What makes this art and not merely fuckery is that it's not "Malort Baseballs" or "Baseball Malort", it's that it's baseball infused Malort.
I kept coming to this ask and looking at it and trying to decide how to describe the image and just...sighing and walking away again in defeat. But not today! Today I will identify this beast!
But also like.
I keep seeing the image and thinking...It's not like it would make the Malort worse.
[ID: A large glass candy jar in what appears to be a bar or possibly an antique store, difficult to tell. The jar is full of baseballs which are soaking in an amber liquid that reaches the rim. A label on the jar has the logo of Nisei Lounge, a Chicago bar, and under that reads: "Baseball infused Malort. Tastes like trading away Willson Contreras. Unlike every beloved veteran cubs player, this is not for sale."]
Prompts: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries? I have fallen down a Miss Fisher hole lately. Mac/Phryne/Jack, any configuration thereof?
Ah, this took forever because my porn-writing brain is on strike, but A+ prompt, friend. And that’s (finally) all for the follower fic!
They were trying Christmas in Julyagain, heading up the mountains laden with woolen jumpers and wooden skis, andhoping for fewer murders this time.
“Notice she didn’t say no murders,” Mac murmurs to Jack as theycarry suitcases to the car.
“That’d be far too much to ask,” Jackresponds. Over the bonnet of the car, Phryne arches one eyebrow; Mac smilesplacidly back.
It takes Phryne’s car and Bert andCec’s cab to get them all up to the cabin, Phryne’s little collective. Mac doesstill marvel at the way Phryne’s able to gather and keep all these people,though she shouldn’t: after all, she’s stuck around, and it’s been years sincethey met hauling bloody bodies in the War. Mac sits pressed between Dot andJack, quickly warmed by their woolen-layered bodies. Jane, who professescarsickness, sits in the front, though in their many trips together Mac hasseen nary a green tinge to her cheeks. She suspects that Phryne is fond ofindulging her after months away at school.
Phryne takes the sharp mountainswitchbacks just a hair too fast, of course, leaving the three of themshuttling against one another on every corner. Dot grips tight to the doorhandle, fingers whitening; on one sharpish turn, she grabs ahold of Mac’s hand,too. Mac doesn’t let go, and Dot sends her a grateful glance.
This leaves her pressed close toJack, who smells faintly of hair oil and minty shave balm. His response toPhryne’s wide grin in the rearview mirror after a particularly steep climb isan indulgent laugh, and suddenly, there in the tight, too-warm car, Mac feelsan overwhelming fondness for Phryne’s little family.
It does feel like Christmas, but anotherworldly, idyllic sort that none of them have ever really had before. Atree twice as tall as Mac, dripping with wooden nutcrackers and glass icicles;fairy lights on its branches and twinkling candles on the mantel; giftsexchanged, wrapped in paper, ribbons, and bows; and the evening ended with hotspiced wine – alternated with tots of whiskey – that leaves them all languid,happy, and fond. And there are no murders at all.
After one mugful, Jane falls asleepon the sofa, to be carried up to her room by Bert. Mr. Butler quietly retires,Dot sleepily yawns and trips up the stairs, and after Bert and Cec wander offto find more whiskey and then presumably get lost in the kitchen amidst theremains of Mr. Butler’s excellent supper, Mac, Phryne, and Jack are left alone,the light fading as the candles burn low.
Mac sprawls in one of the cabin’sexcellent armchairs – splayed wide frame and worn velvet, it has the kind ofcomfortable plushness Mac associates with her own yearning imagination in thoselong years of war, a sort of middling luxury she thought might be wiped away.Between her legs, Phryne sits cross-legged, one elbow propped on Mac’s knee,dress hiked up to her thighs. Mac watches Phryne watch Jack; she absently rubsthe side of Phryne’s head, like she might a languid cat. The toggles of Jack’sjumper are unhooked, his neck bare and golden, Adam’s apple shadowed in the lowlight. His laugh, at Phryne’s words, is dark and heavy as syrup.
There is a whole vast carpet and a low-slung,dark-polished table between them in the chair and him on the sofa, but she canfeel the way Phryne leans into them both, into Mac’s caressing hand and Jack’ssmall, fond smile. Mac wonders at the boundaries the two of them keep, to stopthemselves from falling into each other and combusting.
Phryne says something about France,starts telling some story about their adventures there. Not the bloody ones,the ones from later, before Mac came back home. She’s not really payingattention to the words, watching the way Phryne’s hair falls through herfingers, the way she arches her neck to allow Mac’s hands to caress the firmtaut muscle there; Mac can feel the thrum of Phryne’s larynx under herfingertips and the responding heat in her own gut.
She catches a name – Phillipe – andit snaps her to attention. Phryne is tipping her head back, looking up at Macupside-down, asking, “Don’t you remember Phillipe?” with a curling cat-likegrin. Mac feels heat run up her cheeks, for she does, of course, rememberPhillipe, remembers guiding his cock into Phryne’s cunt and then spreadingherself wide for Phryne’s mouth.
They haven’t many times: once withPhillipe, another time with Esme, a handful of times just themselves. But theway Phryne’s looking at her now, the way her hand has come to circle, justgently, the bare jut of Mac’s ankle above her tartan slippers, make an portentous,uncertain thrill course through her body.
She looks up at Jack – his mouth wetand parted, a wayward lock of hair falling over his temple, his eyes heavy,intent on Phryne – and then back to Phryne, and nods. Her grin spreads,upside-down and disorienting, and she says, to Jack though she keeps her gazeintent on Mac, who feels its heat in her cunt, “We got very close to Phillipe,the two of us.”
“Yes?” Jack says. His eyes are on theexposed line of Phryne’s throat.
Phryne tilts her head, kisses Mac’shand, and says, “Yes.” In one movement, more grace than any reasonable personshould have in a gown and one too many cups of mulled wine, Phryne swings herlegs under her and turns, kneeling between Mac’s legs, elbows on Mac’s knees.She leans forward, slowly, slowly, and Mac feels her pull like a magnet,bending forward until Phryne presses her mouth to Mac’s, warm and soft.
Phryne’s thumbs press into the softflesh on the inside of her thighs, her hands warm even through Mac’s wooltrousers. Her mouth tastes of spice and whiskey; when she exhales, it is hotand damp on Mac’s lips. Bringing her hands between them, Mac cups Phryne’sbreasts through her dress, enjoying her pleased little gasp when she rubs herthumbs over her nipples. They’ve known each other for more than a decade, andshe has never once been able to look at one of Phryne’s gowns without wonderinghow much of her body she’d be able to feel under it, sometimes idly, sometimeswith intent, and always with the awareness of the way Phryne picks layers ofsilk and wool, satin and velvet, dense embroidery and heavy beadwork because ofthe pleasure of all those textures brushing up against her skin.
Phryne is a hedonist; sometimes it isall Mac can do to not drown in the cup she offers.
When Phryne pulls away, her lips areflushed red and wet, under the barest hint of lipstick mostly smeared away overthe evening. She grins, lazily, and leans her body into Mac’s hands. Mac’s gazeflicks up to Jack.
His knees are spread as he leansforward, on the edge of the sofa seat. He doesn’t register her look at first;she watches the way he takes in the curve of Phryne’s hips, the pert rise ofher backside, the long bare expanse of her neck as she drops her head to restagainst Mac’s thigh. Finally, though, his eyes flick upward, catch hers; shenods.
“Come on, then,” she murmurs,softness in her voice. Phryne looks up. For one spare moment, her eyes arestartled, uncertain, a rare exposed moment passing between them, hidden fromJack as he stands and makes his way across the room. Mac gentles her with astroking hand to the side of her neck. Phryne wants this, and won’t take it onher own. Mac wants it for her, and will help her.
Jack looks unsure, standing beforethem; his hand stretches out, as though to touch Phryne’s hair, but she and Macare too entangled, too solidly together. Mac nods, again, and Phryne leans backon her heels, reaches her hand up to take Jack’s. He pulls her to her feet;only a whisper of air stays between their bodies as Phryne leans up, covers hismouth with her lips.
His hands clutch uncertainly atPhryne’s waist; it floods Mac with tenderness, that gentle little grasp. Shestands, too, leans in to kiss the side of Phryne’s neck, and says, “We’d bestgo upstairs.” Don’t want one of the others wandering down in search of weehours snack and finding them entangled together.
They part with reluctance; Macwonders, as she leads the way up to Phryne’s bedroom – the best of the lot,mountain-facing and big – if they will allow themselves more, after this night.
The door shut closed behind them,Phryne takes both their hands, pulls them toward the bed. Undressing isunhurried and a bit clumsy, hands every which way on buttons and knots, tuggingat hems and waistbands. Before he touches her, Jack catches Mac’s eye with anunspoken question; she nods, and guides his hand to her hip, where it lingersas Phryne works open the buttons of her fly and helps guide the waistband overher hips.
Soon enough, Mac is releasing theback fasteners to Phryne’s brassiere as Jack works the straps off hershoulders, and skimming her silk knickers off her hips to fall to the floor.Jack stares at Phryne’s naked body, frankly and with disbelieving desire, andMac steps up closer, holding Phryne between them, her hands on Phryne’s hips.For the moment, Phryne is pliant and quiet, watching Jack’s gaze on her,leaning into Mac’s supporting body. That won’t last.
Indeed, as soon as Jack steps closeenough to touch Phryne’s side, she pulls him closer by the waistband of hisshorts, pressing her body tight against his. “Oh, Jack,” she says, and it holdsonly a hint of her usual coyness.
He’s not looking at Mac at all as hebrings his mouth down to Phryne’s, but Mac doesn’t begrudge him his singularattention. After all, she knows what it is to be caught in Phryne’s orbit, yourcelestial path set so long as she shines on you.
It is Phryne, then, who breaks thekiss and reaches back for Mac, turning her head so Mac can bring their mouthstogether, and grasps Mac’s hand to intertwine it with Jack’s. She knows Phrynedoesn’t expect – well, Jack is handsome and charming, but there are certainpleasures she’ll decline from any man – she knows Phryne knows. Phryne wantsthem both, wants them together, and Mac has long since stopped considering itgreediness; it is rather like Phryne takes all her pleasures, with kindness andabundance.
So when Phryne pulls away, gently,Mac leans into her body, over her shoulder, and kisses Jack on the corner ofhis mouth. He flushes at that, more than anything yet, goes pink with surprise,which gives Mac a thrill of pleasure.
Phryne grasps their clasped hands,weaves her way from between them, and tugs them to the bed. Broad enough forthe three of them abreast, it is laid high with pillows, a satin quilt undertheir skin. Phryne stays between them, pulling them close enough that her wholebody is encompassed, so they might touch her everywhere: Mac’s hand on her hip,fingertips teasing at the edges of the curls between her legs, Jack’s thighpressed against her, his cock flushed and hard against his stomach.
Mac has wondered, before, if one ofthe reasons Phryne likes having her in bed is that it allows her a littleslackness, the pleasure of taking a partner who will coax her body intosoftness and pliancy. At least, she’s never stopped making jokes about Mac’s bossybedside manner.
She won’t take charge this time, though;this is not a time for Phryne to go along. Instead, she slides her hand downPhryne’s thigh, guiding her leg up, bringing her calf to rest on Mac’s. Jacktakes her meaning, trailing his fingertips up her pale inner thigh, watchingthe trembling of her muscles, before he spread her open with two fingers andjust looks.
As in all things, Phryne likes to belooked at in bed: to be beheld, cherished. Over her shoulder, Mac cannot seethe movement of his hand, but she can feel the little jolts of Phryne’s body,involuntary but desired. He is slow: she should have expected that, but didn’t.Thought his eagerness might overwhelm, but she might have thought instead ofhis deliberate ways of handling cases, attentive and measured.
So he watches, stroking her cuntpurposefully and unhurried. Mac drags her fingertips up Phryne’s side, all thelong length of her, and cups the soft fullness of her breast. Arching the leancurve of her back, Phryne presses her body against Mac’s until their breathcomes together, Mac’s catching a moment after Phryne gasps. Mac’s cunt isflooded, throbbing, like she can feel Jack’s hand just the same.
Tilting her head back, Phryne offersup the curve of her neck, more a demand than a gift, and Mac drops her head,brings her mouth to the join of her shoulder, bites. She can imagine: Phryne’seyes fluttering closed, mouth open and panting wetly, cunt spread open andglistening under Jack’s hand.
“Come on, darling,” she says, feelingdaring. This is the edge of something, something that has been building sincethe first time Phryne stomped into the City South Police Station. Perhaps sinceMac linked arms with her on the docks of the port, gleeful to be reunited withher friend after many years’ absence. Things will be different tomorrow.
Phryne gasps one sharp yes and shoves her hips against Jack’shand, body trembling in Mac’s arms. She strokes Phryne’s skin, bruised underher teeth, and in the lull, silent but for Phryne’s heaving breath, presses akiss behind her ear. Then Phryne is twisting, hair stuck to her temples andgrin broad as she straddles Mac and shoves one hand between her legs.
The moments are a tangle after this:Jack’s mouth on her neck and Phryne’s on her cunt; wetness and sweat slick onher skin, sharp on her tongue; the exhausted rasp of three panting bodies. Theywind down, curl into one another, lazy claims made to space and to limbs, anddoze.
In the soft grey hours just beforedawn, Mac slips away from the pressed-close bodies in Phryne’s bed. Soonenough, her friends will all be stirring for breakfast, but in the meantime,she’s too fond of her own bed.
Why did nobody tell me Call the Midwife has lesbians now. I must hie me to Netflix.
IT DOES AND YOU MUST. Patsy shows up in Series 3, and her lady-love Delia in Series 4. Except for a very unfortunate choice made at the end of S4, they’ve mostly been treated well, and have ended this season still alive! Which is shockingly more than we can say for other fictional lesbians, apparently. Also they go dance at the Gateways! And are adorable!
