#pretend you didn't already see him from my pfp

[birb0t]

kaoru sakurayashiki you will always be famous

[the-modern-typewriter]

Where is your pfp from?

It's one of my own characters that I painted on my tablet.

Her name is Lucille De Silva/née Lucille Wolverton depending on the story. She's from one of my, as of yet unwritten, novels. I have the character for her very strongly in my head, but haven't been able to decide between several (seriously, there are at least three) different plots I'd want to use her for.

...and you didn't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway, because I adore Lucille and will take any excuse to talk about her.

For the additionally curious:

1. You can read the opening of one plot version here on tumblr.

2. Plot 2 is a historical gothic fantasy type thing, wherein the protagonist goes to act as a lady's companion to the mysterious Lucille De Silva and her husband, but strangeness is afoot in Wolverton manor...

3. And this is a snippet of Lucille plot 3, in which she's actually the protagonist rather than the strange mix of maybe antagonist/love interest like in plots 1 and 2:

“Oh please, Lucille. You would be in prison if it wasn’t for me.”

“You’re the one who kills people for fun!”

“Whereas you are the saint who ruins people’s lives for a hobby?” Tristan raised his brows. “I know who I married, Lucille Wolverton. The only Wolverton with any teeth.” He bared his own and looked at her like she was Yellowstone devouring the world in smoke and some days before Lucille had thought that she might.

“That was a long time ago,” she said.

“Clearly. I marry the most dangerous woman I have ever had the privilege of setting my eyes upon, and suddenly she’s turned a new leaf. Positively perfect in every way. Just a little angel.”

Lucille’s blood pounded in her ears.

“That’s why you did this?” Her voice cracked. “Revenge that I tried too hard to be a good wife? My god, the hardship for you.”

“Of course,” he ignored her, continuing lightly. “The truth seeped out through the cracks.” His gaze drifted over her body, before he caressed his fingertip over the X on her cheek. “Had to still ruin something, didn’t you?”

She seized his wrist and dug her nails in.

“Fuck you.”

“Do you know what you looked like when you finally snapped, knife in hand?”

“Like a horror movie cliché.”

“Like a wrathful goddess.”

She wanted to bruise him, to make him look even as inch as shattered as she felt. as much hers as she was his. Instead she stepped back took a few deep breaths because she had lost control one too many times around him already.

“I got better,” she spat.

“You got tame.” He turned away, utterly unbothered by the possibility of attack, and moved over to the drinks car. “I don’t think marital bliss and comfort suited you very much, dear heart.”

He couldn’t be serious. He seemed to actually be serious. And she couldn’t believe he had the poor taste to bring a drink’s car into their bedroom – he had to be deliberately trying to irritate her!

“Maybe you were just a shit husband.”

He had the gall to laugh as if any of this was funny. He plucked up two tumblers and neatly poured out two measures of whiskey, glancing over and catching sight of the hard line of her mouth. A familiar and wicked amusement flashed through his eyes. “Would you prefer I toasted that with champagne, darling? All lightheaded, pale bubbles? It would be like you as a wife.”

“You’re despicable.”

“Isn’t that why you married me?”

Her stomach dropped out when she realized that, despite the smirk on his face, he meant that question seriously too. He always cocked his head like a bloody spaniel when he was serious. She swallowed. She wished she could say no, and be entirely certain it was the truth.

“You’ve killed people.”

“We’ve all have our indiscretions; mine are quicker and more merciful than yours.”

He held out the glass of whiskey for her to take and she knocked it back, as if the burn down her throat might boil away the bad taste in her mouth.

Tristan sighed. “Oh, Lucille. My dearest Lucille. See what you’ve done to us, trying to pretend to be something you’re not.”

“I was never a killer!”

“You put a knife into three different fatal stab areas in my body.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Yes.” He smiled. “Here I am. I’ll always be here for you, until death do us part, Mrs De Silva.”

At this point, she wasn’t sure if he meant that as a threat or a reassurance. She wasn’t sure which her heart took it as either only that it pounding, pounding, always pounding for him.

They considered each other, more quietly.