- ̗̀ double bubble disco queen

A matte black town car turned at the roundabout, smooth as the silk of it’s passenger’s tie and cruised down the boulevard toward the famed Chaney Hotel. At the sight of a familiarly garish awning, Claude waved his hand wordlessly at the driver and handed him fifty as the car rolled to a stop, telling Marcel to buy his daughter that doll she had seen in a store window and “some friends while he was at it” because, well, they don’t call him Bachelor Benefactor Babin Hood for nothing. But that wasn’t his only claim to fame – oh no – he may have been bred a Babin, but the people of Paris knew better than to address him as anything less than an honorary Chaney and Annabella’s third, and final son. 

– And in that respect, Chateau de Chaney was also his home, silhouetted by stars, shadows, street lights and … 

“Sistine?”

He turned up a wiry smile at his childhood friend, the closest thing he had to a sibling besides Raoul. “A minute? Cherie, you sway more than the hula girl on Marcel’s dash -- you’ve been gone for a while.” Claude laughed lightly at the sight of her, a china doll against a brick wall, basically a fish out of water. He breathed a quiet sigh. “Alright, come on,” Leaning down, he extended to her the same chivalrous offer that always stood when they were children. “Get on my back; you’re not walking back in those shoes. Under no circumstances will I let you break a leg b e f o r e opening night. Oui?”

"Who's Marcel?" she mumbles blearily, now rubbing at her eyes, blissfully unaware for the moment of just how much eye makeup is smudging off onto her hand as she does so. "SISTINE. That nickname is so --" She cuts herself off with a big yawn. "Funny. I'm not a church." How CLEVER it is is lost on her at the moment. Hands paw at her face, from the yawn, trying to rub the sleep right out of herself. Only she has the strength of a mouse on Vicodin at the moment, so it's more just a very drunken angelic looking creature dragging the tips of her own fingers down her face over and over again while Claude looks on, laughing.

"I could break my whole EVERYTHING and no one would care," she informs him sadly, still unceasingly sliding her hands across her face, though now she's slipping further and further down the wall towards the pavement, "I don't do ANYTHING in this stupid dumb show, Claude. Did you know that?" Suddenly she stops what she's doing, holds herself into a squat, and jerks her head towards him, a comical expression of exaggerated melancholy splayed across her features. "Did you know that I don't do anything?"

As much as she did just want to sit on the sidewalk and complain to Claude, the offer of a late night piggyback ride through the streets of Paris was awfully tempting, she had to admit. But before the thought can take root, one hand raises to brush her hair back away from her face, and she finally sees all the makeup she's smudged onto it. Horrified, even more so than usual in her current state, Christine all but SCREECHES, tears welling in her eyes as she looks back to Claude, searching for validation in his features. "Am I hideous?" she whispers, voice trembling.

She’s heading home later than she should, she knows, cursing herself for staying so late, as though her promises not to repeat the mistake are genuine. It would hardly be considered safe, travelling alone at night, with all that has happened over the last few months, but Meg was not frightened, no, she knew better. This was hardly senseless crime, it was a part of something bigger, something Meg only pretended to truly understand. But so long as there was a game at play, Meg felt oddly safe. After all, what value could she have to anyone, alive or dead?

The sight of the girl outside the hotel has her starting across the street to help, regardless of the locale. Meg knows she should play the sides more carefully, but Destler or Chaney, she can’t leave a damsel in distress. Still, she has to pause when she realizes who it is leaning against that wall, cursing herself for hopping into the street for a stranger, but suddenly stopping once she realized it was her sister. How cruel could she be? As she continued toward Christine, her steps were more hesitant, a word which would describe their adult relationship quite well. “Well then, you must.” They are the sweetest of words, coupled with a smile and a reassuring hand on her sister’s shoulder, how could Christine possibly see the way her words twisted like a knife in Meg’s heart? Christine’s precious breath, her precious voice. She has to push the thoughts away unhappily. “Let me walk you home, Christine.”

She nearly melts back into the pavement at the familiar voice. It's one of few that she would recognize anywhere. Suddenly safe with her SISTER, her Meg. The chance encounter feels like an angel coming to rescue her in her time of need. But that's what Meg always does, isn't it? Presents herself when Christine NEEDS her most and allows her sister to lean on her. Step on her. Good girls don't complain, they only help. Christine has never been a good girl. That's Meg's job. And she loves her so very dearly for it.

She reaches out for support without opening her eyes, some sort of noncommittal noise rumbling lightly in the back of her throat, bubbling up from her chest. "It's so far, Meggie. I don't wanna walk all that way in these shoes, don't be dumb." She blindly grasps for Meg again, fingers wiggling. "Walk me though. Please?" Christine sniffles loudly, head still hanging towards the pavement, eyes closed. "I'm so happy to see you." It takes her a moment, but she realizes the irony of what she's just said, and she slowly lifts her head, dark curtain of hair coming with it, then smiles when she lays eyes on the other girl. "THERE. Now I see you."

Fleur watched as Christine practically bounced into the box at the sight, her own exuberance bringing forth a smirk of a grin onto her own lips. There was something so encompassing about the other at times, and Fleur had yet to pin down what it was exactly. It should have bothered her maybe, but she often chose not to care. It held little impact to her these days, Erik had clearly already chosen his star. Which was more than fine, she would be everyone else’s one day. Such was fate, and life. 

The smaller girl quirked a brow at the show of peaking over, half grateful since it had been a good twenty minutes since she’d checked herself, and half amused at the spectacle. “A promise is a promise. We can be gluttons together, Daae.” Fleur let the boss drop into the other’s hand, content enough to leave Christine to her choice as she herself flopped onto her back to study the ceiling of the box and beyond, the patterns and shapes she rarely paid attention to. “How did you manage to sneak away too?”

Christine shrugged, fingers wiggling indecisively over the box of sweets, eyes now focused with a frightening intensity, all of her energy directed at choosing a cookie rather than the conversation. "DUNNO. I had an alibi, they said. Because I was the only person on stage, EVERYONE could see." At this, lips unabashedly quirk up into a smile. "So I couldn't have done it. Even though everyone always saw me ARGUING with Philippe and he didn't approve of me dating his brother." Eyes roll, but she's finally picked out what looks to be a birthday cake flavored macaroon and plucked it from the box greedily. She drops the box to her lap, neglecting to hand it back to Fleur even as she turns her gaze back to the other.

"The detective who talked to me said I was LUCKY to have such an airtight alibi. Or else I guess I would have been a real suspect. Me. Really. Could you ever see ME killing anyone?" She dissolves into a high pitched and tinkling fit of laughter, shaking curled tresses back and forth in front of her face, pinching the still uneaten macaroon between two fingers. "And then after that I told Erik the whole thing was too much and I wanted to leave and he let me. Madalene or anyone else couldn't say a thing after that, you know how it is." 

Just another busy day in her never-ending cycle of what Narissa knew, loved and had tried to perfect. She’d just started to pick up little changes within another person’s voice and she realized how many of her targets raised their voice as they finally tried to plead for their lives. Emotions changed the tone of someone’s voice – with herself speaking rather soft and rarely she finally understood a bit more about the way her enemies worked, even if it just meant being able to analyze their voice a bit better. For future reference, though: nothing sounded better than hearing her enemies beg for mercy – however that may look like. Narissa would never dare to insult Annabella like this, would never dare to disappoint herself by even considering sparing someone else’s life that had already been doomed worthless. In any case, she proceeded to walk faster towards the hotel, faster towards the people who she’d been working for, a sort of family. If one ran from the police in more than one way, Narissa knew she had to let herself fall deeper into Annabella’s arms. Jacqueline, as a thought still lingering permanently in her mind, numbed her senses, causing her to almost running into Christine. Stopping abruptly, Narissa looked around for just a moment. “’Ya speaking to me?” watching the other woman’s face carefully, almost intensely, Narissa started to fully understand. “You look fucked up,” she stated, though she knew asking something, anything, personal might defuse the situation. “So, what happened?”

Chestnut brow knit together, a kind of light confusion gracing her features. First when the other woman asked whether or not Christine was addressing her; OF COURSE she was, there was no one else around. Perhaps she had been presumptuous to assume that this stranger had been, in fact, about to speak to her to begin with. Although, in all fairness, she had practically TRIPPED right over her, or at the very least been about to. Christine’s senses and perception were trashed at the moment, but they still weren't that bad.

She had opened her mouth to speak, but then the other cut her off, and Christine's bewilderment only grew. "What happened?" she mumbled, words slurring delicately together, but enough to be noticeable to someone paying as close attention as the other woman on the sidewalk, "Nothing happened. I just --" She huffed out an indignant sigh and flung her head back, sending it CRASHING into the marble of the building's facade. Face crumpled entirely in on itself now and she let out a little yelp -- something akin to the sound a small dog makes when it's stepped on -- and both hands flew to the back of her head, pressing down on every part that had made contact with the hard stone.

"Well now that happened." She shot the stranger daggers, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. "Nothing was wrong before, I was just a little sad. Maybe you're BAD LUCK."

remy stops short and turns around,  ‘ what is it they say about showbiz ?  no part is too small ? ’  still, even though christine’s part isn’t big, remy noted that nearly everyone is expected to be at dress rehearsals  ( she noted it because the director had only yelled a couple hundred times in the last few days ). 

really, remy was only able to get a couple feet away from where she had crashed into her friend. she let go of christine’s wrist and checks her phone for the time. she chews on her bottom lip, considering her options and the consequences of showing up to rehearsal, late, with starbucks, and a cast member. she throws her head back and groans,  ‘ it’s settled then, no fun for any of us this morning. ’  she reaches out again and laces their fingers together as she starts to walk in the direction of the theater.  ‘ text gigi to just bring it to you — and see if she can get me a latte too ! ’

Christine let out a LOUD and unflattering squawk when she felt Remy begin to tug her back in the direction of the theatre, stumbling backwards on the heels and sides of her feet, if only for dramatic effect. Though she let the other girl pull on her arm, she gave another WHINE and a few hard tugs just for the theatrics of it all -- and to make absolutely sure Remy knew how DISPLEASED with this situation she was.

Normally asking Gigi to make a run to the theatre for her wouldn't be such a big issue, but the energy between the two of them had been off recently and it was occasionally uncomfortable. Sucking her lip between her teeth, Christine began fishing for her phone in her handbag, letting Remy lead her along the sidewalk as she hurriedly tapped out a message to Gigi, requesting that she instead bring Christine's sugar free French vanilla iced latte with heavy cream by the theatre instead, and include a macchiato for Remy on Christine's tab as well. Before sending the message, she glanced up at Remy from under thick eyelashes. "Double shot nonfat caramel macchiato, three pumps of vanilla, with whip, right? The USUAL?"

Sleep had never been a friend to Lucien. It refused to come to him at night when he was a child, lying in his too-small bed staring at the crucifix mounted above his head leaving him to catch up-skirt glimpses of his supposed Lord and Savior in the last hours of his holy life. Twenty years later, Lucien and Sleep still had become no better acquainted. And he no longer had the private regions of a dying Jesus Christ to explore to keep him entertained.

Instead, he laid on his back on his unkept mattress, smoking cigarettes and waiting for the sun to rise. Until his last cigarette dwindled down to nothing, forcing him out into the open air of a sleepy Paris night. He didn’t bother pulling on the presentable costume of a suit and tie for a midnight run to a 24-hour store. Instead he wore baggy sweatpants with uncountable holes and a torn, stained t-shirt. This skin that more suited his character than the one he wore during the day.

He hadn’t expected to see a familiar face. And yet, she was here. Speaking softly as he approached. Perhaps both had hoped to go unnoticed. But it was too late for that now. “You’re quite drunk,” he stated softly, stepping to her side. An urge to touch her shoulder was stifled by a need to not startle her. “We should get you home safely, yeah?”

Christine inhaled sharply at the sound of a voice, despite addressing the person who had just walked up to her only a moment ago. Eyes fluttered -- open, shut, awake, asleep, present, distant -- before finally widening, FORCING herself to focus first on the ground under her feet, and then, slowly, as her head left her hand and rolled up on her neck, on the person who was now standing beside her.

"Lucien," she murmured, lips tightening, offering him a bleak shadow of a smile, "Yeah, I s'pose I am." A joyless chuckle, and then she began to examine him more closely, eyes scanning over the rags of clothes he's got on at the moment -- a far cry from what he's usually seen wearing in the few times she's encountered him face to face rather than just catching fleeting glimpses of him around the theatre or the museum. "What are you wearing?" she asked, words slurring together only slightly, lips beginning to turn up into what appears to be a more GENUINE smile, "That looks awful." Eyes flit up to Lucien’s face and she remembered herself for a fraction of a second. "No offense."

Running a hand through dark locks, she weakly tried to push herself off the side of the building, only now acknowledging his offer to help get her home. "It's far," she mumbles, eyes squeezing shut again, "I don't wanna go. I - I - " She throws Lucien a pathetic look and sighs deeply. "I dunno. Do I have to?"

Lisette twisted her neck at the sound of her voice, a ghost of annoyance on her face that was quickly replaced with a plastered-on grin when she discovered who had called out to her. Without looking, Lisette jutted out one hand to push the person who had run into her, as if to say “get lost” without actually saying it. Luckily for them both, the person decided that the situation wasn’t worth it and moved on their way.

With her grin still stuck on her face, Lisette responded “Oh nothing, just taking a walk.” The sentence dripped from her mouth so easily, like water from a fountain. Lisette had learned that the key to lying is that you had to believe what you were saying in order for it to work. Pick out a small piece of the truth and hold onto it for all that it is worth. In this case, Lisette was just taking a walk. To where or why was really none of Christine’s business.

Another key to lying was to turn the conversation around and make someone else the subject. “What about you, Christine? Tired of being stuck in the theatre with the rest of us?” At that, Lisette’s voice dripped with a bitter tone, as if accusing Christine of something.

Lisette's sudden tone stopped Christine dead in her tracks, quite literally made her look as though she'd just run into a BRICK WALL. Which, in some ways, having any sort of conversation with Lisette was doing exactly that. Christine's head jolted backwards on her neck and brown doe eyes blinked once and then went WIDE. 

"Yes, I am," she answered, quite frankly, choosing to ignore any insinuation, "But it's not like you're there right now either, Lisette. Or either of us HAVE to be. Rehearsal's been over for hours and it's not like I LIVE there so I don't see any reason why I should still be in the theatre right now, and I'm going to be there tomorrow morning again anyway and --" The only thing that cut her rambling short was the sudden feeling that she was about to topple herself backwards, and she had to stop talking to FOCUS enough to right herself.

She sniffled loudly and gestured over to Lisette with the hand that was holding her shoes, head falling to one side on her neck, squinting as she tried to examine Lisette more CLOSELY from where she was standing, still about a dozen or so feet away from the other woman. "Why are you taking a walk at midnight anyway? That doesn't seem very safe."

date: august 7th time: 11:45pm location: outside the point of no return status: open

Lisette knew that she wasn’t welcome at The Point of No Return. It was Chaney territory but Lisette was not someone who often cared about that sort of thing. She was there for a reason, although that reason was meant to be kept a secret. She stood outside of the building, its flashing lights sending a message that she would soon come to understand. This was it. This was the point of no return.

She had walked up and down the street for what felt like a thousand times, waiting for the signal. A million thoughts ran through her head: was she in the right place (it obviously was), had she misheard what time she was supposed to come, did he even truly care about her, was this all a set up. Every question that she gulped down her throat burned her tongue, snaking its way to her heart. 

As she paced back and forth across the street, she finally grew tired of waiting and decided to make her way across and towards The Point. As she placed one foot in front of the other, her feet pounding against the ground, she had not been paying attention. This caused her to run head-first into whoever managed to get in her way, making her forget for a moment why she was running in the first place. It must have been that she hit her head pretty hard against their shoulder.

“Watch it!” she hissed at whoever had the displeasure of running into her.

It had been a nice break from the stress of rehearsals -- a couple of pornstar martinis and what was SUPPOSED to be poker lessons from Raoul and Claude, but what had ended with Christine failing so miserably that she had ended up just drunkenly begging Raoul to trade cards with her whenever she had a bad hand and Claude, who had wanted a real game, looking on in ANNOYANCE. Tomorrow night would be the last dress rehearsal before opening night, and, in truth, even with as tiny a part as she had, she didn't feel she was ready. The witch's ballet had such complicated choreography; she knew herself and Odessa were falling behind all the other dancers in the company. 

And then it was so hard having to watch Carlotta sing The Jewel Song over and over and over, standing in the wings mouthing along with all the words and roaming the hallways in her downtime singing the notes over and over and over, clutching at her throat and wishing they belonged to HER instead of someone else. It was too much.

But it was almost tomorrow, and those thoughts were far from her mind right now. Wandering out of the casino, smile on her face and shoes in hand, giggling absently, she just barely noticed as someone a dozen feet away collided with another body, attention absently moving over to the pair as the smile faded from pink lips, replaced instead with a round o. Brow knit slowly as she recognized a blonde head of hair. 

"Lisette?" she called, a bit more loudly than needed be, "What are you doing here?"

“I am never late,” he sighed, letting cautious fingers hover moments from his coffee, which seemed to quiver upon the surface with apprehension at his haphazard nature, “Everyone else is simply early.” Raoul raised one brow, hoping perhaps the silly quip - for that was all he seemed able to muster - would turn her seemingly all too permanent scowl into something a bit more agreeable. But, of course, it was also all to possible that he did not deserve AGREEABLE. 

He gave his eyes a vehement rub, heels of his hands pressing into the socket and twisting, as if the dull pain of it might convince her that he was more awake than he appeared. Or perhaps it would convince him - Raoul felt as if he could slouch over and nap just about anywhere, but such a thing was not something to be proud of, as far as Christine seemed to be concerned. There was a time when he might have been eager to regale Christine with tales of his adventures, his debauchery, his antics; there was a time she might have truly listened, might not have judged him for awaking in someone else’s tie, in someone else’s flat, smelling of someone else’s alcohol. There might have been a time when Christine could have been a morningtime refuge, something to greet the sun with; now, however, he sat before her as a criminal sat before a jury. Judged. Hungover. Sad. 

Or perhaps she’d always judged - he’d always deserved it, he realized. 

He watched her shake her head, and suppressed a sigh. Was it not obvious that he was trying? “Well,” he tried, “whatever it is - I’d love to buy you another.” If it’d earn him a minuscule sliver of the forgiveness he so desperately craved (his body full of illicit substances which ruined lives and broke homes, but all he craved, all his sickness required was the relief she’d bring him), he’d be satisfied. “Or a scone? God, it’s been ages since I’ve had real scones with breakfast. Er - lunch, as it were,” he offered a smile, a half-chagrined grimace, only to absently match her changed position with legs crossed in his own chair, and hands falling from his coffee to his ankles, holding his too-long limbs in the wicker seat with great difficulty. 

The implications of her words, then, stung - it was a simple enough question, to any passersby who might desire to listen in on a conversation between one statue made of ice and the other practically melting. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly immensely grateful that the notably precise bruises he sported lay just below the sloppily done collar of his shirt; nevertheless, he couldn’t help but fidget, tugging at his collar, at the buttons that he’d barely thought to clasp on his way out the door that morning. “Barely remember,” he cleared his throat, “Woke up cradling a bottle of Merlot -” he figured, though it was not stellar for his image, that it would be better than cradling a woman, “- with my socks missing. Uneventful, as far as nights go.” He should have evaded the question, surely; she made his tongue feel knotted. There was a story there that she might have appreciated in another life; now he was certain she just saw a tired drunk.

“You look -” he paused, uncertain with where he had meant to go with this sentiment, “- well rested.” Raoul grimaced; he could only hope that she could find a compliment within. He reached hastily for his cup: “More coffee? I’m still buying.”

"You already asked that," she snaps, just a touch more HARSHLY than she intends, but no way to take it back now. Not that she'd really want to either. This whole new dynamic of theirs, the way the tables had turned so quickly after he'd come home? It's been not so secretly sending her on a POWER TRIP. She'd always been so head over heels for Raoul, ready to do anything for him -- she would have DIED for him if he had asked, killed for him, once upon a time. And now she was sitting on the other side of the table. Quite literally, for the moment. And it felt INCREDIBLE.

She sniffled loudly and reached one thin arm out for her coffee cup, peering into it with a dull sort of curiosity. She really had forgotten what she had ordered. She supposed it was her normal sugar free French vanilla latte with heavy cream, but she'd been so absolutely exhausted showing up at The Yellow Room, sheet music and clear plastic case of pastel highlighters and a brand new stationary set in her purse -- and now SPLAYED out across the table -- for marking up and making notes and preparing her audition for Faust, that she has no idea what she mumbled across the counter to the poor barista.

She throws a slow gaze back up to Raoul and shrugs noncommittally, eyes dragging across his tired features once more. He could really use a FACIAL, that much is for sure. Not to be mistaken, he's still absolutely beautiful. Unmistakably so. With this striking, chiseled bone structure and these deep, dark eyes and beautiful curly hair and a strong Grecian nose. But, right now, he's also got bags and dark circles for DAYS, and larger more noticeable pores than she remembered him having. Either the sun and too much booze did a number on him, or love really is BLIND after all. "You look like you need to fire your dermatologist." It's not meant as an insult, merely an observation. Truthfully, this time. Though she knows with her tone and the way she's been treating him he'll take it as a blow, and, again, she can't say she'll be sorry.

One long finger reaches out to his face and brushes back the curtain of curls from just over one eye, studying him intently, brushing across his skin ever so lightly. "You have little wrinkles on the sides of your eyes now," she murmurs, the tip of her finger just GHOSTING over them on one side of his face. Then her eyes find his and she sharply inhales, breaking the line of sight and withdrawing her finger.

"What are you drinking?" she turns the question back to him, suddenly wondering if it is, in fact, coffee in his cup, or if it's perhaps some hair of the dog from last night. "COFFEE or more merlot?" Her lips are tight, taut. JUDGMENTAL. There's always a twinge of something -- not quite guilt, but something -- when she's so hard on him like this, but it still seems to burble out every time without fail.

All she does is watch him with those big doe eyes of hers. Stare and occasionally blink from her perch atop her own knees and the bumpy wicker chair of the cafe. Like a vulture watching a mouse dying of thirst in the desert. Finally, she breaks the facade ever so slightly: "Sugar free French vanilla latte. Heavy cream. And a gluten free white chocolate cranberry scone."

once she straightens up and realizes who caught her in the first place, she squeaks audibly, suddenly embarrassed at the notion of someone from the theater finding her on her way. what would have made the situation worse if it were erik or michel instead of christine. then it dawns on her. 

‘ me ????? ’  her eyes widen,  ‘ what about you ??? ’  remy points a finger at her,  ‘ you’re the star of the gosh-darn show, if anyone absolutely needs to be at rehearsal it’s you. ’  she grabs christine’s wrist and makes to tug her along, heels clacking on the pavement.  ‘ oh my god, chrissy, they’re going to kill me. ’

She scoffs, snorts, and it’s ugly, JEALOUS, pulling itself from the back of her throat. “I’m a chorus girl," she retorts, mouth a thin line, one long-fingered hand absently pulling at the ivory leather Givenchy satchel dangling from one elbow, "Even MEG has a bigger part than me." She's pouting, and what's worse is she's not going to make any attempt to HIDE it.

When Remy grabs her wrist, Christine begins to audibly whine, something high pitched and awful and irritating. "Mathieu told everyone to take five so I texted Gigi and asked her to get coffee ready for me at the counter! He'll kill ME if I'm late getting back!" Of course, he'd also kill her if he saw her with caffeine on those oh so sensitive vocal chords, but that's another story.

It was rather nasty of her and she knows it, but she had stayed seated in the little plush corner booth right up until the very minute the staff had come over and oh so gingerly -- so as not to OFFEND, of course, by now the full time staff all knew she was dating the boss’ son -- asked her to leave because they were closing up for the night, offered to walk her to her room or check her into one. She had very seriously considered it; not that it was a particularly LONG drive back to her place for the evening, but just something about that big, empty house tonight just seemed so daunting. Her feet ached, her back hurt, she couldn’t feel her calves, her throat was raw; really, all she wanted was a bubble bath, a face mask, and to take off her bra as soon as possible. Dress rehearsals were getting to her something AWFUL. They were her first of this caliber, and she didn’t know that she was truly prepared.

But for the moment, this little lightweight has had THREE glasses of rosé too many, and she’s leaning up against the facade of the hotel, heels in one hand and her head in the other. She feels someone approaching and, without opening eyes squeezed shut, she assures them, “No, I’m FINE, I’m not loitering, I’ll be gone in a minute, I just needed to catch my breath.”

the unbreakable kimmy schmidt sentence starters

She instinctively looks down, as though she’ll be able to see the lipstick on her face if she looks HARD enough, crosses her eyes perhaps. Delicately upturned nose scrunches with effort and concentration, and it’s a delayed moment before she finds herself looking back at Veronica, mouth agape and dark brow knit. “This lipstick looks INCREDIBLE on me,” she finally manages, crossing her arms over her chest and letting out a light scoff, “I’m not pulling anything off. And NO, you can’t borrow my stuff after insulting me, the hell. That - that’s not how this works.” Truthfully, she’s more baffled than anything. Clearly, someone has denied this poor creature access to the girl code early in life and she’s never recovered.