#mfmm fic
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Miss Fisher's Whumptober Challenge is back for 2023!
What is Whumptober?
Whumptober is a month-long creative fandom challenge consisting of 31 themes and prompts. “Whump” means a work in which characters are put in emotionally and/or physically painful situations, and usually these works can be categorized as hurt/comfort.
How does this work?
If this sounds like your thing, simply go to this spreadsheet, write your name behind one of the prompts, and create something for it (to be posted at any point in October and the first week of November; it doesn’t have to be up on the actual day your prompt was assigned to). Each prompt can be claimed by multiple people and you can create something for as many of them as you want.
Please tag your works “MFMMwhumptober” and if you post them on AO3, you can also add them to this collection.
Even if whump isn’t for you, we’ve modified the event so you can still participate! We’ve had several writers bend the rules and write fluffy or smutty works for this challenge. Just make sure to tag your works appropriately and specify whether they contain comfort elements or are pure angst. Our main goal is to get you to write so all contributions are welcome!
This is the original announcement post and here is the official collection, which you can also add your entries to as long as they somewhat fit the overall theme of the original challenge.
Where can I check out the previous years’ entries?
Whumptober has been a longstanding tradition in this fandom so there are a lot of examples to draw inspiration from. You can read all of the past entries here:
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
The fandom has grown a lot since last year and we want to encourage as many of you as possible to participate in this wonderful event. We look forward to seeing all your wonderful contributions!
#miss fisher's murder mysteries#mfmm#mfmmwhumptober#miss fisher#phryne fisher#jack robinson#phrack#phryne x jack#mfmm fic#mfmm fanfic#mfmm fanart
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Miss Fisher's Tumblr poll fic: Part 1
Explanation post
Jack Robinson's heart thudded loudly as he walked up to Wardlow. He paused for a moment before the porch steps, glancing up at the door.
In a moment, he would be knocking on that door. Mr Butler would open it with a kindly smile, and announce to the lady of the house that he was there to see her. Jack could already imagine Phryne's smile upon seeing him, and the way her eyes would light up with curiosity at the gifts he came bearing.
He shook himself out of his reverie and stared down at the two objects he held in his hands.
In his one hand, the case file of his new case, and an invitation for her to join the investigation.
In his other hand, a small bouquet of flowers, selected from his own garden. An invitation of an entirely different kind, one he'd never been brave enough to extend before.
He grinned, took a deep breath, and walked up to the front door. The rapping of his knuckles against the wood echoed through the foyer.
Silence.
Jack waited a moment before he knocked again, this time more hesitant. Perhaps she was not home? But Mr Butler would usually answer the door whether she was home or not.
Jack was about to knock one last time when he heard a muted commotion in the hallway beyond the door. An urgent whispered conversation, followed by a soft sound Jack recognised as the parlour doors closing.
Suddenly, the front door swung open.
"Good day, Inspector," Mr Butler said. "Please come in, Miss Fisher will be out in a moment."
Was it Jack's imagination, or did he look slightly frazzled?
He stepped inside and was about to ask if something was the matter when the parlour doors opened just a crack. Phryne's head popped out.
"Oh hello, Jack," she said, slightly out of breath. "What brings you here today?"
"Er…" This was not the way Jack had imagined this particular conversation going. Mr Butler was still standing by his side, and Phryne did not seem like she was about to open the parlour doors any wider or invite him in.
A sound coming from within the parlour saved him from answering her. "What was that?"
"Nothing!" Phryne said, her voice rising with several octaves.
Jack tried to peer over her head into the parlour. "I thought I heard -"
A loud crash from somewhere behind Phryne interrupted him.
Phryne's eyes widened and she spun around, letting go of the doors in the process. One of the doors swung open, revealing the inside of the parlour to Jack.
His mouth fell open.
.
.
If you vote for the last option, you have to leave your own suggestion (or mention a suggestion already made by someone else) in the tags. If this option wins, the most popular suggestion mentioned in the notes/reblogs/tags of the post wins! The person who made the suggestion will be tagged and credited in the next instalment.
#mfmm#mfmm fic#miss fisher's murder mysteries#phryne fisher#phrack#long post#I'll add links to the next instalments (when they're posted) in the notes because you can't edit a post with a poll once it's posted
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like your mother and your father too (all grown up but they’re just like you)
Jane’s at school in France, and Phryne and Jack take some time out to visit her. They all discuss what’s happened since they last saw each other.
G, 2900 words.
AO3 link in first reblog!
“Mademoiselle Jane? Tes parents sont là.”
Your parents are here. Jane looks up once the meaning occurs to her, face pinched in confusion. Parents?
“Qui est-ce?” Who is it, she asks, uncurling herself from the chair she’s been sitting in for nearly two hours straight, her body protesting the whole way. Madame Léontine gives her a curious look, so she amends the question. “What do they look like? It’s important.” If it’s…
Still curious, Mme. Léontine gestures for Jane to follow her. “Your mother is beautiful - lovely black hair, such pretty blue eyes. Cut so short, though, like a flapper. Lovely clothing. Your father is so stoic. Very properly dressed. But they seem so very much in love, still. You don’t see that often.”
Jane huffs in surprise, mouth dropping open. “Miss Phryne! Inspector Robinson!” she bursts out, speeding up so she’s nearly running down the hall. Mme. Léontine hurries to catch up with her, squawking about running inside, but Jane ignores her and rounds the corner at full speed. They're standing closer together than most people do, as always, heads bent together in conversation.
“Miss Phryne!” she calls out, and the woman in question spins around, arms wide open and with the biggest smile Jane’s ever seen on her face.
“Jane!” she cries, and Jane tumbles into her arms.
It's the first time she's seen either of them since that awful, awful telegram from Dot - Miss Fisher dead in Palestine - and the following debacle of finding out otherwise. She’d missed the botched memorial, showing up three days after Miss Phryne and Inspector Robinson had left for Palestine, to Aunt Prudence’s shock. Probably not the way anyone had expected her to find out that the reports had been wrong. Trouble followed them, as it always has.
Miss Phryne kisses her forehead, and Jane giggles at the lipstick print she knows is there. Being in her arms is like someone turned back the clock, but done it wrong somehow - they're nearly the same height now, and they're in the foyer of Jane's school, and the world has turned on its side a bit.
She holds onto Miss Phryne for dear life, and she can feel her hugging her back just as tightly.
"Hello, Jane," says the Inspector's voice over her shoulder. Trying to turn to greet him without letting go makes her trip over her own feet, and she bursts into uncontrollable giggles when she realizes there's tears streaming down her face. Miss Phryne just holds her tighter, and Inspector Robinson's smile reminds her of home.
"Can we take her out for the day?" Miss Phryne asks over her head, also in French, and Jane's heart leaps. She has an exam in Latin to study for and an essay to finish for history, but anything pales at the chance of getting to spend the day with Miss Fisher.
“Her legal guardian may sign her out,” Mme. Léontine responds, nodding to Inspector Robinson. Jane rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to explain exactly how things work.
She doesn’t need to. “That would be Miss Fisher,” the Inspector says in English, nodding to Miss Phryne, with a look on his face that Jane’s seen many times before. His French isn’t the best, she remembers, but apparently he understood enough of that to demure.
Miss Phryne nods too, the movement sharp, unwrapping her arms from around Jane and adjusting her blouse. “Show me where I need to sign.” Clipped, abrupt French now. She follows Mme. Léontine around the corner to the teachers’ office.
Jane’s left in the foyer with Inspector Robinson. It’s been a long time since she’s seen him, and his presence almost makes her feel fourteen again. “It’s good to see you, Inspector.”
His familiar, nostalgic smile appears again. “You can call me Jack at this point, Jane. Everyone else does. Including your Miss Fisher.” He reaches out an arm - asking for a hug, if she wants it. When she accepts, it’s not nearly the same kind of reminiscent as hugging Miss Phryne. His cologne’s far less familiar than her French perfume, for one, and his coat is a far cry from silk and satin. But it’s lovely.
She steps back and grins up at him, putting on all her sixteen-year-old charm. His expression immediately turns suspicious, and she nearly bursts out laughing. She’s seen that look before. He does spend a lot of time with Miss Phryne, after all.
“Are you and Miss Phryne together?” she asks, point-blank. Best to catch them off guard. More likely to get the truth that way.
He actually blushes, and Jane’s grin widens. He can’t deny it now, like they’ve been doing for years.
“Finally,” she says, putting as much emphasis on the word as she can.
Clearing his throat but not meeting her eyes, he nods, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “You could say that.” He looks back up. “And you’re a lot like her, you know.”
It’s the best compliment someone could give. Her own cheeks heat to match his, and she ducks her head away from his penetrating gaze.
Miss Fisher appears from the office at that moment, clapping her hands together once. “Now! That’s done, and you’re all ours for the day, Jane.” She sweeps forward, linking arms with both Jane and Inspector Robinson - Jack - and pulling them towards the door.
“Where are we going?” Jane asks, trying to avoid whacking her outside arm against the doorframe as Miss Phryne pulls them both into the sunshine.
“Wherever we like!” Miss Phryne stops in front of an unfamiliar car - black, boxy, and a far cry from the Hispano-Suiza at home. She must notice Jane’s surprised look, because she wrinkles her own nose. “I know, I know. But it’s rented, and they didn’t have the widest selection of motorcars to choose from.” She climbs into the driver’s seat, on the left, which still feels wrong to Jane after years on the Continent. Jack looks resigned, and Jane laughs internally about the never-ending complaints about Miss Phryne’s driving.
She hasn’t changed a bit. It heals Jane’s heart, to realize, and to remember.
They wind up at a fancy restaurant Jane’s been to before, but only for etiquette practice. It’s a far cry from sitting in the dining room with some of her favorite people, speaking familiar Australian English and not worrying about her accent, laughing and teasing and never running out of things to say.
After their soup’s been cleared away, Miss Phryne fixes her with another familiar look. One that says she’s heard some story from Aunt Prudence and wants to know Jane’s side and she’s holding out judgment. A smirk, a perfectly arched eyebrow. “I hear you showed up at the Lofthouse estate a few days after we’d left, much to Aunt P’s consternation. Something about stowing away across the French countryside? Posing as a maid and a shopgirl? Oh, the horror for Aunt P.”
Jack’s clearly trying not to smile. Jane’s cheeks warm again, and she fixes her gaze on the salt shaker instead of looking either of them in the face.
“What’s your side of the story?”
The salt shaker is very interesting. “Well, I got the telegram from Dot. The one that said you were dead,” she starts, and even out of the corners of her eyes she can see them both flinch. “And then I heard there was a memorial in London, they said so in the English newspaper we get at school. I wanted to go! I needed to go. But Aunt Prudence sent another telegram, saying that she had contacted the school and they couldn’t figure out who my legal guardian was with you gone. And I can’t leave without a legal guardian’s permission.”
Neither of them are smiling now. “I’m sorry, Jane,” Miss Phryne says.
She never says that. Jane balls her hands in her skirt. “But I couldn’t miss it. I just couldn’t. You’ve done so much for me.” Tears start to gather in her eyes at the memory of those days, the emptiness and loss and drifting, and she squeezes her eyes shut to keep them from falling. “So I left. I walked to town, and I found someone who was driving north. And once I pretended I was a lady’s maid but had gotten lost and needed to get back to my employer. And then when we got to Calais, I stowed away on the ferry. And then the same thing in England, I just…told people I needed to get to London for various reasons, and they took me.” The words all come out in a rush. “Once I pretended I was delivering things for someone, that must be where Aunt Prudence got the shopgirl bit from.”
“But the trip took longer than you expected,” Jack says. She looks up, and his face is impassive, unreadable.
She nods. “I waited too long to hear from Aunt Prudence before I left. I would’ve made it if I hadn’t! It’s not that long of a trip, but I couldn’t ask anyone to take me directly. I had to just follow where they were going and then hope someone else was going the right way.” Dropping her head again, she studies the pattern of the lace on the edge of the tablecloth.
Miss Phryne taps her fingers against the same elegant tablecloth, rippling the lace. “That’s quite a story, Jane.”
“Like mother, like daughter,” Jack murmurs, so low that Jane thinks she probably wasn’t supposed to hear it. She snaps her head up again, trying to catch it on his face, but it’s still just as impassive as before. A police officer’s face if she’s ever seen one.
“As it damn well should be.” Miss Phryne taps a finger against the back of Jack’s hand, and the immediacy of his shocked expression lets Jane know that they definitely were not supposed to hear that comment. She stifles a giggle.
“Well,” Miss Phryne continues, switching topics seamlessly, “Aunt Prudence certainly expects me to discipline you for all of this. Playing truant from school, running away, lying, traveling without a chaperone! I’m sure she could come up with even more.” She pauses, an unreadable look on her face, too.
“But?” Jane prompts.
“But I can't.” Both of Miss Phryne’s hands splay out flat on the table, long and poised - but stiff, and Jane knows from experience that she’s trying to keep them from trembling. “I can’t imagine how that must have been for you. I know what it’s like to worry about you, but I never thought about you worrying about me. I should have written. I should have…well. I should have done a lot of things, for you.”
Her face is stricken, and tears trail down her cheeks as Jane watches. “I’m sorry, Jane,” she says again, and Jane’s own tears spill over.
Heedless of the setting they’re in, she jumps out of her chair so quickly she nearly knocks it over and wraps her arms around Miss Phryne’s narrow shoulders. “You’re alive. You came back. That’s all I need.”
There’s some grumbling from the tables around them, a quip about disturbing the peace, but she ignores it all. She rests her head on Miss Phryne’s, and they stay that way for long enough that Jane loses track of time. Eventually Miss Phryne raises her chin, dislodging Jane’s head, and kisses her cheek.
“Thank you,” she says, and her voice is hoarse and quiet. Jane doesn’t trust her own voice, so she simply nods and returns to her seat. Jack reaches out and squeezes her hand when she sits down, his other hand outstretched to Miss Phryne on the other side of the table. He doesn’t say anything either. They don’t need him to.
Soon after, Miss Phryne flags down a server to pay and hurries them both out. Jane shares a rueful smile with Jack as they follow her. She’s never been able to sit still, especially not after an emotional display. They pile back into the car and Miss Phryne takes off. She fits right in with Parisian drivers, with very little regard for either other drivers or safety regulations.
They come to a stop along the Seine, near the Pont de la Tournelle. It’s not the nicest day for walking - a little too warm, a little too muggy - but Jane couldn’t care less as she climbs out of the car. Jack steps out of the front seat and makes a big show of holding onto a bench, pretending to catch his breath after the hectic motorcar ride. “You’re very lucky, Miss Fisher, that my authority as a police officer doesn’t extend to France. There are speed limits here too, you know.”
Laughing, Miss Phryne opens her parasol and links her other arm through Jack’s, pulling him away from the bench. “What rot. We were perfectly safe the whole time and you know it.”
Jane’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard as she watches them walk towards the path by the river. Along with her own joy at seeing them, it’s lovely to see them so happy with each other. It’s been a long time coming. But when Miss Phryne turns, gesturing with her parasol and another trademark smirk for Jane to catch up - Jane’s heart squeezes. She’s still wanted. They came to visit her.
The walk is nice, and the ice cream they get to cool off after is nicer. But when the sun sets and the motorcar turns back towards Jane’s school, the tears from earlier start to prick at her eyes again. Miss Phryne keeps up a steady stream of stories, with interjections from Jack, about everything under the sun. Adventures in India, their time in Palestine, even just anecdotes about riding a camel. Jane tries to keep up, but her mind keeps wandering, following her eyes out the window as she tries to keep the tears from falling. The Parisian sky is never as comforting as the Melburnian one.
They pull into the drive, and Jane steels herself for a painful goodbye. She’s said goodbye to them both before. But Miss Phryne turns in her seat with another wide smile on her face, and Jane can’t prevent the tears any longer.
“Jane? What’s wrong?” The smile gone, Miss Phryne reaches out, awkward as she tries to maneuver between the seats. She grabs for Jane’s hand. “Are you all right?”
“I just don’t want to say goodbye.” Jane tries not to blubber like a child half her age. “It’s been so long, and home is so far away, and…that news…” She takes a deep breath. “Part of me is afraid I won’t see you again.”
“Oh, Jane, no!” In one fluid motion Miss Phryne is out of the driver’s seat and pulling open Jane’s door. She wraps her arms around her, hugging so mightily that Jane won’t be able to breathe for much longer if she keeps it up.
“We’re here for the week, at least,” she says against Jane’s head, tugging on one of her plaits. “Did I not say?”
The laugh that bursts out of Jane is watery, but her tears are already drying on her cheeks. “No! No, you definitely only asked if you could take me out for the day!”
“You have school, so I thought we’d come back another day. But I apparently forgot to actually say that.” Miss Phryne looks mildly chagrined for just a moment, which immediately turns into less-mild indignation. She ducks further into the car, leaning across Jane. “Jack! Why didn’t you remind me to tell her?”
“I assumed you had!” He turns further in his seat, resting one hand on Jane’s knee. “I should have said, though.”
A week. They’ll be here after her Latin exam, after she hands in her history essay, over the weekend. “Oh! There’s the Théâtre de Verdure du Jardin Shakespeare, with gardens themed after his plays. They might be staging something, too. We should go!” She squeezes Jack’s hand, still on her knee. “You like Shakespeare too, right? I remember you mentioning.”
“I do.” He pulls his hand back. “We should definitely go. But for this evening, you should definitely go back inside before we get in trouble for keeping you out too late.” She rolls her eyes, Miss Phryne scoffs, and Jack looks between them and laughs. “I deserved that. Wrong crowd.”
“I should go in, though. You're not wrong.” Jane nudges Miss Phryne, who steps back to let her out of the car, and Jack climbs out on the other side. As he rounds the front of the car, Jane wraps an arm around both adults’ waists, pulling them in towards her and ignoring their squeaks of surprise. After a moment to get over the shock, she feels both their arms wrap around her in return.
They stand that way for a while.
“Thank you,” Jane mumbles, her face pressed between their shoulders. “For coming.”
“Couldn’t miss it,” Miss Phryne says, and Jane knows her well enough to hear the apology and the promise in those words.
Five minutes later, she stands at the front window, watching the car drive away. Even knowing they’ll be here for the week, watching them leave is difficult - it was hard enough to learn that Miss Phryne would always come back the first time around, and the six weeks of believing she was gone forever have not helped that matter.
But the taste of home, and the people who made it such, is the nicest thing she’s had all year.
#miss fisher's murder mysteries#phryne fisher#jack robinson#jane ross#phryne x jack#phrack#otp: let's misbehave#mfmm fic#logan writes fic#AO3 link will be in a reblog because tumblr doesn't like links!
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Hi! I desperately need more of, The Lady with the Recorder Asks the Questions. I love that story. 🥰
Thank you for this ask from the WIP Game! I will get back to The Lady With The Recorder Asks The Questions eventually, have just been swamped by real-life deadlines recently and all my remaining bandwidth is going to Ted Lasso. But here, have this snippet:
According to newsroom tradition, secret calls with sources are taken in the shrubbery; however, in recent years reporters have complained about the shrubbery getting too crowded, so Georgina finally acquiesced to using some of the investor money for private phone booths. These, too, are perpetually oversubscribed. Phryne marches up to the one with sports correspondent Angela Lombard in it and yanks open the door.
“Well, excuse you, honey,” drawls Angela. “I was here first.”
“We both know you’re just having phone sex with your newsmaker,” says Phryne briskly, “which you can do quite as well in the shrubbery.”
Angela rolls her eyes. “It’s not my newsmaker. It’s his coach.”
Phryne makes an impatient gesture. “Out.”
Angela slides sulkily out of the booth. “It’s better with an audience anyway.” She casts a sultry glance in Jack’s direction. “Though you can lay my page any time, Robinson.”
Jack gives her a polite smile. “I think you and I both know I’m better at spotting errors than that, Ms Lombard.”
“Ugh,” says Phryne once they’re ensconced inside the phone booth. “That woman! I hope something dreadful happens to her, like a public retraction.”
“You know she’s just going to spread rumours about us starting something in here,” says Jack.
“Good,” says Phryne. “Nobody will guess what we’re really up to.”
#wip ask game#miss fisher's murder mysteries#mfmm#mfmm fic#phryne fisher#jack robinson#phryne x jack#phrack
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Sentimental II
@dontcallmebymyusername kindly asked for “sudden hugs from behind” and “running fingers through hair” for Phrack, so here it is!
I hope you like it, darling!
(@glamorouspixels other people did indeed ask for more phrack:D)
It happens one night late in August.
It’s the atmosphere, or the late hour - dangerous and lethal as her dress. There is too much whiskey, too much wit and competence on her part - and definitely not enough resistance on his - and they end up as a heap of tangled limbs and hearts on his divorcee bed and its rather bleak cotton sheets.
He falls into her with the same meticulous determination he applies to his investigations, and she takes him with that same exuberant glee with which she commandeers them - and yet they are a team even in this, different investigating styles notwithstanding. They waltz together - slow and close - and add a bit of tango to the mix.
And later, after they are spent and satiated, she runs her fingers through his loose locks and tugs gently on the tips.
“I love how your hair curls without pomade, Jack,” she sighs against one cheekbone and tugs a little stronger, eliciting quite the delicious groan and another round of love-making from him.
He’s 35 years-old, and yet she makes him feel decades younger. Here, in this bed, he’s not yet twenty and full of vim and pure emotions. He’s yet to see war and carnage and the worst of what the human race has to offer; he’s a clean slate and an optimist, if only for one night.
And when morning comes, and he rises early to cook her a simple breakfast, she slides up from behind him and winds her arms around his torso.
“Something smells divine,” she breathes against his back, and it makes him think that she means more than the eggs.
He, too, can still smell her on his skin.
They spend the morning as old lovers, and when he sees her off to her car and leans close to kiss the corner of her mouth, he thinks that he’s never been so pleased to surrender a battle.
(it's ridiculously short, I know, but I'm unexpectedly pleased with it, so it's a win in my book!)
Soft prompts
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Fanfic Recs!
In honor of Fanfic Writer Appreciation Day I thought I would celebrate by reccing a couple of fics from each of the fandoms I read/write in, because I know I am always looking for recs myself, and this lets me shine a light on some that I adore. Of course, this proved a tremendously difficult task, because there are literally so many amazing fics to choose from, but in the interest of time and space I am limiting myself to two.
Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
One Night In Berlin by @firesign23
I love me a good trope subversion and Fire_Sign is the master. This one is short but packs a punch and even has two follow-up fics to continue the story!
Revolution of the Times by @arlome
Without giving too much away, this fic manages to combine so many of my favorite things - Jack's family, Phryne's past, Phrack at their finest - and the writing is just gorgeous.
Agent Carter
Renegades by @ink-dust
This could genuinely be the the season 3 we were all denied. The writing, story and characterizations are just top notch. 😚 👌
The Song Remains the Same by @sholiofic
An OT3 with Peggy/Daniel/Jack that takes a really interesting path to explore Peggy's growth from the beginning of S1 to post S2. Lovely.
HTTYD/Race to the Edge
Cold North Wind by sunflowerb
A beautiful exploration of Valka's return and the consequences of her absence from her perspective. Love, love, love.
Simple Gifts by @listentoyourdragon / Ecoutez
A sweet and authentic deep dive into the years between adolescence and adulthood where everything is sort of in flux and you're just starting to figure yourself out. Read it and then do yourself a favor and read the sequel which is just as amazing.
---
So there you go, two of each even though I could easily rec dozens and dozens and dozens more (and ultimately kinda did after the cut 😂). But hey, that’s what future August 21st-s are for, right? 😊
Thank you so much to all the fanfic writers out there - you're amazing and I appreciate the hell out of each and every one of you. ❤️
---
Ok, so shorter and under the cut because I'm still not totally comfortable reccing my own stuff, I've decided to add one of mine from each from these fandoms because I was ordered encouraged to. And also if I'm going to rec what I like, I write what I like so that does feel a bit like low hanging fruit anyway. ;-)
MFMM: An Instrument of Grace
Case fic, Phrack conflict, and female friendships, oh my!
Agent Carter: Peony and Thisbe
An undercover AU with Peggy out on her own and a familiar voice as her only agency contact.
HTTYD: Pieces
Four years post-canon, Hiccup meets someone from his past who has the potential to change his future.
#fanfic writer appreciation day#fanfic recs#mfmm fic#agent carter fic#httyd fic#miss fisher's murder mysteries#agent carter#httyd#httyd race to the edge
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somebody wrote a tumblr meta post about how j’s and p’s genders do not significantly impact their partnership and i wanna read it again bc i am in the middle of writing a fic whose narrative has p as male-coded and i’m kinda diggin it
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For the "first line of a fic" prompt:
"Miss Fisher! Must we climb up so *quite* so high? Shouldn't we have... ropes, or more practical shoes at the very least?" Dot cried, without any real hope of persuading her target.
Ha! I appreciate the zeal that leads to three sentences here.
"Miss Fisher! Must we climb up so quite so high? Shouldn't we have… ropes, or more practical shoes at the very least?" Dot cried, without any real hope of persuading her target.
"Don't be a goose," replied Phryne Fisher, somewhat breathlessly. Gripping a cornice, she added: "You do have a point about the shoes."
Dot watched, mesmerized, as her employer worked her two-tone dancing pumps off her feet. She swallowed as they fell, one after the other, to the flowerbed below (Mr. Butler would have something to say about the scuffs on the leather.)
"Come along, Dot," said Miss Fisher cheerfully.
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WIP Title Ask Meme
Prompt: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.
Thank you to @tiltedsyllogism for tagging me!
You've all got a lot of choice:
For All Mankind
Americans crossover
Crossover - West Wing
Crossover - WOT
Houston, this is Christmas
Inherited Sins
An Interlude
Interlude SQL
Lake Names
Margo birthday
Margo Sergei phone box sex
MM NYE 1974 - Cover You In Moonlight
Molly Blind Astronaut
She sights a bird
Suits
The Truth
TimeLoop
Ya Got TRoubles
Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Case multi chapter
Champagne Problems Sequel
Christmas mystery
Halloween murder
Happy Christmas fic
If It Wasn't For The Nights
JR Body Swap
Letters
Murder Under the Mistletoe cont
No Question
Pool Table Case Fic
Reverse blood on the wheel
Rosie JR Funeral
Valentines Day Fic
Whumptober 1 - Phric
Whumptober 2 - Phryne & Dot
Why not me
Star Trek Voyager
Janeway court martial
Long Live
I am tagging @allatariel @gabolange @moocowmoocow @yamelcakes @eternally-conflicted @galadriel1010 @glamorouspixels and anyone else who wishes to partake!
#they're all organised into sub folders I did not realise it had gotten this bad#but they're all my babies and I swear I will finish them eventually#(I will still be swearing that on my death bed)#ANYWAY#WIP ask meme#my fic#for all mankind#mfmm#star trek#voyager
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Summarizing WIPs badly
I was tagged by @taste-thewaste, @luainthewild and @meraki-yao. Very fitting because it’s thanks to you guys I actually started writing again more so I have somethign to put here. Thanks guys, you’re the best <3
I’m just putting all of it out here (even the ones that have been laying around for a while) in the hopes it’s going to make me want to keep writing them.
Rwrb:
Philipp is a bad liar
Alex discovers all the ways the crown likes to torture people nowadays
Henry is waiting for a phone call but doesn’t know it.
Alex has no idea what he’s doing
Alex is planning a speech
Iwtv:
Claudia is not allowed to travel alone (yes it’s Beneath Lucifer’s claws. I might add another chapter but I’m pretty sure I’m not cut out to be the gothic horror writer this fic needs me to be)
Daniel finds a rock
3.+ 4. Daniel misses a funeral. Armand does not.
I’m still adding my two ds9 fics that I’ve been adding singular words to for years at this point. I refuse to give up believing that I will finish them one day.
Quarks family goes on vacation to Cardassia
Ezri fights with everyone and it helps.
Mfmm (I forgot about that one. I should really finish that.):
Jack doesn’t pick up the phone.
No pressure tagging @bandedbulbussnarfblat, @sapphosewrites @hellostuffedtiger,@wordsofhoneydew
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the way i ~needed the show to revisit and address rené. i knew they wouldn’t - it’s not that sort of show and that’s fine - but i would have loved to see it so very much, especially with jack. in one of those understated half-verbalised barely even a confession moments that are wanting to be half brushed off by her but the implications are understood and the sentiment is very much felt by jack and it’s an offering as much as any i love you, and it leads to comfort that never feels like it’s overwhelming or placating and and —
it feels more like a canon moment tbh and therefore not belonging within the timeframe of the show anyway but gosh! her dad and rené are such major influences in her life when it comes to romance and relationships - the theory and the practice; the observed and the learned - and in fact i want ~both of those explored within the context of jack so very very much actually. i think those moments could be so superbly gentle and profound and angsty and comforting in their tension and restraint and argh chomping at the bit
#one day i’ll write again#when the stars align just so#in the mean time point me to fic#there has to be some!#🧎🏼♀️#though i’m nearing end of the tag sad face#gif: missfisherandjack#what a queen#responsible for 72% of my screentime#phryne fisher#jack robinson#phrack#mfmm#phryne x jack#miss fisher's murder mysteries
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Characters: Phryne Fisher, Jack Robinson
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Not Canon Compliant - Miss Fisher and the Crypt of Tears, First Time, Porn with Feelings, Bath Sex, reunion in southampton in shitty england weather, Overthinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, phryne gets a bit stuck in her own head, jack is the best partner and is more than happy to reassure her, Gentleness, Emotional Growth
Phryne sighed as another flash of lightning lit up the sky. She had wanted to make his first day in England memorable, and while it was far too big a gesture to ever make up for, it was looking more and more like she wouldn’t even be given a chance to try.
#mfmm#miss fisher's murder mysteries#phryne fisher#jack robinson#phrack#phryne x jack#mfmm fic#mfmm fanfic
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Miss Fisher fandom, let's play a game!
Do you like choose-your-own-adventure stories?
Would you like to participate in creating a Miss Fisher fic where:
The fic is written and posted in instalments on Tumblr
You can vote for certain outcomes in a poll at the end of each instalment, or leave other funny suggestions in the tags
The story is not pre-written at all, and I have to write whatever wild suggestions you vote for (or throw at me in the tags)?
Well, that's what's happening, starting tomorrow!
The first instalment will be posted during the day, with a poll underneath where you can vote for certain outcomes. The outcome that gets the most votes will be used in the next instalment.
To make this experiment as interesting as possible, each poll will also have an option called "Other: In reblogs/tags/notes". If you vote for this option, you have to leave your own suggestion (or mention a suggestion already made by someone else) in the tags. If this option wins, the most popular suggestion mentioned in the notes/reblogs/tags of the post wins! The person who made the suggestion will be tagged and credited in the next instalment :)
The poll underneath each instalment will be open for one day. The plan is to do 4-6 instalments, but we'll have to wait and see how the story turns out.
Let's have some fun!
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you’ve stayed soft and you’ve stood still
Phryne gets her confiscated photographs from Burn's photoshoot developed. The wrong people keep finding them, until finally the right person does.
G, 3800 words.
AO3 link in the first reblog!
Cec climbs back into the cab, off-white envelope in hand, fancy handwriting spelling out Miss Phryne Fisher across the front. “Just like old times, yeah?” He settles into the passenger seat, tapping the envelope against the dashboard.
Bert shrugs. “Guess so. What’s she got this time? Haven’t picked up photographs for her in a while.” Or anything. It is good to be back working for her, as loath as he is to admit it even to Cec. He puts the cab back in gear and pulls out into the street. “Well, what’s in it?”
“Dunno.” Cec undoes the tie holding the envelope shut, but doesn’t immediately say what’s in it.
Stopping to let a horse-cart cross the other way, Bert waves a hand. “What’s the holdup?”
“You think it’s all right to look through the stuff she’s asked us to get?”
The horse-cart moves on and Bert starts toward the house again. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the nervous expression on Cec’s face. He shrugs again. “Never bothered her before. Figure she assumes someone will look through most stuff what comes into the house. What with us and Jane and Mrs. Stanley and everyone in and out.”
“You may be right there.” Cec drums his fingers on the dashboard for a moment, just barely out of rhythm. When he draws his hand back there’s little half-circles cleared in the dust.
The whisper of the paper flap tells Bert that Cec has finally opened it, and the rattling sound of photographs falling out says he’s looked, but he still hasn’t said. “A man’s gonna meet his maker before you say anything today.”
Cec clears his throat. “It’s - um - these are probably meant for the Inspector.”
“Of course they are, she’s always had plenty of things for the Inspector.” Bert turns right, onto the street that will take them to the Esplanade. “Didn’t know they had a case, though, wonder what she needed to get him so fast.”
“Don’t think they’re for a case, mate.” There’s an unfamiliar catch in Cec’s voice.
“How would you know? If we didn’t even know they had a case, why would we have any idea what they needed for it?” He pulls the cab into the alleyway behind the house. “Give it here.”
Without another word Cec hands the photos over - facedown. Confused, Bert flips the whole stack over. His jaw goes slack.
They’re not for a case. Or, at least, not one that he’s ever heard of. They’re of Miss Fisher, in various stages of undress, glaring at the camera. Some sort of silk robe, camisole and pants, and…
“Oh,” is all that comes out of his mouth.
With one quick motion Cec pulls the photographs away again, flipping them back over. “Come on, man, we don’t need to see those.”
He’s probably right. But. “Like I said, she never used to care who took a gander at whatever came into the house. Least of all us.” Slowly, Bert reaches a hand out for the stack again. Cec lets him grab them and flip them back frontwards.
Not the kind of pictures he’d ever expected to see of anyone he knows, even Miss Fisher.
“Mr. B’s seen us,” Cec says suddenly, and when Bert looks up it’s to find the old man gesturing at them from the kitchen door.
While Bert shoves the photographs back in the envelope, they both tumble out of the cab. Mr. Butler’s eyes narrow when they get within normal speaking distance.
“Are you two all right?”
“Right as rain,” Bert mumbles, holding up the envelope, slightly the worse for wear. “Just leaving this for Miss Fisher.” He steps around Mr. Butler and drops it onto the kitchen table. “Need anything else, Mr. B?”
“Not at the moment, Mr. Johnson. Thank you. I don’t think Miss Fisher has any other requests for you either, but she’ll send for you if she does.”
“Thanks, Mr. B.” Bert scarpers out the back door, and he knows Cec is right on his heels.
—
Dot nearly sings as she walks down the stairs. It’s so good to be back in this house. The house itself is lovely, of course, but it’s the people in it that have made it home these past few years. Jane, Mr. Butler, Bert and Cec. Miss Fisher herself, especially. And with Miss Fisher home now, everything is in its rightful place again, even with Dot herself living elsewhere and her job duties changing to accommodate.
She tidies the parlor on her way through, putting away a book and rearranging a tray of glasses, but the kitchen is her true destination. The hope of cocoa and a chat has remained strong through the months not in the house.
Mr. Butler’s hard at work when she arrives, half the table covered in various cooling dishes. “Oh, Dorothy, wonderful timing. Can you assist me with this one? I seem to have not left a large enough place at the table to set it down.” He’s awkwardly holding a large casserole dish, trying to set it down without placing it on top of an off-white envelope on the other half of the table. She grabs it and repositions one of the cooling racks.
“Will that work?”
“Perfectly. Thank you, Dorothy.” He sets the casserole dish down on the rack, shaking out his hands. After setting down the potholders, he gestures to the envelope she’s still holding.
“Any idea what that is? Bert and Cec dropped it off earlier this afternoon.”
She looks down at it. It’s the same sort of envelope the Inspector and Hugh sometimes bring evidence over in, but neither of them would write Miss Phryne Fisher across it, especially not in this flowing, elegant handwriting. “I haven’t a clue.”
The string’s untied and the envelope’s not closed, and there’s a corner of something poking out the top haphazardly, like Bert and Cec decided to take a look. Maybe she shouldn’t, but she shakes the contents out into her other hand. They’re photographs, obviously, but they’re all facing away from her. She flips them over, and knows in that same instant that her face has turned bright pink.
“Dorothy? Are you all right?”
Photographs of Miss Phryne: in some sort of flowy robe Dot doesn’t remember seeing before, in her smalls, and so on. Less revealing than that painting on her bedroom wall, but oh, not what Dot was expecting to find falling out of that envelope.
“They’re - um.” She swallows. “They’re photographs. She, um, she probably got them developed to give them…to give them to the Inspector.”
Mr. Butler nods in understanding. “Ah, I see. Well then, let’s just put them back in the envelope, and you can take them up to her.”
“Take what up to whom?” asks a new voice. “Something for me?”
“Miss!” Dot jumps so hard she stumbles, nearly knocking into Mr. Butler’s casserole dish. She steps back, giving the hot dish a wider berth. “I, uh. Didn’t see you there.” She holds out the envelope. “Your…photographs are here. Cec and Bert brought them by.”
“My photographs?” Miss Fisher holds out a hand, and Dot gives her both the photos and the envelope. A wide smile spreads across Miss Fisher’s face when she turns the stack of photos over. “Those photographs! Thank you, Dot, I’d forgotten I’d asked Cec and Bert to pick these up.”
Tucking the lot back into the envelope, she taps a forefinger against the edge before turning a wicked grin on Dot, who can feel the heat returning to her cheeks. “I’m glad to know my absence hasn’t dampened your investigative skills, Mrs. Collins,” she says breezily.
“I’m sorry, MIss,” Dot’s words tumble out in a rush, “the envelope was open, and people have left such nasty things for you before that I wanted to check, but I should have asked first, and I’m -”
“It’s all right, Dot.” The grin has softened now, into what Dot would call a doting smile on anyone else. “I’m only being honest, here, though a little teasing. It truly is good to be home.” Without another word she turns and glides into the parlor, leaving the scent of her French perfume behind.
Blinking, in a tussle between confused and delighted, Dot calls out, “don’t forget them in the parlor, Miss!”
“I won’t, Dot, thank you.”
—
Wandering around the house aimlessly, Jane finds herself in the parlor, running a hand over the spines of some of the books on the wall shelf. It’s the first time in a while that being in the house has felt right - even after coming home from school, with Miss Phryne and then even the Inspector abroad and Dot not coming round as much, the house had felt like a mausoleum. Now it’s real and living again, and she wants to soak as much of it up as she can.
Turning away from the bookshelves with a familiar book of poems in hand, she surveys the rest of the room. As lovely and homey as always, with her favorite armchair to her right, the piano across the way, the table ready and waiting with drinks for whoever might come to call. Everything as it should be, courtesy of Dot and Mr. Butler as - wait.
Nearly everything is where it should be, but there’s an envelope leaning against the decanter on the table. Large and not quite white, with writing across the front. Stepping closer, she can read Miss Phryne Fisher in looping, unfamiliar script. It’s open, the string trailing, but she can’t see what’s inside no matter what angle she tries.
“Now what could you be?” she muses under her breath. She definitely shouldn’t be snooping in Miss Phryne’s things, but this doesn’t really count as Miss Phryne’s things, out in the parlor and maybe a threat. People have tried to leave and do so many awful things before. If she can figure out what’s in that envelope, maybe she can ring the Inspector and get it sorted before Miss Fisher even has to know.
The book, she tosses onto her armchair. Hands steady, she reaches for the envelope, touching only the edges as best she can. There’s definitely something inside; she can hear it knocking against the edges when she shakes the whole contrivance. With a quick step to her right she turns the envelope over and empties the contents out over the piano bench.
Her cheeks get hot, and she knows she must be as red as Dot gets sometimes. Definitely not a threat, these - photographs of Miss Phryne, half-dressed, with a nearly angry expression that Jane luckily hasn’t seen much before. Like she’s angry at whoever took the photos, not whoever’s looking, but the distinction doesn’t seem to matter now. But it’s the half-dressed that has Jane shoving the photos back into the envelope, no longer trying to be careful of touching only the edges.
Once they’re all back inside, she takes a deep breath, holding the envelope in both hands. She’s seen plenty of women in less than what Miss Phryne was wearing in those photographs, including Miss Phryne herself. There’s a nude portrait of her on her own bedroom wall, for goodness sake! So why would these photographs be so embarrassing to see?
They’re for the Inspector floats into her thoughts, and she doesn’t know how but she knows it’s true (and, at the same time, knows she’s turning red again).
Ah. That would explain it all. And means that she should definitely take them up to Miss Phryne now, before someone else finds them. But as she steps into the entryway, headed for the stairs, a voice calls from somewhere in the back of the ground floor. “Miss Jane? Is that you? Your assistance would be greatly appreciated.”
It’s Mr. Butler. She shouldn’t keep him waiting. Glancing around for a moment, she slots the envelope onto the table next to the door, between a vase and a stack of gloves. Once she’s helped Mr. Butler with whatever he needs, she can run back and take it upstairs. Miss Phryne won’t mind waiting a few more minutes.
—
It’s been a lifetime since she last stood on this doorstep, Prudence thinks, or at least it seems that way. The last time she and Phryne even spoke was in London, half a world away.
At least this time she knows her niece isn’t dead.
Trying to banish that thought, she presses the doorbell, listening to it ring inside. It will take Mr. Butler a few moments to make his way to the front of the house, but she steps back anyway, to give him space when he opens the door.
He appears just as she plants her feet again. “Mrs. Stanley! How lovely to see you. I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you. I was in the kitchen with Jane; I apologize if you’ve been waiting long.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Butler, I’m only here to speak with my niece for a moment.” As she follows him into the house, a flash of white on the table next to the door catches her eye. An envelope? Why there?
“You can of course come through to the parlor, Mrs. Stanley.” She looks up again at the sound of Mr. Butler’s voice. “May I take your coat?”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.” While he’s occupied with her coat, she pulls the envelope off the table - open, she notices, with the string hanging off and looking rather the worse for wear. She takes the proffered seat in the parlor and, once he’s climbed onto the stairs, flips it over to the front.
Miss Phryne Fisher, it reads. Of course. The better question is who left it there, not who it was left for. Quickly she turns the envelope over, emptying its contents onto the table beside her.
Photographs? Who would be sending Phryne…
Wait.
The photographs are of Phryne, she realizes, wearing rather less than she should be for any sort of photograph. And there are so many of them. “Phryne Fisher!” she gasps aloud.
“Yes, Aunt P?” Phryne’s voice asks. “To what do I owe the pleasure of my full name?”
Prudence snaps her head up to find Phryne at the bottom of the stairs and fixes her with a narrow-eyed glare. “What are these, Phryne?” She holds up the photographs with delicate fingers, trying not to touch them more than she has to.
Stepping into the parlor on light feet, Phryne leans forward to look at what she’s holding. “They’re photographs, Aunt Prudence.”
The urge to roll her eyes like a teenager of Jane’s age is strong. “Of course they’re photographs, Phryne. It’s what they’re photographs of. Why on earth would you do something like this?”
“They were for a case.” She sits down in the chair opposite. “And you wouldn’t have seen them if you weren’t looking through private things in my house.”
She should have expected that. “What you do behind closed doors is your business, Phryne, but you cannot leave them out in the open! What if Jane had found them? What if some new client of yours had seen them while attempting to retain you for another case?”
Phryne does roll her eyes, and the resemblance to expressions Prudence has seen on Jane’s face is striking for the two having no family history. “Honestly, Aunt P, you worry too much. Jane has seen plenty of women’s bodies before, including mine. She’s nearly a woman herself. If any of my clients happened to see them, I should think they’d be pleased, the lengths I’d go to for a case.”
She sits forward in her chair. “But you found them, Aunt, and now I can take them upstairs and they won’t get found again.” Pulling both envelope and photographs from Prudence’s hands, she tucks them back away and ties the bedraggled string around the fasteners. “I’ll take them right upstairs when you leave.”
Prudence sighs. “I suppose that will have to do.” She is never going to know what to do with this girl.
—--
City South Police Station is back to rights with the Inspector back in his office, Hugh thinks. Or, well, back in the station - he’s not in his office right now, he’s in one of the interview rooms in the back. Without Miss Fisher, this time. She’s back, too, though, and it’s honestly a relief in more ways than one.
“Constable Collins!” That’s the Inspector’s voice, with the edge to it that means he’s already called at least once.
Hugh scrambles out from behind the counter. “Coming, Inspector!”
The Inspector is leaning out of the first interview room, beckoning Hugh to come closer. “I need you to get the coroner’s report for me out of my desk. It’s in the top drawer, should be the only folder there.”
“Yes, Inspector, I’ll get it now.” Hugh hurries back to the office, trying not to take too long. Everything looks exactly the same as it always has, the desk neat and trim in the middle of the room, but it doesn’t feel the same at all.
“Top drawer,” he murmurs under his breath. Does that mean the top one in the stack on the right, or the long one that’s above them all? The coroner’s report and its folder could fit in either. He’ll start with the long one; that seems like a more reasonable place to be called the top drawer. But when he tries to pull it open, it sticks. Not like it’s locked, because he can tell it’s not, but like something’s caught on the underside of the desk. Jiggling the drawer doesn’t work. Neither does continuing to pull on it, not that he thought it would. Reaching into the small gap that he’s been able to eke out, Hugh runs his fingers along the top of the drawer.
Paper? How could something made of paper jam the drawer this badly? It must be rather heavy. But at least if it’s paper, he can put it back together if necessary. Hopefully it isn’t the coroner’s report that Inspector Robinson needs.
He yanks again, trying to both pull and jiggle at the same time. The sound of tearing paper rips through the air, followed by the drawer popping open and a flutter of paper somethings flying out. They scatter across the desk and the floor, some face-up and some facedown.
They’re photographs. Hugh leans forward to try and figure out what they are and whether he’ll need to patch them back together - and immediately jumps back, nearly knocking over the Inspector’s chair.
These are not just any photographs. They’re photographs of Miss Fisher, wearing rather less clothing than he’s used to seeing her in. Hugh’s face grows hot. She must have left them for the Inspector, not realizing they’d jam the drawer or that someone else would try to open it.
With the drawer finally open, Hugh can tell what it was that ripped - the envelope these photographs must have been in - and can see the intact folder underneath. He grabs the folder and flees. The Inspector can handle photographs of Miss Fisher all on his own.
—
His office definitely wasn’t this messy when he last left. Jack stands in the doorway, surveying what’s changed. The top drawer’s open, so this all likely happened when he sent Collins in to find the coroner’s report. But why would he have left such a mess? That’s not like him. Bending down, Jack picks up one of the pieces of paper from the floor and turns it over.
Not just paper, a photograph. And not just any photograph - a photograph of the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, clad in some sort of robe pulled close around her and glaring at the camera. He remembers where this is probably from, from that tennis case and the awful photographer, refusing to help without some sort of incentive, and Phryne confiscating the film as a Special Constable.
An indulgent smile spreads across his face as he looks down at the photo in his hand. He collects another photograph from the floor and sets both on his desk, adding them to the ones already there. In the robe, in a camisole and her pants, and the like. A progression. She must have gotten them developed and left them for him.
Taking a seat, he spreads the photos out so he can see them all before picking up the phone. She’s beautiful always, and she knows it, and he’s still frequently shocked that she’s chosen to share her beauty with him. But these are special, from before they’d gotten over themselves, before so many things.
He dials, and Mr. Butler’s familiar voice answers. “Miss Fisher’s residence.”
“Good evening, Mr. Butler, it’s Inspector Robinson. May I speak with Miss Fisher, please?” He’s called this number, made this request, so many times over the past few years. It still brings another smile to his face.
“Certainly, Inspector. One moment.” The voices get muffled while Mr. Butler puts his hand over the receiver, but he can still hear telephone for you and thank you, Mr. Butler.
“Jack?” Her voice is lovely, lilting, as always, and his heart stutters.
The pictures are beautiful. She is infinitely more so. “Hello, Miss Fisher.” He calls her Phryne more often, now, but there’s something about the continuity.
A smile is evident in her voice, too, as she asks, “And what has you calling on this fine evening, Inspector?”
He runs his finger along the long edge of one of the photographs. The one of her holding her robe closed: waiting, tantalizing. “Someone seems to have left me a gift at the station.”
“Oh? What sort of a gift?” she asks, continuing the game. He can just imagine her standing in the entryway, leaning against the banister as she talks. Like a Grecian sculpture.
“Mmm. Photographs.” Does she still have this robe? “All over my office. Including the floor.”
“The floor?” Her laughter is infectious. “That part wasn’t me. I was almost perfectly reasonable, leaving them in your desk drawer.”
Almost perfectly reasonable. This woman. “I have a feeling it was my stalwart constable who was responsible for them being on the floor. They may have jammed the desk drawer shut, and when I asked him to retrieve a report for me, he might have panicked.”
The laughter on the end of the line turns almost rueful. Not quite - this is Phryne - but. “These photographs have had a much more adventurous day than I imagined for them. The whole house seems to have seen them. Including Aunt Prudence.” The sarcasm in her voice is dry as the Negev.
He can’t help a wince at the thought of that conversation with Mrs. Stanley. But that she’d still gone through the trouble of bringing them here… “I’m glad they were intended for me, though.” Without intention, his voice has dropped a few notes.
Any trace of rue is gone from her voice when she answers. “Care to come home for another gift intended for you?” Warm, soft, familiar. Enticing.
Home. He doesn’t live at the house in the Esplanade, but some days it’s as good as. “That’s the best plan I’ve heard all evening, Miss Fisher.”
“Don’t keep me waiting, Inspector.”
#miss fisher's murder mysteries#jack robinson#phryne fisher#phryne x jack#phrack#mfmm fic#logan writes fic#AO3 link will be in a reblog because tumblr doesn't like links!
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The Lady With The Recorder Asks The Questions
There are lots of stories they tell about Phryne Fisher, and most of them are even true. They say she'll wear Maison Cadolle to a war zone. They say she'll file the front page under fire and drive through a minefield to make a deadline. They say she can make grown men break down and confess on record the kind of things people commit perjury over. They say she’s interviewed dictators, freedom fighters, serial killers, rock stars, refugees, billionaires, drug lords, and thousands of victims of the world’s myriad injustices. They say her name is on the hit list of three different terrorist organisations, and she can’t keep a desk with her name on it in the newsroom lest it gets sent a bomb. They say she’ll laugh in the face of death, and then she’ll ask it for a comment.
Jack had been vaguely aware of all this but not given it much thought until Phryne Fisher dropped back onto the home front like a meteor hitting the face of the earth, sending shockwaves rippling through the stratosphere. The first intimation he had of this was when she stood in the middle of the newsroom and yelled his name.
Modern-day newsroom!AU - Phryne is a star investigative journalist who breaks news as easily as she breaks hearts; Jack is just trying to do his best in the war on error.
#miss fisher's murder mysteries#mfmm fic#jack robinson#phryne fisher#phryne x jack#phrack#journalism au
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Hi!! <3 If you're still taking prompts and if it hasn't been asked already... "resting your head gently on their shoulder" for Phrack? 😁
But of course, my darling!
He meets her down at the docks, half-smile and fedora in situ, leaning against the police car in that achingly familiar way of his.
She thinks she should fly into his arms and knock that hat right off his carefully arranged head, but a few months and half a world apart make her uncharacteristically sheepish and stay her feet.
“Miss Fisher,” he rumbles, smiling faintly, when she finally comes down the plank. “Safe travels?”
She shrugs, attempting for cavalier nonchalance and probably failing miserably, “Nobody died.”
“A true feat with you involved, no doubt.”
She almost snorts in delight at his quip, feeling rather magically restored to her old self. It’s funny how a dollop of Jack’s banter is enough to put her right back on her proverbial feet.
Oh, but she’s missed him terribly.
“Jack,” she lilts coquettishly as he opens the door for her. “You know full well that I don’t go out there courting death. It’s death that -”
“Not even death is brave enough to court you, Miss Fisher,” he deadpans and slides in after her.
And there it is - that unspoken promise between them - that chance they have been waiting to take for months, and suddenly she’s not so sheepish anymore, not so uncharacteristically afraid.
“And you, Jack?” she asks quietly when he closes the door and turns to look at her with that deep, intelligent attention. “Are you braver than death?”
His eyes stray to her lips for a brief second before that maddening downturned smile is back in place.
“Definitely more foolish,” he says and turns towards the wheel without saying another word.
Her smile reaches all the way to her eyes as she slides closer and presses herself to his side. Then, almost hesitantly, she rests her head on his shoulder and sighs. The familiar scent of his coat and pomade washes over her like a gentle wave.
A moment later, she feels the brief press of his jaw against her head, and smiles again.
It’s good to be back home.
Soft prompts
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