❤︎ 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝒻𝒻 ❤︎
ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴇꜱʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇᴜᴘ
Watching Cheslock put on makeup is... A whole experience. He prances around his room, blasting music so loud there's no way it doesn't bother his neighbors. Not that he cares. He doesn't have a vanity or a small mirror of any sort he can sit at to do this no, of course not. He stands or sits at the silver-framed full length mirror that leans against the wall at the end of his bed. He sings along to whatever song his phone pops up from his shuffled "liked songs" whether it be Motionless in White or Seb Lowe, he knows all of the lyrics. Sometimes he even fingers out the melody into the air, pretending to hold his violin with his left hand as his right buffs on more black eyeshadow.
Once he's done with the eyeshadow though, the real fun begins. He whips out his trusty eyeliner pen (NYX Epic Ink, obviously), leans in as close as possible to the mirror and oh so carefully drags the tip of the pen over his skin from the outside of his eye to just before the middle of his eyelid. He does the same for his lower lash line, careful, mediculous, quiet, for once, staring at his reflection open-mouthed with more focus than he has for anything else. Well, maybe one or two other things but pretty much anything else.
When he's managed to get his eyes to look like sisters (not twins), he moves on to accentuating his scar. The one on the left side of his face, light pink, indenting a three-ish inch (7cm) line over his eyebrow, eye and the top of his cheek. Honestly, he was lucky to make it out with the vision in his left eye intact... Whatever. He traces, less carefully now, over the line with his eyeliner, dragging the scar out all the way down to his jaw and making a fork at the bottom.
'Like one of those old Victorian dolls, see?' He had jocked a couple times, 'The porcelain ones that crack like that when you drop them.'
After doing a once-over of his outfit, little top-big bottom or big top little bottom, depending on his mood, he usually stacks on a miriad of necklaces and bracelets and rings and tightens the balls on his piercings, taking special care of his tongue ring. He swallowed it one time and it would not happen again. He moves on to his hair, making sure every spike is in place and sometimes complaining about how dry it is because of the bleach...
Next is your favourite part, when he gives you a little spin, the various chains on his clothes clinking together merrily. And even better, when he slinks over, wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you close with his usual confident cat-like grin. And he's so warm — a space heater, really — and even though his chains and the studs on his jackets dig into your skin, you don't mind, you want to wrap yourself up in him and never let go.
His lips are a little chapped, a little dry when he kisses you. But they're gentle, careful but still firm. He licks into your mouth, only for a moment, enough to let you feel the sleek hard metal of his piercing.
'Alright, you ready?' He checks. You grin. 'Let's go, I'm starving.'
