“I fucking hate your apartment,” Tomura mutters as he walks around the dark bedroom. He catalogues the newspaper clippings you’ve got of your first ever hero win, some awards you’ve won on the shelves, your hero costume hung in the corner with some letters from fans. All of it makes his lips curl back in disdain and his crimson eyes narrow as his boots thud against your floorboards. Your apartment’s clean, well decorated, filled with life. Also filled to the brim with hero paraphernalia.

“Better than the hovel you live in,” you mutter back with a scoff where you’re in bed, sheets pooling around your waist. Tomura’s eyes flick over to you for a moment, and the disgust dies down a little at the sight of your face under the moonlight.

“You have no clue where the League stays,” he mutters as he slowly walks around your vanity. It was a rule you both made — no hero or villain talk when you’re doing this, whatever this is. To Tomura it’s a sickening affliction, some poisonous need that draws him back to you and this stupid apartment, breaking in through the window and finding your soft skin waiting for him. He wonders what it is for you. Then he kills that thought immediately. It doesn’t matter to him. This wasn’t convenience because it could ruin both your lives but it did help scratch that itch that lived under his skin.

“I can imagine that it’s some shitty, rundown place,” he hears you say from bed as he leans against your vanity and his eyes drag over you. Sleep ruffled but sharp and aware like always. Your hero instincts never left you, did they?

“It serves its purpose,” Tomura mutters as he slowly stalks to your bed, his boots loud in your quiet apartment. “As do you,” he adds on just to see the way your lips twist into a scowl, eyes flashing. What a beautiful temper.

“Besides, this place is ancient,” he mutters as his knee presses to your sheets and a gloved thumb rests on your chin. “Should really move to a nicer neighbourhood with all your hero friends.”