sauveur du monde

“When law and morality contradict each other, the citizen has the cruel alternative of either losing his moral sense or losing his respect for the law.” -Frédéric Bastiat Inspecteur Thomas Brannon, at your service. En anglais, s'il vous plaît. Roleplay blog for Années Folles

[inspecteurbrannon]

[inspecteurbrannon]

Y : YOURS. does your muse get protective easily?

Yes. Being the eldest of four, Tom is a caretaker. He grew up keeping tabs on his siblings, in particular Cora, in a world in which the notion of childhood as we know it had only just started to exist and children weren’t yet seen as special. It was a dangerous place, whether in their apartment building or on the street, and Tom took the lead in protecting the others. He was the leader, the guinea pig, the one who tried things first and ventured out before the others, reporting back his findings and advising them on what they should/shouldn’t do. Protectiveness was learned and demonstrated for the bulk of his youth, and never really left.

Tacking on the harshness of life in general and the brutality of where/how his parents worked, he quickly developed a class consciousness, strengthened in college as he saw those who had and those who had not and the differences in how the world treated them. Watching his mother struggle with factory life and sexual harassment and then seeing Cora dealing with the same as she attempted to break into the art world has resulted in a kind of benevolent sexism. If you were to ask him, he’d say that of course Cora can do anything he can (and better), but by virtue of how predatory the world is towards women, she is in greater need of protection. It comes from a place of seeing the terrible things that humanity is capable of as part of his day job, but especially what it is capable of re: women.

As law enforcement, he is inclined to protect everyone, but by virtue of his life to date, he senses that there are some who have fewer advantages and privileges than others, and therefore are more in need of that protection. In short, he has a (skeleton! Yay) savior complex, and his inclination is to solve problems and protect others from the harsh realities of life.

[inspecteurbrannon]

nadjababineaux​:

She hummed softly at his question, a dramatic pause for thought. “Well, if you gave off the air of a detective, then I suppose it would be very hard to be a detective, no?” Nadja’s smile brightened in the dim light of the place, a small laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep within her. “Though now that I know, I think you do. The mystery of it all. Very good at blending in.” 

A detective. Well. Perhaps it was good he was not a writer- the last writer she knew ran away with a piece of a broken heart. Maybe staying away from writers wasn’t such a bad idea. Less heartache. Fewer memories to come back to haunt her. 

“Don’t worry, monsieur- your secret is safe with me. And I am very good at keeping secrets.” 

Before her rise to prima, Nadja was the unofficial secret keeper of the corps de ballet. Whenever someone had something to unload from their chest, they sought out Little Nini and let her take a bit of the weight off their chest. As prima, it was a little harder- the younger dancers were always so hesitant to come to her. She asked friends in the corps to encourage them… she didn’t want to be like the primas she knew when she was younger. Not a diva. Just a dancer. 

Tom smiled. “Thank you. And I believe it."

If she was lying, then she had a bright future on another stage, if and when she decided to stop dancing.

He glanced at his watch before downing the last of the scotch. It was getting late. The crowd was thinning out in anticipation of the late-nighters, and Tom knew it would slowly start to get rowdier as the regulars trickled in.

“I should probably get going. I don’t know how late you were planning to stay, but did you want someone to walk you home?” Someone. It sounded like he was about to ask some random guy at the bar to do it. “Me. Did you want me to walk you home?"

[anneesfollesrpg]

Let’s see what’s on the meme-menu today - bon appétit!

As always, our muse-some meme sessions are not mandatory. To signal that you are accepting meme prompts from this week’s selection, please reblog this post. Tag your responses with #af.meme, and enjoy!

[borrowed from here]

A   :   AFFECTION.   how does your muse show affection?

B   :   BOUQUET.   does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

C   :   CHOCOLATE.   does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?

D   :   DATE.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

E   :   EMBRACE.   does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

F   :   FLIRT.   is your muse good at flirting? how do they flirt?

G   :   GIFT.   is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?

H   :   HEART.   is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away?

I    :   I LOVE YOU.   does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

J   :   JEALOUSY.   does your muse get jealous in a relationship?

K   :   KISS.   is your muse a good kisser? why / why not?

L   :   LOVE.   who does your muse love?

M   :   MOONLIGHT.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

N   :   NAUGHTY.   what is your muse like in bed?

O   :   ODE.   does your muse have a way with words?

P   :   PARTNER.   what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?

Q   :   QUESTION.   would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

R   :   ROMANCE.   is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

S   :   SWEETHEART.   did your muse have a childhood sweetheart?

T   :   TRUE LOVE.   does your muse believe in true love?

U   :   UNREQUITED.   has your muse had their heart broken?

V   :   VALENTINE.   how does your muse feel about valentine’s day?

W  :   WEDDING.   would your muse get married? why / why not?

X   :   XOXO.   does your muse use / like pet names?

Y   :   YOURS.   does your muse get protective easily?

Z   :   ZZZ.   how many people has your muse slept with?

[qvotable]

I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that’s why.

John Steinbeck / Of Mice and Men (via qvotable)

[inspecteurbrannon]

capitaineconor​:

That had been a sound, hadn’t it - the pulpy, ringing tang of a bullet popping through one of those tin hats they’d been handed, along with the fifty, sixty, seventy, seemingly endless pounds of kit. Funny thing, though, wasn’t it; those helmets. Battered and bent, and still, enough to them that they could still hold the night’s thin, salt-heavy soup, and keep you going another day. Like a body, in that. The things a bit of flesh and bone could weather. Until you hit it just right. Until it all wore out. But they’d both got lucky, hadn’t they? Him and Tom. Seemed that way, to look at the pair of them. 

Often did, didn’t it? Looks, deceiving. 

“Bet you did.” Conor chuckled, teeth to it. “Dinged a few, myself.” Who hadn’t? Besides the bastards in charge. Speaking of dings - the clang of the bell rang out, their fighters pushing off each other, back to their corners. Oh, but the big fellow was weaving. The little one, though; he had his blood up, now. Could be what won him the thing. Might make him cocky, though. Wasteful. They’d see.

 All in all it was a better match than most, for a fresh impression of the place. An impression, yeah. DuFort and Bellerose came out swinging, both eager to end it and hitting hard, the meat of them quaking with it. His eyes swerved and snapped with the pair of them. “Yeah, yeah. Why else? You wouldn’t be the first.” To test him. Sure, not. Conor smiled, a broad, bright sort of glee to the thing, and sent a quick wink up Tom’s way. “But you might be the biggest.” Didn’t have to say it, did he? That bit about bigness, and falling. Tom must’ve heard it before. Whether he’d wind up on his face or his backside, they’d settle soon enough. “It’ll be a laugh. What do you say?”   

Another survivor. It was all he could do not to ask the questions, check in with every other veteran he’d met--did it fuck you up too? Are you carrying socks right now? But to acknowledge it felt like weakness; and especially here, watching men beat each other down in aggressive displays of masculinity, wasn’t the time or place.

He hadn’t gone out looking for a fight, but he’d found one. Tom knew this was a little reckless, but it was all in good fun. A legitimate gym, a public challenge--all above-board. A casual sparring between strangers, former soldiers, testing out a friendly theory.

You might be the biggest. Tom smiled, suddenly back in the alleyway talking to his friends, the same adolescent part of him that used to brawl in the streets wanting to add another comment on size. He was old enough now that he felt it, coupled with those moments/flashes of his younger days to highlight just how long he’d lived, how far he’d come. He may have outgrown the crude commentary and the need to talk about his manhood, but was apparently still down for a fight.

“Alright. You’re on.” This would be interesting. "Gloved,” he added, for a bit of additional clarity. The Irish were a rough crowd, and he had enough of people trying to take a swing at him as they fled crime scenes. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and bare fists held no appeal.

[classyhollwood]

Greta Garbo photographed by Ruth Harriet Louise, 1926

[inspecteurbrannon]

Challenge #4 - “Summer Moments” Aesthetic & Playlist

A playlist dedicated to summer days full of friendship, flirting, and teenage rebellion as they fade into the harsh realities of adulthood, loss, and war.

Sticks N’ Stones by Jamie T

Tonight Tonight by Hot Chelle Rae

Summer Girls by LFO

Summer of ‘69 by Bryan Adams

Summer in the City by The Lovin’ Spoonful

Born To Be Wild by Steppenwolf

Bigger Than My Body by John Mayer

Stressed Out by Twenty One Pilots

Some Nights by fun.

All These Things That I’ve Done by The Killers

Time In a Bottle by Jim Croce

Good Things by Rival Sons

[inspecteurbrannon]

Count On Me

@cora-brannon​

Siblings were somehow the best and worst part of growing up. It meant ready-made friends, partners in crime…but it also meant tag-alongs. Extra responsibility. And Cora, as the youngest, was always saddled with him.

Bring your sister. Watch out for your sister. Get one for your sister. What about your sister?

Tom remembered when she was born. He remembered all of them, but hers was actually his favorite. He was six by then, finally old enough to better understand what brotherhood meant, and he loved keeping an eye on her. Even when she got older and their mom kept throwing her his way, keeping her entertained, he didn’t mind…most of the time. Flirting was made definitely harder by having a third wheel.

Not much has changed, he thought, smirking. But he wouldn’t have had it any other way. Especially not now, not after everyone and everything else they’d lost. They’d worked to become close again, back to who they’d been to one another before college, puberty, and physical distance had worn down the ties between them, and they’d made it happen. Of course he’d always loved her in the mandatory sense, the way that required no thought or self reflection—the automatic “love you too.” But more than that, Tom genuinely liked her; he’d have been thrilled to be Cora’s friend even if they weren’t related, even if she wasn’t still saddled with him.

And so he’d tagged along to the museum when she asked, walking next to her, a sounding board for her thoughts and rambles and musings as she looked around for inspiration.

Glancing at the wall, he stopped. This was…rectangles. A canvas of empty, white rectangles, with a few colors on the edges. Art? No. Anyone would do this. Hell, he could do this.

“You paint much better than this.” Sure, he was biased, but she did. “How much do you think this—” Tom leaned in to read the placard. “—Mondrian guy charged this place for a handful of straight lines? I feel like I should report this as a crime."

[inspecteurbrannon]

jacklambton​:

“You utter bastard!” Jack half leapt over the table when he saw him, alarming two overly affectionate young ladies who had clearly been trying to decide between giggling about Jack and staring at the profoundly impressive feature that had given Tom his nickname. Jack honestly couldn’t remember if it had been his idea or someone else’s and he’d encouraged it. “Earl Grey” definitely wasn’t his, but the extreme pleasure he derived from one of the Americans calling out to him when his brother, the actual soon-to-be Earl, was walking by, was not to be underestimated. 

He had closed the distance in that strange way he sometimes did where he forgot he’d been injured until he landed and the strange stinging returned, but didn’t quite know what to do when he’d gotten there. Jack’d always been an affectionate person. That would be no strange new thing to a very old friend. God. A very old friend. Perhaps his only remnant from the war. The only happy thing. The only living thing that he was supposed to see. “You’re… here. You ridiculously tall asshole.” 

He didn’t know what to say beyond it. I’m sorry. I should have looked. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone over. I should have stopped Cam somehow. Stopped all this, somehow. Not added yet another pain to your tragic tally by my own inaction and truly pathetic bowing to my family. But after that he’d been too angry, hadn’t he, to think of much of anyone but himself? Perhaps he didn’t want to be found. Perhaps knowing someone who knew him when he was like the Barghest, the monster in the trenches, snapping Germans in two before disappearing in a cloud of smoke, maybe that was what he’d been afraid of.

But it melted away in staring up at Tom. It really was staring up. The man was a fucking tree. But a tree he’d missed profoundly, so he hugged him all the same as people poked their heads around the line to look. “Who let you into this hellhole?” he asked, unsure if he meant the bookstore or the country. 

Tom couldn’t help the laugh as Jack launched himself across the table. He caught the Englishman in his arms, engulfing him in a bear hug. He'd bonded with the men he’d served with, whether they’d held the line together for days or for months. The ties were instantaneous, effortless and permanent, shared experience and brotherhood welding them together. It was a chain forged in Hell, and wasn’t easily broken. Especially with Jack, this short English lambchop son of a bitch.

“I’m here? You’re here! I can’t fucking believe it."

It wasn’t until he had a good grip on Jack that the gap hit him. The notable absence of an entire limb. Tom was a little thrown, a cycle of emotions hitting him fast and hard. Registering the change as they hugged...such a jarring difference from the man he’d known, the man he’d remembered. But he’d seen worse. And Jack was breathing, laughing, hugging him back. So it was easier to roll right past the questions and straight into acceptance.

“You always were an awkward hugger."

They had to laugh about it. Joke through the trauma. Keep your spirits up, whether genuinely amused or just tricking yourself into thinking you were. Faking joy until it felt real. His friend had lost his arm…but he was fucking alive, and that joy was incredibly, impossibly real.

“I’m here for you, Mr. Fancy-Pants Published Author. Old habits die hard, and you know me--can’t pass up an orderly line. Jesus! How long have you been—“ Publishing Books? Here? Alive? “—in town?"

[inspecteurbrannon]

nadjababineaux​:

Hunches, clues, solving the case- she felt like she was reading a… mystery. A grin slowly crept onto her face, like the Cheshire Cat appearing in the branches of the tree above Alice. Well, it would do him no good if she were to announce it to the bar- that would be rather unfortunate, wouldn’t it? Were detectives supposed to be anonymous? Did it help? Nadja did not pretend to know the ins and outs of solving mysteries.

The bubbles from the champagne in the drink tickled her nose as she took another sip. She missed this- champagne, laughter, going out… fun. She had missed fun. There was too much she hadn’t seen, too much she didn’t know. Like that detectives liked to sneak into clubs for a cocktail in the evening. 

“No monsieur, I think with the evidence you just gave me, it’s enough to… Åh Gud, how do you say it? Crack the case?” 

Tom could tell by her smile that she’d figured it out. In his experience, law enforcement fell into one of two camps--they either indulged a little too hard in the Parisian nightlife, or never allowed themselves to venture out at all. He liked to think he was a happy medium, erring on the side of the latter. Toes in the water, adjusting to the temperature before diving in. Just...exploring a little. Simple pleasures, reminding himself of a life worth living.

Finishing off his drink, he chuckled.

“So--verdict? Surprising? Expected? Do I give off a ‘detective’ vibe?”

It was better he didn’t, all things considered. Blending in visually was an asset, and a much-needed one, especially when his height and his accent made him stick out.

[inspecteurbrannon]

capitaineconor​:

Of all the army might’ve taught. Hard to say which of them had got less in the way of meaningful drilling, from the sounds of that. “Mm, valuable sort of lesson, I’d think,” Conor shot a look up and down him, trying to picture all that fitting in your average trench. “Your back must’ve been in bits, by the end. With the stooping.“ Not that he would’ve had to survive it too long. In the grand scheme of things. (Such a grand scheme it was.) How long had the Americans even been there, in the mud, anyway? By the time Conor had heard any around, time had stopped mattering much at all. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. All gone to rot. Eaten up with the bully beef and tots of rum, burnt down with the cigarettes. All of them, tumble-down chimneys in khaki. 

And then, the doughboys. Loud and proud and swaggering about, ready to save the day, so they seemed to think. At least they’d brought enough chocolate and coffee to share around.

But a big city doughboy, this one. New York. Like so many of the others who’d left, emptying out the villages Conor used to know. What was this family’s story, in all that? The thought dragged like a chip log, as he wondered when they’d run, how fast, reasons they might’ve had pulling through his hands like so much soaked-swollen rope, knot by knot. Hunger. Fighting. Hope. Loads of cause, wasn’t there? He’d have understood any of them, all of them. Fair enough. Funny to think - that if Conor had had someone to take him, they might’ve wound up neighbors. The Irish abroad. Funny. 

“Conor.” He’d raised an eyebrow at that hand, but. Took it, all the same, with a sweeping shake. Introductions ringside. Fine place for that. “Could say I’ve a habit, yeah. Worse ones out there.” He would know. “You?” That, followed by another once over, a sneaking smile. Oh, sure. Tom, here, he looked up for it. “Just to watch? Or do you ever cross the ropes, yourself?” 

"I went through my share of helmets."

Movement. It was all he could do to keep moving, helmet coated in mud for extra camouflage. As First Sergeant, that had been much of his job anyway--keeping the guys running, shooting…doing. Motivator and initiator, the conduit between what the higher powers had to say and what the squad had to do. A lot of his fellow sergeants hadn’t made it. When others could sit still, hunker down, hold a position, they'd had no choice but to get up, get around, and help lead the charge over the top.

Creating fire from your fingertips. Communicating from beyond the grave. Carrying your own head through Paris. These were the kind of stories he’d been told growing up, evidence of the piety and canonization of the saints. Tom didn’t know if he believed in miracles, not really. But he’d watched hundreds of men on either side of him get hit, collapse into the mud, and yet there he stood. Divine intervention to keep Cora from being left alone? Blind luck of a reckless son of a bitch? Despite the faith of his parents, he was more inclined to believe the latter.

“First time. At least here.”

Conor was visibly sizing him up. The Irishman was built like a brick wall. Held himself with the type of casual arrogance that enticed others to challenge him, put it to the test, and walk away as pulp for their trouble.

“I’ve gone a round or two. Why? Interested in testing out that height theory?”

[anneesfollesrpg]

Let’s see what’s on the meme-menu today - bon appétit!

As always, our muse-some meme sessions are not mandatory. To signal that you are accepting meme prompts from this week’s selection, please reblog this post. Tag your responses with #af.meme, and enjoy!

[borrowed from here]

⍤ : Describe the sound of your muse’s voice. What is most distinctive about it? 

✍ : What is your muse’s handwriting like?

☕ : Does your muse prefer coffee or tea?

⌚ : Is your muse good with keeping on schedule for meetings, appointments, or events? 

☺ : What is your muse’s smile like? Do they smile often?

⚡ : Did your muse have any especially powerful childhood fears? What were they? Have they grown out of them now… or are those monsters still hiding under the bed, in some sense?

⚠ : How does your muse react to possibly dangerous situations? Do they face them head-on, or do they plan out their actions first?

☃  : What is your muse’s favourite season? What about their least favourite season, if they have one?

☂  : Does your muse have a favourite sort of weather? A least favourite?

☼ : Does your muse like daytime or nighttime more?

🏨  : How well does your muse sleep? What keeps them up at night? What helps them rest?

❤ : What are your muse’s thoughts on love? If they are not in a relationship, do they believe that they will ever find a perfect someone for them?

☘ : Does your muse believe in luck? How about fate?

♨ : Describe your muse’s relationship to “manners.” What do they think “good manners” looks like? 

♬ : Does your muse sing well? Regardless of whether they sing well or not, do they enjoy singing? Name a favourite song or two of theirs, if you like!

📐 : What subject(s) does your muse know best? How did they learn about these areas?

♞ : What is your muse’s favorite animal? Why?

εїз : How does your muse feel about “creepy crawlies”? Are they the sort to smack a bug to bits, or help it outside? 

☆ : Of the sun, stars, and the moon, which is your muse’s favorite?

ツ : Does your muse prefer lots of friends, or just a few close ones?

✝ : Is your muse religious? How do they relate to their faith, these days?

[anneesfollesrpg]

Let’s see what’s on the meme-menu today - bon appétit!

As always, our muse-some meme sessions are not mandatory. To signal that you are accepting meme prompts from this week’s selection, please reblog this post. Tag your responses with #af.meme, and enjoy!

[borrowed from here]

Send a single word. The recipient can respond with a headcanon, drabble, or visual post of some kind! 

Sunlight

Alone

Darkness

Streets

Cupboard

Snacks

Doubt

Joy

Peace

Moment

Rain

Hum

Kitchen

Bedroom

Family

Friend

Garden

Relax

Stress

Job

Fury

Betrayed

Absence

Vices

Pets

Absolve

Stars

Scorn

Praise

Laundry

Papers

Smoke

Wine

Couch

Kiss

Doors

Tree

Dirt

Flowers

Collect

Remove

ADD YOUR OWN!

[joshhartnett]

Josh Hartnett for Marc O'Polo Spring 2016 Campaign - Director’s Cut

[inspecteurbrannon]

🍻 “do you believe in true love, in any sense?”

“Oh, definitely. Songs, books, plays, sculptures, paintings...centuries of artists talking about it, fixating on it. It’s gotta be real. I think...that I’ll find it, someday. Out of the blue. But...I think that love is only half the battle. People fall in love all the time with people they can’t be with, not really. Adulterers. Philanderers. Criminals. People who leave, people who die. I think love--true romantic love, the passion people write about, spend their lives searching for--has a tendency to hurt more than it heals. And...I’m kind of terrified, to be honest, that when all is said and done, experiencing that kind of love, losing that kind of love...will break me, a little bit. A lot, maybe. So...not in any rush to get there. Besides...I’m not alone, not really. God willing, I never will be.”

[inspecteurbrannon]

Friends Never Say Goodbye

@jacklambton​

Tom didn’t know a lot about art and he wasn’t much of a writer, but reading...reading he loved. His parents had been big proponents of literacy, and he was pretty sure being well-read is what had driven him to college. He’d taken the day off and was heading home to see if Cora wanted to go out on the town when he saw the line outside a bookstore along with a sidewalk sandwich board. Book signing. Interesting.

He knelt down near the shop window, craning his neck to spot the author. No dice. But this was a decent line, and the people in it were whispering excitedly. Shrugging, he took his place in the back, patiently people-watching as the line moved forward. He wondered if he could glean information about the book from context, but the pair in front of him didn’t seem as interested in the book they were holding as the one the author was expected to release soon. Apparently it was kind of a big deal. Society gossip. World-changing.

As he made it through the doorway, a shopkeeper came out, handing books to those who didn’t already have them, amid reminders to pay at the register. Tom took one, scanning the cover. The Patient Man by J.R. Lambton. He half-chuckled, staring at the author’s name. He’d known two Lambtons once, and he wouldn’t necessarily peg either of them as patient. He glanced up, having a better view of the author’s table from inside the shop. One foot out of line, he leaned over to the side, peering around the train of people and the woman talking excitedly with the man at the table. As she accepted her book and walked away, his face came into full view.

Speak of the devil.

He was alive. Jack Lambton was fucking alive. Fucking Jack, Earl Grey himself, living and breathing and writing novels. His body almost started to hum, and it was all he could do not to bounce around as he waited, full of nervous excitement. Almost ten years since he’d watched him climb out of the trench, up over the line. Since the explosions that’d gone on forever, blurring the world with dirt and smoke.

Since his friend had charged and hadn’t come back.

“Name?” the man asked as Tom approached, not looking up.

“Peaches,” he replied, amused.