He shifts in your lap, warm metal grinding against you. You gasp lightly, but you don’t think he notices, looking elsewhere as he dips a soft sponge in foundation. He strokes it over your forehead, along your cheeks, down your jawline. The hand that had previously been resting against your cheek moves downward as well, slipping out of the way bit by bit until coming to a rest on the back of your head. Long fingers tangle in your hair, supporting your head and holding it steady.
He lightly dusts your face with one powder after another. You have a feeling that at least one of them is blush, though you aren’t paying too much attention to the products he’s using. He’s biting at his bottom lip again, and you’re cursing the scientist who gave him fangs along with such full lips.