Deadly (one shots)

In his arms (nb reader)

You're being annoying.

Well, that's not quite accurate. You're not being annoying, which is annoying. Tomura hadn't come all the way to your apartment for you to ignore him and focus on studying. He'd come all the way here to ignore you and focus on playing video games, and act irritated by the way you'd slowly drape yourself over him more and more until you'd sit completely in his lap, obscuring his view and forcing him to put down the game in favor of paying attention to you. That's how it's supposed to work.

You're not supposed to be laying sprawled out on your stomach with your textbooks and laptop out in front of you, only just touching him with a single bare foot draped over the back of the bed.

He can't focus on his game when you're being so difficult. His character dies again—jumps straight into a pit of lava—and he huffs at the grating death riff that plays over the all too familiar game-over screen. He starts the level again. It's the sixth time.

When he'd sent you his usual im coming over text, he'd been surprised and slightly offended when you'd responded by telling him you were busy. He hadn't seen it until he was at your townhouse, though, and your window was open like it always is when you invite him in, so he'd climbed up the trellis and slipped through. You'd greeted him with a tired, distracted murmur and hadn't addressed him since, aside from pushing yourself down as he took his usual seat at the foot of your bed to nudge his shoulder just barely.

What are you studying for, again? Some big important exam for your hardest class, or so you'd told him. He doesn't understand why you bother going to university; it's not as if you'll be needing a degree when you're spending the rest of your life at his side. He also knows how much it means to you, though, and despite how he personally feels about higher education he doesn't want you to fail. You'd be devastated. Beyond that, he does want you to succeed in the things you care about.

Tomura's character dies again. This time he quits, growling and tossing the controller to the side. He doesn't even bother turning off the console as he whips about where he's seated to glare at you over the edge of the bed.

It takes you a moment to realize he's moved. That in itself makes his annoyance surge; he's glaring harder as you flip over. When you begin to pull your legs back to sit up he surges forward to grab them and prevent you from moving away from him—carefully, always carefully, pinky fingers raised despite the double-digit gloves he wears to prevent any accidents.

"I told you I was busy," you huff. "Not my fault you came over anyway."

"You said you wouldn't mind the company."

"I don't mind it, I like spending time with you even when I have to be working on other things."

"You've been working on other things for six days," he grumbles. Nearly a week. This is his first time seeing you in nearly a week. It's a miracle he hasn't died from lack of attention, and you're lecturing him on giving you space? His reasons for coming over aren't even that selfish, damn you and your supernatural ability to make him drop everything to make sure you're okay.

But he'd been able to tell that you weren't okay even through the phone. You're exhausted, and it's even more obvious now that he's in your room with a good look at your face.

So Tomura doesn't let you go back to your work. He tightens his grip on your legs instead (still cautious, constantly cautious, with six digits rather than ten, pinkies and ring fingers raised) and doesn't wait for you to protest before he yanks you off the bed.

Your yelp is cute. Everything about you is cute, of course, but there's something he particularly likes about the way your voice is laced with surprised laughter as he snatches you bodily from your place on your bed and drags you down into his lap. It's clumsy despite (or rather because of) how careful he is with his deadly grip, and you end up turned around with your back along his legs and your feet propped up on the end of the bed.

"How much have you slept since we last hung out?"

You pout, clearly aware that he won't like the answer.

"Brat," he rasps, "studying is useless if you pass out during the exam."

"What're you gonna do about it, then?"

Well, he can't let you get away with that. You forget he's an S-rank villain.

He stands suddenly, arms strong around your torso as he lifts you and throws you back onto your bed. Again, you yelp; but you're long used to his manhandling by now, and you've told him how much you like it, so he knows the shriek is mostly for show. You turn around, making to go back to your notes, and though he's well aware you're not actually intending to return to your studying he still lunges faster than you to shove all your supplies off the bed.

"Tomura!" you whine—he can hear that you're half serious now, and six months ago when all this was still new he might have paused to apologize, but instead he just grabs you again to pull you under the covers with him.

It's sufficiently distracting. All thoughts of your studies have clearly been dashed from your mind as he rolls over to hold you on top of him, chest-to-chest, thick quilt and soft sheets covering the pair of you.

Tomura can't help himself as he tucks his head in the crook of your neck, burying his face against your soft skin. It's always a little overwhelming simply being in your room, but your scent surrounds him now, both from the bed he's holding you hostage in and you yourself.

It's warm too, pleasantly so; so often Tomura feels chilled to the bone, but that's rarely the case when you're around, always sharing your body heat with him in one way or another.

Your arms move to drape over his shoulders. You prop yourself up slightly, staring down at him as he pulls his head back to look up at you. He's come to know you well enough to recognize that you're planning something; he tightens his hold on you, preparing for you to make a getaway attempt, not that you stand a chance to get very far against his strength and reflexes.

"You're not leaving. We're sleeping."

You hum in response, an acquiescence (though he doesn't loosen his grip, less because he's afraid you'll leave now and more simply because he likes the feeling of you in his arms). He holds you like that for a time, listening to or perhaps more feeling the soft rhythmic beat of your heart against his chest and your quiet, steady breath.

One of your hands moves, tracing down the side of his face, thumb reaching across to brush over the scar on his eye and then doing the same further downward to its companion on his lip. Then it drops, finding a permanent resting spot on his chest, heavy palm warming him over his heart.

You lean in. His eyes flutter closed, sight going dark so that he can focus on his other senses—the weight of you on him, the smell of your shampoo, the brief little sound you make in the back of your throat that he's come to learn means you think he's being cute.

Your lips land on his scarred eye, featherlight and fleeting, a brush of a kiss. Then they're just below his mouth, an identical kiss on what you affectionately call his beauty mark. Finally, they press to the corner of his mouth, that other scar (he used to be self conscious of it, frankly, but you don't even have to tell him just how much you like it, he's figured that out on his own thanks to how much attention you give the little blemish and your minute reactions every time you get the chance to feel it).

You're sluggish as you pull back. You're finally feeling the exhaustion, he can tell. He should really let you sleep, that's why he's here and forced you into bed with him in the first place, but he follows your lips anyway.

It's a sweet kiss, slow and languid but not entirely passionless as his hand slides up your spine to find home on the back of your neck. He can feel you melt into him, letting him take the lead and relinquishing any active part in the process to him. Your heat seeps into him. He doesn't get tired much, but at times like these your own exhaustion affects him, bidding him to follow you into dreamland—not that he'd ever complain about sleeping with you.

When the pair of you separate, you all but fall onto him, finally letting your heavy eyelids close as you bury your face into his marked neck. You mumble something into the skin there, almost too quiet to hear; a slurred out, "G'night."

Tomura turns his head into you to press a kiss to your temple as he succumbs to your siren call and joins you in slumber, voice impossibly low so you won't hear (though he knows you will anyway, perceptive as you are). "Sleep well, player two."