queenie. [nd]

[queenie bradshaw.]

CHARACTER BASICS ;

full name: noel bradshaw.
nicknames: queenie, end.
age: sixteen.
date of birth: december twelfth.
gender: male.
sexual orientation: homosexual.

WHAT DO THEY LOOK LIKE ;

height: five foot six.
weight: one hundred and fifteen lbs.
eye color: gray/brown.
hair color: every shade of the rainbow.
other: snake bites, angel bites and a nose ring. c;

general appearance: It is quite blatantly obvious that with the particular male, the Gods knew what they where doing the day they crafted his darling form. He was made to be desirable, to look wicked and sleek, an object of lust, desire… Bradshaw– the name in itself is one that will always ring a note where ever it’s spoken, like quite a few rather rich families, if not all fat pigs or artificial plastics after generations still manage to produce at least a decent bit of eye-candy. Noel forever rode up high on his own shining pedestal, through his life he always seemed to be that little bit higher than every-one else and so he took his pride. He was luscious, even from a young age, and indeed, things did progress quite nicely from the days of rosy cheeks and pouty lips. His own line of thought upon his body was never shamed down upon, though it doesn’t seem as much; he does have quite a thick dose of vanity locked up in that pretty little head of it his and always tries at least,
to make it known.

He’s pure peaches and cream, such a delicious mix of delicate flavors. Holding a scent that can only be defined as Noel he keeps himself smelling good, looking good and need it be put out that he most the time feels good? He’d be blind not to notice his own beauty, and as it was put out earlier, he most certainly does take pride in it. Starting off with the main build of his body, he doesn’t appear to be too muscled or too skinny, just some where trapped in-between. With long legs and lean shoulders he could almost he put out as lanky if it weren’t for a willowy sense that fluttered so eerily about him. He's a runner, not a swimmer and he’s the one that strutty strides proudly thank you very much and most certainly he wouldn’t make a fool of himself by hopping along like some rabbit over-dosed on crack.

He’s got the most perfect hips for resting short shirts on and legs that just beg to be wrapped up in fish-net tights, yet despite the fact he isn’t in the slightest anything as degrading a drag queen; he’s got the body to wear such clothes. It has been done before, one lovely drunken night, though the photos where confiscated and burnt, boo-hoo on your part. Along side the slight slender craft of his body, his facial features in themselves have a slight era of femininity. This isn’t drastic of course, though the slightest hint of it allows his splendorous qualities to rein out just a touch more; after all, being completely butch altogether can look utterly foolish, it’s good to have a ‘pretty’ hint about oneself. Also, with a slightly pointy – softly pointy, nothing to drastic, he aint no witch – complexion about himself, he holds just the sweetest hints of an edge. With an unbroken nose, a smooth, elegantly plucked brow and a very kissable mouth; his face is far from unpleasant to look at.

Looking past deliciously plump, plush lips – usually pulled into a very sexy smirk or brooding sneer – one of his next best features lay. Thick, long locks of elegant blonde frame that pretty face of his and flutter lazily down low onto his neck. Well, saying this, his hair color does change every day of the week - though, his natural hair color is brown, maybe a shade or two lighter. Like the rest of him his hair is smooth, silky and sweet smelling and most certainly quite an easing sight too see. Usually with four hours worth of bored designing behind it it’s the sort of hair you just feel itching to run your hands through. Hah, but yes, he'd love that of course.

Noel’s skin tone altogether could be described as rather pallid; generally rather pale the only color that’ll cut in could be the faintest dusting of tan – maybe even a blush or two. Despite the fact he’s pale, he’s more of a creamily toned male than a pasty one, forget death knocking at your door, he's how a true ‘pale’ person should be. Still, his pale skin is heightened up by the colors of his hair and to match this, his eyes. The person who came up with the mighty phrase, the eyes are the open windows to the soul very clearly never met dear Queenie Bradshaw. This or, Noel’s soul indeed was rather blank. Pfff, what do you take bets on? The two gentle ovals are like any normal eye would be you usual white bits, rounded pupils and such.

He’s got nothing stupid like slits for pupils or laser beams, though instead he holds quite an intriguing color. A cold, steely grey reins over his iris, polluting the small circle with a mix of harsh color – a mix of slaughtered monochrome. Normally quite emotionless, the faint spark of playful amusement will now and then show through, this or any other random emotion one could care to think about. He’s very closed up around his eyes though; and certainly doesn’t go shining the lights of his troubles out to any-one that’ll look.

If anything, Noel - ahem, had quite a tasteful dress sense too him. He was never really the type that would run around in a potato sack and say it was fashionable. Being a boy of class, he was expected to dress finely, and by hell he did. Flowing with the fashion trends, he always did have something pretty upon himself. Ranging from skinny jeans to stripy socks, he'd been through it all. Even leather pants at some point. Gosh, such a vanity slag. With this though, and the threats of juvie life. He didn't really get much of that to hold up. Sure, he can tart himself up now and then, but he doesn't look like he used too. The tolls of life behind 'bars' does show, even though he hates it. The dark shade starting to show under his eyes, the messiness of his hair, the skinniness of his structure. No one, of course is perfect. Even though he so desperately wanted it.

LETS CHECK THEM OUT ;

parents: evangeline && lucius bradshaw.
siblings: none.
pets: hellsing. { feline /dead. }

family history: December, indeed, what a blessed month it had been for one particular family. It indeed had been the year the sweet gates of new life had opened and a precious child of pure had arrived. For Lucius Bradshaw, things couldn’t have been sweeter. The woman he’s so cherished had produced him a baby boy, an heir for the manor of the Bradshaws. Such a delight it had been, too hold the fair haired child in his arms and smile down into such an adorable face, this while she had looked on with such love. For all the stumbles they’d had in life, it had finally come down to a perfect, blissful stop, or so Lucius had thought. Back then, in his own eyes, the woman who’d spawned his child was as in love with him as he was her – that everything would be right, just them perfectly closed in their own worlds once more.

Goodness, how very wrong he had been.

Evangeline Bradshaw had been a beautiful woman, lusted after by many men and worshiped on each square space of land she’s stepped daintily upon. Lucius Bradshaw had been one of the men of course that had captured her attention. The beautiful, blonde haired man had had it all, the riches, the popularity, it was almost like she had been in high-school and she’d found the prime jock. She didn’t really expect it when she’d got stuck with his child though, oh how charming, her figure had been ruined and she had stretch marks! The little brat of a child inside her, she’d been sure, was certainly going to receive no love from her when it appeared. Alas, when it did, she couldn’t help but melt a little. Yet, it was the typical reaction of any woman with a baby. Lucius really wasn’t that man she’d always thought him as either, going soft over a child? How very /human/ of him it had been. She’d left the Blake manor in the softest disgusts three days after young Noel had been born; leaving the child with nothing put a snide kiss upon the forehead.

Heartbreak, it had came rushing in its finest form, right into the unwilling yet forcibly open arms of one Lucius Bradshaw. He’d been left, left alone with no one but his beautiful child, and a note explaining from the blasted women. His life had turned to ashes for a few months or two, before he pulled himself back into shape to craft his son into shape. Or course, dear baby Noel hadn’t under-stood much at the time, all he’d seen was a lovely blonde lady come and leave, she was never classed much of a loss. In his soft, baby mind, she must have just been a pretty sight, just like some of those nurses when he’d been born. Still, being left with his father had done him no harm; the man had always looked after him right through his younger-life just like a good father would. He’d always been whispered soft stories of what a man he’d make one day, and how pleased he was to have him as his son. Sweet nothings basically, through Lucius's healing period, thus in which he was clinging, helplessly to anything that brought him happiness.

personal history: [100 words min]

HOW THEY LANDED HERE ;

criminal record:

crime history: [100 words min]

OTHER:

sample role-play: It was quiet; silence erupting from every inch of the landscape. There was a hushed, yet harshly toned din surfing on the hand of the chill; and scouring the sea of cobbles underfoot was a ballet of leaves, twirling to the melodic rhythm of their skirt-hems caressing the floor, a few twigs rolling in suit. Old, widowed and withered trees keeled down and over the tranquil glade, some thin and straw-like fingers of branches sweeping the floor to the cadence of the chorus; a mysterious magic pulsing through the atmosphere at the speed of light. The leaves movement became more abrupt, more ritualistic, and more solid, no longer dainty. Flower heads turned to face the sun, sunlight illuminating through their frail physique as their smooth yellow petals absently screamed out for redemption, stretching out thoughtlessly to steal a few slim blocks of shallow yellow light. It was a mysterious place all in all, though then again it was enraptured out deep into the coils of Wonderland.

It was simply another replica of many like it, another forest, nothing new, it had no feral originality of eye-catching grace. Well, it at least had none of that to any regular person of Wonderland, for other it was a bit of a different story. He himself couldn't have cared less really about the delicate blades of grass he was crushing beneath his feet, or the hundreds of tiny creatures he could have been crippling. Wonderland? Really the place had such a stupid name to put it, for the simple fact that it gave the impression of a flawless reality. Yet Wonderland itself was far from perfect, it was in ways a bit like a macabre sort of fairground, beautiful in that haunting way out on the outside, yet inside quite crooked and mysterious. The strong everlasting pulse of magic that throbbed so neatly though the air was nor light or dark, yet a swirl catastrophic mix of both. Nothing was ever as it seemed to be, much like the male that was currently picking his way through the forest.

An exact word through the history of time, most likely could never be found to place itself heavily upon the label of the man – not a word would be able to fit. Though who could say he was right or wrong, if his dress style was old or new – The land of such intoxicating beauty would ever be on its eternal shift, and his styles just slid along with it. Opinions came and went, spoken over the lips of those who reaped the mystical place, some called him fascinating, some called him average, there was quite a string. Yet still, in a place where everyone was apparently rather mad, it was a bit foolish to state he was anything above the norm. He was dressed up finely in what appeared to be a sort of suit, a suit that held its own aura of quite used classiness. Sleek dark oasis beige pantaloons hugged his slim legs, the frilled bottoms of them hidden away by a pair of long black boots. The shiny silver buckles where dragging a bit, showing that they hadn’t been done up in quite a while. A mud splatter or two dared catch his thick leather boots though it was nothing to outrageous, he didn’t look like he’d dragged himself through a pig sty really, to put it simple. Sticking upon the lower area a chunky brown leather belt ran through the hoops of these pantaloons, securing them firmly to slender hips and making sure they didn’t trail down too low. A light white handkerchief was hung in a small triangle out of his left hand pocket and upon this; a lazy red heart was printed.

Moving upwards away from the first general folds, quite a few layers left themselves open to follow, this starting with the barely visible white one. Made from a fine white silk, only another small triangle of cloth can be seen under a yellow and beige check design shirt. Flowing down from this check shirt was three pointless golden buttons, holding nothing together at all. Over this shirt was get another layer, this one being a firm pinstripe black and gray waist coat, held together at the low middle by two simple buttons. Around his neck was a yellow and red, polka dot tie joined with a small, pinkish daisy. Thick locks of ink black lazily bounced in sweet curves around his softly featured face, brushing down to a lazy stop some where upon his middle neck. Strained with streaks of the faintest red, the impression of blood dared strike the neat tips, emanating out that twisted sort of fracture against something so delicate looking.

Furled into the smooth strands was yet another flower however, placing itself near one lightly covered ear. Pink flecked petals of red and white lazily bled in more color to the shadow of his hair and left him with a slightly more feminine look. High cheek bones showed lightly through his creamily pale flesh, and the slightest band of a hazy blush kept itself over his cheeks. Two plump, plush lips pursed themselves in a small sweet smile of nothings before he tilted his head back, curious sea-green eyes searching blandly for anything of interest over skies of sunshine streaked blue. With the softest of gasps he let long lashes flutter with delight, white teeth broke into view for a second and a grin warmly lapped over his face. His expression itself held the shadow of madness back in its almost plastic depths and past delight that had fluttered about it slowly slid away. With an infectious bubble of laughter he tipped a small top hat onto his head, letting the delicate object rest there upon the crown of his cranium. Narrow hips swayed with ease and he weaved his way around the murmuring body of a tree before he stopped.

Mister Bubbles was all he was affectionately called, the sweetest of the local wackos.
secret word: eskimo pie.