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vhenadahls · 2 years

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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!

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