#now with Phryne's thoughts as well

[itshornokplease]

Miss Scarlet and the Duke

I started watching this show ages ago but it took me until learning that one of the actors was leaving the show to really just binge it all. I have thoughts, some may be unpopular.

- Eliza is not that likable of a character. She’s pushy, she is bossy, she disregards rules, etc. This show made me think a lot about Miss Fisher, but where Phryne does a lot of the same stuff that Eliza does, she is so much more charming and kind. I think that’s the main thing - Phryne is a kind and compassionate character. Eliza has integrity and shows compassion too, but she’s also kind of stuck up and selfish. Not that those are BAD things necessarily in the context of the show. She’s a woman in Victorian England and doesn’t get the same respect or trust that her male colleagues and counterparts do and I think it’s actually kind of a nice change that she’s not instantly likable. But by the end of season 4, I feel like she’s barely grown at all.

I feel like every other character had some growth whereas she still is the same. I read this on someone else’s comment or blog post but when you watch the flashback episode (which I really enjoyed), she’s the same then as she is now. Literally, she has not grown in personality or character.

- William. I think he definitely showed some growth (personally my favorite “relationship” is William and Fitzroy. I love how he mentors the young cop and helps him get stronger and better), and until that scene where he and Eliza make eggs, I didn’t really see any chemistry. I also think he loves Eliza way more than she really loves him. So the route his character took makes sense to me. I already knew he was leaving when I watched Seasons 2-4, so I wasn’t as invested in the relationship as many fans are. But it really bothered me that they did the whole “William tells her he loves her” thing because I honestly just don’t see it with Eliza. Yes, she was jealous when he was with Arabella but again, I feel like Eliza as a person hasn’t grown much during this show so I feel like her jealousy was more like a “I’m not sure if this is love or because you’re with my best friend” type of thing. I don’t think the show did that very well, personally. All the moments she and William had always had her freaking out and I wish that we could really see more into what she was really feeling. Did she really love him? Or did she think she maybe loved him but wasn’t sure? I don’t know, I think compared to the first two seasons, the latter two seasons really tried to hit viewers on the head that these two are meant to be, but I’m not convinced.

Anyway! I will miss William because I enjoyed their banter and friendship but tbh I miss Moses WAY MORE.

- i read this in other posts but i 100% agree that Patrick Nash seems waaaaay more well suited for Eliza than William. He views her as his equal, he’s hilarious, and I can see their relationship go more the romantic way than I ever saw it with William.

- Moses was the BEST. Moses and Solomon were awesome and I’m so mad that Moses left for Paris. He was so straight with Eliza.

If I’m being perfectly honest, I enjoyed the interactions between the characters in this show. The murder mysteries were very meh. Honestly, I just wanna go watch Miss Fisher now and enjoy the truest slow burn romance of them all between Phryne and Jack.

#miss scarlet and the duke #pbs masterpiece #miss scarlet pbs #miss scarlet spoilers

[justplainsalty]

Made up fic title - “where your misery finds its company”

I desperately want to use this for my [redacted] AU for miss fisher, but can I be honest? I might actually steal this for another MFMM fic I've got partially written 🫣.

Jack, fresh off a march from the Somme to Belgium, and hurting from the violence and horror of it all, finds himself turned loose in Poperinge for a night. His platoon is not required to report for duty until the following afternoon. Most of his section has gone off to find food and drink, or prayer, or other soft and feminine comforts, but each option leaves an ashy taste in his mouth. He strikes off at random, haunted by thoughts of Rosie and of how adrift he feels in his own body.

Inside a cafe, fronted with broken windows and with the staff all evacuated, there are four nurses drinking, and something about their laughter and cheerful swearing at each other draws him in. There are two Frenchwomen, an irascible American, and to his surprise, an Australian, although she's got a cut-glass British accent. Phryne. The American deals him in to their card game and their drinking. It's not so bad, if he's surrounded by good people.

As the night wears on, and the group drifts apart, Phryne takes him to her lodging. She has a bath there (a real hot bath!), and she coaxes him into it with her and a bottle of painfully dry red wine. His hair is, after all, disturbingly filthy. She washes it with the kind of care he knows he won't see again until the godforsaken war is over.

After their bath, she trips (literally) over the pocket volume of Shakespeare he had stowed in his pocket. They huddle together under the thin woolen blankets, and he reads to her, Phryne interjecting commentary ad lib, until his mouth is dry and he is nodding off.

In the morning, she leaves him with a kiss to his forehead, and her embroidered scarf wrapped around his neck. But he loses the scarf sometime in the trenches in 1917, and with time, his recollection of the dark-haired woman's face fades. Eventually, it is replaced with Rosie's face. Eventually, he is convinced he dreamt the entire thing.

(I wrote this not knowing the rest of the lyrics to the song. Having now looked them up, I might actually steal this song for my TLOU playlist as well.)

Send me a made-up fic title and i’ll tell you what i would write to go with it!

#mfmm #i did a thing #ask meme #ask game

[rachaeljurassic]

So, I admit it, I watched till the end without comment because I could not look away, or pause, or search for an emoji for an emotion that didn't exist in my brain until just now. However, the following is an accurate representation of my thoughts and feelings during the last moments of 3x08. Seriously, my exact thougts are burned into my brain (and I watcehd it again 😉), this is truly what happened, I ain't even kidding lmao...

Spoiler, it was awful, it was exhilarating, I am going to have my blood pressure checked in the morning

So this was my brain:

Phryne is in the plane.

Dad is getting in the plane.

Sudden fear they are going to die (shut the fuck up dad you're giving me anxiety!!!)

😡

JACK IS NOWHERE IN SIGHT!!!!

*literal sounds of pain*

I mean, he's coming, right?

I'm starting to agree with Mac's accessment after the break up. Coward!

😒

(I don't mean it Jack my beloved 😍but I am reaching the end of my rope here!!!!)

😭

I am quite literally tearing at my hair. I hadn't realised that was a real thing until now.

😱

Don't you want to be happy, Jack? Don't you want PHRYNE to be happy? You've SEEN the way she looks at you!

😡

HE'S HERE!!!!!!!!!!!

😁😁😁

Her face!!!!

😍

The way she said "Jack"

*dead now*

Ok, things are happening now!!!!! She's out of the plane, he's out of the car. Fuck off DAD!!!!!!!

😡

They're running

*slight hysteria due to funny running* don't judge me, I'm tired and emotional right now, I don't know what I'm doing!

😫

Great relief they stopped. Flinging themselves at each other just didn't seem right

🤣

Good god dad, do I have to gag you!?!?!

arghgghg a "romantic overture"

"Say it again"

Argh their faces are saying kiss me!!

🥰🥰🥰

WHY AREN'T THEY KISSING YET?!?!?!

😫

Never before have I been so convinced that Einstein was right, time is stretching, nothing seems real

😵

I can feel it, it's almost here............

KJHGFDSGHJKLJFDSJKLJGFDJKLHGFJKLGFDJKHFHJK

🥴

THE WAY THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER OMG OMG THEY ARE SO FUCKING HAPPY

I am so fucking, well, relieved tbh, I was about to flip tables. tbh I was so fucking stressed by this point that I was half expecting this to be a dream! But it WASN'T!!

🥰🥰🥰

And the way Phryne keeps having to look back at him and Jack can't take her eyes off her!!!

😭

And he's 'looking to the skies'

🥰

And he's HAPPY

😍

And he's trying to work out how soon he can hand in his notice

😆

And she's waving goodbye

😭

😭

😭

And...

Breathe

🤗

#mfmm #miss fisher's murder mysteries #live blog #3x08

[midnight-els]

For @tiltedsyllogism 🥰

Inherited Sins is a Lenara POV one shot about her and Sergei's relationship. I put it aside in the run up to S4 but with the Star City news I am so excited to revisit it soon! Sergei is living openly in the US and Lenara is tasked with telling him Margo is alive for Mind Game Reasons. Cue angst about their different relationships to the state, their own relationship, and Lenara's feelings about her role at Roscosmos/as a senior official in the Soviet regime.

Pool Table Case Fic - basic premise is that Phryne investigates a murder with another detective who's Jack's academy best friend. The victim was found on a pool table. Standard post s3/established Phrack shenanigans happen.

I was reflecting recently that I have never published any of my many proper MFMM case fics because I run out of steam on the case bits. This is by far the most developed of those but it's probably only 60-70% done, with the interesting personal bits being finished and the tricky case bits outstanding. It was a really developmental fic for me, taking a lot of the brunt of practice at getting back into fic writing after a few years away, and I do like a lot of the bits in it so I'd love to revisit it when I have time. This time last year I was literally in the middle of doing a big clean up and trimming the case bits back so it could be published when I decided to take a quick break and check out this show called 'For All Mankind' on AppleTV which could surely have no effect on me 🙃

Extracts under the cut

Inherited Sins

“Why, Lenara?” he called from behind her. She stopped, forcing herself back around to face him. “Why what?” “Why this?” “It’s my job.” For the first time in years, Lenara saw Sergei smile. It was barely perceptible, sad and pitying, but she instantly recognised the seeds of that same look he’d always given her when she was being particularly impetuous.  She wanted to smack it from his face. “Do not think I don’t understand,” he said gently. She couldn’t tell whether it was her training or her warring exhaustion and disbelief that stop the instinctive scoff breaking through the surface. Eyes boring into his face, she swallowed harder than she intended to. “On the contrary, you’ve made it quite clear that you don’t.”

Pool Table Case Fic

Snatching her drink back up, Phryne darted in the direction of the back of the house, sensing more than hearing Jack’s sigh as he followed. “No, no Dottie it’s really fine, really. Please don’t -” Hugh was fretting, trying to calm his agitated wife, Mr Butler watching unconvinced, when they entered the room. His left eye was mostly hidden by a rather impressive bruise, with not a little swelling and a cut on his cheekbone to accent it. Poor man, Phryne thought: even as a Senior Constable he still seemed to be suffering the under whims of Melbourne’s crims. “Inspector!” Dot rounded on Jack instantly. Phryne suppressed a smile at his fleeting passing resemblance to a rabbit caught in a headlight. Jack schooled his features into a professional mask and, using an equally official voice, tried to mollify her. “I do apologise for the condition of your husband this evening, Mrs Collins. I’m afraid there was a disturbance at the station, it really couldn’t be helped. I assure you, the situation is in hand now.” “It couldn’t be helped?! Hugh said you had Jenkins arresting a bunch of good-for-nothings. The only thing that boy is capable of arresting is a couple of children who’ve escaped from Catechism!” Phryne again pressed her lips into a thin line, struggling to hold her amusement in. Really, Dot could cow their constabulary counterparts so well they might both as well have been as green as the unfortunate Jenkins.

#thanking you very much! #wip ask meme #my fic #for all mankind #mfmm #asked and answered

[vhenadahls]

screw your courage to the sticking-place

Phryne is determined to make Jack’s birthday special, no matter how many times she has to try to make a cake. The process leads to a revelation and a declaration.

E, 6500 words.

AO3 link in first reblog!

The kitchen is a lot more daunting when she’s supposed to do something. The table looks a mile wide, and the baking implements strewn across it more akin to torture devices. Phryne picks up a whisk, rotating it slowly in one hand as she stares.

“Miss, you don’t have to do this.” Mr. Butler’s voice is kind and even, as always, without a hint of judgment. “The Inspector will be pleased that you’re hosting a small party for him, and with your other gifts. It won’t matter if you made the cake yourself.”

“No.” Phryne shakes her head. “Well, you’re probably not wrong. But I said I’d do this, and I’m going to do it.” She sets down the whisk and picks up the apron he’s draped over a chair for her. The knot at the back poses a challenge for just a moment, but she gets it tied and picks up her whisk again.

“So, Mr. Butler! I am yours to command.” Posing dramatically with a baking whisk might be silly, but she does it anyway, holding it like a sceptre of rank.

He laughs lightly, gesturing with one hand to the ingredients and utensils organized neatly across the table. “I thought we’d try a chocolate cake recipe I’ve made many times. I’ve pulled out most of the ingredients already, except what’s still in the refrigerator. We'll start by reading the recipe, then going over the ingredients, and then I'll walk you through it." He taps the open page of the cookbook on the edge of the table.

The left-side page starts with maple filling. She skips that - they’re making chocolate cake - and skims the next section. Directions for making chocolate cake. Perfect.

Melt chocolate in double boiler. Melting, that makes sense, even if she isn’t sure what a double boiler might be. Measure and sift flour as many times as you would for white and yellow cake.

What?

“Um, Mr. Butler.” Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Turning back from the refrigerator, he gestures at the book again. “It’s all right. You’ve done much more complicated things than baking this cake. No need to worry.”

Once his head’s in the refrigerator again, she turns back to the book, running a finger under each line. They’re all English, all words she knows, but these are not combinations of words she’s ever put together. A scant cup of butter - cut into particles? Creamed butter? Salt, in a cake? At least “level teaspoon” makes some sense, though she isn’t sure whether the measure is “a spoon used for tea” or something else entirely.

Mr. Butler turns away from the refrigerator again, setting three eggs on the table. Towards the middle, she notices, where hopefully she won’t knock them onto the floor. “Now, see here,” he points to the ingredients list in the cookbook, “it says ‘eggs beaten separately.’”

“I assume that means separating the whites and yolks.” Phryne reaches out to pick up one of the eggs, then thinks better of it when Mr. Butler’s hand hovers nearby. “Though I have no idea how one would do such a thing.”

“I’ll show you. And the rest of the ingredients should make plenty of sense - flour, sugar, butter, salt. You know those.”

“Actually,” she picks up the container of salt from the forest of ingredients, “I don’t understand why anyone would put salt in a cake. Don’t we want it to be sweet?”

“Of course.” Mr. Butler points at the cookbook again, at the listing for the salt. “Salt enhances the flavour of whatever you’re baking, even sweet things. It’s only a teaspoon in this recipe, because you don’t need very much in a cake like this. But it will make it a lot better than if we hadn’t used it.”

Phryne sets the salt back on the table. “I knew I’d be learning today, but I had no idea how much.”

With a soft smile, Mr. Butler hands her the jar of flour. “So! The main ingredients for your cake are, of course, the chocolate, the flour, milk, eggs, and butter. The butter’s still in the refrigerator, since we want it to stay as cold as possible. We also have the salt, as you noted, some vanilla to mix with the chocolate, and baking powder, which will help the cake rise when it bakes so it’s not flat as rubber.”

“This all sounds so simple when you put it that way, Mr. Butler.” Popping the clasp on the flour jar, Phryne sets it back on the table and reaches for a stack of measuring cups. “How much do I need?”

He reads out the quantities to her and shows her how to sift the flour and baking powder together, then steps over to the stove to melt the chocolate. The sifting itself is simple, but trying not to go too fast and puff flour all over the kitchen is somewhat harder, what with how boringly repetitive the task is. While sifting with one hand, Phryne assembles the rest of her ingredients with her other hand, lining up the salt, sugar, the jar of milk, the eggs.

Once she’s sifted the flour four times, Mr. Butler walks her through separating the eggs and beating the yolks lightly with the whisk she’d grabbed earlier. Then it’s time for the electric mixer he’s so proud of, which he won’t let her use. He effortlessly creams (why is it called creaming, she wonders to herself) the butter while still keeping an eye on the chocolate. She mixes sugar into the egg yolks, then adds the butter while Mr. Butler beats the egg whites in another bowl.

Phryne keeps stirring while Mr. Butler pours ingredients in from alternating bowls: the flour mixture, then the egg whites, then flour again. When both bowls are empty, he pours the chocolate in. It all comes together in a lovely batter, smooth and dark and creamy like she thinks you’d expect from something called chocolate cream cake. Once the chocolate is fully mixed in, Mr. Butler runs a finger over the edge of the bowl and pops it into his mouth with a silly wink that makes her laugh. But as soon as he tastes the batter, his nose wrinkles in disgust.

“Mr. Butler?”

Taking a glass from the cupboard, he pours some of the leftover milk and takes a sip. “I think you may have used salt instead of sugar, Miss Fisher. Unfortunately we’ll have to bin that one and try again.”

Trying not to groan aloud, Phryne nods. “I suppose I can’t expect to be good at baking on the first try.” She tries not to visibly pout.

While he dumps out the foul batter and washes out the bowls, she goes back over the recipe and the ingredients, purposefully putting the sugar and the salt on opposite ends of the table. She’s not going to make that mistake again.

—--

The doorbell echoes inside, as it always does. Jack’s stood on this stoop more times than he can count. Especially lately.

It’s unusual that he has to wait long for someone to answer the door. Usually Mr. Butler, but sometimes Dot (or Jane, when she’s home), or sometimes even Miss Fisher herself. But today he’s still waiting, though he knows at this time more than one person should be in the house.

Nerves building in his chest, he walks back to the footpath and around to the alleyway. The kitchen door is closed and the curtains are drawn, so he knocks, solid and loud (“that policeman’s knock,” Rosie called it once - ever since she said it, he’s tried to temper it, but it comes out when he’s nervous).

The door opens almost immediately, Mr. Butler standing on the other side. “Inspector! I apologize if you rang the bell and I didn’t notice, I -”

“Jack!” Miss Fisher barrels into view from behind Mr. Butler, nudging him out of the way and stepping into the alleyway. She closes the door behind her, and when she turns back Jack notices a streak of chocolate on her cheek and - he does a double take - a batter-covered whisk in her hand. And a flour-streaked apron wrapped around her. “I didn’t know you were coming. We were just -”

“Baking?” He rests two fingers on her cheek just under the chocolate, a small smile on his face. It’s incongruous, thinking of her doing something as domestic as baking, but the mental image of her trying is more than endearing.

“Oh no,” she starts, and even if it weren’t obvious he’d know she was lying. Her voice still pitches higher when she tries to lie to him, and he knows she knows (and that she knows he knows), so he lets her keep going. “There’s just something strange going on with…the cooker! Mr. Butler needed a hand, and I’m the only one home. We’re almost finished, so I’ll have Mr. Butler open the front door for you and you can wait in the parlour if you’d like?”

“If something’s gone wrong, I could help Mr. Butler figure it out?” Jack plays along with the lie. “Not that you haven’t been a great help, I’m sure. But three heads might make it go faster.”

Miss Fisher drops her chin and tilts her head, looking up at him from under her excessive eyelashes. An expression he’s seen many times, one that’s almost guaranteed to get her whatever she’s asking for. He’s still always glad to see it.

Realizing she’s talking and he’s missed something, he tries to piece together the conversation. When he catches up, she’s saying, “-just take a seat in the parlour and I’ll be with you shortly.” Without another word she leans up on her toes and kisses him, then gives a cheeky smile and slips back through the kitchen door, so quickly he doesn’t get a look inside.

While he’s still blinking in confusion, Mr. Butler steps out, again closing the door behind him. “Miss Fisher asked me to walk you back to the front and let you inside. I apologize for the inconvenience, Inspector.”

Jack follows him, trying to look through the blue gingham curtains as he walks past the window. He can see a sliver of the kitchen beyond, but not enough of it to make out more than the fact that Phryne’s baking something. Something that includes chocolate.

Once ensconced in the parlour, he strains to hear whatever’s going on in the kitchen without walking into the dining room where he’ll be visible. But all he can hear is the low murmur of familiar voices and the lilt of familiar laughter.

That’s enough, though. He’ll find out soon enough whatever it is she’s working on. The birthday party she’s throwing for him is tomorrow, after all. No amount of trying had been able to convince her that a man his age didn’t need a birthday party, and at this point he’s somewhat looking forward to it. Or, at least, to time with her around people they don’t have to hide around.

—--

This cake comes out flat as a board.

Mr. Butler had tasted the batter, declared it good. Phryne had felt so proud, conquering this skill that’s always been the purview of others. “Apparently I can find different mistakes,” she mumbles under her breath, and the weight of Mr. Butler’s hand drops onto her shoulder.

“Everyone who’s baked has made these kinds of mistakes. You’re not the only one, not at all. This looks like you left out the baking powder - might have put in an extra measure of salt or sugar instead.”

It’s supposed to be comforting, but reminders of the things she can’t do rarely are. She grits her teeth, pulling the cookbook towards her. “Hopefully the third try’s the charm.”

He shakes his head. “We can’t today, Miss, there isn’t enough milk left. But we can bake another tomorrow morning, before the party. We’ll get it right.”

She sighs. “Perhaps.” Glancing over the kitchen, she winces - it looks like a cyclone’s been through. “I can help you clean up.”

“No, no, don’t worry.” He’s already organizing the ingredients left on the table. “You go talk to the Inspector.”

Not needing to be told twice, Phryne fumbles behind her for the apron strings, pulling it off over her head when the knot’s undone and escaping the kitchen. She detours up to her room, wiping the chocolate and flour and other residue off her skin and reapplying her makeup. When she steps into the parlour and Jack looks up and pats the sofa next to him, appreciation on his face, all her frustration melts away. That’s why she’s trying her hand at baking - to elicit as many of those wonderful smiles as she can. The smiles - and the man - she’s come to love.

Love. The nonchalance of the thought stops her in her tracks. It’s not the first time she’s thought it. He’s said it, but infrequently (he knows her so well, it’s probably to avoid scaring her away). And she’s come close. But it’s still a step that scares her, a step she wasn’t confident she’d ever be ready to take again. Not after Paris, after René. After her parents.

“Miss Fisher?” His low voice threads its way into her thoughts, unspooling the tension that had begun to grow again, as he always does. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She drops onto the sofa next to him, pouring whisky into two glasses from the decanter on the table. Pulling her legs up under her, she offers him one of the glasses.

He takes it but doesn’t immediately drink, rolling his wrist and turning the glass with it. “Is everything all right with the cooker?” His voice is light, betraying nothing, but when he looks up from the glass his eyes are twinkling with unvoiced laughter.

“The cooker?” Why on earth is he asking about the cooker? She’s been - ah. The lie she told to explain why she was working in the kitchen and wouldn’t let him in. Which he clearly knows is a lie, and is waiting to see how long she’ll keep it up.

Two can play at that game.

“Oh, yes, the cooker!” She takes a sip of whisky, keeping her eyes on his, and he doesn’t break the stare. “It seems to be working well enough now. Mr. Butler clearly knows what he’s doing, he just needed an extra pair of hands. I don’t really understand any of what I did; you’d have to ask him.”

“I may just do that,” Jack says, and Phryne has to suppress a laugh. Chuckling himself, he drapes his left arm across the back of the sofa and she leans into his side. “Will you at least tell me tomorrow?”

“What’s there to tell?” she asks, affecting innocence as best she can, and his chuckles escalate into full laughter. Shifting slightly, she leans up to press her lips to his, reveling in the abrupt change from laughter to that delicious moan deep in his throat.

“Phryne,” he breathes, breaking the kiss, voice hoarse and eyes dark. Smirking, she kisses him again, tracing her tongue over his bottom lip.

—--

Jack doesn’t stay the night. He wants to, and everyone who will be at the party already knows that he spends much of his time at Wardlow, but it seems like a better idea to come from home. The party’s scheduled to start at four, so he leaves home with enough time to arrive by half three - but, knowing who’s coming, he’s not sure half the guests will show up anywhere close to on time.

He doesn’t even have to ring the bell this time. Miss Fisher flings the door open as soon as he steps up onto the stoop, as if she’d been watching from the parlour window. “Jack!” she cries, and he couldn’t help his smile even if he cared to. She pulls him inside, and as soon as the door’s closed behind him he leans down to kiss her. Her smile is evident in the kiss, too, and he wraps one arm around her waist.

“Happy birthday,” she murmurs against his lips, and it sends a shiver down his spine that he’d love to give in to. Stepping back away from him, she gives him a filthy look that promises more, and his mind goes completely blank.

“Inspector!” Another familiar voice, from behind Miss Fisher, breaks into his thoughts and starts them up again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Good to see you. And, um, happy birthday.”

He leans to the side to find Mrs. Collins - it’s taken a surprising amount of time to get used to calling her that - standing in the doorway to the dining room, holding a tray of glasses clearly intended for the parlour. Jack blinks at her for a moment, feeling like an owl in daylight, until he gets his bearings back under him.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Collins. Thank you. I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble to get everything set up for the party.” It still feels odd, to know they’re setting up a party for his benefit.

“Not at all!” She’s still just as sweet as she’s always been, and he’s glad again that Miss Fisher came home and put her household back to rights. Not just for himself. “It’s always a pleasure, Inspector.”

When she steps into the parlour with her tray, Jack realizes that Miss Fisher’s no longer standing on his other side. He casts around for a moment before finding her, emerging from the door on the far end of the dining room. She’s carrying another tray herself: a platter full of sandwiches, which she places gently in the middle of the low table in the middle of the parlour. Pride of place - odd, for sandwiches. But at a second glance, he realizes the sandwiches are all a little cockeyed, the arrangement on the plate a little less than perfectly symmetrical, one or two already looking slightly soggy from the mustard pickle he can see peeking out of a few. It hits him like a ton of bricks.

“Phryne,” he starts, low and under his breath, and her head snaps towards him a little too quickly - it’s still not often he uses her first name when they’re not fully alone. “Did you make these yourself? For me?” 

Even through her makeup, he can see the faint tinge of a blush redden her cheeks. “I did. Ham, cheese, and mustard pickle.” 

“A particular favorite.” When she nods, he reaches out and grabs one of her hands, pulling it towards him. He presses a kiss to the back of it - a real kiss, not the vague gesture of greeting for someone of her station - and squeezes it in his own. “Thank you, Phryne.” It’s not the first time she’s gone out of her way to make sure he has an enjoyable experience, but to do so with her own two hands - it’s a lot. In a good way.

That cheeky grin will be the death of him. All traces of blushing gone, she dips her head. “Of course, Inspector.” She sweeps back out of the parlour, sashaying in a way definitely intended to catch his attention - not that she’d ever lost it - and he can barely hold in a laugh. Who would have thought, in London, that they would end up here. Together. At his birthday party, in her house. With her making his favorite sandwiches for him.

The doorbell rings and there’s a commotion in the kitchen at the same time. When neither Mr. Butler nor Mrs. Collins appears to open the front door, Jack stands and warily steps towards the door. Hopefully it’s one of the party guests, who will expect him in the house, and not…whoever else might be attempting to meet with Miss Fisher on a random Saturday in June.

The bell rings again as he reaches the door, and he decides it’s almost certainly one of the party guests. Pulling open the door, he finds Dr. MacMillan on the other side, hand raising to knock as well.

“Impatient, are we?” Jack asks, and she glares at him from under the brim of her hat.

“You’d know,” she quips, teasing, with a pointed glance up the stairs to where Phryne’s bedroom lies. She steps past him with a laugh while he tries to control the heat in his cheeks. Hanging her hat on the rack, she breezes through the dining room toward the kitchen, perfectly at home.

He can hear Miss Fisher’s delighted “Mac!” as he returns to his seat in the parlour.

Guests continue to trickle in, once the others have all joined him in the parlour. Most of them are friends and acquaintances he’s met through Miss Fisher - Dr. MacMillan, for one, and the red-ragger cabbies, and even Mrs. Stanley makes a brief appearance. But there’s Collins, of course, and a few men he knows from the footy stop by, and even one or two others he knows from the force, men he knows will be discreet about where they saw him.

It’s much lower-key than most of Miss Fisher’s parties that he’s attended or seen, and he’s grateful. Mr. Butler keeps him supplied with champagne, his favorite sandwiches, and trips to the kitchen when he needs to step away. Mrs. Collins keeps some of his favorite records playing over the gramophone. For the birthday party of a man his age, it’s pretty much all he could ask for.

Mrs. Collins finally kicks Cec and Bert - drunk in the case of the former, completely pissed for the latter - out around nine. She and Mr. Butler immediately set about cleaning up, but Miss Fisher waves them off with a wave of a hand. “No, no, don’t worry - it’ll keep ‘til tomorrow. Today was for celebrating, tonight shouldn’t have to be for cleaning.”

“Are you sure, Miss?” Mrs. Collins asks, worrying at the sleeves of her dress. “It’s not that late; we should at least get started.”

“Not tonight.” Miss Fisher’s voice is firm. “There’s just one last thing I need from you two.” She stands and herds them both with her towards the kitchen, leaving Jack in the parlour with Collins. 

It's still somewhat awkward to spend time with him outside of a case. But they make do, the discussion turning towards footy (as it frequently does) and this season’s Abbotsford-West Melbourne game that many of the party guests will be attending, as always. Just as Collins starts to get a little too heated about this year’s players, Miss Fisher returns with Mrs. Collins and Mr. Butler in tow and an unreadable smile on her face.

In a flurry the Collinses are heading out through the kitchen for the guest house behind Wardlow that they’ve made their own, Mr. Butler bids them goodnight and disappears into his own quarters, and Jack’s left standing at the foot of the stairs with Miss Fisher.

“Come up with me?” she asks, and he detects something like anxiety in her voice. But it’s far from the first time he’s been up to her boudoir, and he’d assumed this was the plan for the night anyway, so even as he nods he squeezes her hand in a question.

“You all right?” he asks aloud also, just in case.

“Perfectly,” she answers, squeezing his hand back, but she doesn’t turn around before climbing the stairs. Uncertain, he follows, deciding to let her explain whenever she’s ready.

She pushes open the door with something akin to ceremony, and Jack takes in the room. Bed, dressing screen, vanity, all as normal - and a small table set in front of the chaise, with what looks like a small cake atop it.

“You made this?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. She doesn’t answer, just tilts her head, her hair swinging forward against her cheeks. He pulls her towards him for another kiss. “This is what you were baking yesterday?”

Her eyes are wide and perfunctorily innocent as she walks backwards towards the chaise, pulling him after her. “There was no baking yesterday, just a fussy cooker. Whatever made you ask that?” The words and tone are teasing, but there’s a hint of something underneath that he can’t place. She takes a seat, looking up at him expectantly.

He joins her on the chaise, and she immediately hands him one of the forks that had been resting next to the cake. “Happy birthday, Jack.” Leaning back, she slips one arm behind him, caressing his shoulder as she goes.

The cake’s quite small, and somewhat lopsided if he’s honest. It’s hard to say whether he’d wonder if she’d made it, if he didn’t already know, because the idea of her baking is still so incongruous. But the frosting is inviting, and he takes a bite.

It’s delicious. The frosting is as smooth and creamy as it looked from the outside, and the cake itself is moist and light. Chocolate may not have been what he’d have gone for if he’d chosen, but he’s not sure why. Swallowing, he brandishes the fork.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Miss Fisher. A party, sandwiches, and this birthday cake?” He leans in to try and kiss her again, maybe forget about the cake despite how delicious it is, but she’s not looking at him. He follows her gaze and realizes that she’s still looking, inexplicably, at the cake.

“Try another bite,” she says, and this time he can place at least some of what’s in her voice - nerves. And not discomfort or worry, exactly, but something akin to those.

Doing as she says, he reaches out with the fork again. But this time, instead of passing through the fluffy body of the cake, the fork catches on something. Something hard but narrow and long, by the feel of it. Confused, he excavates it from the cake, trying to knock off whatever’s been baked onto it as he pulls it out.

It’s a key. A house key. A familiar house key that he’s seen in even more familiar hands.

A key to Wardlow.

“Phryne,” he starts, and can’t continue around the lump in his throat. He rubs at it with one of the napkins laying on the table, trying to collect his thoughts and his voice. The cake and the frosting slough off, leaving a key just as elegant as the rest of the house. His eyes trace the scrollwork at the top, the post, the teeth. The bronze elegance of it all.

When he lifts his gaze from the key to Miss Fisher, her face is open, vulnerable, in a way he hasn’t often seen. Her eyes are so very blue. “Phryne,” he tries again, and can’t find any words to continue. Instead he shifts toward her on the chaise until he can pull her in for another kiss, trying to put all his thoughts and feelings into it. And love. Always, always love.

She hums against his lips - not erotically, not exactly, but in contentment, an understanding. When they break this kiss, she twines their fingers together and rests her nose against his cheek.

Jack reaches between and across them with his other hand, grabbing for the key. “Phryne,” he says a third time, “you don’t have to do this.” He knows what her independence and freedom mean to her. It may not be a wedding ring, but it’s an invitation even further into her life. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” She turns his head to kiss him again - gently, invitingly, a request and a promise. Her eyes flutter closed, and she takes a deep breath before opening them again. “I love you, Jack.”

She says it like it’s simple, like it’s known, and it is on some level - but his heart nearly stops. He’s said it, wanted to say it more, but held back for fear of scaring her away. Even after the desert, even after everything they’ve been through, he still worries.

Lifting a hand, slowly and carefully, he rests it on her cheek. When she presses lightly into his palm, he’s hit with a curious mix of wistfulness and arousal. Probably exactly as she intended. His lips tip up at the corners, the smile unbidden and irresistible.

“I love you, Phryne.” He might’ve tried to put as much love as he could into his earlier kisses, but the words hold even more. Sliding the hand from her cheek around to the back of her neck, he trails his callused fingers over the soft skin there. This time he knows the hum is seductive, as she surges forward and captures his lips again, slipping her tongue between them. The sensation is familiar and new at the same time, as it always is. His cock starts to harden in anticipation.

Still at an awkward angle on the chaise, Jack tries to maneuver his other arm around her without breaking the kiss. He succeeds only in knocking their elbows together - more of a surprise than painful - and Phryne breaks the kiss with a laugh.

“Here,” she says, and with one fluid motion pushes away the table and straddles him, hands on his shoulders to keep her balance. Her dress, blue and shimmery, a perfect complement to her porcelain skin and her striking blue eyes, hikes up around her thighs.

His cock comes to attention so quickly it’s almost painful. The trousers that have been perfectly comfortable all day are suddenly inordinately tight. With an involuntary groan he grips her legs, hands resting over her garters. Also deep, fathomless blue, to match her dress. No dagger tucked away in them this time - he’s found that before, though, while making love to her. Lockpicks in her brassiere, forgotten notes tucked into her waistband. He huffs out a laugh.

“Something funny, Inspector?” she asks, head tilted in a question and a roguish smile on her face. The laugh broadens at the use of his title while she’s draped across him, hair mussed, lips devoid of gloss and paint (it’s probably all on his own lips, now), dress indecent even for her and cheeks flushed from arousal rather than rouge.

“Just thinking of the…surprises I sometimes find in your clothes, at times like this.” The soft chuckle she lets out drifts into a moan as he cants his hips upward, letting her feel the length of him against her. He’s got a few surprises in him too.

The heat of her, even through a few layers of clothing, nearly drives all rational thought from his brain. He reaches for the hem of her dress just as her hands shift on his shoulders, pulling at his braces. Glad he’s in shirtsleeves, he lets go of the dress long enough for the braces to fall to his hips before tugging at it again. Phryne lifts her arms so he can slide it off over her head, and he’s sure she wore this dress for this exact purpose. Easy to remove, no complicated buttons that she needs Mrs. Collins’s help with, and -

She’s not wearing a brassiere. He’s seen her bare plenty of times by now, and yet he’s still stunned every time. Feathering a kiss over each already-hard nipple, he revels in the way she arches toward him, the sounds she makes as he drags his teeth over her skin. He wraps his arms around her back, resting his palms on her buttocks, holding her close as he nuzzles the soft, warm skin between her breasts. She bends towards him, planting a disarmingly sweet kiss atop his head, and he grins into her chest.

Then she pushes against his shoulders, taking more of her weight back on her own knees, and starts to undo his shirt buttons. “You’re still wearing far too much clothing, Jack.” The care with which she undoes each button touches his heart. She wouldn’t care if some popped, or if the shirt itself ripped if she pulled it over his head. But she knows he cares, and she takes the time to take his shirt off properly.

But after all the buttons are undone and she slides it off, pressing a kiss to each of his hands as he raises them to let her pull the sleeves off, she reaches between them and cups him through his trousers, and suddenly he can’t care what happens to his clothes. He just needs them off, needs to feel every inch of her along every inch of him.

“Phryne,” he groans, unable to resist rocking against her hand.

“Jack,” she answers, low and hoarse, just as breathless as he is. She slides back to stand on her own feet, and he nearly whines with disapproval at the loss of her weight over him. But she reaches out a hand and pulls him to his feet, then reaches for the buttons of his trousers. Freeing his erection, she kneels, then bends forward without warning and licks a stripe along the underside of his cock, nearly sending him into the stratosphere.

In actuality he does almost topple over, tangled in his trousers and pants as he is, and Phryne falls into a fit of giggles. Jack can’t help laughing along as he drops back onto the chaise, wrestling his shoes off before divesting himself of the hopelessly rumpled last of his clothes. He can’t be embarrassed to be naked in her boudoir any longer, not after she’s made it abundantly clear just how much she enjoys looking at him. And when he looks up, she’s standing again and gazing appreciatively at him, hands on her hips and head angled down.

“Now you’re the one wearing entirely too much clothing, Miss Fisher.” He gestures at her legs, still hidden by her pants, stockings, and shoes. Her appreciative look turns sultry again, comfortable as the sole focus of his gaze. She bends to undo her shoes, trails her hands back up her legs to her garters, and Jack aches to follow them with his hands, his tongue. The stockings roll down, revealing the perfect porcelain of her legs. And finally, finally, she steps out of her knickers, kicking them to the side and exposing the patch of hair at the join of her thighs.

Before Jack can move, she’s straddling him again, kissing him deeply. The slickness of her body coats his thighs as he wraps his arms around her again, holding her close. He lets himself get lost in the kiss, in the heat, in her. It hasn’t been so long that he’s been allowed to do this, and it’s still a revelation every time.

To be allowed to openly say I love you, now, is another revelation. So when she breaks this kiss, trails more down his neck so he can’t help but arch toward her, as he pulls one hand back between them, he says it again. “I love you, Phryne,” and slips his hand between her legs.

She’s soaked. And the noises she makes, the way she grinds against his fingers, nearly push him over the edge when she’s barely even touched him. His cock throbs with want, insistent. Dragging his fingers over her clit, in slow circles the way he knows she likes, he takes one of her nipples in his mouth again. Gasping, she tangles her hands in his hair, holding his head as close to her body as she can. “Please, Jack, god,” she breathes out, her voice hitching with his ministrations.

He’s long lost the ability to voice a coherent reply. Angling his hand so his thumb can keep addressing her clit, he slides two fingers inside her. The bone-deep moan she lets out would be enough to keep him going for days all on its own, but it’s the pressure of her inner walls against his fingers that lives in his memory without end. He keeps his hand moving, a steady rhythm, as her hips rock faster and more erratically. Pushing his head back against her hands, he moves his mouth to her other breast. As he gently bites down on the peaked nipple, her whole body stiffens, her muscles tightening around his hand. A strangled stream of broken sounds and half-words falls from her lips. 

He works her through it, slowing his hand to a stop as she sags against him and pressing a kiss to her forehead, mussing her fringe even more. “God, Phryne,” he whispers against her skin, and he can feel her smile. “You’re beautiful.”

“I know,” she says, and he grins in delight. And then one of her hands slides down his back, making him shiver as it drags through the sweat that’s collected there, and over his hip. When she wraps her fingers around his cock, drawing them from base to tip, he can’t help but thrust against her, all the same noises that just came from her mouth coming from his now.

All sense of time deserts him, the world narrowing to the pressure of her weight on his thighs, her hand on his cock. And then she repositions herself, using that same hand to guide him inside her. He cries out, wordless, the bass counterpoint to her soprano cry of his name.

If someone asked him what he thought heaven would be like, this moment might be what Jack would think of. Hands gripping the soft flesh of Phryne’s backside, her weight on top of him, her hands on his shoulders and in his hair, as close as they can possibly be. She starts to move, working out how best to use gravity to get an angle that will work for them both, and he finds himself chanting her name.

The tension builds, at the base of his spine and the base of his cock, as he thrusts and Phryne rocks. His own voice pitches higher, then lower, as her rhythm hiccups and her breathing gets even more ragged. Jack forces his eyes open, taking in the sight of Phryne’s whole body flushed, spiraling, and it’s enough to send him over the edge. His fingers clench against her bottom, holding her close, and he screams.

Her fingernails dig into his shoulders, little pinpricks of sensation keeping him in his body as he floats on sensation, as she cries out and her whole body tenses, her inner muscles clenching around him and dragging another moan of pleasure out of his mouth.

Sagging against the chaise, boneless, Jack endeavors to hold them both upright as Phryne comes to rest against his chest. Her head fits just under his chin, even as they tilt slightly to one side. As he comes back to himself, he rubs one hand in circles across her back, relishing holding her like this.

A while - he couldn’t say how long, could’ve been five minutes or twenty - later, Phryne lifts her head back up, her eyes tired but shining. “Happy birthday, Jack,” she says again.

“Couldn’t have asked for better,” he replies, pressing her close with the hand still on her back.

Her smile could normally rival the sun, but no star could hold a candle to it now. And there’s no place he’d rather be.

#miss fisher's murder mysteries #phryne fisher #jack robinson #phryne x jack #phrack #mfmm fic #tobias butler #otp: let's misbehave #logan writes fic #AO3 link will be in a reblog because tumblr doesn't like links!

[leupagus]

Those cards are so fun! Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, would love the ensemble but it is just a drabble, so pick whatever characters you'd like. I'm open to general or romantic leanings. 2 of clubs. Thank you!

Liz stared down at the plaster encasing her leg and thought that it probably would've gone better, if those damned stairs hadn't been marble. Mayhew had pushed her down them with the intent to kill her, no doubt about that, but she'd known to tuck her head, cover it and her neck with her arms to keep from knocking against the edge of a stair. But halfway down she'd heard the snap and knew her plan hadn't really worked out all that well.

Still, it had given Jack and little Constable Collins enough time to get there and arrest Mayhew — thank God she'd called them beforehand.

Only now she faced a much worse fate: and she could hear it coming down the hospital corridor toward her now.

"Miss Fisher, you really can't have all these people coming in here with you, this is—"

"I think you'll find that I can, Doctor, because I have," Phryne snapped, holding onto Aunt Pru and urging her into the room. Liz didn't even have time to close her book before another half-dozen people came tumbling in, Dr. Harris among them, all arguing with each other.

"For God's sake, Phryne," Liz sighed. "I've got a broken leg, I'm not on my deathbead."

"You have a broken leg, Mac," Phryne countered, pulling her gloves off and handing them off to Bert (or possibly Cec — she couldn't really remember which was which, and they were always a matched pair) along with her hat and coat. "And a broken leg is the least of what could have happened to you. What were you thinking, going into that house alone? Jonathan Mayhew could have killed you!"

There was an awkward silence in the room; little Jane cleared her throat, and Dot was looking innocently up at the ceiling. But it was good old Lady S who said it, since Liz was still too busy gaping at her best friend.

"The Right Honorable Phryne Fisher, urging other people to exercise more caution?" she said, making herself comfortable in the chair. "Stop the presses, I believe the front page must now run with a new headline: 'Hell Has Finally Frozen Over.""

#promptfest cards #miss fisher's murder mysteries

[muse-oleum]

Blind Dates OC Challenge: Lady Victoria Crawley

Fandoms: Downton Abbey/Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries

Time period: 1920s/30s

Face claim: Elisa Cifuentes in Las Chicas del Cable

So, hum, I haven't written on here in a veryyyy long time, forgive my rustiness. I've been toying with an idea for a crossover between Downton Abbey and Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries ever since I first watched the shows, because it just makes sense lol. This is my introduction to Lady Victoria Crawley, fourth and last child of Lord and Lady Grantham.

I wanted to participate in @mercurygray 's Blind Dates OC challenge, and thought it would be the perfect opportunity for me to write something *not* academia related. I hope you enjoy this first snippet of Victoria and perhaps there shall be more...

Victoria missed the Antipodes. She missed Christmas in the sun, the hustle and bustle of the city, the constant activity she had known for the past two years, living far away from home and yet as alive as she had ever felt. But she missed her friends the most.

She missed Phryne’s laugh and Dot’s sweet smile; she missed Jack’s skepticism and Hugh’s clumsiness, and even her two favorite commies had found a place in her heart, though she would deny it if anyone asked. They would happily throttle her if they ever heard her use that word, but she couldn’t help it, annoying them tickled her. 

But most of all she missed Mac. 

Mac and her stern attitude hiding a softness that few people ever truly got to witness. Mac and her sardonic replies to Phryne’s less than stellar ideas—and there had been many; how she’d survived this far, she’d never understand. Mac and the way she smiled softly just for her, even when she thought Victoria couldn’t see. 

She missed that smile most of all. 

Here, in England, it was so much harder to let herself truly be. But with Mac, tentatively at first, and then more fully once they’d both understood the coast was clear, that they would be safe with each other, it had been different. With her almost two decades more of experience, Mac had been a friend, at first, someone whom she could trust with her most damning secret, before it had morphed into something more. 

And just as quickly, Victoria had been called back to England, her grand-mother on her deathbed, asking for her. She hadn’t seen her once in the last two years, not since she’d left Downton behind after yet another row with her father, neither willing to bend before she’d decided to break instead. But the Dowager Lady Grantham was not someone to be refused and when she had demanded of her youngest grand-daughter that she should write to her, Victoria had made a half-hearted promise that she would. 

She regretted not keeping it, now. 

1928 was proving a difficult year for her family. Between her grand-mother’s illness, her mother’s tiredness (a false alarm, thankfully) and her own problems to face, returning to Downton in mourning had not been something to look forward to. She had left angry and she'd returned apprehensive. 

Mac would have helped, but she could hardly bring her to England while her family mourned yet another passing. She had offered, of course, wanting to be there for her as Victoria had been in the past, insisting that she could take a room at the Grantham Arms, that no one would be the wiser… But it was a lie and they both knew it. Lying, after all, was an art they had mastered; anyone in their position had to be a damn good liar in order to survive. 

And now, as she sat in the library, alone with the fire cracking in the grate, the quiet of the Abbey playing with her nerves, she wondered why she’d come home at all. And could she still call it home? It wasn’t anymore, not really. Home was with Phryne and Mr Butler, waiting for the next case to drop so they could make sure to crash down at the station, taking perverse pleasure in eviscerating Jack’s well-laid plans in moves that would have had her parents tying themselves into knots. He complained—a lot—but she knew he secretly loved it. 

She also knew that he was not so secretly half in love with Phryne, but she had an inkling that he’d rather be caught dead than admitting it. So she hadn’t pushed… yet. 

The door to the library opened, pulling her back to the present. 

“I thought I’d find you in here,” Edith said, closing the door softly behind her. 

Once upon a time, if someone had asked her which of her three elder sisters she’d most looked up to in her youth, she would have said Sybil. But after her death, she had grown closer to Edith, finding a source of comfort in her sister’s embrace, and amusement at the shrewdness she so easily disguised as passiveness. She had admired that; her ability to hide what she was feeling almost to the point of quasi-invisibility. A wallflower, that’s what Mary had called her, once, when she was feeling particularly vindictive. 

Edith may look like a flower, with her honey-blonde hair with a dash of red, which they’d both inherited from their father, her pink lips and beautiful green eyes, but she could be a thorny one too, and Mary often seemed to forget that. Victoria, on the other hand, had always been much quieter than either of her dark-haired sisters, trying to find her place as the youngest of four—and the disappointment of everybody’s hopes. But she and Edith were alike, and it had only become more apparent as they grew from girlhood to womanhood. 

Perhaps because of the age difference between Mary and herself, Victoria had never found herself on the cutting edge of her eldest sister’s sharp wit. If anything, she suspected that Mary was quite fond of her, if a little distant, as was natural for an eldest facing much larger troubles than the rearing of her littlest sister. While their twelve years difference had put a certain distance between Mary and herself, Edith and Sybil had loved to play with her, and, when the time came, taught her much more than their mother when it came to matters of the heart. And she'd learnt much.

Or at least as much as she could learn from two sisters for whom there had never been the slightest doubt that they would marry a man.

In truth, if Victoria thought long and hard about it, she remembered certain looks and allusions that Sybil had dropped, which made her think that perhaps she had known, just a bit, what her little sister was only just discovering. But then she'd died and left a gaping hole in their family that would never truly heal. 

But Edith, Victoria thought, would understand. Edith, she could tell, one day. 

“I’m very predictable,” she answered, smiling, laying her long-forgotten book on her lap. 

Her sister threw her a disbelieving look. “I wouldn’t say that,” Edith said, sitting down on the sofa next to her. “I still remember the shock on Mama’s face when you hurled yourself out of the door two years ago. Personally, I applauded you.”

“Of course you did,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. 

They fell silent, Edith lost in contemplation of the fire and Victoria pondering the qualities of sisters. On the tea table, a picture of her grandmother, all blonde curls and so young, taunted her. She quickly averted her eyes, unsettled by the clear blue gaze of a woman who was not here to scold her anymore. She noticed her sister looking at her, her eyes saddened by their recent loss but heavy with something else.

“There’s something I’d like to tell you.”

Victoria looked up from the cover of her book which she’d been fingering absent-mindedly, the silence between them natural enough that she had almost forgotten her sister’s presence. 

“It’s about Marigold.”

#lady victoria crawley #downton abbey #miss fisher's murder mysteries #crossover #downton abbey fanfiction #blind dates oc fest 2023 #fandoms #original character #finally she's out of my mind #writings

[and-to-you-its-just-words]

🥺 and ✨ for the fic writer asks, please!

Aw thanks for asking!

🥺 - Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?

I tend to fall for couples who see each other quite well. Chakotay reads Janeway like a book. Rhaenys and Corlys can communicate so much with a single look. Bernie and Serena see each other better than anyone else in their lives. Jack and Phryne get to the core of each other in a way I think startles them both. Almost every ship I like can be traced back to that sort of deep understand of each other. So whenever I see that or I’m able to write it well myself I’m in my feels.

I think I managed to do it well in my Rhaenys/Corlys fic That Line Where the Sky Meets the Sea (it calls me)

✨ Give you and your writing a compliment. Go on now. You know you deserve it. 😉

You know, something I’m quite proud of in my writing is the rhythm of it. Over the years I’ve developed a sort of a flowy, stream of emotion type of writing. It comes from how I record my thoughts as I write on the go and I really like the way it sounds.

#my asks

[perceptivehands]

Oooh, hello! "Coffee smell" (or "vintage dress," if you work better if you have ✨options✨) for Phrack in case you do decide to do something with the list 👀☕️💕

Thank you for being the only person who actually sent me something lmao! Appreciated! I picked "Vintage dress" because it reminded me of a silly exchange I had with @ozqueen recently, where we came up with the following scenario. Naturally, I wanted her to write a little something about it but your prompt kind of spurred me on. Does it make sense? Not really.

“Ja-ackk... get it off. Now please.” “I’m trying, Miss Fisher. If you would just stand still for a second, let me —”

A barely audible whimper escaped her quivering mouth as she stomped her heeled foot like a stubborn child that didn’t get what it wanted. On second thought, a child would have been easier to handle than an agitated and slightly panicked Miss Fisher who refused to cooperate even when it was for her own benefit.

Interrupting his musings, she unexpectedly turned around in a flash, fidgeting and flailing with her arms, the expression on her face transforming into one of disgust. “Urgh, I felt it moving! I can feel it crawling on my back, Jack, do something!”

The man in question couldn’t suppress a slightly exasperated eye roll, the one he had reserved specifically for Phryne-is-giving-me-grief situations. “Hold still, woman. I can’t see where it is if you keep moving around like a toddler.” To make a point and to stop her from moving, he did something risqué and stepped on the hem of her dress that, conveniently, reached all the way to the floor. He inwardly prayed she wouldn’t be miffed about it as long as he managed to get the spider off of her. What he didn’t anticipate, though, was that the jumping spider suddenly decided to switch location in one giant leap, only to end up on the side of her neck.

What happened next was akin to something out of his admittedly inappropriate night dreams that featured the lady detective quite frequently as of late. As soon as Phryne felt the ticklish little eight legs against her skin she let out a high pitched scream and leaped, practically imitating her arachnid nemesis, forward, as though hopping about like a bouncy ball would solve the problem. No, it caused another, entirely different one. The stretch between the hem of the dress trapped underneath his shoe and Phryne’s hasty movements caused the elasticity of the dress to yield. The fabric began to tear all the way from the bottom to the top seem where it connected with the strapless bodice hugging the curves of her torso. The dress lost its hold and layers of shiny, presumably expensive fabric fell off her body like the skin of a peeled onion. 

Phryne must have either not registered what had happened or simply did not care. Her fearful eyes flicking to and fro in desperate search for the sneaky creature. It must have escaped for good as it was no longer resting on the smooth expanse of her neck, Jack concluded almost enviously, after he had finally managed to tear his eyes away from her barely clad form.

“I-is it gone?” she whispered. “I think so.” A heavy sigh of relief escaped her ruby lips and her bare shoulders slumped in a relaxed manner. It was only then that she noticed her state of undress, her eyes widening in shock this time. “My dress! Oh no!” “I will get you a new one," he offered remorsefully, "I apologize.” “Ah don’t be silly! There is no need. Madame Fleuri, however, shall never hear of this or she’ll rip my head off. Oh well, nothing the lovely Dot couldn’t fix. It’s vintage and basically irreplaceable...," she paused. "And so is the lingerie. At least that one’s still intact. Perhaps... you could check... just to make sure?” She lowered her eyelashes coquettishly and dropped the remaining fabric that had clung to her frame only a second prior, revealing a rather sheer forest green set of a silk cami set that was covering only the most necessary bits of pale rosy flesh. It left little to Jack’s imagination. To be fair, he had seen her in less, the pink feathers of her dance interlude branded into his memory most likely forever. But the lingerie currently facing him looked outright lethal on her. He closed his eyes, forcing his brain to revert back to professional Robbo mode.  “You’re killing me, Miss Fisher,” is all he could mutter under the circumstances, unsure if it wasn’t just one of his fervent dreams after all. Either way, undaunted by his previous faux pas, Jack decided to take yet another risk. He slipped out of his coat and draped it around her bare shoulders, purposely avoiding her fiery, curious gaze as he pulled, with slightly shaky hands, the first two buttons through the holes. And if his fingers happened to skim her flushed skin underneath in the process, it was entirely accidental of course.

~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~ Trigger for this idea was this picture of Essie. Someone please reassure us that this is in fact badly photoshopped and not an actual chair standing on her dress. Who on earth would let something like that slide? 😂

#mfmm #miss fisher's murder mysteries #in german you say 'commas are no pack animals' and i need to bear that in mind #me writing fic after over ten years? is this really happening? i guess so #fanfiction #~fic #glamorouspixels

[straykats]

gonna tell u guys all the books i saw today in the bookstore that i was not supposed to go into bc im not allowed to buy any more books until i finish reading 3 unread books and my thoughts/how i felt

maximum ride. (the manga) girl. babes. boys. pals. my friends. i have not seen these books since like. yr9. i fucking loved the series and i remember when i finished reading all the ones we had in the library and it was like. an inconclusive end because we didnt have all of them???? a gals heart BROKE okay

complete collection of grimms fairytales. or smth like that. i forgot the title. but i have the edgar allen poe one from the same collection and ANYWAYS. i really wanna get the grimms fairytales one. like. i can use them as references and inspo for stories, and i can also just read all these stories that are beyond your usual ones. but also, collection.

ten count. why. but hey, it was sealed.

given. :(((( they had all 6 volumes in stock i was <3 i mean i already have them but i was still <3 so happy

cocaine blues. i was ECSTATIC to see this. it's part of the phryne fisher series (ie. the books on which miss fisher's murder mysteries, one of my favourite shows currently, is based on). i've never seen the books before. i really wanna collect them now.

the atlas six. whenever i see this book i have a crisis bc i love the cover but i dont remember if it was on my list of books i wanted and then i forget that i can actually access that list on my phone HAHA hm. and i read the blurb again but then i still dont remember what it was that made me potentially want the book. did i read a snippet somewhere? a better synopsis, perhaps?

heartstopper. it's started. netflix covers have started. i want to collect the physical books, but i'm too aware they're available online as well vdsjdjks like. i could really save myself// what, $80-100??? but lordy the joy of owning books.

haikyuu. i picked up the last volume and i really opened it up to 'final chapter' and i got really sad again. so i shelved it.

naruto. smth about.. having a few volumes of my childhood... good. but also, i !! found all the gaidens!!! maybe i'll just choose to invest in those, and not the actual manga. thats a lot of commitment, the manga.

okay yeah i spent a lot of time in the manga section lol and there were a lot more bc i was smiling like an idiot but i wanna eat now so byebye

#kat talks books #this is also a cry for help #someone needs to stop me from going to look at books and finding more things to add onto my tbr list that's actually a 'i want to own #these books' list

[carbondated]

❛ how is it you always know what i need, huh? ❜

Orbost - 1939. Snowy River Country in the middle of a summer heatwave was nothing like it's namesake. Seated on a flat boulder by the river's edge, a quaint little picnic blanket underneath the pair of them, River was completely at peace with the world. For a moment, she said nothing, eyes closed, lips curling into a smile as she sunned herself on the dappled patches of light peeking through the treetops high above. She never expected to find the simple life quite so appealing, away from the city, Melbourne's social scene and it's criminal underbelly that she and Phryne were always getting caught up in ... it seemed so far away now. A curious thought crossed her mind, one she had from time to time, but never really felt as wholeheartedly as she did now; the thought she could have an ordinary life and still find it fulfilling. They could move here. Buy a patch of land besides the river, where the ferns hungrily stretched their tendrils to drink from the waters edge and the rain fell hot on a rusted tin roof. Mac could open a practice. She could dabble in an art gallery or join the historic society, something to keep her occupied during the day. In the evening's they'd sit outside under the stars and find it strange that she had ever traversed the space between those little spots of light, when she could have been here with Mac that entire time instead. They could go on living like that forever ... Well, one of them could.

River's eyes flickered open, the moment lost, dismissed as no more than a silly notion. She leaned over and placed a kiss to Mac's cheek. . ❝ Darling, when don't I? ❞ An escape to the countryside. Yes. what a marvellous idea. Too good to make a lifetime of it.

meme I can't find // not accepting.

#drmacmillan #I WANT YOU TO KNOW #THIS BROKE ME #a thing of beauty is a joy for ever: its loveliness increases; it will never. pass into nothingness ... canon/verse 2/ post library #meet me under the clocks at flinders st ... arc/verse2/mfmm tie in

[rachaeljurassic]

Final thoughts...

Well, the live blog is over and I will forever be mad that I won't be able to do two more

😭

What wonderful, silly, nonsense that was!

Love it!

🥰

I also LOVED the final song. After all that sexual tension these two deserve to phrack in every damned room in the house!!

I did miss the Melbourne gang though

😢

The new characters were fine but they're no replacement for Dot and Hugh and Bert and Cec and Mr B and my beloved Mac

😞

But at least we got Aunt P and she managed a whole film without incurring my ire so well done Aunt P

😊

However, I HAD feared that because this was supposed to be the first of a trilogy Phryne and Jack wouldn't be together by the end. I was steeling myself for it. I am SO relieved that it didn't go that way because I don't think I could have stood that. I know she's married but I chose to see that as how far Jack has come and they both know it's not REALLY a marriage.

AND no moustache

🥳

But now I suppose we can wonder about how they solved the next case they were setting up.

No idea if that was supposed to be the subject of the second film (I kinda hope not since I can't see much of the Melbourne gang in that either...not that it's a reality so I don't have to worry but ykwim)

Anyway, that was ridiculous fun and I hope you all had fun with my ridiculous emojis

😊🤗

I now don't have to worry about spoilers so, here we go!!

🥳

(and feel free to send more asks if you like)

This is me, signing off

😘

#mfmm #miss fisher's murder mysteries #live blog #crypt of tears

[askwhatsforlunch]

Devil’s Own

“’Miss, the Archbishop’s secretary is on the telephone. He wants to see you!’ ‘What, the secretary?’ And is that a reason to wake me?’ ‘No, Miss,’ puffed Dot indignantly. ‘The Archbishop! A professional matter, he says!’ ‘Well, it would hardly be a religious one,’ murmured Phryne. ‘I feel absolutely foul. I must have a bath and some breakfast. Say, ten o’ clock?’ ‘Miss, it’s eleven, now!’ ‘Oh dear, I have overslept.’ Phryne smiled reminiscently. ‘Well, say twelve thirty, and ask him if he would like to stay to lunch. Then tell Mrs. Butler if he is, and come back and find me some clothes. And aspirin.’ Dot sped off, and Phryne called after her, ‘Which Archbishop?’ ‘Mine,’ replied Dot and ran down the stairs. Phryne mixed herself a fizzy powder, supposed to be sovereign for an overindulgence in alcohol, and made a mental note that cocktails concocted of gin, Cointreau and Vermouth should be crossed off her list of potables.’”

I am not certain that the aforementioned cocktail, which apparently gave Phryne a hangover, is a Devil’s Own. It may have been, as although it was created in the 1930s in London, I wouldn’t put it past the formidable Mr. Butler, mixologist extraordinaire, to have thought it up first, in the Antipodes! And if she had several of them, perhaps the headache is understandable; it is a potent cocktail. One tipple before lunch though, is just delightfully refreshing and herbaceous, and I shan’t cross it off my list at all! Cheers!

Ingredients (serves 1):

8 ice cubes

30 millilitres/1 fluid ounce (2 tablespoons) Cointreau

30 millilitres/1 fluid ounce (2 tablespoons) Dry Vermouth

45 millilitres/1 1/2 fluid ounce (3 tablespoons) London Dry Gin

a dash of Angostura Bitters

Place ice cubes in a shaker. Pour Cointreau, Vermouth and Gin onto the ice. Add a dash of Angostura Bitters. Close shaker tightly and shake energetically, until well-chilled.

Strain into a chilled coupe glass.

Enjoy Devil’s Own immediately.

#Recipe #Drink #Drink recipe #Devil’s Own #Devil’s Own Cocktail #Devil’s Own recipe #Gin #Gin Cocktail #Gin Cocktail recipe #London Dry Gin #Vermouth #Dry Vermouth #Cointreau #Orange Liqueur #Angostura Bitters #Ice #Ice Cubes #Cocktail #Cocktail recipe #Cold Drink and Cocktail #Alcoholic #Alcoholic Drink #Alcoholic Beverage #Classic Cocktail #Mr. Butler #Phryne Fisher #Drinks and Literature #Phrye Fisher Cookbook #The Lady With The Gun Asks The Questions #Kerry Greenwood

[wah-pah]

I was tagged by the always wonderful @eroticfriendfictions to share the first lines of my last ten fics. Some are almost as old as dirt but here are the first paragraphs of each. Thank you, Michelle. :)

Homewards (Miss Fisher's murder Mysteries) -In Progress

She looked up, trying to encompass as much of the white stucco-fronted townhouse as she could in a single glance. Phryne hadn't been to Chester Square in more than two years but everything seemed rather unchanged. As it ought to be, she found herself thinking, perhaps uncharitably.

Arthur Shelby Is Exhausted (Peaky Blinders) - Complete

Not when he is walking around Small Heath with their men following in tow, not when he is at The Garrison drinking, not when he is at Charlie's yard or on the factory floor rallying people on. No, in those moments he is not exhausted. In those moments, he is all bravado and menace, smoke and swearing, roars and strength.

It Could Happen To You (The Alienist) - Complete

Rationally, he knows all the terms, he can see the most likely path his feelings may take as clearly as if he had a map. He knows a hundred ways he might have grieved or will grieve. He knows that there are many configurations it can assume and many ways to cope. Rationally, he knows, but rationality means nothing when it happens to you. When it's your loved one who you find dead at the bottom of the stairs, when it's your loved one that has died because they were trying to protect you even if you were not home, when it's your loved one who has been killed in a fight with an unscrupulous man and something as ordinary as a bannister didn't hold up its end of the bargain.

There Were Shooting Stars (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) - Complete

Dot made a wish for their happiness once again as she looked out the automobile and saw the shooting star. Father O'Leary, standing by the church door not that far away, would have frowned upon her stance, but it was difficult not to feel optimistic when it was such a beautiful night at the end of your wedding day.

Daytime Responses (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) - Complete

Rosie took a deep breath when the outline of Melbourne started to come to life on the horizon. Soon, that train would take her there and she braced herself for the harrowing times ahead.

Midnight Plans (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) - Complete

I could go somewhere else, Rosie thought, lying in bed, nothing left to occupy her mind now. It wouldn't change anything, but at least it would be something different. Maybe Sydney, to visit Mary Stanton or Canberra to see Josephine again after all these years.

And Rightly So (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) - Complete

Wisps of moonlight draw Wardlow's lines against the night sky, the red awnings and the red rails like lipstick marks on the face of the building. The walk from the gate to the front door smells of cold - winter lulls the gardenias, spray roses, and peonies to sleep until Spring. The hall is almost made of shadow but for the soft glow coming from the small lamp on the telephone table. The dining room is dark and quiet. The staircase is dark and quiet. The parlour's door is closed. Inside, the soothing aqua walls and the golden lights look velvety in the dim light. Two armchairs in front of the fireplace. Two figures sitting on them. Two whiskey glasses on the table, faceted like diamonds. 

How I Got Here (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) - Complete

Jane was exhausted close to inertia but she couldn’t sleep. She shut her eyes and tried to slow down her breathing yet it wasn’t enough to soothe her mind and let her embrace slumber. That had felt like the longest day. Well, the longest days, actually, with Kitty’s death, Rose almost getting killed, all the turmoil involved in the Flower Maidens event, the moment she had first noticed her mother pacing in front of the house and the dramatic development of her night-time visit to the boarding house. Just going through it mentally was tiring enough.

dear girl (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) - Complete

Phryne didn’t recognise the blonde woman, but she had the feeling she knew her somehow.

How Beautiful and Free (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) - Complete

Being still didn't come easily to Phryne but, maybe because she had moved around so much over the past weeks, she deeply appreciated the comfort of sitting on that wicker chaise. She had even fallen asleep, she gathered when she opened her eyes and saw no one around her but could hear the sound of voices coming from further down and noticed that the book she had once held was now on the floor.

Bonus because it was the first long thing (fanfic or original) that I ever completed and it would be 11th or 12th on this list, just for old times' sake:

Undercover at The Elvsworth Club (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) - Complete

«Why would you like to join us?», the stern looking man asked from behind the dark mahogany desk. He had an average build, well combed short grey hair, small dark brown eyes, and sat and walked with a very upright posture.

There a a lot of MFMM material, but that can hardly be surprising.

Feel free to not engage, but I tag @firesign23, @whopooh, @misscrawfords and whoever finds it fun.

#Eroticfriendfictions #personal #Fanfiction

[leliesblou]

Some more inner monologue. For @dirobinsonhearteyes who suggested this scene.

#now with Phryne's thoughts as well #mfmm #miss fisher’s murder mysteries #game set and murder #phrack #a bit rusty but oh well #mfmm vids #mfmm mine

[incorrect-miss-fisher]

Phryne: Jack? How did you find me?

Jack: Well, I saw a torch light inside and thought "now, who could that be?"

#source: artemis fowl #miss fisher's murder mysteries #jack robinson #phryne fisher