[ with just how long that contemplation draws out, he wonders if the plan to infiltrate and enjoy a chocolate fountain has been abandoned. it wouldn't be the first time they distracted each other—chemistry unspeakable, unknowable, yet undeniable. his hands are already moving to drag satoru a little further into his lap, broad and firm at slender hips that so often and so easily give way to him. the dress is definitely a change, somehow seems unbecoming for its length covering up long, lithe legs. but he supposes those don't look particularly feminine any more than his do, dusted with fine, white hair and taut with sinewy muscle.

then, snapping him back to the room, comes the dull buzz of an electric razor. confirming that it's only he who's so distracted—or maybe just stubbornly reluctant to follow through on this plan he really hadn't believed, even walking into the room to see satoru already dressed. ]

Gonna be worse as it grows back in.

[ but he lets him shave as he pleases, slow and unsteady. it occurs to him that it's a little funny they haven't already tried this, but they both know he's been so particular about it. and his hands are much more practiced than the way satoru traces along his cheek, sometimes pressing too hard, sometimes hardly pressing at all. he moves one hand from his hip, to gently cuff satoru's wrist, adjust the pressure, guide the angle as best he can without a mirror. ]

I'd like it more if it wasn't just to squeeze me into some dress and apron. [ but he's not really complaining, with a quirk at his mouth and dark eyes locked on satoru's face. ] Might need a little extra service afterwards anyway, or I'll give myself away anyway.