending on the government. Instead of only what they could carry, they were able to bring all their belongings.

Well, most; Spencer would have to wait and have her books sent by packet later.

“I’m ready to get off this boat as soon as we land,” Nina agreed.

The waters grew busy as other vessels became more common; fishing and transport, steam and sailboats grew numerous. The decks grew crowded with women and children who watched as their new home grew closer. Crewmen made the rounds, warning of the coming landfall. A few left to gather belongings but most stayed, waiting and watching.

“Oh,” Nina said quietly beneath the shouts and cheers in multiple languages; Spencer clutched the railing. The Statue of Liberty was larger than they’d expected, rising above the sea and city beyond her. Her face appeared solemn and kind.

As they drew closer to port, both women retreated to their berth to collect their suitcases and their composure.

“How long to unload the baggage, do you think?” Spencer asked as they descended the gangplank; around them, chaos reigned. Spencer gripped the handle of her suitcase as she watched the exuberant greetings and kisses playing out. There was a crowd of onlookers and even photographers nearby, and wasn’t sure if she was grateful not to be part of the spectacle or saddened; there was still a train journey to Washington D.C.

“In this? At least an hour, then we’ll have to arrange to get the trunks on the right trains.” Nina eyed the crowd with a faint smile and dark eyes, for it reminded her of the Victory Day celebrations, right down to the sailors dipping women back in enthusiastic kisses. “We might find a place to sit, or better still, to have a bite to eat.”

“You can still take the train to Washington, and then go to San Francisco from there.”

“Spencer, I doubt either of you wants a house guest on your first night together since D-Day.”

“You can find a hotel if you insist,” Spencer cajoled. “You were of staying a night here before going on; why not Washington?”

Nina linked their arms and drew Spencer through the crowd. “We’ll see. You know what I’m looking forward to most?”

“Not in public, Nina,” Spencer blushed.

“Do you know what I look forward to almost as much as that? No rationing.”

“Sugar for tea,” Spencer sighed. “Bacon for breakfast.”

“And fruit instead of jam. Steve told me that you can buy pineapples and bananas in every greengrocer on the island.” It had been years since she’d had a banana, and only ever canned pineapple. Even oranges had been rare since the war began, the risks of shipping too great for luxury items. Apples and fruit from gardens and hedgerows made into preserves had been the order of the day.

A letter describing Hawaii was carefully folded among many in her case and while Steven was quite awful with words, he managed to summon some eloquence in writing as well as private moments. Lush green forests and crystal blue seas, white sand and warm sun; he obviously loved his home.

“Spencer.”

She glanced around at her name; it wasn’t common and was usually someone calling a last name rather than her. This time, however . . . “Oh.”

Nina chuckled and took her case from her hand, then gave her a little nudge. “Go on, then.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be here.”

“Well, go tell him that.”

It was odd to see him in a dark suit rather than a uniform, but his face seemed the same. A few creases near his eyes and a scar on his jaw that she could see up close, but otherwise as the picture in her pocketbook showed. And just like she remembered, he showed little of what he thought in his face and everything in his eyes.

“You weren’t — what are you doing here?” she managed then blushed. Hardly a warm greeting.

Aaron smiled. “I missed you.”

She took the last few steps and wrapped her arms around him; his came up to hold her tightly. “I missed you, too.”

Nina smiled and turned away to give them privacy, though she doubted they’d do anything half so demonstrative as those around them. Spencer described her husband as restrained, and she was rather contained as well. Around them, husbands and wives, parents and children were still connecting as the business of unloading a ship went on around them.

She and Spencer were the lucky ones. For every kiss, there was a stilted greeting; for every warm hug, a loveless one. Nina would lay a pound for a pence that at least one woman here had been widowed and not yet gotten word, and was now without husband or money in a foreign land. Plenty had married in haste and would now have time to repent, and there were surely men who’d all but forgotten they were married.

Spencer’s husband was speaking quietly in her ear and, based on the women’s blush, it was something loving or carnal. Nina rather hoped it was both for Spencer was charming and so terribly serious. Regardless, there was no repenting there. As for herself, Steven’s letters were as full of wistfulness and longing as ever, so she didn’t think he’d forgotten her. She would go to the other side of the world and make a home with him and, if it didn’t work, she had three hundred pounds hidden in her case and a bank draft for more from her grandfather.

“Nina?”

She turned away from the crowds towards her friend, and let her stern husband take the luggage.

 




 

Note: Yes, I used Nina as a nickname instead of Toni. Context matters, and fashion changes. Try to picture a young woman, growing up in the 1920’s in Britain with an upper-class family being called ‘Toni’. And that’s before the whole ‘we’re at war with Italy’ element. Nina is a nickname for women’s names that start with N or end with ‘-nia’ and is well-known in Britain.

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Posted in Criminal Minds, Fiction, NCIS, Rule 63

tBS: Prohibited

Prompt: Rule 63
Fandom: Criminal Minds/NCIS
Pairings/Characters: Tony DiNozzo/Spencer Reid, BAU team
Warnings: Recreational Alcohol is consumed on screen; please drink responsibly.
Word Count: 1,811
Notes: Well, I’ve written Tony and Spencer as a slash pairing, with female Spencer and with female Tony so you know what that means: femslash. Also, I was going to keep this pretty close to canon by having Toni and Spencer at their canon jobs, but somehow I wrote my way around to this. I don’t usually write Tony as a civilian unless he was injured in the line of duty but this really worked for me. If Tony, male or female, had ever gone into business, I can absolutely picture this.

Synopsis: The team meets Spencer for a night out, gets lost, and finds a surprise.



“I don’t know where we’re going, but I doubt it’s what I had in mind for a Friday night.”

“Oh hush, spoilsport,” Penelope scolded. “How often does our genius invite everyone out, instead of one of us luring her from her book cocoon for an evening with the team?”

“That would be my point,” Derek said. “Rossi agrees with me, right man?”

“Not really.”

“Come on, man — Reid’s idea of a good time is a three-hour foreign film or a day at the Library of Congress. Hey, now!” He jumped a little when Emily prodded his ribs. “Careful, Prentis.”

“You’re already on thin ice, Morgan, after your stunt the other day, so watch it.”

“Stunt? What stunt?”

“The latest episode of your epic quest to cockblock Spencer,” JJ said mildly.

He scowled and walked a little quicker to get out of Emily’s reach; behind his back, she and Penelope fist bumped. “He was hitting on her and she wasn’t interested.”

“He was a decorated officer inviting a colleague to lunch, and she is a twenty-six-year-old genius with ten degrees and a gun,” Hotch sighed. “She’s shot a man in the head, Morgan; Reid is perfectly capable of turning down a polite invitation without you throwing yourself on the grenade.”

“Being asked out makes her flustered.”

“And she’ll never get any practice at it with you around, Chocolate Thunder,” Penelope hooked her arm through his and pinched his bicep. “This is our shot across your bow, my love; the next time, we start playing dirty.”

Because he was a smart man, her beautiful Derek looked wary. “Do I want to know?”

“Lets’ just say,” JJ interjected, “that I doubt you’d enjoy an outright campaign on your ability to get a phone number, much less a date.”

“Sauce for the gander,” Rossi chuckled. “Karma.”

Morgan gave her a betrayed look. She patted his arm. “It’s for your own good, Sir Morgan.”

Rossi, who was navigating, stopped. “I hate these damned GPS apps,” he grumbled, staring at his phone. “This can’t be it.”

‘This’ was a narrow alley between a movie theatre and a Mexican restaurant, walls plastered with posters and graffiti. Near the end was a sign that said Underground.

She pursed her lips. This rang a bell or two but it couldn’t be . . . could it?

“This better not be some kind of walking tour of haunted places or murder sites,” Derek muttered.

At the end of the alley was a door, opening to a descending staircase complete with flickering lights and subway tiles. They gamely continued — a federal badge or six would get them out of trespassing charges — and at the bottom, after a turn, came to an old-fashioned turnstile with its arms locked in place.

“Well, we’re lost. Someone call Reid.”

“Oh!” Penelope dug into her pocket. “I forgot, she gave me these.” And retrieved a handful of tickets, naked of anything but barcodes. “I thought they were for a movie, but they look like they’ll fit the ticket slot.”

Hotch tried first, and passed through the arms of the turnstile, then waited for the rest of them. Will had a knowing smile on his face; Garcia bounced on her toes, thrilled and eager for more. Just beyond them was a heavy door. “Open it!”

“It says ‘No Entrance’, Mama,” Derek cautioned, but she knew what this was and pushed forward to grab the handle and yank.

And they walked into the Prohibition.

“No. Way.” Emily breathed. “Seriously?”

Lush and gorgeous, filled with vintage wood and fabric and gleaming glass, the 1920’s swirled around them. There were two bars, dozens of tables, and multiple chandeliers. On the dance floor were a dozen couples including one doing a vigorous Charleston, to cheers and applause, and a live band.

The servers and bar staff, male and female alike, wore tuxedo pants, shirts, and cummerbunds complete with suspenders; the head bartender wore a vest and tie as well. The hostess looked like Anna May Wong had stepped off the screen and into Washington in her black and red silk dress. The patrons wore street clothes and suits, flapper dresses and fifties fashion, sequins and blue jeans and everything in between.

At a high-topped table near the bar, fitting in perfectly in her usual tweed skirt, argyle knee socks and saddlebacks, Spencer Reid sat with a cocktail and a book.



“Doctor Reid, you are a genius! How did you find this place?”

Spencer looked up from her book — Fitzgerald seemed appropriate — to find her team descending on her. “Oh good, you found it. I thought I might need to text you instructions.”

“It took a moment,” Rossi agreed. “An Old Fashioned,” he told a server who’d descended on them.

There was a round of ordering, along with a few questions about the drinks listed on the menu — and a few laughs over the House Rules printed there. Garcia dug out her phone and switched it off immediately, happy to immerse herself in the atmosphere, and Will and JJ announced that they were coming back wearing fedoras to take advantage of the half priced drinks.

“No, really, how did you find this place?” Emily asked when they were served. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“I have,” Will said, “but I didn’t know where the entrance was. Anybody can slap up a few decorations and call themselves a speakeasy. It takes a secret entrance and word of mouth to make a real one.”

“Where do you get the tickets?” Morgan asked, gazing around at the decor.

“There’s a ticket booth in the movie theatre,” Spencer explained, “they only sell tickets after six. The same person owns both, so it works.”

“The theatre shows vintage films, right? Someone with vision and a love of history.” Hotch’s shoulders relaxed, a sure sign he was feeling comfortable.

“And movies,” she agreed. “Not to mention a flair for the dramatic.”

“You know him?” Morgan asked suspiciously, then flinched. JJ and Emily glared at him, and Spencer figured one of them had kicked him under the table.

“Cockblocking,” Garcia said warningly.

“Remind me to add ‘No Cockblocking’ to the House Rules.” Spencer grinned and turned; Toni had swanned up to the table, looking every inch a modern Marlene Dietrich in a floor-length sequined gown and styled curls. “Really, it should always be against the rules.”

“Guys, this is the owner of Underground; Antonia DiNozzo. Toni, this is my team.”

“The infamous BAU,” she purred, sliding right into Spencer’s personal space. She tucked her arm around Toni’s waist; Rossi’s eyebrow flew up and Garcia’s jaw dropped. “A bunch of Feds in a speakeasy; well, it’s not the first time.”

“We aren’t all Feds,” Will teased.

“Corrupting the local coppers is old news, Detective,” Toni returned sassily, “the Chief of Detectives and Police Commissioner are regulars. Don’t come on Thursdays if you want to avoid getting pinched for colluding with moonshiners.”

“See? Dramatic.”

Toni pouted. “Don’t you love me, doll? Why you gotta be so mean?” Laughing, Spencer kissed her. Her girlfriend lingered for a long moment; they ignored Morgan’s choked squawk. When Toni drew back, her smile was real and soft and full of love.  

“I really do love you, but that means I’m aware of and enjoy your preference for drama.”

“You’re forgiven, but I demand a dance later in payment for hurting my feelings.” Toni pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then grinned at the team. “I’ll be back later. Don’t wear her out with too many questions; I have plans later.”

“You,” Garcia intoned seriously as Toni sauntered away, hips swaying beneath her shimmering dress, “are going to tell me everything. And don’t spare on the sexy stuff.”



Toni slid back up to the table after they’d ploughed through several platters of hors d’oeuvres and several refills apiece. “Enjoying yourselves?”

“The food and drink are almost as good as storytime,” Garcia said shamelessly. “I especially like the part where you invited her home to see your etchings.”

“They were art deco prints, actually,” Spencer explained. “Toni’s a collector.”

Her team laughed; Toni hugged her shoulders and consoled: “Don’t worry, Spencer, I love you even when you can’t see a come on with a deep space telescope.”

“It’s a lovely collection,” Spencer huffed.

“You didn’t see my artwork until the next morning, sweetheart,” Toni reminded her. “Unless we’re counting my rack, which I think qualifies.”

“Let’s go dance,” JJ laughed, tugging Will towards the dance floor. “I’m not sure we should be listening to this!”

“I just invited you home for coffee.” He finished his drink and followed. “Which we didn’t get to until morning either, come to think.”

“Come along, Derek,” Garcia ordered. “I want to take a spin as well. You’re next, David Rossi, so don’t go anywhere.”

“What about Hotch?” the older profiler demanded. “I’m ten years too old to keep up with you!”

“Our fearless leader is about to find himself with his own partner,” she called back cheerfully.

“Redhead, two o’clock,” Toni pointed out. “Partner in a local law firm, does charity work for an inner city family law centre. Comes in on Fridays, usually, for the stage and burlesque shows. Looks fantastic in Dior,” she added with a smile as a redhead in a black dress slid up to Hotch’s seat.

“And then there were three,” Rossi mused as their Unit Chief followed the exodus to the crowded dance floor. “Why are you two still here?”

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Spencer admitted, familiar with the sensation of holding the table while everyone else had fun.

“Take your woman and get your rear onto the dance floor, Agent Doctor Reid,” she was told sternly. “I’m getting another drink, and then I’m going to watch and smugly imagine how sore and hung over you’ll all be tomorrow.”

“Come on, sugar,” Toni laughed, “we’ve got our orders.” And she was pulled along.

“I haven’t gotten any better since the last time,” Spencer warned.

“Which is why the band is going to play something slow.” The music changed, and Toni drew her close. They were nearly the same height, but Toni’s heels elevated her so she took the lead as they danced cheek to cheek.

“I’m glad you brought them,” Toni murmured.

“So am I.” And she was; her team was like family, and you introduced someone you loved to your family; even she knew that. Spencer stroked her thumb along the side of Toni’s neck. “Half the people in this room are picturing us naked together.”

There was a throaty chuckle next to her ear. “So am I. I’m going to New York to check on my places there. Come with me?”

“I can only take a couple of days, and only if we don’t have a case.” Lips touched her cheek. “Yes.”   

 


 

Posted in NCIS, Short Fiction

tBS: Worn

The Big Short

Title: Worn
Prompt: Dr Spencer Reid

Fandom/Characters: Criminal Minds/NCIS; Spencer Reid/Tony Dinozzo
Genre: Smut. Seriously.
Rating/Warnings: M. Because: smut.
Word Count: 1762
Notes: Apparently, a prompt for the smartest character currently on tv requires a response of sexy times. Because: Tony and Spencer. Naked. Together.

Synopsis: Sometimes, Spencer needs to get out of his own way.


 

He dropped his bag and keys, kicked off his shoes and headed straight for the bathroom, stripping off clothes stale from two days and a six hour flight. Cranking the shower handle up high, Spencer waited until steam started billowing before stepping inside.

The heat and pressure against the tight muscles in his back and neck felt so amazing it was painful.

Another ugly case in a series of them; weeks of a one-two punch of casework and internal politics. Strauss was breathing down Hotch’s neck — again — and last week Spencer had spent four days interviewing the parents of missing children. His bones ached with exhaustion, but he was too tired to sleep, particularly hated and unfair condition. His mind, a double edged sword at the best of times, continued to turn over; composing the report due on Monday while recalling the three cases he was consulting on — the missing person case in Georgia was almost certainly a break in pattern, not an early indicator of an emerging serial —

This kind of physical and mental state made his skin itch, the need for a shot of Dilaudid burning in his veins, a craving for the drug’s ability to quiet his mind. For a few hours, at least, until the high faded and his thoughts scattered like light refracting on glass, sliding from his grasp and encouraging the need for another —

Spencer increased the water temperature, letting the subtle pain of too-hot water on his skin break that destructive thought pattern. First rule of being a recovering addict — don’t dwell on things you can’t change.

After ten minutes, he knew he risked either scalding or drowning — statistics for household accidents in bathrooms ran through his head, broken down by demographic, type, and time of day — but it took another moment to manage turning off the water.

He made it to the bedroom, considered pajamas, and collapsed, wet and naked, on the cool sheets of his bed. And lay there, unable to turn off his mind and sleep as his body demanded.

Faint strains of Chopin were audible on the other side of his apartment wall. Spencer counted his breaths and listened, hoping it would help. When the piece ended and the incomparable notes of Ray Charles began, he gave it up as a bad job, rolled out of bed, and staggered to the laundry basket.

Wearing cotton pants, an old CalTec teeshirt, and barefooted, Spencer snagged his keys, walked down the hall, and unlocked the door.

Tony was playing — of course he was, Tony was always playing. If not the piano, then the violin or the guitar. There were pages scattered around the living space, a sure sign he’d been composing. If he was lucky and Tony felt like he’d produced something, Spencer would get to hear his friend’s efforts before he performed it in public.

“Hey, Special Agent Genius. What’s — ” The former cop glanced over his shoulder. “That bad, huh?”

Spencer made a vague noise and made it to the sofa, collapsing on it. “I’ve had longer weeks, but they involved defending a thesis or terrorist acts, so. . .”

“I hear you.”

It wasn’t false sympathy; Tony DiNozzo had been a cop until a near-fatal shooting had cost him a spleen, a kidney, and his badge. He’d gone back to college to complete a law degree, but it was the solace he’d sought in music that had become a career. He’d moved into Spencer’s building two years before; they’d become friends several months later.

Spencer had realized six months ago that he was deeply attracted to his friend — watching the man play in a low-lit jazz club, pouring his passion and heart into a complex and beautiful song — and concluded that Tony had at least a passing interest in return a few months after that. At this rate, he might made a stumbling, embarrassing move in another year or so.

“I’m exhausted,” Spencer managed. “Too tired to sleep.”

“Sucks,” Tony murmured, then changed songs again. Something soft and playful was coaxed from the keys; Spencer didn’t recognize it. “I won’t wake you if you manage to fall asleep.”

“You should fuck me.” Tony missed a note and turned to stare at him.

Apparently his brain-to-mouth filter was gone. Fantastic.

“Not that I’m opposed, Spencer, but I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be making decisions like that right now.” He frowned and Tony gave a little laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re so tired you can’t stand upright, Spence. You might as well be drunk.”

“I’m tired, not intoxicated.”

“Didn’t you tell me that people are more impaired by lack of sleep than by alcohol?”

He knew he was pouting. “The law doesn’t see it as impeding consent.”

“The law once judged tight jeans and short skirts as implied consent, Spence,” Tony said dryly. “The law is somewhat behind morality on the nuances of the matter.” Sighing, he rose and offered his hand. “C’mon.”

Spencer staggered to his feet, letting Tony guide him to the bedroom. “Then you’ll —”

“If you make the same offer after ten hours of sleep, Spencer, I will enthusiastically take you up on it.”

“Going to,” he muttered, letting Tony tug off his shirt and nudge him into bed; it was larger than Spencer’s. “Love watching you play. Love your hands.” And had masturbated, repeatedly, to the thought of them.

“We’ll compare hand fantasies later.” Thumbs dug into his shoulder muscles, working out knots; Spencer moaned at the release of tension. “I hope you remember this tomorrow, Spence.” Hands worked down his spine —

— the clock said 10:21; the sun was out. The sheets were blue, not gray.

He could smell coffee.

Spencer made it to the kitchen before he remembered, then debated between humiliation and caffeine. Caffeine won. He snagged the cup sitting on the counter and inhaled it.

Then he glanced up at Tony, who watched him with amusement.

Tony, who he’d propositioned; who was half-naked, his chest displayed by low-slung sweatpants. Bullet wound, surgical scars, and a steel hoop piercing his right nipple and all. “Um.”

“More coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Coffee came with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast; Spencer’s stomach reminded him that he’d gone more than ten hours without food and wasn’t happy about it. When the food had vanished, Tony was nowhere to be seen, but there was a toothbrush on the counter; Spencer claimed it and retreated to the bathroom.

He might wish to flee back to his apartment, but he should be a grownup and talk about . . . things. Probably.

Tony was waiting in the kitchen. “Feeling more human?”

“Yes. Tony —”

“Well-rested?”

“I feel much better. Tony —”

“Good.” He was crowded up against the counter by a body the same height but larger than his own. Spencer rapidly recalled that he was also shirtless, mostly because there was hot skin against his from collarbones to waist. “Now, about your suggestion. Was it the rambling of an exhausted mind — or something you want even when you have the self-control not to say it?”

He could see the pulse throbbing in Tony’s throat; Spencer swallowed. “I — really want you to fuck me.”

He was drawn into a bruising kiss; they made it down the hallway with minimal injuries despite being unable to separate. The door jam caught Tony on the shoulder as Spencer pinned him in place to bite at his pulse. Pianist hands slid past his waistband and over his ass.

He ended up flat on his back, Tony straddling his hips and sucking marks along his collar. “I don’t just say things like that, you know. I don’t really think of people that way.”

“Affection first, then attraction, right?” Tony lifted up enough to push their pants over their hips.

“Usually.” Spencer eyed the man’s cock, then reached out to touch the scrotum piercing. “How many —?”

“The two you can see, and a guiche.” He inhaled sharply as Spencer gave into his curiosity and sought the aforementioned piercing; there was another metal hoop behind Tony’s scrotum, warm from body heat.

“Not something you expect from a cop.”

“I went through a period of confirming that I was alive and still attractive. My post-recovery slut-phase.” Spencer frowned at the term, though he understood the psychology of Tony’s life affirming actions. “Slut is only an insult if you think it’s one. I tend to consider it a lifestyle choice.” Then he grinned, shifted, and bent down to swallow the head of Spencer’s cock.

He made a soft noise, arched his head back, and wallowed in the best blowjob he’d ever had.

“I didn’t expect you to be quiet in bed,” Tony mused as he sat back up. “It’s charming.” Spencer flailed a hand, unable to speak while he was lingering on the edge of orgasm. The snick of a cap was warning enough that he wasn’t surprised by a slick hand wrapping around him; he managed to lift one of his own to join Tony’s where the man pressed their cocks together and stroked.

“Want you to fuck me,” Spencer reminded him.

“Oh, gorgeous, this is just to take the edge off.” Spencer lifted his eyelids to watch Tony; the way his arm moved steadily and the arch of his throat. “I’m going to watch you come, then stretch out that amazing ass of yours — and then I’m going to get you absolutely filthy again.” The description was accompanied by a sharp tug along his shaft while two fingers slid back to find his perineum. He groaned low in his throat and came all over himself and Tony.

Fuck.” Tony wrapped Spencer’s hand around his cock and used it to jerk rapidly. “Fuck, Spencer, you’re better than music.” He came over Spencer’s belly with a harsh noise. “We aren’t leaving this bed until we pass out or Monday comes.”

“I have nowhere else to be.” Spencer ran a hand through the semen on his stomach, then lifted his hand; Tony groaned and sucked two fingers into his mouth. “Do you need a minute? Or should we shower and get started on the next phase of your plan?”

Tony laughed, dragged them both out of bed, and slapped Spencer’s ass sharply on the way to the bathroom. Spencer retaliated by pinning him to the shower wall and doing a detailed examination of his piercings. That led to . . . well, Tony excelled at meeting his obligations. Repeatedly.

Posted in Criminal Minds, NCIS, Short Fiction

tBS: Fate and Joy; Redux

The Big Short

Title: Fate and Joy; Redux
Prompt: Anthony DiNozzo, Jr (yes, again, shut up)
Fandom: NCIS/Criminal Minds
Characters: Tony DiNozzo, David Rossi, Joy Struthers, Aaron Hotchner, Penelope Garcia, Kai
Genre: Romance, Feels, Family
Word Count: 1628
Warning: Feels. All the feels
Author’s Note: Yes, I am aware that Hayden Montgomery is alive in season 11. Yes, I did kill her. #authorregretsnothing.

Summary: “Sweetheart — just how do you think I’d react to a reporter following me around? Now multiply that level of paranoia by the twenty extra years in law enforcement the David Rossi has over me. Not only won’t you get the answer you’re looking for, you’ll only get hurt. And so will he.”

Continue reading “tBS: Fate and Joy; Redux”

Posted in Criminal Minds, NCIS, Rule 63, Short Fiction

tBS: The Perils of the Divine

The Big Short

Title: The Perils of the Divine
Prompt: Anthony DiNozzo Jr
Fandom: Criminal Minds/NCIS
Characters/Pairings: Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, JJ Jareau, Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid/Tony DiNozzo
Genre: genderbent/always-a-girl, team fic
Word Count: 1375
Warnings: none
Author’s Note: I realized that all my always-a-girl genderbent stories had the younger partner as the female. Since I don’t want anyone to think I do this because I’m making the ‘weaker’, younger or ‘submissive’ (finger quote emoji . . . do they have one of those?) character female out of some kind of adherence to gender roles, I decided to remedy that. FYI, I nearly called this story “Women on Top”.


“Well, now, the day is looking up,” Morgan told Rossi, who made an amused and appreciative noise. Both men tipped their heads slightly as they gazed out the round table room’s window.

Emily rose from the table, followed their gaze, and huffed. “Seriously? You two are such boys.” They grinned. “Rossi, that woman is young enough to be your daughter.”

“Most women are,” the older profiler said, unabashed. “Besides, if I couldn’t appreciate a pair of great legs — I’d be dead instead of just old.”

“Those legs aren’t great, they’re a work of art. Yes, please,” Morgan grinned as said legs were crossed. Continue reading “tBS: The Perils of the Divine”

Posted in Criminal Minds, NCIS, Short Fiction

tBS: The Fabulous Penelope Garcia

The Big Short

Title: The Fabulous Penelope Garcia
Author: darkseraphina
Prompt: Penelope Garcia
Fandom: Criminal Minds/NCIS
Characters/Pairings: Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, JJ Jareau, Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid/Tony DiNozzo
Genre: Awesome Women, Pretty Men, Team Fic
Word Count: 1485
Warnings: well, I refuse to warn for slash or for women ruling everything so. . . I got nothing.
Authors Note: Seriously; every prompt and challenge for six months, and I manage to make them all genderbent — because I am nothing if not consistent in my obsessions — and what happens with the first female character prompt? I write slash for the first time in months. I need a translation program for my own brain.


“Emily! Please tell me you aren’t busy on Friday night?”

The profiler looked surprised by her abrupt appearance, but Emily was nothing if not game. “Garcia, this is so sudden; I had no idea you felt that way.”

The temper Penny was riding eased back enough that she could grin. “Oh, my pet, you know you’re the only one for me.”

“Shhh, don’t tell Morgan. He couldn’t bear to know you’ve been stringing him along all these years to cover for our love.” Continue reading “tBS: The Fabulous Penelope Garcia”

Posted in Criminal Minds, Fiction, NCIS, Rule 63, The Sentinel

Seeing Clear

Title: Seeing Clear
Author: darkseraphina
Fandom/Genre: Criminal Minds/NCIS, Sentinel Fusion
Relationship(s): Tony DiNozzo/female Spencer Reid
Content Rating: R
Warnings: Canon-typical violence (so, serial killers, dismembered corpses, sexual violence, psychopathy, drug use, epic character angst – all that fun stuff), sexual content (possibly) and swearing: seriously, more swearing than sex – I swear way more than I sex, especially in 15,000 words. Also, this is genderbent, always-a-different-sex. Not your thing? Shoo.

Word Count: 15 334

Spencer Reid lives in fear in meeting her mother’s fate — having her brilliant mind turn on her. She buries that fear in her books and her work, but it continues to prey on her. When she begins to feel things that make no sense, Spencer’s fears seem to be coming true. Until David Rossi, newly returned to the FBI, gives her an answer she never expected.

Tony DiNozzo was a good cop, not because he’s a Sentinel, but because it was who he was. Key word — was. A second career-ending injury cost him his badge, but his senses are unaffected — however often some buff young sentinel looks at him and sees a cripple. Tony knows who he is, and the assumption that he’s dormant might annoy him, but it changes nothing.

A Sentinel who knows himself inside and out. A Guide who has always been afraid to look inward. And plenty of well-meaning friends to meddle in their lives. What could go wrong?

Continue reading “Seeing Clear”