Satoru is a lot of things — a mentor, a teacher, a friend to few, an enemy to many. Most definitively though, he is the strongest. Has been since he was blessed with the power of the Six Eyes and his Limitless technique. Hours of training, obsessing, honing every tool at his disposal has made him untouchable — revered like a fucking god on Earth.

And then came you — you who toppled his cocksure attitude with quick and sharp wit that left him seething. You who got under his skin, lived under it at this point — you, put in the the least dramatic way possible, are the bane of his fucking existence. Maybe it was mutual dislike at first sight — maybe it was because your eyes were a little too discerning, like you could peer into his soul and see behind the thousands of masks he puts up. Maybe he’s just a prick and you’re a bitch. It’s probably a mix.

So maybe when your little arrangement started, it was chaotic and messy — hate fucking in all sense of the words. An outlet for him and you; the stress of missions and almost dying led you into bed together. One hookup turned into another turned into a tryst that nobody knows about, a secret piece of sin where when Satoru buries inside you he finds heaven. Arguments and rough kisses, slammed doors and clashing teeth, fingers fisted in hair and nails raking down pale skin. A good goddamn release.

So when your apartment door swings open and a stormy Satoru steps inside despite you telling him to not fucking break in and just knock, you’re not surprised. You’re not surprised either when he stalks in already unbuttoning his shirt, dragging it off as he walks to you, one hand already on his belt.

“Come here,” he mutters as he grabs you from where you were doing mission reports, lifting you onto the dining room table, setting you on the surface as he steps between your legs.

“Such a shitty fucking day,” Satoru mutters, as he drags you to the edge of the table. “Fix it.”