icarus-wrote-the-other51

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS hahahahaha sage-ly advice heheehehehe s2ep12 gives me avengers endgame vibes. does this mean someone is pulling an "i am iron man" idc abt the rest/j give me s2ep13 STRAIGHT s1ep2 is me fr

If your book was to be turned into a tv series, what would the first episode be titled?

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

Yeah so I'm going to go ahead and do the first season cus I wanna

Ep 1: A casino, A detective and a very dead man

Ep 2: Out of Prison, not out of trouble

Ep 3: Some Assembling (and Bribery) required

Ep 4: Throwing out the plan

Ep 5: Climbing trees you can't jump off of

Ep 6: Love language: Rescue and Berate

Ep 7: Heist, take two

Ep 8: Congratulations, You're all fired!

Ep 9: Tell him I said sorry.

Sike I did season two as well

Ep 1: Locke(d) and Loaded

Ep 2: Three out of Five Royals recomend not Dying

Ep 3: All the king's horses and all of Vesper's men

Ep 4: Sagely advice on a train

Ep 5: And so we meet again

Ep 6: Auctions and other Occupational Hazards

Ep 7: Bite the bullet

Ep 8: Liminal

Ep 9: Ace in the hole

TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @st4rrylavendersk1es @lovely-writes-alot @blackcherriestxox

If you want you can guess what some of the episodes are!

If your book was to be turned into a tv series, what would the first episode be titled?

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

PROLOGUE:

Nobody remembers the last words of a man who died in a London alley, all alone. Except, he wasn’t alone - not really. Two people remembered, remembered like it was etched in their skins. Two people who saw him that night, in the chaos of shots fired - and two people’s lives fell apart as the man’s slid away. The rain came down in sheets, turning the alley into a river of filth and broken glass. Gil’s breath steamed in the cold, the taste of smoke and copper thick in his mouth. He pressed a hand to his side, blood warm against the chill, and watched the shadows shift at the far end of the alley. “Should’ve known dunces who don’t have manners wouldn’t have paid their dues,” He smiled thinly at the men, who scoffed right back at him, hefting their guns once again. “Just let the money go, old man, no one else needs to get hurt.” Across the alley, the gang’s muscle hesitated, gun wavering.

He’d come to collect. That was the job. A tab left unpaid by a man with too many friends in the wrong places. Gil had never liked guns, but he liked being owed even less. Gil’s laugh was a low, broken thing. “You think this is about  money? You’re in the wrong city for that.”

Another shot rang out. The world narrowed to the sound of rain on concrete, the sharp tang of blood, and the weight of years pressing down. Gil’s mind flickered through faces—old friends, old debts, a girl with clever eyes and a boy who never learned to run.

He didn’t flinch, or at least tried not to - staggering backwards, his back hitting the alley’s brick wall and vision blurring. One of the gang member’s cursed, throwing the gun down on the street and yelling at the rest to move before someone called the cops.

As the men filtered out of the streets, a girl jumped off her perch on the building’s first floor balcony, small, fast, heart pounding loud enough to drown the sirens in the distance. Another figure jumped off too, silent in contrast to the loud voice of his friend, screaming at him to do something. “Gil!” The girl’s voice broke, desperate. Hands pressed against his side, trying to hold him together. “Don’t—please, just hold on—” 

He looked up, rain in his eyes. “You listen to me, both of you. You run. You hear me? You run and don’t look back.”

Blue lights flickered at the mouth of the alley. Footsteps pounded closer. Gil’s breath rattled. He could see the two of them, faces pale, eyes wild. He’d raised them better than this—taught them to bluff, to fight, to survive. He’d taught them everything except how to let go. The girl sat there, shaking, two differently colored eyes holding tears back, hands and knees sticky with her adoptive father’s blood. There was a shout around the corner of the alley - most certainly a cop - and finally the other figure, a boy too tall for his age moved forward. He crouched down to her level voice just as shaky as hers, “You heard him, Ves, leave. I’ll handle this. Go.” “What?! No, no, he told both of us to -” “Listen to me!” He shouted louder than he meant to, moving to pick up the gun, “You’re too damn smart to rot in a cell!”

Gil inhaled weakly, eyelids drooping, “He’s right. Leave, love.You promised me you’d never get caught. Don’t start now. We know you’ll find a way to…to..help him..” The girl’s eyes darted between them, torn between logic and loyalty, panic and cold pain. She swallowed a frustrated scream and pulled Gil’s coat off him and ran off into the night with a singular phrase in her head. Help him. Help him.

The lean boy stood as the police rounded the corner, hands raised, face set and dropping the gun down. “It was me,” he said, voice shaking with real grief, “It was an accident.”

Gil’s eyes closed at last, the city’s noise fading to nothing.

That night, the police showed up at the casino, faces grim. A rough boy informed the sharp-eyed girl living there that her guardian had passed.  The sharp-eyed girl would nod, mask in place, informing them that she hadn’t seen him at all that night. They did not notice the shortness of her breath, or the rain still dripping from the ends of her long hair. No one would remember that girl, the boy that went to take her fall, and the man that died in that alley.

But the city would remember. The alley would remember. 

They took the boy away in cuffs. He caught her eye as they passed, and she mouthed, I’ll get you out. Soon.

In the dark of that cursed alley, Vesper Locke would remember this as the night Gil died—and the night something in her died with him. That night, she buried her heart beside his body and made her promise the only purpose of her life. 

TAGLIST:@dreamboyinthedarkvoid@lovely-writes-alot@st4rrylavendersk1es@blackcherriestxox! !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

PLEASE???? WHY???

Ruthless, they call her in the streets.

it's a fair description - after all, how many times have people faced the wrong end of Vesper Locke's pistol?

but to call her unloving, cold - that is simply not true.

her love is too big, in fact, too warm for her to express. but it's there.

it's there in the way her hand tightens around Silas' wrists when they run while holding hands - she knows he needs to know she isn't gone for a second time it's there in the way she shuts the cork of her wine bottle everytime Theo comes to talk - she knows he doesn't like it

it's there in the way she watches Felix sob into her coat and gathers him up against her - she knows he's felt the need to perform all his life. it's there in the way she pushes a cup of tea towards Elizabeth while they ponder over maps, just the way she likes it - she knows her heart still yearns to walk the path back to her burnt house it's there in the way she stands in front of Isa everytime they meet Isa's father - she knows she needs reassurance that she wont be sold out again, just like her father did to her

it's in the way she gathers and silently pays felix's rent for him, in the way she pushes theo to felix when they need to talk, in the way she committed her life to getting silas out of jail, in the way she covers elizabeth with her coat during winter and in the way she smiles thinly at isa's repeated questions

it's there when she brings back food from some cheap restaurant and they all grab for it like children

call Vesper Locke ruthless, cunning, sly - but never call her unloving.

TAGLIST:@dreamboyinthedarkvoid@lovely-writes-alot@st4rrylavendersk1es@blackcherriestxox! !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

Ruthless, they call her in the streets.

it's a fair description - after all, how many times have people faced the wrong end of Vesper Locke's pistol?

but to call her unloving, cold - that is simply not true.

her love is too big, in fact, too warm for her to express. but it's there.

it's there in the way her hand tightens around Silas' wrists when they run while holding hands - she knows he needs to know she isn't gone for a second time it's there in the way she shuts the cork of her wine bottle everytime Theo comes to talk - she knows he doesn't like it

it's there in the way she watches Felix sob into her coat and gathers him up against her - she knows he's felt the need to perform all his life. it's there in the way she pushes a cup of tea towards Elizabeth while they ponder over maps, just the way she likes it - she knows her heart still yearns to walk the path back to her burnt house it's there in the way she stands in front of Isa everytime they meet Isa's father - she knows she needs reassurance that she wont be sold out again, just like her father did to her

it's in the way she gathers and silently pays felix's rent for him, in the way she pushes theo to felix when they need to talk, in the way she committed her life to getting silas out of jail, in the way she covers elizabeth with her coat during winter and in the way she smiles thinly at isa's repeated questions

it's there when she brings back food from some cheap restaurant and they all grab for it like children

call Vesper Locke ruthless, cunning, sly - but never call her unloving.

TAGLIST:@dreamboyinthedarkvoid@lovely-writes-alot@st4rrylavendersk1es@blackcherriestxox! !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

you know, sometimes i wonder what it's like to be happy in your own home i dont know why i feel so, for i had a proper home growing up. i dont deserve this gaping sadness inside me and yet as i watch a mother and daughter, starving and yet holding hands and singing a lullaby as i watch a father with his son, laughing even after the boy dropped his tea all over his father as i watch a youngster guide an old lady down the road and the old lady passing him a candy from her purse i wonder why people in such conditions can find happiness in the smallest of things i am selfish. i grew up with everything and yet my childhood meant nothing.

TAGLIST:@dreamboyinthedarkvoid@lovely-writes-alot@st4rrylavendersk1es@blackcherriestxox !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

HELP?????????????? OKAY FAIR BUT SILAS IS TRYING TO BE NONCHALANT ABT IT

god really looked at me and said "let him be PERFECT" and then went on and decided to give me copious amounts of trauma because beauty is pain. which would be fine with me, i can deal with pain. but THEN, He went "oh yes, and also the guy you love? ha. ha." so now I'm handsome, traumatized, and bitchless. no wonder i like drinking so much. TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot @st4rrylavendersk1es @blackcherriestxox! !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

god really looked at me and said "let him be PERFECT" and then went on and decided to give me copious amounts of trauma because beauty is pain. which would be fine with me, i can deal with pain. but THEN, He went "oh yes, and also the guy you love? ha. ha." so now I'm handsome, traumatized, and bitchless. no wonder i like drinking so much. TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot @st4rrylavendersk1es @blackcherriestxox! !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

"What do you want?" It's a question. One Vesper has been searching for the answer to for 21 years of her life. As a child, she would've said something materialistic, childish - she would've said, "I want candy! A new deck of cards! A coat just like Gil's!" At the age of 14, she would've answered with a shaky voice - she would've said, "I want his voice to leave me. For his image to be burnt away from my memories." At the age of 17, she would've said something vague, because she truly did not know anymore what she wanted - she would've said, "Money." At the age of 19, she would've answered with steel in her voice, eyes detached - she would've said, "I want death." Today, at the age of 21, when Isabella asked her this question, she looked at her. And whatever answers she had practiced in the mirror for her whole life disappeared. "I want to go home. And I...don't know where that is." Because Vesper Locke wasn't a woman made for home. It was unattainable. She was made for shadows, blood and pain. But never a home. She desired for it - and was that not want?

TAGLIST:@dreamboyinthedarkvoid@lovely-writes-alot@st4rrylavendersk1es@blackcherriestxox! !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

HEHEEH

BLACKLANE AND IT'S SURROUNDINGS:

What place to start with other than the hub of my royals, eh? Blacklane is a fictional street sitting just east of Soho, London. It's half a mile of narrow streets and fog-choked alleys where the disturbed found their place and the comforted found a good enough deal. By day, Blacklane looked almost ordinary: a jumble of Victorian brick, battered shops, and the odd splash of new money—There’s a tailor’s shop with a bell that never rings for customers, a blacksmith whose back room is stacked higher with IOUs than cigarettes, and a café whose pastries are as fresh as it's gossip.  At the middle of it all, stands it's legendary casino - THE CRIMSON ROYALE. No one knows how long it's been up, just that it's been running for even before casino's were properly legalized in England. The front door is discreet, just a brass handle and a small plaque, but there’s always a doorman watching. Inside, the air smells of smoke, gin, and expensive perfume. Cards snap, dice rattle, and the piano in the lounge never quite drowns out the hum of conversation. The odd staff that inhabit the place (who, for their sharp eyes have gotten the nickname Falcons) move between tables, their smiles quick and practiced. The regulars know where to find the best odds, and the staff know when to look the other way.  Back in the day, it used to be just that. A casino where the occasional rich snob lost his fortune and drank his tears away. Nowadays, however, it's known to be a hub for criminals, for getting shady jobs done - the dirty work, whether it was killing a competitor, forging illegal documents or an alibi, all for the right price. No one's really sure who owns it, just the woman that is its public face, Isabella Moretti. Her sharp smile and sharper wit keep her in constant struggle with the coppers. Speaking of the police, everyone knows something shady is going on in there. But as some like to say, No evidence, no crime ;). If you know where to look, you’ll find the pawnbroker who’ll take anything—watches, wedding rings, or the odd government file that’s "fallen off the back of a lorry". There’s a chemist who stocks powders for every ailment, legal or otherwise, and a newsagent who always seems to get the racing results a few minutes early.

If you want to disappear, Blacklane will swallow you whole. If you want to be found, well, that can be arranged too—for a price. And if you ever feel like you own the street, think once more - for Blacklane and its residents will remind you that the street and its routine has been here for longer than you have, and will stay so even after you're gone.

TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot @st4rrylavendersk1es @blackcherriestxox !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

tytytytyty

HISTORY OF THE CRIMSON ROYALE:

"it's like it showed up out of nowhere!"

No one can say for certain when the Crimson Royale first opened its doors on Blacklane. Some say it’s always been there, as permanent as the city's very foundations and dark alleys, outlasting fights and outwitting every law the Parliament could manage to throw at it. What is known is that the Crimson Royale predates the 1960 Betting and Gaming Act, which finally made casinos legal in the UK. Before that, gambling dens in London lived in the shadows, masquerading as private clubs or “gentlemen’s societies,” where a well-placed bribe or a nod to the right inspector kept the tables spinning. The Royale was no different—except, perhaps, for being better at it than most. Its membership books were always in perfect order, its ledgers always just clean enough, and its dealers always knew when to swap the real cards for the ones reserved for police visits.

The first name anyone remembers with certainty is Gil “Gillard” Locke. Gil was a legend in his own right. He took over the Royale sometime in the late 1940s, when ration books were still currency and the city was rebuilding by day and betting everything by night. Gil ran the place with a light touch and a heavy wallet, keeping the police close and his enemies closer. Under his watch, the Royale became the kind of establishment where dukes and dockers might rub shoulders, provided they knew how to keep their mouths shut.

Of course, Gil never put his name on the deeds. That was the trick in those days—ownership was a rumour, passed in whispers and sealed with a handshake in a back room. When Gil vanished (as legends do, when the story demands it), the question of who truly owned the Royale became a favourite topic for Blacklane’s gossips.

The Royale has had as many owners as it’s had scandals. Stories said that there was the exiled Russian count who lost it in a single night to a woman with a diamond cigarette holder. A jazz musician who turned the basement into an illegal nightclub during the war. A crooked solicitor who tried to turn it into a “respectable” club and was run out of town by his own clientele. Each left their mark—some in the ledgers, some in the walls, and some in the stories the staff still tell after closing. But the truth was, quite ironically, that no one really knew the truth. Some swore they saw Gil with two kids, others bet that he was a bachelor. Everyone was mildly confused. By the time the law caught up with the city’s appetite for risk and the 1960 Act made casinos legal , the Crimson Royale simply adjusted its mask, applied for a licence, and carried on as if nothing had changed. The inspectors still came, the regulars still signed the membership book, and the real business still happened behind closed doors.

These days, the question of who owns the Crimson Royale is as murky as ever. Some say it’s run by a trust, others by a ghost. But if you ask the old-timers, they’ll tell you the truth: the Royale belongs to Blacklane, and Blacklane belongs to no one.

TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot @st4rrylavendersk1es @blackcherriestxox !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

HISTORY OF THE CRIMSON ROYALE:

"it's like it showed up out of nowhere!"

No one can say for certain when the Crimson Royale first opened its doors on Blacklane. Some say it’s always been there, as permanent as the city's very foundations and dark alleys, outlasting fights and outwitting every law the Parliament could manage to throw at it. What is known is that the Crimson Royale predates the 1960 Betting and Gaming Act, which finally made casinos legal in the UK. Before that, gambling dens in London lived in the shadows, masquerading as private clubs or “gentlemen’s societies,” where a well-placed bribe or a nod to the right inspector kept the tables spinning. The Royale was no different—except, perhaps, for being better at it than most. Its membership books were always in perfect order, its ledgers always just clean enough, and its dealers always knew when to swap the real cards for the ones reserved for police visits.

The first name anyone remembers with certainty is Gil “Gillard” Locke. Gil was a legend in his own right. He took over the Royale sometime in the late 1940s, when ration books were still currency and the city was rebuilding by day and betting everything by night. Gil ran the place with a light touch and a heavy wallet, keeping the police close and his enemies closer. Under his watch, the Royale became the kind of establishment where dukes and dockers might rub shoulders, provided they knew how to keep their mouths shut.

Of course, Gil never put his name on the deeds. That was the trick in those days—ownership was a rumour, passed in whispers and sealed with a handshake in a back room. When Gil vanished (as legends do, when the story demands it), the question of who truly owned the Royale became a favourite topic for Blacklane’s gossips.

The Royale has had as many owners as it’s had scandals. Stories said that there was the exiled Russian count who lost it in a single night to a woman with a diamond cigarette holder. A jazz musician who turned the basement into an illegal nightclub during the war. A crooked solicitor who tried to turn it into a “respectable” club and was run out of town by his own clientele. Each left their mark—some in the ledgers, some in the walls, and some in the stories the staff still tell after closing. But the truth was, quite ironically, that no one really knew the truth. Some swore they saw Gil with two kids, others bet that he was a bachelor. Everyone was mildly confused. By the time the law caught up with the city’s appetite for risk and the 1960 Act made casinos legal , the Crimson Royale simply adjusted its mask, applied for a licence, and carried on as if nothing had changed. The inspectors still came, the regulars still signed the membership book, and the real business still happened behind closed doors.

These days, the question of who owns the Crimson Royale is as murky as ever. Some say it’s run by a trust, others by a ghost. But if you ask the old-timers, they’ll tell you the truth: the Royale belongs to Blacklane, and Blacklane belongs to no one.

TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot @st4rrylavendersk1es @blackcherriestxox !!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

OMGOMG can i join the taglist :DD this looks so cool!!!!

OFC!!!!!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

RAHH TY

BLACKLANE AND IT'S SURROUNDINGS:

What place to start with other than the hub of my royals, eh? Blacklane is a fictional street sitting just east of Soho, London. It's half a mile of narrow streets and fog-choked alleys where the disturbed found their place and the comforted found a good enough deal. By day, Blacklane looked almost ordinary: a jumble of Victorian brick, battered shops, and the odd splash of new money—There’s a tailor’s shop with a bell that never rings for customers, a blacksmith whose back room is stacked higher with IOUs than cigarettes, and a café whose pastries are as fresh as it's gossip.  At the middle of it all, stands it's legendary casino - THE CRIMSON ROYALE. No one knows how long it's been up, just that it's been running for even before casino's were properly legalized in England. The front door is discreet, just a brass handle and a small plaque, but there’s always a doorman watching. Inside, the air smells of smoke, gin, and expensive perfume. Cards snap, dice rattle, and the piano in the lounge never quite drowns out the hum of conversation. The odd staff that inhabit the place (who, for their sharp eyes have gotten the nickname Falcons) move between tables, their smiles quick and practiced. The regulars know where to find the best odds, and the staff know when to look the other way.  Back in the day, it used to be just that. A casino where the occasional rich snob lost his fortune and drank his tears away. Nowadays, however, it's known to be a hub for criminals, for getting shady jobs done - the dirty work, whether it was killing a competitor, forging illegal documents or an alibi, all for the right price. No one's really sure who owns it, just the woman that is its public face, Isabella Moretti. Her sharp smile and sharper wit keep her in constant struggle with the coppers. Speaking of the police, everyone knows something shady is going on in there. But as some like to say, No evidence, no crime ;). If you know where to look, you’ll find the pawnbroker who’ll take anything—watches, wedding rings, or the odd government file that’s "fallen off the back of a lorry". There’s a chemist who stocks powders for every ailment, legal or otherwise, and a newsagent who always seems to get the racing results a few minutes early.

If you want to disappear, Blacklane will swallow you whole. If you want to be found, well, that can be arranged too—for a price. And if you ever feel like you own the street, think once more - for Blacklane and its residents will remind you that the street and its routine has been here for longer than you have, and will stay so even after you're gone.

TAGLIST:@dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

pride month's over i like boys now

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

the little things #1:

Vesper once climbed a tree during autumn and regretted the decision as soon as she realised she needed to get down. After an hour of whimpering, she jumped off, broke her hand, and swore never to jump off high places ever again. Almost 11 years later, Vesper stands on the railing of the rooftop of a warehouse and curses to herself, listening to the intent footsteps of her chasers. After a minute's consideration, she jumps off, breaks a bunch of bones, gets off her ass and runs in pure agony - and realises exactly why she made such a promise to herself.

Maybe don't climb trees you can't jump off of.

TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot @st4rrylavendersk1es @blackcherriestxox !!

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

BLACKLANE AND IT'S SURROUNDINGS:

What place to start with other than the hub of my royals, eh? Blacklane is a fictional street sitting just east of Soho, London. It's half a mile of narrow streets and fog-choked alleys where the disturbed found their place and the comforted found a good enough deal. By day, Blacklane looked almost ordinary: a jumble of Victorian brick, battered shops, and the odd splash of new money—There’s a tailor’s shop with a bell that never rings for customers, a blacksmith whose back room is stacked higher with IOUs than cigarettes, and a café whose pastries are as fresh as it's gossip.  At the middle of it all, stands it's legendary casino - THE CRIMSON ROYALE. No one knows how long it's been up, just that it's been running for even before casino's were properly legalized in England. The front door is discreet, just a brass handle and a small plaque, but there’s always a doorman watching. Inside, the air smells of smoke, gin, and expensive perfume. Cards snap, dice rattle, and the piano in the lounge never quite drowns out the hum of conversation. The odd staff that inhabit the place (who, for their sharp eyes have gotten the nickname Falcons) move between tables, their smiles quick and practiced. The regulars know where to find the best odds, and the staff know when to look the other way.  Back in the day, it used to be just that. A casino where the occasional rich snob lost his fortune and drank his tears away. Nowadays, however, it's known to be a hub for criminals, for getting shady jobs done - the dirty work, whether it was killing a competitor, forging illegal documents or an alibi, all for the right price. No one's really sure who owns it, just the woman that is its public face, Isabella Moretti. Her sharp smile and sharper wit keep her in constant struggle with the coppers. Speaking of the police, everyone knows something shady is going on in there. But as some like to say, No evidence, no crime ;). If you know where to look, you’ll find the pawnbroker who’ll take anything—watches, wedding rings, or the odd government file that’s "fallen off the back of a lorry". There’s a chemist who stocks powders for every ailment, legal or otherwise, and a newsagent who always seems to get the racing results a few minutes early.

If you want to disappear, Blacklane will swallow you whole. If you want to be found, well, that can be arranged too—for a price. And if you ever feel like you own the street, think once more - for Blacklane and its residents will remind you that the street and its routine has been here for longer than you have, and will stay so even after you're gone.

TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot @st4rrylavendersk1es @blackcherriestxox !!!