it’s a quarter past eight p.m. when you knock on satoru’s front door; the sound is quiet, indecisive.

“(name),” but he’s smiling when he opens the door two or three minutes later, “i’m glad you made it --- come in,” stepping aside to let you in.

and, as you cross the threshold into his open–concept apartment, you’re thrown into a sea of people adorned in costumes; heated bodies grinding against one another to a song you don’t know the name of.

“need a drink?” satoru’s voice again, his lips mere centimetres away from the shell of your ear as he tries to compete with the sheer volume of the music and indistinct chatter surrounding the two of you.

“i… i’d like that,” you respond a moment later, projecting your voice and making a face almost immediately but satoru doesn’t seem to mind, interlocking your fingers with his and leading you to the kitchen.

there, he pours some type of punch into a red plastic cup and offers it to you, smile still on his face and all.

“you look…” he pauses, taking in your costume for the first time since you’d arrived, “good,” before he raises his gaze to yours, lifting a brow at the glittery make–up around your eyes.

and, in retrospect, you believe you’d mumbled an awkward ‘thank you’ in response but it’s all a blur from there on out.

one minute you’re in the kitchen and the next thing you know, you’re in his bathroom, leaning against the countertop and staring at your reflection in the mirror as he pulls his cock out of your winking hole only to push it back in again.

his mask, almost skeleton–like with its exaggerated eyes and mouth, is tilted to the side, exposing his reddened cheeks and heavy–lidded eyes as his fingers curl around the base of your throat.