Post by evelyn antoinette. on Feb 15, 2010 19:07:43 GMT -5
EVELYN EMILIA ANOTINETTE ;
HEY HEY! THE NAME IS UP ABOVE BUT EVERYONE CALLS ME EVIE OR EVE WHICH IS PRETTY COOL, RIGHT? ANYWAY, I'M A GIRL, BORN IN PARIS, FRANCE, AND AM TWENTY YEARS OLD. DAMN STRAIGHT! STILL YOUNG, BABY! JUST TO GET THE BASES COVERED, I AM A STUDENT AT OXFORD & ASPIRING MODEL AND AM ACTUALLY OPEN TO ALL LOVE, BUT MOSTLY STRAIGHT BUT I LOVE ATTENTION, AFFECTION, GIFTS, SHOPPING, DRIVING FAST, ART, & SLEEPING BUT I TOTALLY HATE GETTING DIRTY, BEING TOLD NO, ANYTHING BORING, BEING IGNORED, & TACKY CLOTHES. I KNOW. I'M THE MOST INTERESTING PERSON ON THIS PLANET, YEAH? BUT YEAH IF YOU WANNA KNOW MORE YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO KEEP ON READING!
ATTRACTION'S SATISFACTION ;
[color=b84c7f][b]EVELYN ANTOINETTE[/b][/color] looks sort of like [b]BRUNA BOECHART[/b] and goes onto aim by the name of [u]DELIVER US FROM EVEL[/u] but to hit her up, just call [u]892-6872[/u]. FLUORESCENT ADOLESCENCE ;
PERSONAL STYLE:[/U][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/SIZE]
[/SIZE][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]Evie's style of fashion is a puzzle, even to those who have known her best and have gazed upon her since the youngest of her years. There's very little rhyme or reason to it, and no indications as to why she chooses to dress in such a manner on certain days. At times, she is Audrey Hepburn chic; all pearls, silky heavenly black, swept updos, exuding elegance as it's slipping from her teeny tiny pores. Other days, she gives the word trashy an entirely new meaning; dressing down in the sluttiest of fashions, flaunting every asset she posesses as if she were employed by a whore house. She had little tendency to follow the latest trends unless they undoubtedly flattering at her, more relishing the vintage side of things, basking in the glow of how feminine and glossy things were in the days of Miss Monroe. In truth, she has very few 'lazy days' and generally avoids most pants, favoring skirts and dresses, girly things, though occasionally caught in only the most fabulous brands of jeans -- a rare event. Heels are her favorite thing and she's rarely found without them strapped to her feet, launching her tall slender frame to new heights and drawing attention wherever she goes, clicking away. Flat shoes are almost forbidden unless worn around the house, and even then she has a preference for sky highs.
PERSONALITY:[/U][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/SIZE]
[/SIZE][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]Just as her spastic way of dressing, Evelyn's personality is a bit.. incomprehensive. She is so many things, packaged so neatly into angelic green eyes and a contented, secretive cheshire cat smile. She is, without a doubt, an enigma.
To say Evelyn is fond of attention is a much kinder way to put it; in truth, she is shamelessly the thief of all spotlights, gallivanting into the glaring light with that floaty confused smile, as if she may have accidentally stumbled into the beam and knows not how it happened. This is all a bit of a rogue, for in all actuality, she knows just how to play her cards right, waltzing into a crowd of people and effortlessly turning their eyes to gaze upon her. It's both of a combination of gamemanship and an intense desire for affirmation and approval, desperately seeking attention from others in attempt to fill the monumentous void from being ignored by her absent parents. Few people know of the sensitive side that is harbored beneath a consistantly sleepy set of bedroom eyes, completely unaware of the fact that Evelyn is prone to tears at a drop of a hat, and when in the privacy of loved ones, insists on physical contact between them; constantly desiring her hair to be stroked, her hand to be held, her body to be pressed into another's. Most who have grown close to her have long since learned to simply do as she pleases in this manner, the motions of touching her usually absent minded, though pleasure is sought from them all the same. Because of this, she finds sex to be an incredibly favorable activity; not for the actual physical gratisfaction, but because it is the absolute closest one can be to another person. She is an avid lover of both animals and humans -- not truly able to differentiate between the two, for she treats mostly everyone as some form of pet, patting them and feeding them and ignoring them once they begin to pester her. There are few in Evelyn's life who she carries an in-depth relationship with, most friendships rather surface and based sheerly upon partying and living life to the fullest, few actually aware of the fact that Evelyn is more than just the air-headed mannequin she presents herself to be. A lover of books, foreign films, and travel, as well as being a student at Oxford, she is a closet intellect, preferring most to believe she is just another French sociliate, living life to the fullest before old age strikes and diminishes the near flawlessness of her looks.
SIGHTING LIGHTENING ;
FAMILY:[/U][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/SIZE]
[/SIZE][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]Miranda Antoinette; mother, owner of Runway Magazine
Constantine Antoinette; father, French Ambassador
Suri Blanc; half sister, journalist
HISTORY:[/U][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/SIZE]
[/SIZE][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]
highlights;
-- Born and raised in Paris, France, only daughter of Miranda & Constantine Antoinette
-- Product of a loveless and awkward marriage, and artifical insemination
-- Raised by a range of nannies, au pairs and maids.
-- New, 'adopted' half-sister Suri shows up as Eve turns eight
-- It is later explained that Suri is actually the bastard child of Constantine and a woman Eve is ironically named after.
-- Weirded out by Suri's accent. Learns to love her, eventually. Kind of.
-- Sibling love/hate ensues.
-- Attends prestigious schools with her sister, taking over by storm.
-- Loses virginity at sixteen, addicted to the sensation ever since; serial dater from them onward.
-- Moved to England with Suri after the teen years have brought the two closer.
-- Began attending Oxford University as a Political Science Major, before moving back to Paris on a studying 'hiatus';
really just wants to fuck around and have fun before entering the real world, as well as having a practical panic attack at the idea of living alone and away from Suri.
-- Currently trying her hand at modeling in attempt to impress her mother and gain approval, as well as having an affair with her sister's latest boyfriend.
PASSING CASTING ;
"Alright, Elana, just pretend just you like Jacob for this shoot, please? I know you guys have history but come on; there's no love in this picture." Husky voice held a drawl of slight impatience to it, the photographer shifting her place upon the floor where slender body had come to rest, adjusting the camera that was laid against her chest. Before her was strewn a trio of breathtaking models, all entertwined intimately, wearing nothing but pairs of torn and ratty jeans -- the newest of the season, already coveted by Manhattan's population. It was a true honor to be participating in this campaign, yet the models regarded it with bitter expressions and scowls, all of them seeming to have some mixed up past with one another these days -- exhausting if you were forced to work with them. City Carter felt herself to be above the drama, refusing to indulge the queen bee's and their drama-inducing kings; a tiny frown indenting the smooth white skin of her forehead as she watched their childish squabbling, vying for center place before her lens.
Drawing in another exasperated breath as body pulled itself upward, fingers expertly twisted the knobs of her coveted machinery, fingers jumping along the button to flourish another array of shutter clicks. Snapping just mundane shots as the three moved themselves about, reorganizing into a position that would not, for lack of a better word, rub them the wrong way. "That's more like it. Look like one big happy couple, please. You're wearing jeans that look like they've been through both World Wars, act like you enjoy it." Though there was definite authority to the words, City dropped a wink to soften their judgement, rising to slender, albeit short, legs and bringing the camera to her face once more. Sour disposition folded into that of an artist, concentrated, in depth as she wandered around the three of them, clicking incessantly and occasionally letting out a coo or reprimand.
There was distraction in these familiar actions, mind, body and soul throwing themselves full force into the task. Not for the sake of simple enjoyment, but now for her sanity. The earlier conversation with Christian Delacroix had shaken mood, rendered her dizzy and caked full of more anger than one tiny, five-foot-one frame should be capable of hangdling. When hands had slammed down the top of her beloved laptop with an audible click, she'd momentarily feared hurling the equipment across the room, that's how badly he'd pissed her off. He was smug, arrogant, impossible, and for whatever reason seemed to get his kicks out of infuriating her; but never would she allow him to see just how unsettling his constant presence in her life was. No, mask it behind being a workaholic, click away at your precious camera, snap shots of these ridiculously beautiful people that were practically their own species of marvelous. Lose yourself in anything that was not Christian Edward Delacroix.
Satisfaction had twisted a curve into her lips, emitting a bark of demand towards her assisant, all the while adjusting one of the model's golden curls -- brushing them off his forehead with hands that were nearly loving, still issuing orders, rearranging, altering, changing. Molding everything into a perfect form that would be forever captured on film, idolized in the top fashion magazines, and brushed into the corridor's of fashion history forever. So intent upon her work, the approach of footsteps up the back stairs had eluded her attention, caught up into this brilliant world; eyes somewhat unfocused as she delved, head first, into fantasy and expression, no longer caring, the resounding ache in chest lessening as time sped past -- Chris's mark lingered but no longer punctured as painfully as it did a few hours ago. It was when Elana shifted, seemingly intrigued but flustered -- shirtless as she was -- that City finally cast a glance over her shoulder.
And there he was.
Just as unbearably present as ever before, his entirely too huge body looming in the doorway of her studio; unwarrented, uninvited and unwanted. Body turned about so quickly, pivoting on one heel and sending wavy, chestnut locks -- secured in a messy ponytail -- lashing about her features, tendrils quivering as they fell about her face and hazel eyes were filled with absolute digust. For a moment, City just stood there, staring at him, refusing to be intrigued by the leanness of his body, of the slight bronze of summer left in his skin, the muscles, the biceps. All of them so incredibly appealing to the female eye, though she did not indulge the desire, instead battled against it, only adding to the erruption that was building. Husky voice was pitched even lower in her absolute rage, disbelieving, as if her eyes played tricks; "You're kidding me, right?"
Her muscles were locked into a solid mass of vexation, heels sounding like gunfire across the wood floors as she stalked -- stiff legged -- toward him, halting abruptly to look up into his face, her own features pinched with barely contained anger. Lifting one pale hand, she gripped him by the upper arm and yanked him out into the hallway, door being tugged shut behind her -- the scowl never once abandoning her face. "Christian, what the fuck is the matter with you? I am WORKING, Chris, WORKING! You know! That thing people do, for money. I am in the middle of a huge campaign shoot and you just waltz in here, as obnoxious as fucking ever, completely interrupting me! How the hell did you even get in here in the first place? And what in that pea-sized brain of yours made you think that this was even a remotely good idea?! I told you NO! I told you leave me alone, I told you to drop dead; what about this are you not getting, you stupid jackass? What part of that means show up -- at my HOUSE, while I am WORKING --and ask me to dinner?" Breaking off, breathless, head shook itself angrily; stepping back from him, uncomfortable by the close quarters of the hallway, of the sensation of his skin beneath her fingertips -- hand immediately dropping from where it had laid on his arm. Looking up at him, eyes still smarting with infuriation, one slender brow was cocked. "Well?"
Drawing in another exasperated breath as body pulled itself upward, fingers expertly twisted the knobs of her coveted machinery, fingers jumping along the button to flourish another array of shutter clicks. Snapping just mundane shots as the three moved themselves about, reorganizing into a position that would not, for lack of a better word, rub them the wrong way. "That's more like it. Look like one big happy couple, please. You're wearing jeans that look like they've been through both World Wars, act like you enjoy it." Though there was definite authority to the words, City dropped a wink to soften their judgement, rising to slender, albeit short, legs and bringing the camera to her face once more. Sour disposition folded into that of an artist, concentrated, in depth as she wandered around the three of them, clicking incessantly and occasionally letting out a coo or reprimand.
There was distraction in these familiar actions, mind, body and soul throwing themselves full force into the task. Not for the sake of simple enjoyment, but now for her sanity. The earlier conversation with Christian Delacroix had shaken mood, rendered her dizzy and caked full of more anger than one tiny, five-foot-one frame should be capable of hangdling. When hands had slammed down the top of her beloved laptop with an audible click, she'd momentarily feared hurling the equipment across the room, that's how badly he'd pissed her off. He was smug, arrogant, impossible, and for whatever reason seemed to get his kicks out of infuriating her; but never would she allow him to see just how unsettling his constant presence in her life was. No, mask it behind being a workaholic, click away at your precious camera, snap shots of these ridiculously beautiful people that were practically their own species of marvelous. Lose yourself in anything that was not Christian Edward Delacroix.
Satisfaction had twisted a curve into her lips, emitting a bark of demand towards her assisant, all the while adjusting one of the model's golden curls -- brushing them off his forehead with hands that were nearly loving, still issuing orders, rearranging, altering, changing. Molding everything into a perfect form that would be forever captured on film, idolized in the top fashion magazines, and brushed into the corridor's of fashion history forever. So intent upon her work, the approach of footsteps up the back stairs had eluded her attention, caught up into this brilliant world; eyes somewhat unfocused as she delved, head first, into fantasy and expression, no longer caring, the resounding ache in chest lessening as time sped past -- Chris's mark lingered but no longer punctured as painfully as it did a few hours ago. It was when Elana shifted, seemingly intrigued but flustered -- shirtless as she was -- that City finally cast a glance over her shoulder.
And there he was.
Just as unbearably present as ever before, his entirely too huge body looming in the doorway of her studio; unwarrented, uninvited and unwanted. Body turned about so quickly, pivoting on one heel and sending wavy, chestnut locks -- secured in a messy ponytail -- lashing about her features, tendrils quivering as they fell about her face and hazel eyes were filled with absolute digust. For a moment, City just stood there, staring at him, refusing to be intrigued by the leanness of his body, of the slight bronze of summer left in his skin, the muscles, the biceps. All of them so incredibly appealing to the female eye, though she did not indulge the desire, instead battled against it, only adding to the erruption that was building. Husky voice was pitched even lower in her absolute rage, disbelieving, as if her eyes played tricks; "You're kidding me, right?"
Her muscles were locked into a solid mass of vexation, heels sounding like gunfire across the wood floors as she stalked -- stiff legged -- toward him, halting abruptly to look up into his face, her own features pinched with barely contained anger. Lifting one pale hand, she gripped him by the upper arm and yanked him out into the hallway, door being tugged shut behind her -- the scowl never once abandoning her face. "Christian, what the fuck is the matter with you? I am WORKING, Chris, WORKING! You know! That thing people do, for money. I am in the middle of a huge campaign shoot and you just waltz in here, as obnoxious as fucking ever, completely interrupting me! How the hell did you even get in here in the first place? And what in that pea-sized brain of yours made you think that this was even a remotely good idea?! I told you NO! I told you leave me alone, I told you to drop dead; what about this are you not getting, you stupid jackass? What part of that means show up -- at my HOUSE, while I am WORKING --and ask me to dinner?" Breaking off, breathless, head shook itself angrily; stepping back from him, uncomfortable by the close quarters of the hallway, of the sensation of his skin beneath her fingertips -- hand immediately dropping from where it had laid on his arm. Looking up at him, eyes still smarting with infuriation, one slender brow was cocked. "Well?"
DESTINATION RESERVATION ;
I, day, HEREBY HAVE READ THE PROBOARD AND FORUM RULES AND UNDERSTAND THEM TO THE FULLEST EXTENT AND PLAN TO FOLLOW THESE RULES FOR AS LONG AS I AM ON ON PROBOARDS/THIS FORUM. BY DISOBEYING THESE TERMS AND CONDITIONS, I AM SUBJECTED TO BEING BANNED AND UNDERSTAND/AGREE FULLY WITH THE CONSEQUENCES.[/SUB][/BLOCKQUOTE]
