#The interpretation of him thinking he's sick over thinking he's romantically entangled is so correct

[sysig]

I’m just saying I think he has a type (Patreon)

[decadentrpg-blog]

WELCOME ROSE, YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF ANTONELLA PICQUERY

Admins Note: My favorite femme fatale has arrived to stun us all. I absolutely squealed at your interpretation of Antonella. Every facet of her narcissism, her excessive indulgence and proud ego has been carved out. The sample paragraph had me chuckling, poor bloke! All in all, I can’t wait to see Antonella twirl past midnight, capturing sin with every step she takes.  Congratulations on your acceptance again, please make sure to head your way to the checklist and submit your account within the next 24 hours!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name / Alias: Rose.  Pronouns: She/Her. Age: 21. Timezone: EST (GMT +5) 

IN CHARACTER

Full Name: Antonella Margaux Picquery Sexuality: Bisexual. Gender/Pronouns: Cis Female. She/Her. Hogwarts House: Slytherin.

Head canons

warning Mentions of death, narcissistic shenanigans.

ONE She caresses her lover’s cheek. I could kill someone, if I needed to, she thinks, and then kisses her. And even if I didn’t need to, I think I could.

TWO There are two sorts of lovers. Curiosities and passions. The former begins on a whim, at the briefest mix of boredom and interest. And is done with and gone as quick as it occured. The second is sweeter and, well. She doesn’t pursue them. She’s too beautiful to pursue anyone or anything. Anything she desires eventually must make its way to her. So she keeps the door open. She sets out the trail of breadcrumbs and waits for them to find themself where she always knew they would. In her thrall. It’s inevitable.

THREE Antonella has a higher tolerance for pretty muggles over ugly wizards. Far better to listen to idle small talk pour from lovely lips, rather than intricate spells from a cracked maw. In fact, she once had a muggle. He glanced about her apartments and laughed, nervous. Irritating. But he looked like the angels had cut him from the night sky. She wanted to sink her teeth into him. So she did. Until one day, she met a golden eyed half veela and left him, forgotten, in Morocco.

& HORUS “Stay with me,” she says. “I love you,” and it feels like the truth. The best lies always do. He stays, she stays, they stay. One day she lies to him and it feels like the truth, tastes like the truth, sounds like the truth. And while she remembers the words in stunned silence (were they the truth? impossible) he leaves.

FIVE Antonella is morbidly blithe and playfully cruel. She believes life is only a series of distractions and games. It is an exercise in enjoyment and the one who lives best is the one who laughs most. So she laughs and lives for herself and her pleasure alone. Labor is what others do to support her wants and her yearnings; worker bees for a queen. She bears them neither gratitude or malice. Her payment is every moment they’re allowed to observe her. What they have is symbiotic. Without culture, the arts, people like her, how could they ever bear their grim, small lives?

SIX Her grandmother dies, face haggard and hidden, and Antonella has never admired anyone more. When her mother comes to slide the veil away, Antonella slaps her hands. This is a final, sacred wish. The aesthetic preserved at all cost. She takes and keeps the lesson. She buries it in her heart, and lets it sprout.

SEVEN No one’s ever made her grow up and so, there are traces of a child’s ambiguous innocence within her. An almost complete absence of empathy for others. An almost impressive preoccupation with herself and her own wants, needs, and comfort. If an acquaintance is weeping, she knows enough to say nothing of her slight hunger, to embrace and comfort them, but she will wonder, wistfully, of when can she go and indulge herself? She has spent her life being spoiled, and sees no reason why that should stop.

EIGHT This’s how her parents regard her: A living doll. A paradox. Dolls don’t live. They exist. They’re displayed and owned. What do dolls exist for, if not to be handled? If not to be the eternal object to another’s subject. Nothing great could come from anything so slight, and delicate. This is the worst hurt of her half life.

& WREN She looks at Wren and says, “Charming.” This has only happened twice before, and the best time had been in an empty glen, her veins full of liquor and delight. The thestral had gazed at her and she at it. A warm, fondness overtook her, the same fondness that heated her neck when she considered Wren, the same fondness she had for all rough diamonds. For the beauty that hid itself in plain sight. With every rebuff and dismissal, the indignant fondness doesn’t diminish. It grows. “Quaint,” she breathes under her breath, as Wren flees her, because she has been here before. She has done this before. And the sweetest part of a thing’s creation is its destruction. The artist knows best how to ruin art. Piecing it all together, building it all up, only to learn its most intimate machination, to know the best way to pluck the heart of it out, and watch it topple. She’s a child demolishing her sand castles, her blood hot and salted. Another game, another dear distraction; the foundation of life.

& EVANDER Antonella never accepts the bill when it comes. It has never and will never occur to her that she should. Sometimes she might consider the morality of an action. That it’s wrong, that it might hurt. But then here is the crux of the matter: She wants, so she does, and she takes. She wants her fiance’s friend, Evander, so she has him, and when she no longer wants him--a whim, a curiosity--he’s tossed aside. Forgotten.

& DARIUS Given the choice, she surrounds herself with beautiful things and beautiful people. Envy is rarely, if ever, a present concern of hers. She would say, I long to be surrounded by beautiful women and beautiful men. And never dream to add, Beautiful, but not as beautiful as myself. What a hypothetical, theoretical waste of breath. Where would she find anyone or anything as beautiful as herself? Or, since she’s already sunk into the depths of myth and fantasy, more beautiful. In a story, or a dream? She may’ve met one such woman, in a nightmare, but it was only Antonella’s reflection arisen from the dark sea. She may’ve met one such woman at a party, where she had been so wrecked with terror and drunkenness and desire that she knew she would die, but it was only her staring back from the window.

So her fiance isn’t as beautiful as her, but she loves to look at him, and be looked upon with him. Has she ever looked finer than with him at her side, than with her at his side, their arms entangled? And has anything ever felt more distant and unsettled, than his hand on her shoulder? Stiff, dry, odd. Lust melts her lovers into her but he remains cold and far off. She might pretend to feel for him romantic distress when she clasps their hands together, but the more time passes the more her passion for him becomes devoured by pride and vanity and sooner or later, rage.

In Character Paragraph

Antonella sways, breathes in air soaked with color and delirium. Smiles at a girl draped in silver sparkle, her mouth like a melted rose. There are whispers and clumsy gazes directed towards Antonella, who preens. There are trumpets and saxophones screaming away into the night. “The muggles are working themselves into a terrible frenzy tonight.” She loves it. Her walk is one-third dance.

“They’re called No Maj,” her companion, Douglas, corrects her, thoughtless, and she ignores him in the same manner. He hasn’t noticed the anticipation of reverie around them. He doesn’t have the nose for it as she does, and he’s too preoccupied with how he must look to her, anyways. Which is just as well.

A Rolls Royce waits to chariot them to an intimate gathering of artists, on the edge of Harlem and nowhere. It’s a convertible; the interior all butterscotch leather that complements her dark silhouette, her cream gown, her easy privilege. Antonella drives because her companion can’t and won’t. Because he becomes wrecked with a terrible sweat at first sight of the automobile. Because she wants to and it’s hers and she ignores his hand wringing. His vague mutterings on humiliation and control. Was this the muggleborn in him talking? How exotic. “I prefer portkey,” he says, finally.

“Oh, darling, you’re no fun,” she replies, snapping her elegant, leather gloves on. Those gloves are too much involved in her excitement to drive. She has been overcome, for the past two days, by the thought of them and how sporty and fine she’ll look with her hands on the wheel. Her hair flying in the wind behind her, a cape of midnight darker than even the night around them.

How glamorous! And irresistable she’ll seem, even more so than she always does, if that’s possible. She regards Douglas, her expression pleasant and juxtaposed against the frost in her eyes, “Don’t tell me you get car sick, Douglas.” If he does, she just might abandon him right there, rather than follow him by portkey, or have him ruin her butterscotch seats. Her heart’s too much set on the idea of herself in the car with her gloves on. She imagines the jittering men and smirking women, their admiring gazes warm against her skin.

Rather than answer her, he gapes at her. His grey eyes wide and striking enough to remind her why she allowed him into her company. “My name is Harold.”

“What is that, Henry?” she asks, his voice lost beneath the engines hum and her own delight. As the car takes off at a terrible speed, he forgets himself and what he means to say. He clutches the dashboard instead. Her smile is serene. His yelps escalate as the vehicle slips off the Manhattan Bridge. The East River swallows them whole, and Antonella peers at the sickly sea life swimming around their bubble.

“How can you call yourself a wizard, Henry? Everything shocks and upsets you.” Ilvermorny must be a poor institution indeed. “It’s almost as if you’ve never been in an enchanted vehicle before.”

“You upset me,” he gasps.

Before she can reply, the car begins to sing, a sweet thrilling blues melody, and Antonella crows along with it, their voices clear and lovely above Douglas’s frantic complaints. The night looks full of possibilities. She can tilt the car just so and shake Douglas out into the blue beyond. (Cruel? Perhaps, but how cruel was he, to bore her so?) She can find someone beautiful and sink with them into the Atlantic. Laugh and drink at the intimate gathering. Laugh and drink at the frenzy behind her, instead, and fill those muggles’ hearts with unexpected rapture. Swim with the sharks. Make love beneath the moon. Or any number of pleasures, as yet undiscovered. How good to be alive. How good to be Antonella.

Extras

Mockblog.​Edits.​Playlist.