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xp_logsMarie-Ange "accidentally" snoops through Quentin's mail and offers him some makeup tips.
Marie-Ange had unerringly headed to the roof platform to find Quentin Quire - no spy work or precognition necessary, unless you counted asking people if they'd seen him, and checking on one of the security cameras to look for if the tell-tale heat signature of a joint.
Both of which only counted as the barest of spy work. Really, a child could have done that.
She nudged the door open, hurried out, and set a pair of opened cardboard boxes on the little folding table where someone had thoughtfully stashed some ashtrays. "Your mail is here. I accidentally opened it. I thought it was Hope's, and she owes me a lip colour trade." She nudged one of the boxes in Quentin's direction.
It took him a moment to look up at her from where he lay on a towel, wearing only box-cut swim trunks that matched the color of his hair. His discarded clothes and a bottle of sunscreen sat next to him, as well as a well-read and marked up copy of Justin Chin's Bite Hard and a half-eaten box of EL Fudge cookies that might have had someone else's name written on it.
"That's a federal crime, opening other people's mail," he reminded her, taking a puff from his near-finished joint. "I could have you prostituted. Prosecuted. Either one."
"The first is more fun, but I would be demanding of your illegal drugs and keep all the money for myself." Marie-Ange said, with a finely manicured gesture at the joint. "I am really very high maintenance and nosy and jealous. See, I am already opening your mail."
An unseen force yanked the box out of her grip and it hovered like a UFO next to him as he slowly pulled himself up to lean on his elbows. Considering Marie-Ange's comment, he held up the joint to offer it to her. There wasn't much left but it would be rude to keep it all to himself. "Do you snoop through everyone's shit?" he asked.
"Merci, but no, I have an ice cream sandwich waiting for me in my freezer." Marie-Ange waved off the joint - too much in a single day and she would give herself a powers headache. "I do snoop through everyone's boxes, except also no, only Hope's, and Laurie's, because I am paying for both and we sometimes trade. You could join the trade group, I think all of us have gotten things that would closer match your skin tone and hair." She paused, with a distant but thoughtful expression. "I could also share the ice cream sandwiches. The ice cream hides the taste of the cannabutter better than just a cookie does."
"Well, fucking, stop. It's not yours and I'm not interested in sharing or whatever with you. Or Hope. Or that ugly dumb idiot you're also sleeping with? I dunno, I can't get the tea straight with you fuckers. You make no sense." The box fell to the ground with a thud, and Quentin startled by the noise, as if he had forgotten in half a second that he had dropped it by releasing his telekinetic grip.
"Oh. Well, that is also fine." Marie-Ange said. "Also do you ... want an explanation of my complicated sex life, or was that rhetoric. I cannot tell." She sat down on one of the lawn chairs that had been dragged up to the roof and abandoned, and began rummaging through her own makeup box. "Are you certain you do not want to trade, because this?" She held up an eyebrow pencil in bright gold. "Is very not my style. Why do they keep thinking this is me? Do I look like a gold eyebrow person to you?"
"No?" It was an answer to both questions. "I don't know shit about colors and seasons and matching or whatever. This is all just . . . experimentation. I don't even know how to apply most of this stuff. Had to have a crash course from Hot Doctor Jean on nail polish."
"I could easily be trite and say that experimentation is how we learn, and then someone would find pictures of when I wore long skirts and peasant blouses and I would have to throw myself from this roof." Marie-Ange said. "Youtube videos are very helpful? Nail polish is hard, and the brushes that come with the bottles are terrible. Buy better brushes, clean them after every use." She thought for a moment. "Actually that is a good rule for all cosmetics. Buy specific brushes, clean them as though it were your religion."
Then she set down her box of still unsorted samples. "As for colours, you are cool shaded. But really that is a guideline and not a rule. What are you trying to achieve? A bold statement, or a subtle enhancement, or somewhere in the middle."
"I want to give head without turning his cock into a rainbow," was Quentin's matter-of-fact response. "Blowjob-proof lipstick. Is that so much to ask for? We can go to the moon and create body parts in a test tube but we still can't stop leaving smudges."
"It would be a poorly coloured rainbow, if it was only one shade." Marie-Ange's expression was momentarily surprised, and then amused with a slight touch of "ew.". "Yes, makeup smearing makes an already messy act even messier, and ... no. But there has to be. There is movie makeup that survives water and dirt and sweat, they have to make something."
"So you don't have all the answers at hand. Pfft." Quentin smeared the remnants of his joint on the ground to extinguish it and then lied back down, resting his hands under his head, to continue cultivating a tan. "I need to learn to contour. Get some sharp cheekbones up in here."
Marie-Ange tilted her head one way, then the other. "None of my contouring colours would look right with your skin tone, but sample kits for learning are not expensive. It is not difficult, really, it is just lights and shadows and practice." She poked through the box of samples. "You could probably experiment with eyeliner too, or eyebrow pencils." She tossed the gold one towards Quentin. "Dyeing eyebrows is impossible but penciling over to match hair, that is not so hard always."
"Sure, lemme dye my pubes while I'm at it so that I completely match." A pause and then a shudder at the thought of bleaching first to reach that vibrant shade of pink. He would sooner just wax it all off than suffer through that. "Althooooough . . . mascara to make these lashes pop. And eyeliner, yeah. Silver? Does that go with pink? That goes with pink."
"Oh yes. Silver, or rose gold maybe." Marie-Ange's hands practically twitched at the idea of dragging Quentin through a Sephora - or a good professional quality makeup box, really. "Why do men always have good eyelashes. This is unfair. I have to work to make mine show, you just get them." She grumbled. It was vexing how many men had better eyelashes than she did. "So mascara, eyeliner, contouring. Better brushes for nail polishes. Lip colour that does not bleed, if you find that please tell me I do not think it exists and oral sex is already too messy. None of those are difficult, they just require practice."
"Just so you know, I'm not your personal Barbie Styling Head. My willingness to guinea pig only goes so far."
"I do not know what that is but it sounds terrifying." Marie-Ange said, with an amused snort. "I was just going to start leaving samples in your mail cubby, like the Makeup Easter Rabbit."
Quentin raised an eyebrow behind his sunglasses and sat up, resting on his elbows. "This is, like, the weirdest arrangement for a fag hag I've ever seen." He paused and then grinned. "I like it."
"I get to get rid of makeup samples I will never use and leave you post-it notes criticizing your mascara technique. This is the perfect arrangement." Marie-Ange agreed. "Really though, what is a Barbie Styling Head because I actually do not know?"
"It's like one of those mannequin heads that stylists practice on in beauty school," Quentin explained, "But for little girls and lucky little boys and with Barbie's face. I almost bought one myself when I was thirteen because I misunderstood and thought it was a sex toy. Barbie giving head. Speaking of non-smearing lipstick."
"Ew. That does not make it less awful." Marie-Ange paused. "The Barbie face, not the sex toy aspect. I am surprised mannequin heads are not sold for that purpose." Another pause. "Are they?"
"I mean, there's Fleshlights with mouths instead of a pussy or ass hole. For when you want to JO but fancy."
"But not a whole face. Not a Barbie face. There is money in that, but it is sticky messy sexist money, so perhaps I will not consider ebaying any Barbie Makeup faces"
"With 3-D printing so easily available these days, who knows what you'll find?"
Marie-Ange had unerringly headed to the roof platform to find Quentin Quire - no spy work or precognition necessary, unless you counted asking people if they'd seen him, and checking on one of the security cameras to look for if the tell-tale heat signature of a joint.
Both of which only counted as the barest of spy work. Really, a child could have done that.
She nudged the door open, hurried out, and set a pair of opened cardboard boxes on the little folding table where someone had thoughtfully stashed some ashtrays. "Your mail is here. I accidentally opened it. I thought it was Hope's, and she owes me a lip colour trade." She nudged one of the boxes in Quentin's direction.
It took him a moment to look up at her from where he lay on a towel, wearing only box-cut swim trunks that matched the color of his hair. His discarded clothes and a bottle of sunscreen sat next to him, as well as a well-read and marked up copy of Justin Chin's Bite Hard and a half-eaten box of EL Fudge cookies that might have had someone else's name written on it.
"That's a federal crime, opening other people's mail," he reminded her, taking a puff from his near-finished joint. "I could have you prostituted. Prosecuted. Either one."
"The first is more fun, but I would be demanding of your illegal drugs and keep all the money for myself." Marie-Ange said, with a finely manicured gesture at the joint. "I am really very high maintenance and nosy and jealous. See, I am already opening your mail."
An unseen force yanked the box out of her grip and it hovered like a UFO next to him as he slowly pulled himself up to lean on his elbows. Considering Marie-Ange's comment, he held up the joint to offer it to her. There wasn't much left but it would be rude to keep it all to himself. "Do you snoop through everyone's shit?" he asked.
"Merci, but no, I have an ice cream sandwich waiting for me in my freezer." Marie-Ange waved off the joint - too much in a single day and she would give herself a powers headache. "I do snoop through everyone's boxes, except also no, only Hope's, and Laurie's, because I am paying for both and we sometimes trade. You could join the trade group, I think all of us have gotten things that would closer match your skin tone and hair." She paused, with a distant but thoughtful expression. "I could also share the ice cream sandwiches. The ice cream hides the taste of the cannabutter better than just a cookie does."
"Well, fucking, stop. It's not yours and I'm not interested in sharing or whatever with you. Or Hope. Or that ugly dumb idiot you're also sleeping with? I dunno, I can't get the tea straight with you fuckers. You make no sense." The box fell to the ground with a thud, and Quentin startled by the noise, as if he had forgotten in half a second that he had dropped it by releasing his telekinetic grip.
"Oh. Well, that is also fine." Marie-Ange said. "Also do you ... want an explanation of my complicated sex life, or was that rhetoric. I cannot tell." She sat down on one of the lawn chairs that had been dragged up to the roof and abandoned, and began rummaging through her own makeup box. "Are you certain you do not want to trade, because this?" She held up an eyebrow pencil in bright gold. "Is very not my style. Why do they keep thinking this is me? Do I look like a gold eyebrow person to you?"
"No?" It was an answer to both questions. "I don't know shit about colors and seasons and matching or whatever. This is all just . . . experimentation. I don't even know how to apply most of this stuff. Had to have a crash course from Hot Doctor Jean on nail polish."
"I could easily be trite and say that experimentation is how we learn, and then someone would find pictures of when I wore long skirts and peasant blouses and I would have to throw myself from this roof." Marie-Ange said. "Youtube videos are very helpful? Nail polish is hard, and the brushes that come with the bottles are terrible. Buy better brushes, clean them after every use." She thought for a moment. "Actually that is a good rule for all cosmetics. Buy specific brushes, clean them as though it were your religion."
Then she set down her box of still unsorted samples. "As for colours, you are cool shaded. But really that is a guideline and not a rule. What are you trying to achieve? A bold statement, or a subtle enhancement, or somewhere in the middle."
"I want to give head without turning his cock into a rainbow," was Quentin's matter-of-fact response. "Blowjob-proof lipstick. Is that so much to ask for? We can go to the moon and create body parts in a test tube but we still can't stop leaving smudges."
"It would be a poorly coloured rainbow, if it was only one shade." Marie-Ange's expression was momentarily surprised, and then amused with a slight touch of "ew.". "Yes, makeup smearing makes an already messy act even messier, and ... no. But there has to be. There is movie makeup that survives water and dirt and sweat, they have to make something."
"So you don't have all the answers at hand. Pfft." Quentin smeared the remnants of his joint on the ground to extinguish it and then lied back down, resting his hands under his head, to continue cultivating a tan. "I need to learn to contour. Get some sharp cheekbones up in here."
Marie-Ange tilted her head one way, then the other. "None of my contouring colours would look right with your skin tone, but sample kits for learning are not expensive. It is not difficult, really, it is just lights and shadows and practice." She poked through the box of samples. "You could probably experiment with eyeliner too, or eyebrow pencils." She tossed the gold one towards Quentin. "Dyeing eyebrows is impossible but penciling over to match hair, that is not so hard always."
"Sure, lemme dye my pubes while I'm at it so that I completely match." A pause and then a shudder at the thought of bleaching first to reach that vibrant shade of pink. He would sooner just wax it all off than suffer through that. "Althooooough . . . mascara to make these lashes pop. And eyeliner, yeah. Silver? Does that go with pink? That goes with pink."
"Oh yes. Silver, or rose gold maybe." Marie-Ange's hands practically twitched at the idea of dragging Quentin through a Sephora - or a good professional quality makeup box, really. "Why do men always have good eyelashes. This is unfair. I have to work to make mine show, you just get them." She grumbled. It was vexing how many men had better eyelashes than she did. "So mascara, eyeliner, contouring. Better brushes for nail polishes. Lip colour that does not bleed, if you find that please tell me I do not think it exists and oral sex is already too messy. None of those are difficult, they just require practice."
"Just so you know, I'm not your personal Barbie Styling Head. My willingness to guinea pig only goes so far."
"I do not know what that is but it sounds terrifying." Marie-Ange said, with an amused snort. "I was just going to start leaving samples in your mail cubby, like the Makeup Easter Rabbit."
Quentin raised an eyebrow behind his sunglasses and sat up, resting on his elbows. "This is, like, the weirdest arrangement for a fag hag I've ever seen." He paused and then grinned. "I like it."
"I get to get rid of makeup samples I will never use and leave you post-it notes criticizing your mascara technique. This is the perfect arrangement." Marie-Ange agreed. "Really though, what is a Barbie Styling Head because I actually do not know?"
"It's like one of those mannequin heads that stylists practice on in beauty school," Quentin explained, "But for little girls and lucky little boys and with Barbie's face. I almost bought one myself when I was thirteen because I misunderstood and thought it was a sex toy. Barbie giving head. Speaking of non-smearing lipstick."
"Ew. That does not make it less awful." Marie-Ange paused. "The Barbie face, not the sex toy aspect. I am surprised mannequin heads are not sold for that purpose." Another pause. "Are they?"
"I mean, there's Fleshlights with mouths instead of a pussy or ass hole. For when you want to JO but fancy."
"But not a whole face. Not a Barbie face. There is money in that, but it is sticky messy sexist money, so perhaps I will not consider ebaying any Barbie Makeup faces"
"With 3-D printing so easily available these days, who knows what you'll find?"
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