#But god it's the end of the holidays and I'm going back to Paris and there are so many things to do that I don't know how to | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hardly-an-escape · 9 months

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it's warm, the skin I'm living in

Square: D5 - Enthusiastic Consentacles Rating: E Word Count: 2432 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: established relationship, shapeshifting, Dream of the Endless can have a vulva when he wants, oral sex, tentacle sex, body worship, anal fingering, lots of emotional conversations, Hob Gadling is a good boyfriend, they really are just disgustingly in love with each other Summary: Hob realizes Dream is being a little… extra creative when it comes to their love life. When he asks his boyfriend what’s going on, some of Dream’s deep-seated fears are revealed. One part fun shapeshifting sex, one part Dream being incredibly insecure, one part immortals being disgustingly in love with each other. Read on AO3 | fill for @dreamlingbingo

“I want to touch every part of you at once,” Dream whispered one night, their legs entwined as Hob dozed off, humming approvingly. The next morning, while Dream was scientifically taking him apart at the seams, Hob gradually realized that there were eight hands roaming his body.

The revelation that Dream can assume almost literally any form, shaping and changing his own body and image at whim, had been… surprising.

But not unwelcome.

“So… when you say anything…” Hob trailed off.

“I do mean anything.”

It started small. Dream made himself a few inches taller than Hob, or a few inches shorter. His hair changed length (Hob spent a pleasant afternoon in the Dreaming reliving their meeting in 1789 and putting Dream’s hair ribbon to very good use). His cock, too, grew in length and girth at… opportune moments.

Sometimes, Hob looked at Dream and his lover’s eyes were glittering with stars.

Things escalated.

One anchored in his hair, tilting his chin back to make room for Dream’s lips at his throat. One pinning his hands above his head. One tracing the line of his clavicle and one pushing cool fingers into the heat of his mouth. Two pressing his hips mercilessly into the mattress as he writhed under the ministrations of one hand on his cock and the last cupping his balls.

There may have even been more than eight hands, at the end there. Hob thought at least three fingers had been in his arse and he could swear none of the other hands had moved… though he may have lost track. That had been a nice morning.

Once they spent a long and memorable holiday weekend in Paris, with Dream in the form of a woman the whole time. God, he’d looked so beautiful: all sweeping elegance and curves, soft and smooth under Hob’s hands and on his arm. Heads had literally turned as they strolled down the Champs-Élysées, dallying in front of shop windows. They’d wined and dined and fulfilled every romantic cliché that the City of Lights had to offer.

Dream had tasted beautiful, too. Hob had laid him out like a feast on their hotel bed and spent selfish hours with his face buried in the sweet cleft between his legs, delving and licking and sucking to his heart’s content, emerging only to roam and sample the rest of Dream’s gentle and yielding body, so unlike his normal form.

Even the noises he made were different, softer and sweeter. Typically a quiet lover, it was as if the change of his shape necessitated a change of response, too. The moans and mewls and sighs and cries – Hob drank them up as eagerly as he did the wetness of Dream’s cunt.

It wasn’t until they were home that Hob got the sense that something was… off. They’d showered off the grime of travel and were curled up in their own bed together, suitcases kicked into a corner to be dealt with in the morning, and Hob sighed contentedly and cuddled Dream just a little bit closer.

“That was incredibly lovely,” he said, “but you know, I think the loveliest part of going away somewhere is coming home after.”

“Do you really think so?” Dream asked. He sounded skeptical.

“Of course,” Hob said. “Don’t you?”

“I assume that humans are constantly seeking novelty, rather than defaulting to the familiar.”

“Well, but I’m asking you.”

Dream didn’t answer, and Hob had turned the remark over in his head for a long while before finally falling asleep.

After that brief conversation, Hob had paid closer attention to Dream’s appearance, especially when they made love. After a few weeks’ worth of observation, he was surprised to discover that it was, in fact, incredibly rare that his lover’s body took the same form in any two given encounters; that Dream, somewhat disturbingly, seemed to be actually going out of his way to provide Hob with something new every time they came together.

The penny truly dropped one lazy Sunday morning, when Hob had coaxed Dream into the shower despite assurances that the Endless did not become dirty, and therefore did not require bathing, unless they specifically desired to.

(“That’s not the point of this kind of shower.”

“Then what is?”

“Well, I need someone to wash my back, you know.”

“You successfully clean yourself alone nearly every weekday morning.”

“That’s not the point either, darling.”)

Eventually, though, he had Dream where he wanted him: under the shower, with miles of soft, pale skin glowing slightly pink from the hot water while Hob kissed his neck and luxuriously worked a palmful of richly-scented body wash into the muscles of his back and down toward his buttocks.

Until he felt the unmistakable sensation of a tentacle creeping up his inner thigh.

“Ah ah, love,” he said, gently swatting it away. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh no? I believe I begin to understand the point of this kind of shower,” Dream murmured. Hob felt a second tentacle coiling around one knee while a third seemed to be heading for the cleft of his arse.

“This was supposed to be just a normal sexy shower,” he said helplessly, turning toward Dream and pulling him into a kiss.

Not even ten minutes later he was on his knees in the bathtub, heedless of the cooling spray of water behind him, as Dream’s inhumanly flexible appendages curled around his cock and plunged inside him, driving him to the brink of orgasm and beyond as he sobbed with pleasure.

Later, after they’d actually cleaned up and dried off and Hob had resisted the urge to crawl back into bed and fall into a fucked-out doze, they’d settled on the couch with tea and toast and Hob had tried to figure out how to ask his lover if what he thought was going on was actually going on.

“Dream, love. I have a question for you,” he finally said tentatively. “There’s no wrong answer, but I want you to have a think and really consider before you say anything.”

“Of course,” Dream said, gazing at Hob over the edge of his mug.

“Do you… do you really think that you have to keep things new all the time? In bed, I mean,” Hob said. “Do you think that I’m going to get bored, or something? Because I’ve noticed that you seem to, er, up the ante? Quite frequently? And I guess I’m just wondering… well, why. And whether I’ve done or said something that made you think you… needed to do that?”

“Have I displeased you?” Dream asked with a trace of a frown.

“Not even remotely,” Hob hastened to reassure him. “Dearest, I don’t think it’s even possible for you to displease me, I am so utterly bonkers head-over-heels for you. It’s just –” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “This spring, when we got back from Paris. You made that comment about humans ‘constantly seeking novelty.’ And this morning, you know, I really was just thinking about a quick soapy handjob in the shower, but you seemed dead set on… escalating?”

“Surely, it is in my own best interest to stoke the ardor of my lover. As thoroughly as possible,” Dream said stiffly.

“That’s not in question,” Hob said gently. “I suppose you could say I’m wondering about the, the method. Of the stoking. And the variety. And the reasoning behind it. Am I making sense at all?”

“You are being perfectly clear.” Dream placed his mug on the coffee table and stood. “I have been. Overly exuberant. In my attentions toward you. I will attempt to curtail my intensity in the future. Thank you for telling me.”

Hob sighed. Dream was carefully not quite looking him in the eye.

“I think you know that’s not really what I’m saying, love,” he said. “But if you’re not feeling up to talking about it now, that’s okay. I can wait until you’re ready.”

Dream nodded, still stiff. When he kissed Hob goodbye, it felt slightly too formal. Almost perfunctory.

His lover disappeared in the usual swirl of sand, and Hob sighed again and sipped his tea. He no longer worried overmuch when Dream got in a mood and needed space; it almost always meant that he thought he’d done something wrong and was feeling self-conscious about it. They would talk it out, when he was ready.

Sure enough, a few days later Hob went to bed and opened his eyes to find himself in Dream’s chamber, high up in his castle in the Dreaming.

Its sovereign was standing on the balcony overlooking a beautifully overgrown courtyard garden, wearing a long diaphanous robe that billowed around him, though there was no breeze. The air was heavy and humid; it wasn’t raining, but there was a feeling in the air as though it might start at any moment.

“Hello, love,” Hob said.

“Good evening, beloved.”

Hob stepped out on the balcony and pressed himself against Dream’s back, wrapping his arms around the narrow waist and nuzzling into the dent between his shoulder blades.

“Feeling ready to chat?” he murmured.

“Yes. But first. I would like to tell you that I am sorry. I was short-tempered, earlier. And I wilfully misunderstood what you were trying to ask me. I am sorry,” Dream repeated, and Hob tightened his hug.

Dream always sounded different in the Dreaming, but his deep voice – somehow richer and more resonant – was fond and contrite.

“Already forgiven. Nothing to forgive, really. I understood.” Hob kissed Dream’s shoulder through the sheer fabric of his robes. “Do you think you can talk, now? About what I was asking about?”

“Yes. Come, sit with me.”

Dream led Hob to the bed, where they sat cross-legged, facing one another.

“You were right that I… have felt the need to keep things new. To keep your interest and your heart,” Dream began. “I wanted you to be excited about me. And to remain so. I have told you but little of my past loves, I know. They are few, but one theme has loomed large in my mind: that their downfall, when it came, was of my own making. That my reticence – or my selfishness – led to the loss of that which I held dear. I fear, more than anything, Hob, that I could yet lose you, too. I have already come dangerously close.”

“If it reassures you at all,” Hob said softly, “I literally can’t think of anything you could do that would drive you away. Not now, not that I know what it’s like to be with you. To be yours.”

“It comforts me to hear you say it,” Dream said.

“So, the shapeshifting… all the incredibly creative sex… it was because you were worried I might get bored of you and leave?”

There was a beat before Dream answered.

“Yes,” he finally said reluctantly.

“Okay. That’s a lot. But first of all,” Hob said, “it’s… actually very sweet of you, in a weird way. I’m glad you want me to stick around.” He leaned in and kissed Dream, just a soft, quick press of their lips. “Second of all, I do understand why you’d worry about humans needing novelty all the time, but honestly, I promise that’s not the case with me. I’d been very happy with regular-degular human sex for centuries before I got my hands on you, and –”

“I would prefer not to think about the lovers you had before,” Dream said archly.

“Down, boy,” Hob grinned. “The point is, as much as I appreciate the creativity – and I do, baby, trust me – I don’t need it. And sometimes it really is nice to just have a soapy handjob in the shower.”

Dream snorted. It was the dearest, loveliest sound Hob had ever heard.

“I love you,” he said, leaning in to kiss Dream properly, nipping at his bottom lip. “You’re it for me. And I will happily spend the next several centuries working to convince you of that fact.”

“You are about to awaken,” Dream rumbled. “But I will join you soon in the Waking. So that you may begin your work properly.”

When Hob opened his eyes again, he was in his own bed, and Dream was kneeling on the quilt beside him. He was, Hob was thrilled to see, still clad in the clinging robes he was accustomed to wear in the Dreaming, but which did not usually accompany him into the waking world.

“Good morning, love,” he said muzzily, rolling over and reaching for Dream, trailing his fingers down from hip to knee. “God, but you’re a gorgeous sight to wake up to.”

“I hope you intend to do more than look,” Dream said with a smile.

Hob slipped his fingers under the edge of the robe and pushed it up the length of a long, lean thigh. “Oh, darling. You know I do.”

It was utter delight to lay Dream back against the pillows. To pull his sheer robes aside and kiss the miles of soft skin underneath. To stroke and caress until his rosebud of a mouth was open and panting in pleasure, and his sex was hard and wanting against his leg.

“Hob – I want –” he gasped.

“I know what you want.” Hob mouthed up his ribs and along the sharp line of his collarbone. “You’ll get it, love. You’ll get everything you want. But first I want you to listen.”

And he proceeded to tell Dream exactly how much he loved his body, this body; how he’d wanted Dream since he first beheld him, and how his wanting had only grown deeper and wider with every moment, every touch, and every kiss. He told Dream how good his body felt under him, over him, in him; how good he made Hob feel every time they came together. Hob proclaimed the perfection of Dream’s eyes, his lips, his long clever fingers; admired the softness of his throat and the strength of his limbs. He lavished praise and kisses on every inch of his body, until Dream was trembling beneath him and tears stood in his eyes and turned them to ice-blue crystals.

Only then did he take his prick in hand; only then did he kiss along its length to where it already wept copiously at the tip. Only then did he slick his fingers and sink them into the perfect, welcoming heat of Dream’s body.

Dream arched his back and cried out as he came, and it was the most beautiful thing Hob had ever seen.

It always was.

Read on AO3 >>>

tagging @five-and-dimes, who kindly expressed interest in this ficlet many months ago when I posted a snippet. I finally finished it and thought you might like to know :)

green = complete, orange = WIP

#someday I am going to stop posting barely edited shit at 2:00 AM (she lied unconvincingly)#dreamling bingo #dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing

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calistrae · 1 year

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ville de l'amour. a trent alexander-arnold blurb

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pairing: trent alexander-arnold x gn!reader

requested: yes

request: hii can i request reader and trent maybe in paris and he proposes under the eiffel tower in the dark?

warnings: teeth-rotting fluff, obnoxious lovey-dovey couple activities

notes: no proposal under the eiffel tower, simply because i personally think it's overrated, instead check out the luxembourg gardens and you'll see why i picked it as inspiration for this! tysm for requesting and all the love on my fics! 🧸🤍 (not proofread as per usual lmao)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

you had no idea, what your boyfriend had planned for your holiday in paris, but his requests and suggestions had made you beyond suspicious of his plans.

why did he have the sudden urge to go to paris, despite having never shown interest in it? why had he suddenly asked you to dress up? why was he looking so formal when all you were doing was taking a little walk?

not that you were complaining. paris was beautiful and the man strolling through the gardens with you was a god. you could swear he was a divine being walking this earth. from the bottom to the top, he looked gorgeous, especially in this sunlight. what had you done to deserve this? to deserve him?

you never realized you were staring until his words brought you out of your trance. "you never realized you were staring until his words brought you out of your trance. "my love?" he spoke, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand as he kept it in his own. "huh?" was all you could reply, having been torn away from your thoughts.

"what were you staring at?" he questioned with a wide grin on his lips and from that smile alone, you knew you'll never be hearing the end of it. he could read you like a book so you knew that he was probably aware of what you were thinking. "come on, tell me, babe. promise i won't tease you about it" he smirked and you both knew he was lying.

"it's so pretty here, trent" you said as you took the sight in, moving closer to him as you held onto his arm to avoid bumping into the large groups around you. the gardens were beautiful, truly. but there were a lot of people and this put both of you slightly on edge. your relationship had always been private, you rarely posted one another and you rarely appeared in public cozied up.

"only the prettiest place for someone as pretty as you," he replied with a gentle hum and the two of you attempted to remain serious but quickly failed when glancing at each other, bursting out into laughter. "that was so bad!" you exclaimed and he only nodded as he continued laughing. "i give you a compliment and you react like that?!" he argued back.

"that was the cheesiest thing i've ever heard, trent. we both know it was awful, don't try that one ever again." you told him and leaned against him as he guided you through the gardens, now having reached a more quiet, private area. "you love it deep down, i know you do." he hummed and smirked to which you couldn't help but roll your eyes.

"i love you but sometimes i can't believe how i fell for you" you pointed out and chuckled at the offended expression on his face. he let out a joking huff and stopped walking in front of the medici fountain. "i was planning to propose to you just now, but you've just broken my heart. can't believe you." he mused but his tone was a clear indication he was only joking.

when you heard the word 'propose,' your eyes widened as you stood in front of him. "what?" you laughed and shook your head, throwing it back in disbelief as you glanced at the sky and took a deep breath. "what? i'm not kidding, my love." he chuckled and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand.

while you had been convinced he was joking, his words threw you into a frenzy, your eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. he had to be joking, right? there was no way he was being serious. you shook your head and looked him straight in the eye, however the playful expression remained on your face "stop playing. there's no way you were going to propose."

at this, he beamed up once again and within a single second, the man was on one knee in front of you. you felt like you had been hit in the face and you were sure your jaw was hanging open. "what are you doing, trent? get up!" there was no way this was real.

the look on his face could only be described as pure love and adoration as he took your hands in his and flashed that gorgeous smile you loved so much. "i'm not joking, love. with or without a ring, i want to be yours forever but i want to celebrate our love. i want you to be my partner in everything, whether it's a game or whether it's in life. i don't think i've ever felt more loved and i certinly have never loved anyone as much as i love you. everything about you is...pure perfection, really. i want to love you at your best, your worst and your everything in between. it sounds awfully cheesy, i know it does but i can't word it any differently because this is how i feel." he told you and kissed the back of your hand as he was holding it.

"you've shown me what love is supposed to look and feel like and i'd be a fool to not ask you to marry me. so, would you make me the happiest person in this entire world and marry me, love?" he asked as he pulled out a tiny emerald green box and opened it, revealing what must've been the most beautiful ring you've ever seen. it wasn't huge or flashy with a massive diamond but it was perfect, beautiful. you were in complete disbelief but quickly, you dropped down to your knees and smiled at him as you nodded almost frantically.

his smile only grew as his arm wrapped around your waist and he pulled you in, burying his nose deep into the crook of your neck "i love you so much" he whispered as he held you close and you could swear you felt tears against your skin. but you weren't any better as you were in tears the moment he said he wanted to love you through every moment of your life. the two of you were never serious with one another but the look in his eyes alone told you that he wasn't kidding. you held each other's gaze for a few more seconds until trent cracked and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

"we should probably get up, we're kneelin' in the middle of a park and i think people are staring." he pointed out with a chuckle. as he helped you up, he pulled you flush against himself, the muscular pair of arms tight around your midriff. he nuzzled against your temple and pressed the gentlest kiss against your skin. you observed the ring with a small smile on your lips as he led you out of the park and in your gut, you had a feeling there was more planned.

#football imagine #football one shot #trent alexander arnold x reader #taa x reader #trent alexander arnold one shot #trent alexander arnold imagine #trent imagine #trent alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold blurb #request

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margridarnauds · 8 months

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tagged by @cicelythereaper (Thank you!)

relationship status: single

favourite colour: I love blue -- cerulean blue, ice blue, electric blue.

last song i listened to: "Dangerous" from Epic: The Musical

songs stuck in my head: "Would've, Could've, Should've" -- Taylor Swift

last thing i looked up: "Joseph Falaky Nagy The poetics of absence in Celtic tradition" (I know, incredibly glamorous and unpredictable.) (In my defense, I saw it on a German Wikipedia page and I needed to see if it was real or a Chat GPT thing since they HAVE created citations for him that aren't accurate before...as part of my ongoing hobby of Collecting Spurious Celtic Studies Citations from it.) (If anyone's in contact with him, don't tell him I didn't know that that was a real lecture of his.)

favourite food: Teriyaki chicken with rice, pork belly (either with ramen/rice or without), hot dog lattices, pavlova.

dream holiday: God it's hard, isn't it? Like, the problem with travelling a lot these days is that I get to travel to a lot of places, but I almost always want to return and see more and do more, so much bucket list is always growing longer.

I've dreamed of going to Egypt ever since I was a little girl; I've looked into all-inclusive group tour packages that wouldn't be *monstrously* expensive that would involve Cairo, Alexandria, Luxor, and Abu Simbel. It would be expensive, more expensive than I'm used to paying without someone on the other end compensating me for my expenses, but it would be a once in a lifetime kind of expense for a once in a lifetime trip.

Obviously, my heart's in Ireland, but it's always a matter of..."Do I want a holiday there or do I want to live there?" I'm never living in San Francisco, New York, or Amsterdam. For professional reasons, I might have to live at Dublin at some point because there's so MUCH relating to the field there, but I don't think I'd *really* be happy there. But those are all places that I've either enjoyed staying in...or enjoyed aspects of (in the case of NYC and Dublin). With some places in Ireland, it's the reverse where I know that 2 weeks or even a month isn't enough and it'll never really be enough unless I'm actually living there and I'm working there. I love going, and I take every opportunity to go, and I'm always grateful for the opportunity, but it's also never really enough, either.

I'd love to go back to the Netherlands, visit my friends there, see more of the country besides a few cities, grab the Miffy merchandise I didn't get ahold of last time, down my weight in Stroopwafels. I'd love to visit Japan one of these days, I feel like that's almost an inevitability at this point.

I'd love to go back to Norway for more than 24 hours, as Cicely knows, I've been drooling over a specific fine dining place in Norway that is set on an actual fjord and has an underwater level (If I had unlimited money, I WOULD spend a week or two in a submarine exploring the deep sea, though I wouldn't be doing it with carbon fiber.) I'd love to go to the Viking Ship Museum, I'd love to explore some of the country outside of Oslo, especially since that *is* where my ancestors are from and, not to be like "I'm Actually™ Norwegian™", but...my paternal grandfather actually was in contact with his cousins from there; it isn't a MASSIVELY distant thing like, say, the German or Scottish side of the family. Even if that's the fucked up side of the family.

I'd love to spend a week or two scurrying around London, seeing all the museums, possibly making a private trip to Whitechapel to give my regards to the victims of the Whitechapel Murders. I'd love to spend a month or so scurrying around France, especially Paris, Versailles, and Brittany. Closer to home, I've dreamed for ages of getting to spend a night or two in St. Augustine and getting to see the city at night, since we always have to leave before I can do the ghost tours. I'd love to go to Colonial Williamsburg at least once before I move from the States to somewhere else.

But. I love traveling, even when it doesn't always love me, since I have notoriously bad luck with it, and there's a lot of the world I still want to get to, and there's a lot I still want to do and see.

tagging: @fallenidol-453 @niccolodigenova @tybaltsjuliet @marzipanandminutiae @violetcancerian

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thestalwartheart · 2 years

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Because I’m on an angst train, if you’re still doing prompts: ❛ i can’t do this without you. ❜ Loving your fills!

This is insanely, hilariously, offensively late, I'm so sorry @silverbrume!

A good six weeks after you sent it, here's your fill.

Read it under the cut or on AO3. Enjoy (as much as you can with the angst)! 💛

to forgive divine.

Q wakes up feeling like he’s been stepped on by a giant. The ceiling is unfamiliar; yellowing and pockmarked, its imperfections are thrown into sharp relief by the heavy golden light in the room. Q’s first thought is that it’s hot. God knows where he is, but he surmises it’s not England. This heat is oppressive and desert-dry, not at all like a sticky, claustrophobic London summer.

He tries to sit up. It doesn’t go well. The whole middle section of his body feels like it’s been squeezed very hard by something with a hundred knives attached.

“Oh, ow.”

Q hears a sigh next to him. Turning his head, he sees Bond sitting and nursing a drink. He looks awful. All covered in dust, bloodied and bruised, like after all his worst missions. But it’s his tired, forlorn expression that catches Q off guard. Perhaps he realises what he looks like because before Q can ask any questions, Bond’s usual mask is back in place. He schools his features into genial impassivity and nods in the general direction of Q’s body.

“Don’t try to move. Your ribs are broken. Tanner’s sending a medical evacuation team.”

“How—” Q coughs, then stifles a shout at the pain it causes him. His throat is scratchier than the jumpers his mother used to make him wear as a child. He pleads for a drink to relieve it.

Bond lifts his head forward a little and holds a glass up to his lips. Q drinks. The water is tepid and metallic tasting, and he spends a few seconds grimacing as it dislodges all the filth in his mouth. Still, it makes him feel a little more alive than before. So too does Bond’s steady hand on his neck. He’s tracing comforting little circular patterns with his thumb, and it’s catching in Q’s curls, which are tacky with something. Blood, perhaps. Q isn’t sure he wants to know.

But the empty stretch of nothing in his brain is worrying. He isn’t used to lapses in memory or gaps in thought. All day every day, his mind is full to the brim with reports and equations and numbers from his budget meetings. It is disconcerting in the extreme to prod at it and not encounter anything at all.

Q leans into Bond’s hand and tries to remember. The last clear memory he has is of being in Paris on holiday, drinking a mediocre cup of tea and eating a perfect, buttery croissant. That had been before Bond crashed through his hotel room door with a rather brusque request for help. I can’t do this without you, he’d growled. I need someone who can hack their systems. There was a woman, too. God, there was always a woman, wasn’t there? Even after he and Q had—well. The field always seemed to involve so many women.

Q had helped, in the end, because the job was the job, but Q was also Q, and for his sins, he’d do anything for James bloody Bond.

He puts that thought to the side. It’ll surely drive him insane if he thinks about it now.

“What happened to—” He can’t remember the woman’s name. Angelica? Angelina? Annabel?

“Dead,” says Bond, with finality. “She sold you out.”

“Me?”

“Quite the payout for capturing MI6’s greatest technical mind.”

Q remembers now. Her name had been Angel, ironically enough. Tall, dark and deadly. Shrewd enough to take advantage of her only chance when Bond had left their hotel room briefly to talk to the concierge. She’d had green eyes, awfully sharp ones that turned sharper as she’d held a gun to his head. Without Bond there, Q hadn’t been able to put up much of a fight. His memories after that are hazy, but Q recalls a concrete floor and quite a lot of blood. Not all of it his own, admittedly. Still, there’d been enough leaking out of his body to make him dizzy and lightheaded.

“How long was I…erm.” Interrogated. Tortured, he supposes. Imprisoned, definitely. He doesn’t really want to consider any of it too deeply.

“Two days.”

Bond’s voice is barely suppressing a rollicking storm of anger. Q has learned to read him quite well over the years and knows he’s trying to keep calm either for the sake of Q or some continuing part of the mission. The tell is in his shoulders. They’re hunched and tight with tension, stretching the blue polo shirt he has on to its limits.

“Could’ve been worse,” croaks Q because it definitely could have been. Last week they’d only just recovered an agent who’d been in an unmapped Russian prison for six months.

Bond doesn’t reply.

“How far away did you say the evac team was?”

“I didn’t. And they’re too bloody slow.”

“Bond—”

Bond glances briefly at the clock on the wall. “Three minutes.”

“It’ll be fine,” breathes Q before letting out a cough that makes him feel like he’s being run through with a burning sword. Bond is glaring into his whisky, so Q reaches out a hand to his arm. He’s just far enough away that the stretch makes Q’s ribs burn. “I’m not bleeding. James, I’m all right.”

Not strictly true, of course. There could be internal bleeding. And when his memory returns - which it likely will - he expects he’s going to feel far more pain than the kind caused by a few broken ribs and bruises.

Bond traces along the bony contours of Q’s knuckles with surprising softness.

“You almost weren’t.”

“Well, I am,” insists Q, with a confidence he doesn’t quite feel. He laces his fingers with Bond’s and relishes the way the tension seems to bleed out of Bond in a rush. “You saved my life.”

“I was the one who put it in danger.”

There’s such anguish on his face. It’s so raw that Q can’t help the pained noise that leaves his throat. He knows Bond’s body count is high and that some of those bodies have come at an astronomical personal cost. Perhaps it isn’t only Q Bond is looking at now. Perhaps he’s seeing all the blood of those who came before.

Q has a fleeting, foolish thought that they might run away together.

He’s snapped out of it by an alarming bang as the door opens, a medical team of three pushing through with a stretcher and kits upon kits of equipment.

“007,” snaps Doctor Nolan, brusque, blonde and very familiar with Bond’s brand of bullshit. “Please. Get out of the way.”

Bond levels her with an unimpressed look, grumbling something about the medical staff these days not being what they once were. Q doesn’t catch it because he’s too busy rueing the way their fingers are untangling.

“You’ll be all right now,” Bond tells him.

Nolan rolls her eyes. “Bond.”

Q sees Bond return to his whisky, knocking it back this time for fortitude rather than nursing it in malaise. And then the good doctor stabs Q with a lot of needles, and it all becomes a blur. A heady cocktail of drugs makes him feel like he’s floating. Later, he will find out that he was in a helicopter, a place he’d never be caught dead in sober. In the moment, however, there is only the loud droning sound of engines and sharp, bright lights being shone on his face. Q dozes through most of it. Just before he falls asleep properly, he experiences a clear moment of lucidity looking into Bond’s eyes. He’s come back to take Q’s hand, just like before.

“Christ, you look awful,” whispers Bond.

Q’s tongue feels like lead, but he finds enough energy to reassure Bond with the one thing Q knows has always reassured him in the past.

“So do you,” he slurs. “But the job’s done. S’all that matters.”

As Q falls into a dreamless sleep, he notices Bond doesn’t smile. His hand only tightens over Q’s own, and when Q wakes in the morning, it’s to an empty hospital room and a dull throb in that same hand. There are some lovely gifts at his bedside. Most notable of all are the yellow tulips, sparkling get-well-soon cards, and a teddy bear wearing glasses and holding a cup of tea.

It’s not until hours after waking that he notices the thumbnail-sized radio and Omega watch lying amongst the rest of the saccharine rubble. He reaches for them, only to find a slip of paper underneath.

There’s a message carved ruthlessly in blue ink. Q can feel the words denting the other side of the paper.

I’m sorry, Q. Forgive me.

#00q #00q fic #my fic

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dark-sirenparis · 4 months

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@auggiecrosby

Head tilted towards the sky, tongue out to collect the icy flakes falling from the sky when and where they could as it continued to sprinkle down around them, Auggie exhaled aloud. The fresh cold air felt so nice after being in classrooms, no matter how open and large they were. Being cramped in with a lot of people was never their forte to begin with, even if it was something they had to adhere to. It was just part of living among people. A creature that craved closeness in some capacity, especially in the cold like this. Body heat and all that. Something Auggie wasn't exactly the best at as is, which might've explained their desire to be out of the room, out of the building, and stretching their legs under the table in the Quad they were occupying.

With the holiday's approaching, the hollow darkness that always settled in around this time was creeping in yet again. It was never the same this time of year without having someone he was somehow attached to, to depend on for the sake of the silent mourning process he took to remember his sister. No one to hold his hand, or even hold him while he sat beneath his cloud. Now he was amongst strangers, depending on only himself. Something he had done before, but it had been a while. He had to remember how to do it all by himself again, and that wasn't sitting right with him.

The stark white dove that settles on the table, shaking her feathers and tilting her head up at him read: stop being sad, my child, and go make friends. Although he couldn't hear her voice literally, the tone is familiar enough that his mind supplies it on its own. "I've never made friends before," they argue, brushing the snow off of their notebook where they had been re-writing notes that had been rushed at the end of class, "so forgive me if I don't know how to go about this like a person might." The dove coos, pecking at the back of his hand, causing them to huff but not flinch. "I know, I know. No excuse. Just do it."

Flipping the page in his notebook to a blank page, they tap the end of the pen against it before standing again, and drawing the black jacket collar up around their ears. To protect their ears from being pecked at if anything, as the dove flutters from the table and settles on their shoulder. Moral support, perhaps.

Squaring off, Auggie pushes through and approaches the first person that appears from the falling snow, notebook and pen in an iron grip. "Hi, hello - excuse me." A clearing of their throat, a subconscious nervous habit they were falling back into since they were alive. "I am required to come up with some holiday themed recipes for the culinary class I'm taking. Perhaps I can take a moment of your time to fire off some questions so I know what exactly the pallet is of my fellow Islander's? Nothing off the table." Clicking their pen open once more, ignoring how the dove rustles her feathers as if adding her own intimidation tactic to get the other person to do it or else.

"Don't mind the chicken, she's clearly only using me for my body heat. I was thinking of cooking her personally, but⎯"

Paris, by nature, was not a fan of the cold. Thank the gods his home had an array of pools to swim in - heated, for obvious reasons - to keep himself right. He never really ventured anywhere cold, so a brief but rewarding shopping spree had the finest coats and winter apparel shipped to his house. There were some last minute assignments to be graded before the end of the semester, and as he trudged through the snow he was surprised by a very eager face rushing up to him, a bird on his shoulder. Paris, always bad at hiding his facial expressions (not that he cared), had an obvious grimace as the other spoke. "I suppose," he said, slowly. His head cocked to the side as he listened, his face offering no indication on whether he was paying attention or not. Paris's face pinched into confusion and mild suspicion. "Son, that's not a chicken-- that's a dove - are you aware that is a dove, do you know the difference?"

#august #moved to a new thread for tracking!

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randomshyperson · 2 years

Text

Liberal Arts - Chapter 1 - Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: A new job at New York University should be a fresh start. Things don't go as planned when you fall in love with one of your students. || Request by @ecruzsalaz

Warnings: (18+), explicit language, smut, dom!reader and bottom wanda, heavy angst with happy ending, cursing, secret/forbidden relationship, teasing, romanticism, legal age gap.

Words: 8.955

A/N: First chapter is here, it was suppose to be posted yesterday but I had an issue with tumblr. Anyways, good reading people. Let me know your thoughts about it.

All Works Masterlist || Series Chapters || AO3

//-//

Chapter One - Small Photographs and Takeaway Food

Present, New York.

You were not having an easy day.

It was cold and wet, you were late because you forgot to set your alarm clock after the holidays, the coffee machine in the teachers' lounge was broken, and you forgot your corrected reports inside your apartment.

But the worst thing about your day was, without a doubt, witnessing the woman you love with someone else.

"I hear they're getting married." Your co-worker, Darcy Lewis, who was having breakfast with you after the first Astrophysics period she taught, commented as soon as she noticed you staring at the table a few feet over.

You looked away quickly, clearing your throat.

"Yeah, I heard that too." You grumbled returning your attention to your meal, but feeling like you had no appetite at all.

Darcy let out a wry mutter.

"If you ask me, I think she's only seeing him because of her father." She remarks next, and you can't help but raise your eyebrow slightly.

"Why do you say that?"

Darcy gives a little chuckle. "Girl, I can't believe you didn't hear about it!" She says, leaning in to whisper. "The man is filthy rich! He's part of the school's investor circle in addition to teaching here. And when the senator came to visit the school, they were introduced. It makes sense that Lehnsherr was so pleased to see his daughter dating another rich guy. It's good for appearances."

"I didn't know the senator had come here." You grumble, trying to get a taste of the cookies.

"Yeah, it was over the holiday." She counters. "I figured you hadn't heard anything because you finally left that apartment. And speaking of that, where did you go?"

You smile slightly, propping your elbow on the table and your face in your hand.

"Paris."

"God, you're so fancy." She comments making you laugh. "Why?"

"Photography contest." You clarify. And then your gaze returns to the table a few feet away, and you sigh sadly. "It was supposed to be a trip for two."

Darcy gives you an almost pitying look.

"At least it was still Paris." She tries to say, and you give a short laugh. "And how were things there?"

"Good, I think." You say. "It was the first round of the contest, I wasn't participating. I'm just part of the lead critics team, which means I just have to nod and smile or shake my head.” You explained making Darcy giggle. “The next round is at the beginning of autumn and it's going to be in Russia. Maybe Natasha will accompany me."

"Thanks for the invitation." Darcy wryly makes you laugh.

"Don't even start, I remember well how you behave in events like this”

She chuckles before speaking. "That's because photography is boring. I like the pubs, but when we went to Amsterdam back at college, you didn't have time for it and I had to watch you work. It wasn't fun, honey. At least Nat was there too."

You just laugh at Darcy's manner, finally eating some food.

You both fall silent for a few moments before she speaks again.

"You know, this may be that photographic gaze you taught me talking, but I don't think she looks happy." Darcy declares and you chew slowly, uncertain of what exactly to say. She sighs. "I'm just saying that when you two were together, she seemed to glow. And now, well, you're the photographer here, you can see it. She looks almost lifeless. It's sad, and I know it's not my place to comment, but I don't understand why you're not together anymore."

"It is what they say, Darcy." You began sadly. "Some things aren't meant to last, no matter how incredible they may have been."

Darcy looks at you a moment, and by your expression, she doesn't insist.

You find it hard to swallow your food when the man kisses Wanda's cheek.

London, one year ago.

It was harder to get a steady shot during a thunderstorm, but you were late to submit the portfolio for your master's degree so you had to make the effort.

With an umbrella in hand, and a camera hanging around your neck, you left the apartment you were staying in that week for the national photography competition season, complaining softly that you almost slipped.

Your goal was to photograph the wildlife in the public park just a few meters away from the building, and even though it was raining, the area with the food trailers was quite crowded.

You found a quiet corner in the grass, and tried to hold the umbrella with your elbow to get a shot, but you almost got the camera wet.

Cussing softly while trying to think of a solution, you were startled when your umbrella became stable on its own.

Turning your head quickly, you noticed a man, younger but taller than you, holding your umbrella with one hand and his with the other, a gentle smile on his lips.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." He said. "I can hold it for you to take the picture, if you don't mind."

"Really? Thank you, that's very kind." You said quickly after recovering from the scare, moving your hands to your camera.

Fortunately you got some very good shots of the squirrels and ducks, the rain making everything even more pleasantly aesthetic.

And then you were holding your umbrella again and thanking the guy.

"No problem, my sister loves this photography stuff too." He comments gently as he hands you the item back, putting his hand in his pockets. "She's also here for the national competition, by the way. I figured you are too for your dedication to taking a picture in the middle of the rain."

You chuckle lightly, nodding in agreement, before extending your hand to the boy, introducing yourself.

"Nice meeting you, my name is Pietro Maximoff." He says as he takes your hand. When he lets go, he looks around and sighs. "Well, I should go. I'll see you around I hope."

"Thanks again, Pietro." You say with a smile before he walks off.

When you get back to your apartment, you barely remember the little encounter, busy enough with the delivery of your portfolio.

It is only three days later that you meet Pietro again. But it wasn't raining anymore.

You went to watch the final round of the photography competition, at a local gallery, and were glad to find Pietro in the crowd.

"Rain girl." He greeted you with a smile, kissing your cheek quickly. "Good to find you here."

"Same to you, Pietro." You say politely. "I didn't know you were a photographer."

"I'm not." He quickly clarifies. "I'm just watching. Wanda is the one who is participating."

"Wanda?" You ask confused, and Pietro looks around before pointing among the crowd to a few shelves ahead.

"My twin sister, Wanda." He says, and you feel your heart race at the sight of the woman. She is absolutely stunning. "We're from NYU, third year. She's here as an end of semester assignment."

"Got it." You mumble, trying to disguise how impacted you were by the other woman, and then blink in surprise, finally absorbing his words. "Wait, did you say NYU? As in New York University?"

Pietro gives a short laugh.

"Yeah, do you know any other NYU?"

You laugh, rolling your eyes slightly. "It's just an incredible coincidence, that's all. I'm going there next semester. I teach photography."

"Serious?" he asks, surprised and pleased. "This is amazing! You must be replacing Professor Frigga, she will retire at the end of the month."

"Yes, exactly." You shyly agree, still impressed by the coincidence.

You ended up talking briefly with Pietro about the course, and about London, but you needed to say hello to your fellow professionals in the competition, and resisting the curiosity to meet Wanda, you said goodbye.

When the competition started, you did not run into the Maximoffs again, but you were not so upset, since you knew you would be seeing them back in New York.

New York, Present.

You ignored the way your hands were sweating as you presented the lesson.

You rehearsed, and prepared the material in advance.

But as soon as you stepped into the classroom and saw Wanda in the front row, you found it hard to pay attention to anything but her.

But you were doing well nonetheless, your students seemed to be understanding, and the presentation finally came to an end.

You distributed the assignments mechanically and professionally, making sure to keep your gaze off the brunette in front of you, the wall never looking so interesting.

And then the bell was ringing, and you were loosening your tie as you turned back to your desk, distractedly answering your students' good-byes.

"I haven't seen you this holiday." Wanda says startling you slightly, and you almost drop your case. Biting the inside of your cheek, you turn to face her. She holds a notebook against her chest, looking uncertain about talking to you at all, and the vision makes your stomach sink.

"I traveled." You mutter, looking away to your shoes, and then hurrying to gather your materials.

"Paris, right?"

You didn't look at her as you confirmed, but you didn't have to. Wanda sighed softly.

"Was it fun?" She insists, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Not as much as your holiday, apparently." You comment bitterly, causing her to frown.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

You give a short laugh, "I think we both know exactly what I mean."

Wanda holds your gaze with a clenched jaw. And then she licks her lips, and your attention is diverted completely to the movement.

"Don't you think you're being a little unfair to me?" She accuses next making you look at her with indignation, but Wanda doesn't flinch. "You ended us." She clarifies in a low tone, and you shake your head softly.

"There never was an us, Wanda." You retort seriously, making her eyes widen. "There was a fantasy. And then reality came. I did what you didn't have the courage to do."

The words hurt you both. You almost take them back when you notice the tears in Wanda's eyes. But then there is a student coming in for the next period, and Wanda wipes them away quickly before murmuring a polite farewell to you and leaving the room.

You have to ignore the way you feel for the next forty-five minutes, but when you have the break and use your time to check the pictures in the darkroom, you are crying.

New York, eight months ago.

You complained softly as you tried the keys in the door.

It was partly your fault that you didn't know exactly what the correct key was, since you should have organized it the night before instead of going out for a beer with Natasha, but in your defense, you figured you wouldn't be carrying a heavy box when you opened the door to your new classroom.

"Hey, need a hand?" A male voice asked from beside you, startling you slightly, and almost causing you to drop the box, the hallway empty since it was pretty early in the day. The man quickly apologized for the fright, his hands reaching for the paperboard before the material completely slipped from your fingers.

"Every time I run into you I'm about to drop something." You mumble clumsily, making Pietro laugh as he carries the box. He looks at you struggling against the keychain.

"I think it's the oldest one, Frigga always carried it around her waist." He comments on the keyring. And you follow the hint, celebrating quietly as you manage to open the door.

Pietro enters the room with you.

"What are you doing here so early?" You ask curiously, thanking him for his help as soon as he sets the box down on the table, and you start pulling out your supplies.

"I'm part of the track team, so I usually get up in the morning to train." He clarifies, and only now do you notice the gym sweatshirt he is wearing. "Looking forward to class, professor?"

You make a soft grimace at the way he pronounces "professor," chuckling awkwardly as you mutter yes.

Pietro starts to help you organize everything, but not even five minutes later, someone comes to the door.

"There you are, P." Commented a female voice sounding relieved, and you turned your head in the direction of the voice with curiosity.

You held your breath. It was the girl from the gallery, Wanda, if you remembered her name correctly. She had her hair pinned up now, but her green eyes were impossible to forget. "I've looked everywhere for you."

Pietro muttered something, and the girl smiled, looking at you. You cleared your throat, trying to clear your thoughts, and realizing that Pietro had introduced you.

"[...] she ended up not running into us that day, but now that we're here, how about we go for a beer?" He suggests cheerfully, and you exchange a quick glance with the other girl, before placing your notebook on the table.

"I guess-" ‘Sure." You and Wanda say at the same time, and let out a short joint laugh. You nod for her to speak, as you gently grope the table. "That's fine with me."

"Yeah, for me too." You say next, making Pietro and her smile. You feel your stomach turn with the image of her smiling.

"Great, then." Pietro comments quickly as he pulls out his cell phone. "I'll text you, professor. Is your number in the class group chat?

After you confirm, Pietro saves your contact. And then they are leaving for the first period of history they share, and you sit down at your desk, trying not to think too hard about why the green eyes are fixed on your mind.

//-//-//-//-//

Over the weekend, you went to the local pub with the Maximoffs.

Your colleague, and best friend, also the one who recommended you for the position at NYU, teased you as you entered the apartment in the faculty building you both shared and saw you struggling to pick out an outfit.

"What's that, you got a date or something?" She scoffed as she lay on your bed, leaning her back on the wall. You rolled your eyes, unbuttoning your shirt in front of the mirror.

"No, Nat." You grumbled, "I just don't want to dress like a teacher."

"But you are a teacher."

"I know." You retort, throwing the shirt away, and looking for another one in the closet. "But it's a social hangout. I think they see me as a friend, and well, I like that. The three of us like photography, and it might be something beyond school."

"Are you sure it's not a date?" She teases again, and you grumble in irritation.

"They are my students." You clarify but Nat gives a chuckle.

"That stopped absolutely zero people." She retorts. "Go with the jacket. And by the way, you're single, the girl is single, I don't see a problem."

You almost drop the piece of clothing she suggested upon hearing her words, and Natasha looks at you intently.

"Y-you... I-who-said it was the girl?" You tried to disguise it as best you could, and Nat bit back a smile as she raised her eyebrow.

"You used to lie better in college." She mocks, making you grunt as you put on your jacket.

"Just...don't say anything."

"I didn't." She retorts holding back a laugh and you sigh, deciding that the jacket matched. You removed it only to choose a white shirt.

"You wanna make fun of me, I can feel it." You grumbled and Nat laughed, throwing her head back before looking at you again.

"You saw her once in a crowd and you're in love, what would I be making fun of, I wonder?" She teased, making you grimace.

"I'm not in love." You muttered grumpily, putting your jacket on over your blouse. You moved to sit on the bed and grab your shoes. "She's an aspiring photographer and I'm interested in helping, that's all."

"Your interest is your tongue in her mouth." Natasha retorts, causing you to let out a loud exclamation and try to hit a slap on her shoulder, but she moves quickly to escape the bed, laughing. "See you later, champ, use condoms."

"Fuck you, Nat." You complain, making her laugh more, before leaving the room.

//-//-//

The pub was crowded when you arrived.

After checking your cell phone again, you walked in, smiling politely at the students who recognized you on the way to the "we're at the back of the bar, table fourteen" directions Pietro sent you.

As soon as you reached the table, the boy sitting toward you stood up, smiling encouragingly to greet you. Wanda was on her back and turned her head to see Pietro greeting you with a kiss on the cheek, and you smiled at her, signaling softly for her not to get up as you leaned over to repeat the greeting to her once Pietro had moved away.

"I already ordered some beers." Pietro comments as you circle the table to sit next to Wanda, deciding to hang your jacket on the chair behind you. "I hope you don't mind, but I think some of the boys from the team are going to join us at some point. The place is pretty full today."

"That's fine." You comment politely, still a little distracted with Wanda's perfume that invaded your senses when you greeted her.

A little small talk, and the beers arrived.

Pietro was clearly more sociable than his sister, but they were both very pleasant company.

Two sips of alcohol, and you were already pushing away the nervousness and asking questions instead of only answering them.

"I was impressed with your choice for the contest, Wanda, I haven't had time to comment on that yet." You begin with a smile, leaning slightly toward the girl next to you, who looks at you with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. "Where did you get that one?"

"In Sokovia, our home country." She tells. "I took it last winter when we went there for the vacations. As soon as I got back I sent it in as an application."

You smile. "It's really quite beautiful." You say making Wanda blush, while Pietro just watches you both as he takes a sip of his beer.

"Thank you, I...it means a lot to me that you liked it because I love your work." She then confesses with a shy laugh, and you let out a soft exclamation. "That piece of yours in Russia, it's just incredible. And I could hardly believe that we would actually have classes with you now."

"That's very kind, but I really don't have any incredible work." You comment making Pietro and Wanda actively disagree, and you blush at the comments, smiling shyly at them.

For the next few minutes, you guys talk about photography.

Pietro is more of an appreciator than anything, and learned the vast majority of the things he knows from Wanda, who has been photographing since she was a child. You never met someone who understood you like her, all the points you brought were completed in the same exciting way.

A few more minutes talking about their favorite works and destinations, and a bit about being employed at NYU, there are tall, muscular guys joining the table that you quickly recognize as the other members of the university team.

"Maximoff's finally got out of those dorms!" Spoke one of them loudly making the others laugh. The boy hugged Pietro and as he pulled away commented something about him getting almost strong enough to be on the soccer team.

"I think I'll just stick with running for now, Clint." Pietro returned, causing the boy to give a short laugh and shrug.

They embarked on a subject about competitions very quickly.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, watching one of them approach Wanda, kissing her on the cheek.

"Good to see you, Wanda." He spoke smiling, and then looked at you. "Hey, aren't you one of the uni teachers?"

You cleared your throat. "Yes, I teach photography. I'm Y/N Y/L/N." And you held out your hand to him. The boy gave a short laugh, and accepted the greeting.

"I'm Tony Stark." He returned, pushing his hair back. He wasted no time in taking the seat next to Wanda, and slipping his arm behind her chair. "I didn't know you guys hang out with the faculty now."

He then joked, Wanda gave an awkward giggle, and you turned over a whole swig of the beer you had.

"Don't be mean, Tony." She asked in earnest. "Y/N is really talented, and we like photography. It's just a coincidence that she's teaching at my university."

But Tony didn't even seem very interested in that. He just held up one hand in a redemptive sign, signaling that he wasn't going to push it, and quickly changed the subject, wanting to know if Wanda was dating.

None of Pietro's friends seemed to be leaving anytime soon. When the waiter returned, they ordered another round of beer, and someone commented on setting up the pool table.

Tony said something in Wanda's ear that made her laugh, and you excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

You risked a glance at the full table after you got up and felt your heart skip a beat when Wanda looked back to see you leave.

You watched Tony's fingers at her arm's length, caressing her skin, and gave her an intense stare, then changed direction and left the bar.

Outside, the breeze was wafting.

You picked up the phone to call a cab when the bar door opened again.

Wanda hugged her own body because of the cold, and asked:

"Did something happen?"

You took a deep breath, and looked at her in the most neutral way you could manage. "Look, Wanda, I appreciate the invitation, but this is not right and-."

"It was just a few beers." She interrupted almost pleadingly. "I didn't know Pietro's friends were coming. And there's nothing wrong with having only a few beers, right?"

You shook your head softly. "I don't know how to do that. You're my student, and I-"

"You're brilliant." She interrupted breathlessly. "Please, just-"

But she didn't complete the sentence, she simply moved closer. You held your breath, but Wanda lost her nerve. Your faces were only a few inches apart, and she rested her forehead against yours, breath out of rhythm. "I've never met someone like you." She whispered, her hands moving up to your neck.

You swallowed dryly, and raised yours to push theirs away. It took all metal and physical control to do it. "That's not right."

"Y/N, please, I don't-"

"Go back inside." You asked without the ability to look her in the eye. "It's Tony Stark you should go home with tonight."

She frowned. "Is that what you want?"

You gave a humorless laugh. "I want to kiss you."

She closed her eyes, leaning her face against yours. Your lips brushed, until the bar door opened again and you walked quickly away.

It was just a couple of drunkenly laughing people walking out, not even noticing you two in the doorway.

Wanda tried to approach again, but you cleared your throat as you took another step away.

"I'll see you on Monday." You warned before turning around, walking away from the pub.

--//--

Things didn't get simple after that.

Wanda seemed magnetic, and was everywhere.

She stood out in her classes, answered all questions and brought the best photographs. She would walk past you in the hallways with intense glances and polite greetings.

But you no longer went out together. Pietro sent a nice message, "Sorry if we made you uncomfortable, I hope things don't get awkward. You are still the coolest teacher in this place."

That was nice, he would also still wave politely if he met you between classes, but nothing more than that.

Almost four months after the encounter in the pub, Natasha approached you in the last period.

"This can't keep happening." She said simply as she walked into your classroom, finding you at your desk working on lesson plans. You raised your eyebrow in doubt.

"What can't keep happening?"

She moved closer, tossed her purse on your desk and crossed her arms. "Passionate glances and sexual hard-on with the Maximoff girl."

You rolled your eyes, going back to writing. "I don't know what you're talking about, Nat."

'God, just ask her out at once!"

"It's against regulations."

"And?"

"And I still need a job to pay my bills."

"So you admit you're interested in her?" she tries with a teasing smile. You let out a laugh.

"I didn't say that."

"But you didn't deny it." She says. "And by the way, it's pretty obvious. If you keep this up, you won't even need to date her before someone notices."

You sigh, and put your pencil down on the paper, turning your gaze to your friend.

"Nat, nothing is going to happen between me and a student, okay?" You assure her with an impartial face. "We had a moment, but it's just a silly crush. I'm sure it will go away soon."

"That's been going on for almost six months." She argues but you go back to writing without giving her any reaction, and the woman sighs in frustration. "Y/N, I just hate to see you so upset."

"I'm not upset."

"Sexually frustrated is the word I was going to use." She returns, making you chuckle.

"Nat, I'm serious." You return. At this point, you think you are trying to convince yourself, much more than her. "Me and Wanda, it's never going to happen. Now, I wonder if you could order us something to eat. I'm starving."

"This discussion isn't over yet." She warns before pulling out her cell phone.

You shake your head, returning your focus to the lesson plan.

--//--

Things started to get out of hand with the beginning of spring.

You were so busy with your classes, and with your growing attraction to a student, that you completely forgot about the spring national photography competition.

At first period, on your way to class, you noticed the new posters on the bulletin board and let out an exclamation.

The dean should have received the competition notice before you did, and warned the students to paste up the big poster announcing the contest early on.

"Great, more work." You whispered ironically as you saw the deadline.

Walking back toward the classroom, you greeted the students politely as you placed the materials on your desk.

It didn't take long before you were approached by two girls, they looked excited.

"Miss Y/L/N, we wanted to know about the spring contest." It was Jean Grey, along with Emma Frost, both talented but undisciplined students. Especially Miss Frost.

"I will explain to the class how the contest works, Miss Grey. Let's wait until everyone is here." You spoke with a smile. "You can go sit down."

It was not complicated at all. Students and aspiring photographers from all over the country had to submit a photograph to compete for a small prize and an exhibition at a gallery chosen by the organizers.

You participated in a few of these back in college.

The only rule of entry was that a professional photographer had to be the mentor submitting the photograph. In other words, your students would have to send their photos to you, and you would have to submit them to the contest.

More work than you already had.

Sighing softly after explaining to everyone, you didn't even try to contain the buzz of excitement in the class, and returned to your seat. The lesson for the day was already on the board.

You had a migraine, and you were not very keen to deal with it.

The students had about two weeks to submit their pictures, but on the very first day you left the room with a folder full of attempts.

Most of them you returned the next class, having enough knowledge and experience to know that they wouldn't make it past the first round. So you were changing your lesson plan to give some tips on photography and what the judges used to evaluate in this contest.

The second batch of photographs was much better than the first, although with a few exceptions.

"Mr.Parker, are you sure you want to submit a photo of Miss Stacy?" you asked as you received the envelope from one of your more clumsy, but also very talented student.

Peter scratched his neck awkwardly. "My prettiest pictures are of her, Miss Y/L/N."

You smiled, finding it cute how in love he looked. "I'm sure they are, Peter. But why don't you try something more organic and less expositional? I hear you like to photograph the city."

"Buildings." He clarified. "I like height."

"That's interesting." You commented. "Tell you what, try photographing that subject. If you don't like the result, I'll send you Miss Stacy's picture."

Peter nodded and then left the room.

You returned to your chair, listening to the rest of the class withdraw.

"Here is my submission Miss Y/L/N." It was Jean Grey who spoke as she approached your desk with a dark envelope. You missed the small giggles of the students who came out after her, picking up the envelope.

As you opened it, you felt your face heat up with embarrassment.

"That's..." You started, and cleared your throat, looking at Jean, who just stared at you with a mischievous expression.

"If you like it, you can even keep it for yourself." She said simply, and gave you a wink, leaving the room. Her friend Emma entwined her arms, and the two of them left giggling and whispering.

You were too shocked to react, but things were even more awkward when the next person to come to your desk was Wanda.

She locked her jaw when she noticed the photo on the table, and you quickly closed the envelope, jutting out the stack of inscriptions.

"Are you really going to keep that one?" she questioned with a raised eyebrow. You loosened your tie gently.

"It is not my place to censor photographs, Miss Maximoff." You spoke up. "Miss Grey is free to send whatever she wishes."

She gave a wry laugh, straightening the strap of her purse on her shoulder. "She certainly wanted someone else to judge her photograph."

"Miss Maximoff, I don't-"

"You don't have to explain anything to me." She interrupts, annoyed. And puts away the white envelope she brought back in her purse. "It's none of my business."

And leaves the room before you can say anything else.

You sigh in frustration. And you open Jean's envelope once more. Nice breasts, but you don't feel anything. You had only been surprised. God, Wanda had no idea how much she had you around her finger.

--//--

Wanda began to treat you differently after the incident with the photograph. You tried not to think too much about her lack of participation in class, or how she no longer greeted you with sweet nothings in the hallways, but only with almost angry looks.

Over the weekend, you thought about it, and decided to return the photo to Jean just before first period.

"I just think you're talented enough without needing to send something like that, Miss Grey." You argued clumsily at the way she was looking at you. "And I'm talking about the beautiful photographs you showed me at the beginning of the semester. I'm sure one of them will secure you a place in the competition."

"Okay, Miss Y/L/N. Thanks for the advice." She spoke docently, and as she accepted the envelope she stroked your hand.

You chuckled awkwardly, thanking the heavens that the hallway was empty. "Miss Grey, please don't act this way. I 'm not-."

"I know, I know." She cut in with a giggle. "Damn, Emma told me you were uptight, but that just makes you sexier."

You felt your face heat up. "Jean, that's enough. This is inappropriate. I'm not interested."

She wasn't offended. She gave an upset pout, but didn't try anything with you again. And she actually submitted a much better picture in the next class.

The problem was that the comments that circulated around the school were very different from reality.

"I can't believe you slept with Jean Grey." Natasha announced as you entered your apartment on Sunday, you were brewing coffee and almost knocked the teapot over in the sink.

"I beg your pardon?" you questioned in surprise, and she laughed as she greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, leaving the groceries on the table.

"I'm the one who should be offended." She returned. "I ran into Darcy in the cashier line and she commented that she was surprised to hear about Jean Grey's advances on you. How do you not tell your best friend something like that?"

You sighed, stroking your forehead. Your migraine was coming back.

"Nat I'm not sleeping with anyone." You clarified, pouring coffee for both of you. "It's true that Jean tried something, but I didn't carry through with it."

"My, my, what a heartbreaker." She teased making you make a face that only made you laugh.

"I swear, I've never been so embarrassed." You recounted. "She basically just handed me a half naked picture at the end of class."

Natasha laughed, finding it funny in your expressions. "My god, these students are getting more and more creative."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "In my first year here, one of the girls tried to leave a panty inside my purse."

You choked on your coffee, looking at her in surprise. Nat only laughed.

"It was funny to see her face when I returned the item in front of the class, and said that if it happened again, I would turn it straight to the dean."

"And it worked?"

"Of course." She said. "Well, I ended up sleeping with her afterwards but that's beside the point."

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. "Jesus, Natasha. I don't know what to say."

She took a sip of her coffee before speaking. "I think you need to relax a little. We're all adults, Y/N. We all know very well what we're doing."

"I don't know about that." You mumbled causing me to smile.

"Well, some know better than others." She teased, causing you to pat her on the shoulder. She laughed. "What I mean is, Grey is what, 22? 23? She's a big girl. If you want to have fun, there's nothing wrong with that.

"I'm not interested in her, Nat." You spoke almost offended. Nat raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, I forgot it's another student you like."

"Shut up." You muttered walking away to the living room. Nat laughed following you.

You had a photo mural for the International European Competition at the end of the year. It was far from finished, but it was your annual project.

Nat stood beside you as you looked at the pictures.

"This is getting really good, and look, I don't know anything about photography." She comments. You thank her, but then sigh.

"I just feel like there's something missing." You say. "My pictures are ... empty."

Nat looks at you curiously, and you look away.

"I just mean that the photos look generic, Nat. I'm shooting what I know will look good on camera, but there's no feeling."

"I can't see that." She returns half-heartedly. "Are you sure you're not putting too much pressure on yourself? You know, as usual."

You shrug, upset. Nat sighs, hugging you from the side. "I'm sure it will all work out, dear. You're the best photographer I know." She spoke and you smiled, pushing your hips against hers.

"I'm the only photographer you know."

"And by god, one is more than enough. You're all anti-social hipsters." She teases making you laugh.

The afternoon with Natasha is fun. You work on fixing a camera you accidentally dropped, and she writes an article on your couch.

And then the last week of registration happens and you think you are going to have a heart attack in every class.

You can't tell if it's related to the rumors or not, but Wanda seems to want to prove that she can mess with your head.

It all starts on Monday, it seems normal at first.

Until Wanda arrives in class in a skirt so short that you can barely teach a word when you catch a glimpse of her crossed legs in the first row.

You lose your train of reasoning, for the fourth time, when she bites down on the pen cap, a short smile on her lips.

Clearing your throat, you do your best to return to explaining.

At the second class, Wednesday, she comes in with three buttons open and her cleavage almost leaves you drooling.

"Are you all right, Miss Y/L/N?" It is Peter Parker who asks, when you suddenly shut up in the middle of the explanation, because you were wondering how Wanda's breasts would feel in your mouth.

You shake your head quickly, loosening the tie that seemed to tighten around your neck suddenly.

"Sorry, guys, I'm a little distracted." You spoke clumsily, ignoring Wanda's little smile in your direction. "Where did I stop?"

It's not until the last Friday class that you think you can breathe again.

Wanda was absent.

You wanted to control your curiosity, but as soon as her empty seat is the only one in the class, you are asking.

"Does anyone know where Miss Maximoff is?"

The room exchanges glances, and it is Emma Frost who answers after a moment. "I don't think she's coming, teacher. Her brother is in the hospital."

You frown in concern, but Emma quickly adds. "He's fine, it's nothing serious."

A few boys in the background giggled, you raised your eyebrow in curiosity. Emma sighed, "It's just that he got into a fight in the dorm last night. The guys got drunk and stupid, and it looks like he got into a fight with Clint Barton. I'm not sure, but he fell down the stairs.

"Or was pushed." Peter Parker added, causing the room to erupt in buzz.

You sighed, nodding for the class to calm down. "Please, let's not get into gossip right now. Thank you for the clarification, Miss Frost. Now please open your books."

You tried to ignore your concern for Pietro and Wanda, but you couldn't.

Then on Saturday morning you were in the waiting room of the university hospital, the campus building a block away from your apartment.

Fortunately, you managed to convince Natasha to go with you.

"I don't even know the boy properly and you want me to go visit him?" She questioned confused when you told her to go with you.

"Please, Nat, I can't just show up there without being a stranger. You pleaded.

She sighed, but agreed. And after coffee you were in the infirmary.

"I'll wait for you here, try not to turn into a complete mess when I see his sister." She scoffs with an open magazine in her lap, sitting down in the waiting room as soon as the receptionist takes your name down.

Pietro's room is filled with 'get well soon' balloons and even flowers and teddy bears. He is lying there, his foot in a cast and hanging in the air, watching TV.

"Miss Y/L/N! Good to see you!" He says contentedly as soon as you knock on the ajar door.

A tall man was sitting in the armchair in the bedroom, cross-legged and a book in his hand, and raised his eyebrows in curiosity as he saw you enter.

Pietro quickly added. "Papa, this is Y/N, she's from the university."

"Oh, hello." Speaks the man with a smile, getting up and leaving his book on the table. "You never properly introduce your friends to me, Pietro."

He approaches to shake your hand and you quickly add. "Actually, I'm the photography teacher."

"And my friend too." Pietro speaks as if it were obvious, smiling.

His father laughs softly. "Well, professor, I'm Erik. It's a pleasure."

"Likewise." You say.

You turn to Pietro next "And how are you, Mr. Maximoff?"

He laughs at the formality. "Just Pietro is fine, Miss Y/L/N. I already said that."

You chuckle awkwardly, and Pietro's father sits back in the armchair, looking interested in the book he was reading.

"I heard it was an accident." You comment, and Pietro shrugs, but his father laughs humorlessly.

"I call it assault." He comments wryly, his eyes on the book in his lap.

"Papa-"

"In fact, that reminds me, I've set up a meeting with the dean." Erik interrupts seriously, returning the book to the headboard and standing up. "I told him that I would like to talk to Mr.Barton about this absurd incident, and the security measures of the dormitories. Please excuse me."

As soon as you are left alone, Pietro sighs upset. "He's going to make it so much bigger than it really was."

"Do you mind telling me what happened?" You ask.

"It was something stupid, actually." Pietro says. "We drank too much, and at some point we started fighting. Clint had an argument with one of the Tech kids who asked him to turn the music down, and one of them pushed him. But he tripped over the speaker wire, which fell on my back. By the time I realized I was already downstairs."

"Shit, Pietro."

"It was an accident." He spoke up. "But I won't be able to run for a while, and Dad was pretty unhappy. I'm trying to talk him out of suing Clint's family."

"That sounds pretty extreme." You mutter. "But I think your father is just worried."

He laughs short. "No, he just wanted me in the Olympics. Papa loves that sort of thing in election season. Now he'll just have to settle for Wanda and her photographs."

You frown slightly, and he adds. "Not that there's anything wrong with photography. It's just that papa thinks it's a hobby, and not a real job."

"Oh, I get it." You say. And you look around, noting only now that he had a few too expensive gifts to have been given by other students. You assumed they were from sponsors or friends of his father. "And how does Wanda feel about that? About your father's opinions on photography I mean."

Pietro shrugs his shoulders. "What do you think? It's horrible. She puts too much pressure on herself, because it seems like she has to be exceptional and perfect in every take, to prove that what she's doing is good enough. I just wish she would relax, and was able to take selfies like everyone else."

You smile, nodding. You really understand the feeling.

Before you can add anything, the door opens again, and Wanda appears.

You shift the weight of your feet, and she smiles in surprise. "I didn't know you were stopping by, Miss Y/L/N."

"I just came to wish your brother well." You say quickly, being aware of your clumsiness and Pietro's curious look at you. "I think I'd better go now."

You nod in farewell, as Wanda hands Pietro a cup of hot chocolate.

Just as you leave the room, you hear footsteps and the door, and turn to find Wanda behind you. "Miss Y/L/N, can I ask you something?"

"You just did." You joke making her smile.

"It's about the contest." She says. "Was the deadline really yesterday?"

You put your hands in your pockets. "Well, technically I have until seven o'clock on Sunday to submit."

"Really?" She exclaimed excitedly. "Would you mind accepting one last late application? Please. I know I shouldn't ask but I-"

"Of course, Wanda." You speak quickly. And then you let out an awkward laugh. "It's not exactly an exception, after all you even have a doctor's note. You can email it to me as soon as you get back to your dorm."

"Thank you very much." She speaks smiling, and hesitates as she moves toward you, changing her mind about hugging you. All she does is squeeze your forearm for a moment, and pull away.

You swallow dryly. "W-well, I'll better be going now. Have a good day."

"You too."

Natasha can notice your reddened cheeks as you walk back into the waiting room and raise an eyebrow.

"Don't even start." You warn her, making her laugh before walking you to the exit.

--//--

You check your inbox several times on Saturday, but Wanda sends nothing.

On Sunday you have to finish developing some photographic film for your next class and leave after lunch for the main building, intending to go to the darkroom next to your classroom and work on it for the rest of the afternoon.

You are already a few hours into it when you hear someone knocking on the door.

Figuring it was Natasha with an invitation for a snack, you just say "Come in" without taking your attention away from the proceedings.

"Hi."

You turn around so quickly that your neck makes a noise. "Miss Maximoff! Hey! Hi."

She smiles shyly, an envelope in her hands. "I came to drop off my picture."

"Oh, right." You speak. "You can leave it on my desk."

She nods, and you smile before turning your attention back to the photos in front of you.

But Wanda doesn't leave, just moves closer to you to look at the photos.

"They are very pretty." She comments beside you, and you ignore your quickened heartbeat because of the closeness.

"Thank you." You return. "They're for the next class. Technically, you shouldn't see them before your classmates." You joke, and Wanda smiles, placing the envelope on the empty space on the table.

"Miss Y/L/N?" She catches your eye. "Would you mind looking at my picture now? I want to make sure it's good enough to send."

"Sure." You say gently, drawing the envelope on the table toward you as Wanda waited.

There were two pictures inside. The first one, was incredible. It looked like one of the ones you looked at in the gallery in London at the exhibition where you met Pietro. It was melancholy and well-lit.

The second one made your breath catch. Wanda bit her lips, delighting in your reaction.

"Did you like it, Professor?" She whispered, so close you could feel her breath against your neck. "Did you like it better than the one Jean sent you?"

"Fuck." You gasped, placing the pictures on the table, and closing your eyes for a moment. Big mistake, as the image of the photo, Wanda wearing only a bra, touching herself with her legs spread towards the camera, seemed to stick in your mind. "Miss Maximoff, what do you think you are doing?"

Wanda didn't answer, risking rubbing her lips against your cheek, her breath just as out of rhythm as yours.

Her right hand went up your arm and the other felt your fingers on the table. She leaned in, kissing the corner of your mouth and you used all the remaining control in your body to pull away at once.

"No, that's not right." You warned, feeling your shirt collar too tight, or rather, the dark room seemed more suffocating than usual.

Wanda let out a frustrated grumble, but she didn't give up. "I know you feel what's between us, too."

"No." You snapped back, pressing your face into your hands for a moment, trying to regain control of the situation. “I told you this is never happening.”

"I took that picture thinking of you." She declares simply, and you turn around breathlessly. "I like to imagine it's your tongue inside me."

You gasp, and move against her all at once, kissing her hard.

Wanda melts, matching you in the same intensity, and moaning softly as she feels your tongue slide against hers, hungrily devouring her.

Your hands pull her up onto the table, and she entwines her legs around your waist, gasping at the new friction of your hips against her.

You can't remember why you resisted her for so long.

Everything is intoxicating. Her lips, her tongue, her smell, her taste. You break the kiss to attack her neck, your hands clawing their way under her skirt as hers squeezes her shoulders.

Wanda chokes as you suck the skin from her neck, throwing her hips against nothing, trying to ease the pain between her legs.

"Please." She whimpers. "I need you to touch me."

You wouldn't deny it, dying to know how she feels in your fingers.

Your hands find her panties, and you pull the fabric down to her knees, leaving her exposed under her skirt.

Then there is a knock on the door, and Wanda's eyes widen, trying to pull away, but you hold her in place by the waist.

"Y/N, are you there?" Natasha's voice from the other side.

"Yes, Nat." You shout back without taking your eyes off the girl in front of you, who has reddened cheeks but is looking at you in a mixture of confusion and excitement. "Don't come in here, I've already started work."

"No problem, I just came to invite you to dinner." She clarifies. You don't respond, and raise a finger to your own lip, signaling for Wanda to be silent.

With your other hand, you grope your way up her thighs, and tease the entrance to her exposed pussy with your fingers.

Wanda bites her lips hard to be silent, breathing shallowly as she feels you slowly massaging her clit.

"Will you be long?" Nat shouts from the other side. You let out a low moan as you penetrate Wanda with two fingers at once, sinking in easily from the way she is wet.

She makes a noise with her throat, digging her nails into your arms and closing her eyes tightly.

"No, Nat." You warn back, moving your fingers inside the girl in front of you, feeling her pussy tighten at your fingerprints. "Almost done."

Wanda throbs at the cocky way you spoke, making you grin.

"I'm going to order Chinese food!" Nat shouts from the other side, and you force your fingers hard against Wanda, and she gasps, her legs trembling against you as she covers her mouth with her hand, unable to stay silent as she feels you increase the speed.

As you fuck her fast and hard against your fingers, holding her in place with a grip on her waist, your palm pressing against her clit, you speak aloud:

"Pick option twelve for me, Nat!" You ask, your voice a little hoarse from the excitement of feeling Wanda soaking wet in your fingers.

"Okay, honey!" Nat shouts back, and you hear her footsteps move away, probably to call the restaurant outside, since the signal in the classroom was so bad.

With that, Wanda allows herself to make more noise, and you let out a satisfied giggle as you feel her pussy clench against your fingers, signaling how close she was.

"Will you cum for me, babygirl? Go on. Make a mess on my fingers."

One deep stroke was all it took for Wanda to reach her height, soaking your palm with her back arched, her right hand covering her mouth tightly and her left hand digging her nails into your shoulder.

The most beautiful image you have ever seen.

You pulled her hand away from her mouth and kissed her intensely, but she could barely respond, trying to recover from her recent orgasm.

She whimpered against your lips, feeling your fingers teasing her even after the climax, and grabbed your wrist, begging you to stop.

You smiled against her mouth, and removed your hand, making her sigh.

Thinking it best not to taste her so you could let her go, you wiped your hand on her skirt.

"Wait five minutes after I leave to do the same." You warned, and Wanda looked at you immeditately, almost upset, assuming it was just sex for you. You stroked her cheek to reassure her. "Do you know where I live?"

She nodded, and you smiled. "If you want this to continue, I'll wait for you at my apartment. I just need to say goodbye to Natasha first."

You kissed her one last time before pulling away, not ignoring the way your body was begging you to stay.

In the hallway, you didn't even have to make up an excuse.

"I swear to god, you must be trying to lose your job." Nat commented with crossed arms and an amused expression.

You felt your face heat up. "How did you...?"

"Nobody moans while taking pictures, Y/N." She scoffs, and you mumble in embarrassment. "I ordered extra food to go, they'll deliver it to your apartment. Nice dinner for you both, even though you already had dessert." She teases last with an insinuating look, making you laugh awkwardly.

You return to the darkroom before Wanda leaves, finding her fixing her skirt and messy hair.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?" That's the first thing you say as you enter.

Wanda smiles, blushing, and nods.

You hold out your hand for her to hold.

--//--

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x yn #wanda maximoff imagines #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x you #scarlet witch x reader #college au #wanda maximoff smut #wanda smut #marvel imagines #Liberal Arts

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partywithponies · 4 years

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hi! i've only ever seen the bbc version of father brown and i've never read the books (i know, i'm so sorry), but i'm super curious about the different versions of father brown and you seem like an expert on each adaptation, so i was wondering if you'd be willing to give me a rundown of sorts on each version/series? i know it's a lot to ask and i may be opening the floodgates here, but there's not a ton of info online elsewhere and i'd love to learn more! thanks either way. ciao!

OH BOY YOU’VE COME TO THE RIGHT PLACE ANON

OKAY SO

As briefly as possible:

The books:

Proof people who complain about the BBC show being “too political” don’t actually know the books at all

Father Brown straight up calls capitalism “evil” and “heresy”

Chesterton says that millionaires dying isn’t a tragedy

Inspector Valentin betrayed us and broke my heart, ACAB I guess

Since every police officer he befriends lets him down in some way, Father Brown’s only real friend is Flambeau, who he goes absolutely everywhere with. They only go on holiday with each other. They’ve been all over the world with each other. I love they

Book Father Brown pretty much never does his goddamn job. We literally never in all the books see him giving mass or taking confession. The closest we get is when he gives an impromptu sermon after seemingly coming back from the dead, where he literally only says "You silly, silly people. God bless you all and give you more sense." then runs away to send a telegram. Useless priest. I love him.

Book Flambeau is. Incredible. Amazing. Iconic. None of the adaptations have been able to fully capture book Flambeau’s true energy, for he is a walking contradiction who contains multitudes. If all the onscreen Flambeaus fused into one being, THEN you’d have something vaguely resembling book Flambeau.

Book Flambeau is MASSIVE. He’s at least 6′4, he’s broad shouldered, has huge hands, and his super buff. He can just. Pick people up and throw them. He can knock people unconscious with one punch. He fills doorways when he stands in them. He terrifies most people just by drawing himself up to his full height. He also has a very short temper and a very short patience.

He’s very agile and athletic and can move silently, despite his size. He’s also a master of disguise, somehow. (Explain, Chesterton. Explain. Is everyone in this universe apart from Father Brown, Flambeau, and arguably Valentin massively stupid? Actually don’t answer that I’ve read these books)

Book Flambeau has a habit of flinging people full-bodily down flights of stairs when they anger him or threaten him or Father Brown. Book Flambeau also carries a walking cane with him literally everywhere that has a sword concealed in the handle, plus book Flambeau insists on taking pistols on holiday with him, even when he was just going for a peaceful fishing holiday in the Norfolk Broads. King.

(Which all makes it so iconic that Father Brown, described as tiny and meek and sensitive, saw this man when he was still a hardened criminal on top of all this and said “THIS ONE I LIKE THIS ONE. I JUST THINK HE’S NEAT” and went off on a jolly through London with him.)

Flambeau’s past is extremely mysterious. We no nothing about his family or his childhood or where he’s from or why he turned to crime. We know he used to be a soldier, and a part of him misses it. We know he used to fight duels semi-regularly, and liked them to be fought the very next morning after they were organised. We know he always used to make sure to visit the dentist on time, even when he was a hardened criminal. (King of good teeth.) We know he was in a gang at some point. We know he was a student at some point. We don’t know what he studied, but we know he knew Leonard Quinton in “wild student days in Paris” ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). This is literally all we know about his past before he met Father Brown. The man is a riddle wrapped in an enigma. (That’s why Flambeau is so big. He’s full of secrets)

(Fun fact: in the book universe Flambeau is famous and popular in America, so you could say that in universe Flambeau is America’s Favourite Fighting Frenchman.)

Flambeau also loves cats and children, believes in fairies, likes pointing out rocks that look like dragons, and likes giggling and mucking about on the beach with Father Brown. A baby.

One time Father Brown called Flambeau “full of good and pure thoughts”, but I don’t think that’s quite true, Father. I think Father Brown just has endless faith in Flambeau.

Another thing I think is really neat is that it would’ve been so easy to have Father Brown be the genius and Flambeau his dumb muscle sidekick but that’s not the case at all! They’re both geniuses and they’re both each other’s sidekick, and in fact it’s Flambeau who’s the famous professional private detective, Father Brown is just an amateur. Father Brown is often defined by his connection to Flambeau rather than vice versa, both in the text (the text will frequently refer to them as something along the lines of “Flambeau and his friend the priest”, and on two separate occasions a long list of Flambeau’s possessions is ended with “and a priest”), and in universe (Father Brown himself is massively famous in America in universe largely because of “his long connection to Flambeau). I don’t know I just think it’s neat.

One time a man threatened Father Brown with a gun and Flambeau just beat him unconscious and then Father Brown and Flambeau just drove away and left him unconscious on the path. It was awesome.

(I’m sorry I rambled about Flambeau for so many words I just. Really really like Flambeau you guys. Father Brown and Flambeau are like two separate crime drama character tropes, the hard boiled cynical P.I. and the cosy eccentric amateur detective, but together as a double act, and I just think that’s really cool.)

Father Brown himself is if anything even more mysterious. He’s just “Father J. Brown, formerly of Cobhole in Essex, currently London”, and he’s “Flambeau’s friend”, and that’s all. That’s all he needs to be.

I also really really love Father Brown himself. I love that he’s allowed to be cheerful and optimistic and childish without any of this making him less clever, and in fact he’s shown time and time again to be cleverer than grumpy cynics who are scornful of childish things. Like, the whole giggling childlike thing isn’t even some kind of act, he’s a genius who understands true human nature, and he also really really likes puppet shows and building sandcastles who telling fairy stories, he really does get a “childish pleasure” from seeing Flambeau swing his sword-stick, and he really does have “strong personal interest in tomfoolery”. I love him.

I must share my favourite book quote about Father Brown himself: “But neither of them is very like the real Father Brown, who is not broken at all; but goes stumping with his stout umbrella through life, liking most of the people in it; accepting the world as his companion, but never as his judge.” uwu uwu uwu I’m cry.

Chesterton just subverts all the expectations character wise, the cheerful bumbling priest is a genius, the violent criminal is a true hero, the noble police officer is a corrupt self-serving murderer. It’s great. We stan. 10000000/10

(I’m not very good at being brief, am I?)

Father Brown, Detective (1934):

The first movie! It’s completely ridiculous. I love it a lot.

It was released just at the start of Hays Code, which, among other things, stated that crime and immorality should not be glorified or glamourised, and all crime and immorality must be seen to be punished by the end of the film. In practice in the case of this film, this means two things:

Paul Lukas!Flambeau is the only Flambeau to actually go to prison (and stay there).

He’s by far the Flambeau who deserves it the least. Lukas!Flambeau never hurt a soul. He just wanted to be loved. #FreeMyBoyHercule

Okay but in all seriousness. There’s a reason I call Paul Lukas!Flambeau “Himbo Flambeau”. Where other Flambeaus are violent or dangerous or geniuses, Lukas!Flambeau is just a big dumb idiot who respects women and has a great sense of humour and writes all his letters in the third person like Elmo for some reason. I would die for him.

At one point Flambeau in disguise is talking to the police, and when the police criticise Flambeau, disguised Flambeau says “Oh but I assure! I have read many things about this Flambeau! He is a fearless, handsome fellow!” The absolute idiot. I adore him with my whole heart.

The film is set in London, like the books, but an idealised Hollywood version of London, i.e., almost entirely unlike London.

Walter Connolly!Father Brown is also entirely lacking in braincells. Look at these two idiot men:

I love them.

Oh oh! And the most important thing, the thing that carries over into most other adaptations? NEW ORIGINAL CHARACTERS!!

This movie invents a few characters that weren’t in the books, but the most important ones are Mrs Boggs:

She doesn’t really add much to the plot but she’s funny and I love her so I’ll forgive it.

She’s Father Brown’s housekeeper, she’s basically just the fussing maternal female character archetype who fusses around in the background, but she does it well and plays it with charm so I’ll allow it.

(Honestly this whole film is just. Not *technically* good or original, but just so charming and with so much heart that I unironically adore it.)

She tries to make Father Brown drink his milk because it’s good for him even though he doesn’t like it, and keeps checking back in on him to make sure he’s drunk it, it’s literally like a mother and her small child.

She objects to policemen in the presbytery because of their “big muddy boots on the carpet” but is fine with just letting Flambeau in whenever despite the prevailing rumour in London being that Flambeau killed a man. We stan a queen of having priorities.

When Inspector Valentine summons Father Brown to the station, Mrs Boggs pops up in the background, assumes Father Brown’s being arrested, and says “Oh dear, I knew it!” and it makes me giggle like an idiot every time.

The other, more important original character invented for this movie is my girl Evelyn Fischer:

I love her, I would die for her, she’s flawless.

She’s basically your typical bored and rebellious young aristocrat, but she has a chaotic streak that I adore.

She sneaks out of her family’s mansion to go to a seedy underground club/illegal gambling ring in Soho (I mean I assume it’s Soho, a seedy part of London in that general vicinity, at least. I’m not about to get bogged down trying to understand the geography of London according to Hollywood), flirts with a bunch of strangers for fun, then when the police raid the place and everyone else is panicking she stands stock still, cheerfully says “Oh goody, I shall probably get my name in the papers!” and has to be physically dragged out of the building by Flambeau.

Later on Flambeau breaks into her bedroom in the middle of the night and she’s just very calmly like “What are you doing?”, and even when she finds out it’s Flambeau, a man widely believed to be dangerous and violent, instead of being scared, she calls him an idiot right to his face.

She forms the third part of the main trio of the movie with Father Brown and Flambeau (RIP to Valentine, demoted to tertiary character in a loose adaptation of the one (1) story where he was the main character lol) and together the three of them share a single braincell and have to take turns with it, while Mrs Boggs fusses in the background at the trio’s increasingly bonkers decisions.

The movie ends with Father Brown and Evelyn sharing an emotional farewell with Flambeau through the window of a police car and promising to look after each other until Flambeau’s released, wow poly rights.

The Adventures of Father Brown (1945):

The adaptation there’s the least amount of information about, but I’ve done my best to find everything I can find on it.

An American radio show made towards the end of wartime, it’s a bit of an odd one, and believe me Father Brown adaptations have gone some odd places.

Only two episodes survive, or at least if more do survive then whoever has them is being very selfish and hoarding them to themselves because only two episodes are publicly available anywhere, and the audio quality of those is a bit dodge. (Though that is to be expected, they do appear to be home recordings, from 1945. Honestly we should be grateful to even have two full episodes.)

If the actors I’ve found are the right people, this show featured by far the youngest Father Brown and Flambeau, at the start of the show the actor playing Father Brown was only 36 and the actor playing Flambeau was only 27. They’re BABIES. (Honestly I’d like to see more age variation in Father Brown adaptations, as I have extensively rambled about before, the characters have literally no canon ages in the books, I think people ought to be a little more imaginative instead of always building on the adaptations that came before, even if it is really cool to see traces of all the previous adaptations in each new one that comes along. It’s something I haven’t noticed as much in adaptations of other golden age detective novels, but the Father Brown adaptations do seem to be stuck in some kind of game of “yes, AND” with each other. I would REALLY like to see an adaptation where Flambeau is older than Father Brown though, it's just something we've never had before despite there being literally nothing in the books to suggest this can't be the case, and I just think it'd be neat.)

This show is really really painfully American, in a real old fashioned "golly gee whizz mister" kind of way, to the point it almost feels like a parody, and I honestly find it kind of endearing.

Even Flambeau frequently slips into a very American accent to the point that my affectionate nickname for him is "The All-American Flambeau", and it's great. He's great.

Honestly I could accept the accents and the slang, for some reason the only thing that really threw me was Father Brown referring to money in cents and nickels.

Needless to say, this adaptation is not set in London. It is instead set in Generic Unspecified Smalltown USA. It's fine. This is fine. I already have so many films and shows set in London, I can swallow my London pride and let America have this.

It's hard to get a real grasp on characters from just two episodes, but I like this Father Brown and Flambeau, even if they are a little overly serious, and even if Flambeau doesn't really do much. He may be a bit serious and a bit useless but All-American Flambeau stays up late anxiously waiting for Father Brown to get home safely and it's very sweet. What a good boy.

All-American Flambeau also carries handcuffs around with him for some reason? But no weapons? Why is All-American Flambeau one of the few Flambeaus not to have a gun? Oh well, he's still sweet.

The 1945 radio show also gives us some original characters, but they're very much side characters and not part of the main plot and it's very hard to get a good grasp on a character from just a few minutes of audio from just two episodes but here's what I could gather:

Nora is another fussing housekeeper! She seems younger and less maternal than Mrs Boggs, but I don't know if that's just because the whole cast was on the younger side. (Could the radio station not find anyone over the age of 40? Were they in short supply in 1945 or something? Ah well.) She seems dedicated to helping Father Brown get some peace and quiet that he never goddamn gets because someone always goes and gets themselves murdered. In both surviving episodes a knock at the door disturbs Father Brown’s rest, Nora opens it professionally, sees it's Flambeau, and immediately drops the professionalism and is immediately like "oh it's only you", so I can only assume every episode started this way. I do hope so.

Father Peter is a junior priest who answers to Father Brown and takes over his duties on his days off. He's implied by the dialogue to be considerably younger than Father Brown, Nora, and Flambeau, but if their actors are anything to go by then they're not that old themselves, and though Father Brown seems to talk to Father Peter like he's a literal child, he is still a priest so I very much doubt that's the case. He seems sweet and harmless, but he's only in one of the surviving episodes and only in that towards the end and mentioned briefly at the start, so it's hard to judge completely. It's highly unlikely that the reason he's not even mentioned in the later surviving episode is because he turned out to secretly be an evil murderer, but, this being a Father Brown adaptation, not entirely unfounded. (But no, he's probably just a sweet boy who exists to have exposition delivered to him.)

Father Brown/The Detective (1954):

The Alec Guinness movie! The one haters of any of the other adaptations complain that adaptation isn't more like, but in my humble opinion, actually the worst adaptation.

Like, I don't hate it! The cast is mostly stellar actors and if I just saw it as a movie on its own, it'd probably be fine. But as a Father Brown adaptation watched in context of the books and the other adaptations, it has a few issues imo.

Most glaringly it has Tone Issues. This film cannot decide if it's a comedy or not. The original posters certainly marketed it as one (see above) and half the cast are noted comic actors who were famous at the time for comedy, goddamn SID JAMES is in it, but the entire third act is played painfully straight, half the cast is mugging for the camera and trying way too hard to be funny while the other cast is giving extremely serious and subtle performances, like. I have no problem with a Father Brown adaptation being played for laughs, and I have no problem with a Father Brown adaptation being played for drama, both can work beautifully, but just PICK ONE, PLEASE

All of my other gripes with the film are very petty and nitpicky, this film calls Father Brown and Flambeau "Ignatius Brown" and "Gustav Flambeau" even though Father Brown has the canon first initial "J" and Flambeau has the canon first name "Hercule", and I hate it a lot. "Ignatius and Gustav" is the second worst thing any Father Brown adaptation has ever done to me.

My other petty nitpick with the movie is that it makes Flambeau literal nobility. The man is a duke. In my opinion Flambeau should always either have a completely mysterious past or be a nobody who came from nothing, someone who grew up with land and title and many servants and a family coat of arms, living in a whole entire castle with his family name and coat of arms engraved into the side of it, growing up and stealing from people, is a whole lot less sympathetic in my opinion. Like to be fair his parents are dead which is sad I guess and his castle has seen better days, but dude. You still own a castle. People who live in castles do not get to lecture other people about materialism.

THAT SAID, Peter Finch is still the best thing about the movie. I love all Flambeaus dearly, even the ones that are little bitches. He’s a bit of an emo “oh woe is me” sadboy, but he’s very charming, and actually good at disguises and being undercover, get dunked on Lukas!Flambeau.

Guinness!Brown likes to feed ducks and Flambeau calls him “the angel with the flaming umbrella”, which makes my inner Good Omens fan who loves finding parallels between Aziraphale & Crowley and Father Brown & Flambeau go 👀

There is one really good scene, in the Paris Catacombs. And by “good” I mean “really really bafflingly gay”:

I truly, truly do not understand how this scene was written, directed, acted, filmed, and edited without ANYONE saying “hey lads does this seem a bit gay to you?”

Father Brown, literally lying on top of Flambeau and pinning him to the ground, whispering: “I would like to set you free.” Flambeau, softly, gently smiling while his face is literal inches away from Father Brown, who is still pinning him to the ground: “Ah, now I begin to understand what you are.”

What the fuck, you guys. What the entire fuck. This scene keeps me up at night.

ANYWAY

This film is also not set in London. It is instead mostly set in a rural English village, and partially in Paris and partially in rural France. Paris is fun but I miss London.

This film also has some original characters. I should probably talk about them.

This is Lady Warren:

She’s Father Brown’s friend, and she’s a Lady, and that’s all I can really tell you.

She’s very well-mannered and dignified and sophisticated.

She gives me the vibe that she exists solely because the writers decided they needed a female character but then remembered at the last minute they had no idea how to write women, so as a result she is almost entirely irrelevant to the plot. I don’t want to say I don’t like her, because she’s done nothing wrong and it’s not her fault, but like. Why is she here? Poor thing, she deserved to be plot-relevant, really.

She lives in a big mansion and owns some very nice things, and she gets annoyed when she invites Father Brown to lunch but he just stares blankly into space thinking about Flambeau the whole time. (Mood honestly FB. Me too.)

She flirts a bit with Flambeau in one very pointless scene that came the hell out of nowhere, went nowhere, and was never mentioned again. It was like the writers realised how gay the previous Flambeau scene was and suddenly tried to convince me this man is a hetero. Nice try, writers. You can’t fool me that easily.

The other main original character is Bert:

Alright, own up, whose bright idea was it to put Sid James in a Father Brown movie?

Bert is a smalltime criminal who’s a friend of Father Brown, who Father Brown protects from the police, but tries to convince to get on the straight and narrow by getting him as a job as Lady Warren’s chauffer.

This is would be fine, were it not for the fact he’s played by Sid James, who only knows how to play Sid James, and is just Sid Jamesing it up in every scene. I don’t have anything against Sid James. I like my fair share of Carry On films. But Sid James does not belong in Father Brown and I want to fight whoever decided he did.

Father Brown (1974):

LADS LADS LADS! It’s time for the first TV show, and it’s time for my favourite boys:

Oh! OH! How I love Kenneth More!Brown and Dennis Burgess!Flambeau. They’re just. So cute. My two special boys.

Not only that, but LADS! We’re finally back in London!

A gritty, dirty, London in the 1930s no less, with cool London buses and political unrest and grimy pubs and the constant threat of world war. Alexa this is so cool play London Calling.

In one episode Flambeau gets verbally abused by an anti-immigration right-wing zealot. :( My poor boy. :(

(But it’s okay, shortly after Father Brown witnesses this, the racist shows up dead in exactly the place Father Brown earlier said would be a good place to commit a murder. Now I’m not accusing Father Brown of murder, BUT)

This show made the bold but valid decision to skip Flambeau’s redemption arc and start the show when Flambeau is already a seasoned and respected private detective who’s lived in London and been Father Brown’s closest friend for many years. As a result this Father Brown and Flambeau are ridiculously domestic with each other. Look at this peak Old Married Couple energy:

Oh! I just love them.

I would love to know how Burgess!Flambeau’s redemption went down though, because Burgess!Flambeau is BY FAR the least repentant of all the reformed Flambeaus. He proudly boasts about his crimes, he still believes he “deserved to succeed”, he still proudly talks about how “daring and outrageous” he was, which begs the question of why did he stop at all? Literally the only explanation I can think of is that he’s literally only doing this for Father Brown’s sake, which. uwu

Oh GOD I love Burgess!Flambeau. Obviously I love all Flambeaus a lot, and choosing a favourite feels like choosing a favourite child, but let’s just say: if the Flambeaus WERE my children, Burgess!Flambeau would be quite spoilt. My ~ Daring And Outrageous ~ boy.

More!Brown and Burgess!Flambeau are both really really socially awkward, uncomfortable in crowds, and nervously say “oh dear” a lot. They really are ridiculously cute.

They also only giggle and joke and act silly when they’re together, when they’re apart they’re both sort of sad and quiet and withdrawn. (This makes episodes Flambeau isn’t in a bit harder to watch because Father Brown is just kind of lost and lonely without his emotional support Frenchman, with three notable exceptions: that time Father Brown infodumped about the mating habits of whales at the Father Superior for a solid minute, that time Father Brown met a dog and reacted with unrestrained delight, and that time someone mentioned former criminals in passing and Father Brown’s whole face lit up and he started gushing about how Flambeau was living in London now and doing very well as a private detective, completely unprompted.)

This show also brought back book!Brown and Flambeau’s habit of always going on holiday together! Wonderful! We love to see it!

This show is also the first time in the entire Father Brown franchise where gay people are overtly acknowledged to exist! And Father Brown is non-judgemental! A roman catholic priest written in the 1970s and living in the 1930s who canonically isn’t homophobic! I have no choice but to stan forever!

You remember what I said about liking to point out Good Omens parallels? WELL

Kenneth More!Father Brown and Dennis Burgess!Flambeau both live in London

Burgess!Flambeau lives in a brightly lit, pale walled, airy and spacious, modern (for the time) London apartment, while More!Brown prefers gothic architecture and lives in an old, grey, cramped, stone building absolutely full floor to ceiling with books

They go out for intimate candlelit dinners for two at very fancy London restaurants

Desperate people come to Flambeau because he “knows the game on both sides of the fence”

Father Brown responds with a quiet and miserable “oh dear” when asked to actually do his job instead of just watching plays and drinking wine

Father Brown calls Flambeau “my dear” at times and it personally kills me

I mean. I’m just saying. 👀

Now, isn’t there a third important character in the books?

Oh yes of course:

HIM! THE BASTARD MAN! INSPECTOR VALENTIN HIMSELF!

(Nobody understands him! IT’S NOT! EVIL!)

This show is the literally only adaptation to include the Valentin betrayal and I’m not gonna lie. It’s a very difficult episode to sit through, it’s far darker and grimmer and more depressing than you would ever expect from Father Brown, but my god it’s done so well. Especially considering the teeny tiny budget they clearly had, only four sets are used the entire episode and the whole thing takes place inside Valentin’s house, but even that adds a certain claustrophobic atmosphere and just. It’s done so well.

I think the entire budget went on gore effects because the decapitated heads in this episode are disturbingly realistic for the time the show was made and genuinely grim to look at. Not to mention the intense downer ending. Not to mention this was THE FINAL EPISODE OF THE SHOW

THE INTENSE DOWNER ENDING OF THIS EPISODE IS HOW THE WHOLE SHOW ENDED

God it hurts so much but I lowkey love it.

Father Brown Stories (1984):

The second radio series, and the first BBC adaptation!

Thrilling times for fans of actors being the right nationality for their characters, because after previously being played by a Hungarian, an American, an Englishman, and a Welshman, Flambeau is finally being played by a Frenchman, Olivier Pierre!

Father Brown himself is played by Andrew Sachs, Manuel himself.

Not gonna lie. It’s kind of hard to figure out how to explain the radio show.

We’re? Maybe back in London? Honestly it’s really unclear.

Pierre!Flambeau is kind of adorable. He’s described as looking like book!Flambeau physically, huge and buff and terrifying, but he has literally none of the temper or predisposition to violence.

Pierre!Flambeau doesn’t speak very good English at all, and oftentimes will react with “...What?” when he hears a strange English idiom or turn of phrase.

One time he says “Perhaps we should.. push on? SEE HOW I AM MASTERING YOUR ENGLISH IDIOMS” and it’s the cutest thing that’s ever happened.

To try and get better at understanding both the English language and the English people, Flambeau starts obsessively reading Alice in Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass, massive giant adorable boy.

One time Father Brown gets complimented of being academically minded and well read, and then asked if Flambeau is also a keen reader, and when Flambeau tries to say no, Father Brown interrupts and proudly and earnestly says “Oh yes! Monsieur Flambeau is one of our top Lewis Carroll scholars!”, it’s honestly adorable.

This adaptation finally uses “John” as Father Brown’s first name, as it should always have been! I love it!

This series said FUCK Father Brown having a mysterious past and no former friends or relatives! Now he has siblings, and friends who knew him before he was a priest who still call him “John”!

Father Brown himself speaks in a very sweet and soft and wavering way that makes my heart melt.

Sadly and unfortunately, I have to acknowledge the final episode of the show, which is the top worst thing any Father Brown adaptation has ever done to me.

It’s. It’s a crossover. With Sherlock Holmes. Actual goddamn Sherlock Holmes is in it. I hate it. I hate it so much. “Elementary, my dear Flambeau” shut the hell up, if this Flambeau won’t fling you down a flight of stairs then I will.

I deliberately avoided all Holmes-related media for THREE YEARS only for the awful man to spring up on me in Father Brown?? How could you do this to me???

I’m going to yeet myself into the sun, bye everyone.

(On the plus side, the Sherlock Holmes episode does have one of Father Brown’s parishioners recognise Flambeau as “a close friend of Father Brown and a frequent visitor to his room” ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), so that’s nice I suppose. I’ll still never forgive the writers of this show for putting me through this.)

Father Brown (2013):

YOU ARE HERE.

I kind of see the current TV series as a culmination of all the adaptations that’ve come before? I can definitely see echoes of all of them in it.

And it’s great! I really really love it. I love it a lot.

I think about it daily.

My one and only complaint I would have is that Flambeau isn’t in it enough. Not just because he’s my favourite, though I’d obviously not be fooling anyone who’s read all this if I said he isn’t.

And it’s not that I don’t love the show as it is, and find the one Flambeau episode a series always something really special, so I don’t know what I’d have the writers do, exactly.

But it’s just. In literally every other version of Father Brown, Flambeau is the second most important character and the second main protagonist, and to have him in this show so little that some fans or reviewers call him a “minor character” and others call him a “recurring villain”, though I myself don’t see him either of those ways of course because he’s still Flambeau, it’s just kinda sad and painful, y’know?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being silly.

Hopefully he’s a regular in at least the final season of the show. If I don’t get my favourite partners in crime solving I’m rioting.

Anyway that’s my “””brief””” rundown on all the main versions of Father Brown!! I hope you liked it!!

#Anonymous #father brown #hercule flambeau #flambrown

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