—What turns the MHA men on instantly!
⋅•⋅⊰Summary: Headcanons and a scenario of what turns the MHA men on instantly and gets them going!
꒥꒷‧₊˚Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x reader ; Kirishima Eijirou x reader ; Denki Kaminari x reader ; Sero Hanta x reader
･ ｡ﾟ .*Tags: cute ; seductive ; sexy ; kissing ; make-out ; fluff ; love
✩.･*:｡Word-count: I think 8-9k
❀•°•A/N: I wouldn’t really say it’s turn one but also just things they like and appreciate! Fluff and a little pinch of sexuality is evident. I tried my best and hope you guys enjoy xx
—Headcanons of the MHA men
Whispering In His Ear: It's a vulnerable spot. To let you close enough to Murmur something only he can hear—a secret, a compliment, a dirty little promise—is an act of immense trust. The feeling of your breath against his skin can make his entire body seize up.
Wearing His Clothes: Specifically, his black skull-print t-shirts or a worn-in hoodie. Seeing you in his things, swallowed by the fabric that smells like him (faintly of caramel and smoke), triggers a primal, territorial part of his brain.
Subtle, Possessive Touches: In private, a hand ghosting up his back to squeeze his shoulder, fingers tracing the ridiculously sharp lines of his deltoids, or a thumb stroking over his knuckles. These small, claiming gestures bypass his verbal defenses and go straight to his system.
Praise for his skills: Not his Quirk. Praise his cooking, his strategic mind, his surprising dexterity with detailed tasks. Acknowledging the things he's worked hard on, separate from his innate power, makes him feel seen in a way that fuels a possessive sort of pride.
Matching his Passion: He finds it incredibly hot when you don't back down from an argument. When you can meet his intensity with your own fire, standing your ground and challenging him, it shows him you see him as an equal.
Taking the Initiative: While he loves to dote on you, he melts when you take the lead. Grabbing him by the shirt for a kiss, pushing him back onto the couch, or whispering what you want from him makes him feel incredibly desired.
Playful Biting: A playful, sharp nip to his shoulder, bicep, or even his jawline when he’s hardened. It’s a fun, feral little challenge that his Quirk is uniquely suited for, and he finds it ridiculously hot.
Praise for His Emotional Manliness:Forget his muscles. Tell him, "It was so manly how you comforted Uraraka after that test," or "The manliest thing about you is how kind you are."
Casual, Constant Affection: He lives for it. Playing with his hair while you watch a movie, holding his hand while you walk, leaning your head on his shoulder for no reason. These small acts of love make him feel grounded and adored.
Genuine Vulnerability: When you feel safe enough to cry in front of him or confess a fear, it doesn't make him see you as weak. It triggers a deep, primal instinct to protect and cherish you. Your trust in him is a powerful aphrodisiac.
Carefree Physical Touch: Ruffling his hair, leaning against him while you’re standing around, throwing an arm over his shoulder. He’s incredibly tactile, and these casual, friendly touches are like stocking a furnace that’s just waiting for a spark.
Loving His Music:When you genuinely jam out to a new song he’s excited about, or you put on one of his playlists and sing along. Sharing his passions and showing you get his vibe is a massive turn-on.
Playful Competitiveness: Challenging him in video games, especially rhythm games or fighters. The trash talk, the focused energy, the way you bump his shoulder when you win—it all fuels a fun, electric tension.
Needing His Tech Help: Asking him to help you fix your laptop, set up a new speaker system, or jailbreak your phone. It allows him to show off a skill he's genuinely good at and makes him feel useful and competent.
Praising His Intelligence: Seriously. Complimenting his surprising knowledge of literature or modern art, or telling him his plan for a team exercise was "brilliant." It bypasses his goofy flirt filter and hits him right in the heart (and lower).
Showing Casual Physical Dominance: Because he's so laid back, he finds it incredibly hot when you take charge in a small, playful way. Grabbing his hoodie to pull him down for a kiss, or shoving him playfully. It's an exciting change of pace.
Falling Asleep on Him: The ultimate sign of trust and comfort. If you can nod off using his shoulder or chest as a pillow, it sends a wave of protective, possessive warmth through him that is deeply arousing.
Laughing at His Dumb Jokes: When he cracks a truly terrible pun and you let out a genuine, unforced laugh, it makes him feel seen. He loves making you happy, and your laughter is his favorite sound.
Lazy Day Cuddles: He is the king of low-energy affection. Spending a whole Sunday in sweatpants, tangled up with you on the couch watching movies, is his idea of a perfect date and gets his mind racing in the best way.
Appreciating His Quirk for Mundane Things: Genuinely delighting in it when he uses his tape to grab a remote from across the room or rig up a hammock for a lazy afternoon. It makes him feel clever and appreciated.
—Scenarios of the MHA men
The air in the training gym was thick with the smell of ozone, sweat, and effort. You were both utterly spent, leaning against opposite walls of Gamma Gym, chests heaving. It had been less of a spar and more of a mutual beatdown, a way to work off the adrenaline from a patrol that had gone sideways earlier that day. Bakugou had been a hair's breadth from blowing a city block to smithereens over a low-level villain who’d gotten a lucky shot in on you. You'd stopped him, but the rage had simmered in him all day.
“You’re getting predictable with that left hook,” he rasped, wiping a smear of grime from his cheek with the back of his hand. His voice was rough, but it lacked its usual bite. It was just an observation.
“And you’re still over-relying on your right to set up a blast,” you shot back, a faint smirk playing on your lips despite the ache in your ribs. “One of these days, someone’s gonna take your arm off.”
A sharp, dangerous grin stretched across his face. This. He lived for this. “Let the fuckers try.”
He pushed himself off the wall, muscles coiling and uncoiling under sweat-slickened skin. He strode over to you, his red eyes scanning you from head to toe, cataloging the new bruise forming on your jaw, the way your training top was ripped at the shoulder. He didn't offer a hand. He just stood in front of you, a formidable mountain of pissed-off man.
“You’re a mess,” he grunted.
“You’re one to talk,” you retorted, finally finding the energy to stand. You were close now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. You reached out, your fingers gently touching the edge of a cut on his cheekbone. He flinched, but didn't pull away. “This is going to need cleaning.”
His jaw worked, his gaze intense. “Whatever.”
The walk back to the dorms was mostly silent, the comfortable quiet of two people who had exhausted all need for words. You showered separately, the hot water a blessed relief on screaming muscles. When you emerged, wrapped in a towel, you found him in the communal kitchen, the lights dimmed. The tell-tale clang of a knife against a cutting board echoed softly. He was meticulously dicing onions, his movements precise and economical. Already dressed in a loose black tank top and grey sweatpants, he seemed to have shed the explosive hero persona, leaving only Katsuki.
You padded over, leaning against the counter and just watching him for a moment. He moved with a brutal sort of grace, even with something as mundane as making dinner.
“You know,” you began, your voice soft, “everyone talks about your power. How big your explosions are.” He grunted, not looking up. “But they never talk about this. Your control. The way you can go from leveling a building to chopping a spring onion so thin I can see through it.”
The knife stilled. He slowly, deliberately, placed it on the counter. He turned his head, his crimson eyes locking onto yours. The air crackled, charged with something new. It wasn’t anger. It was something deeper, hotter.
“What’s your point, dumbass?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
You smiled, a genuine, tired smile. “My point is… it’s impressive. You’re impressive.”
He scoffed, but a faint, almost imperceptible flush crept up his neck. He turned back to his task, but his movements were stiffer now. You walked around the counter until you were standing behind him. You hesitated for only a second before wrapping your arms around his torso, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. He went rigid. You could feel the rigid wall of his abs against your forearms, the thunder of his heart against your chest.
“What the hell are you doing?” he growled, the sound vibrating through you.
“Hugging you,” you Murmured into his back. You slid one hand up his chest, your fingers splaying over the solid warmth of his pectoral muscle, a silent, possessive touch He didn't move. He just stood there, breathing. After a long moment, one of his hands came up and covered yours, his calloused fingers wrapping around your own. It was the closest he ever came to returning an embrace.
Later, after you’d eaten the ridiculously spicy, yet perfectly made katsudon he’d thrown together, you found yourselves in his room. It was surprisingly neat, save for a pile of clothes in the corner. You were wearing one of his old, worn-out hoodies, the one with the faded skull graphic. It swamped you, the sleeves hanging past your hands, and it smelled entirely of him.
You were sitting on the edge of his bed, and he was pacing. The restless energy was back, but it was different now. It was coiled, predatory. He stopped in front of you, looking down at you in his hoodie, and an unfamiliar expression flickered in his eyes. Raw, unfiltered want.
“Stop looking so damn pleased with yourself,” he muttered.
You tilted your head. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he insisted, taking a step closer. “You’ve got that stupid little smile on your face.”
“Maybe I’m just happy,” you offered.
“Tch.” He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your hairline. His touch was hot, demanding. He pulled you gently to your feet, so you were flush against him. His other hand settled on your hip, holding you in place.
“You pushed it today,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly low pitch. “In the gym. Arguing with me.”
“And you liked it,” he stated. It wasn’t a question. He leaned down, his face so close you could count the flecks of black in his red irises. “You like pushing my buttons. Seeing how far you can go before I snap.”
You swallowed, your heart hammering. “Maybe,” you breathed.
That was all the confirmation he needed. He dipped his head lower, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. You shivered as his hot breath washed over your skin.
“Good,” he whispered, the single word a guttural promise. “Because I’m about to snap right now.”
His mouth crashed down on yours. It wasn't gentle. It was a kiss born of adrenaline and pent-up frustration and a desperate, burning need. It was punishing and possessive, a blatant claiming. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting of spice and victory. You moaned into the kiss, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tank top, pulling him impossibly closer. He broke the kiss only to Trail a line of open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, settling on the pulse point that was hammering wildly.
“You asked for it,” he growled against your skin, a sound that was half threat, half prayer. He lifted you with an ease that stole your breath, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you the single step to his bed. He fell onto the mattress with you, caging you beneath him, his eyes burning with a ferocious, unrestrained hunger. The world narrowed to his weight on top of you, the scent of him, and the raw need radiating from every inch of his body. He tangled a hand in your hair, tilting your head back for another bruising kiss, the first of many that promised to leave you just as wrecked as the training gym.
It had been a week of hell. Midterms were a nightmare, a practical heroics exam had left you feeling bruised and inadequate, and to top it all off, you’d gotten into a stupid fight with your parents over the phone. You were at your breaking point.
You found yourself outside Kirishima’s door, hesitating. You didn't want to be a burden. But the thought of being alone in your room felt suffocating. You knocked softly, a pathetic little tap.
The door flew open almost instantly. Kirishima stood there, a wide, sunny grin on his face that faltered the second he saw you. "Hey! I was just—" He stopped, his expression softening into one of deep concern. "Whoa. Are you okay?"
And just like that, the dam broke. The question, so simple and so genuinely kind, was too much. A sob tore from your throat, and tears you’d been holding back all day began to stream down your face. You tried to cover your face, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," you choked out. "This is stupid."
"No," he said, his voice firm but gentle. He immediately stepped forward, wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you into his room, shutting the door behind you. He didn't say anything else, just held you. He was warm and solid, a rock in your emotional storm. You buried your face in his chest, soaking the front of his 'Red Riot' t-shirt as you cried out all the week's frustrations.
He rubbed your back in slow, steady circles, resting his chin on the top of your head. He smelled like clean laundry and something uniquely Eijirou, something warm and comforting.
After a few minutes, your sobs subsided into sniffles. You felt drained, but lighter. "Sorry about your shirt," you Murmured into his chest.
"It's just a shirt," he said softly. He gently guided you over to his bed, sitting you down before grabbing a box of tissues from his desk. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
And so you told him everything. The exams, the fight with your parents, the feeling of not being good enough. He listened intently, his brow furrowed in concentration, never interrupting. When you were done, he took your hand, his calloused thumb stroking the back of it.
"That's not stupid at all," he said, his voice full of conviction. "That's a totally rough week. It's okay to be upset by it. Anyone would be." He squeezed your hand. "And for the record, you did amazing on that practical. That move you used to disable the faux villain? It was super smart. I was watching." He beamed, that familiar sunshine returning to his face. "I was so proud of you."
His simple, honest validation felt like a balm on your frayed nerves. A warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with him. You leaned your head against his shoulder, a silent thank you. He immediately responded, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close.
You stayed like that for a while, watching some mindless comedy show he put on. His presence was so calming. Absently, you began to play with the ends of his bright red hair, twirling a spiky strand around your finger. He practically purred, his entire body relaxing into your touch.
“Y’know,” you said quietly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Everyone always says how manly it is to be tough and strong.” You looked up at him, meeting his soft red eyes. “But I think the way you just listened to me, without judging or trying to fix it… that's the manliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Kirishima’s breath hitched. A dark blush spread across his cheeks, making his freckles stand out. His eyes, fixed on yours, suddenly held a new, intense light. The atmosphere in the room shifted, the comforting warmth thickening into something heavy and charged.
"You really think so?" he asked, his voice a little strained.
"I know so," you whispered.
An unspoken permission passed between you. He leaned in, and you met him halfway. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, a question. You answered by pressing closer, deepening it. It was a kiss of comfort and gratitude that was quickly catching fire.
Feeling bold, you shifted, clambering onto his lap to face him. He made a surprised noise, his hands automatically going to your hips to steady you. You grinned against his lips, a spark of your usual mischief returning.
"What's this?" he chuckled, his voice husky.
"Takin' charge," you Murmured, before capturing his mouth again.
This time, the kiss was more demanding. You tilted his head back, exploring the warm cavern of his mouth as he groaned, his hands tightening on your hips. He was so responsive, so eager. It was intoxicating. His skin was warm under your hands as you traced the line of his jaw. On impulse, you hardened your own teeth and gave his bicep a sharp, playful nip.
Kirishima let out a strangled groan, a full-body shiver wracking his frame. His Quirk flared to life instinctively, his skin turning rugged and hard under your lips for a split second before softening again.
“Whoa,” he breathed, his eyes wide and blown out with desire. “Okay. Yeah. That’s…”
“Good?” you prompted, a wicked smile on your face as you leaned in and did it again, this time on his jaw.
“So good,” he growghed, the sound low and guttural. His control snapped. He surged up, flipping you onto your back on the mattress without breaking contact. He loomed over you, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration and raw need. The sweet, comforting boy was gone, replaced by a man who looked ready to worship you and devour you in equal measure.
"My turn," he rasped, his voice thick with want. He lowered his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you knew the quiet evening had just ignited into a raging inferno. The sheets started to tangle around you both as he began his loving, desperate assault.
“No, no, no, you’re plugging the HDMI into the *output*! It’s an input-only port on the graphics card,” Denki said, leaning over your shoulder. You were both on the floor of your dorm room, surrounded by the guts of your new gaming PC that you’d foolishly attempted to assemble yourself. The air smelled of plastic and static.
“It’s a hole that fits the plug, I don’t see the problem,” you grumbled, frustrated.
“That’s what she said,” he chirped instantly, before visibly cringing at his own joke. “Sorry. Force of habit.” He gently nudged your hand out of the way, his fingers brushing yours. “Here, let me.”
You sat back on your heels and watched him. When he was focused like this, his whole demeanor changed. The usual class clown persona melted away, replaced by a quiet competence. His fingers moved with practiced ease, rerouting cables, snapping components into place, his brow furrowed in concentration. You found yourself staring at the sharp line of his jaw, the way a strand of golden hair fell across his forehead.
“You’re actually really good at this,” you said, the words coming out softer than you intended.
He glanced up, a surprised but pleased smile touching his lips. “Yeah? Well, I gotta be good for somethin’ other than being a walking stun gun, right?” He winked, but you caught the flicker of insecurity in his eyes.
“Don’t say that,” you said firmly. “This is legitimately brilliant. My brain turns to soup just looking at all these wires. You’re like a tech wizard.”
The look he gave you was different. The playful spark was still there, but it was deeper now, warmer. A faint blush dusted his cheeks. “Wizard, huh? I like the sound of that.” He gave a final, satisfying click as he slotted the last cable into place. “Alright, Kaminari-sensei’s work is done. Time for the moment of truth.”
He connected the power and hit the switch. The case fans whirred to life, bathing the room in a soft blue glow. The monitor flickered on, displaying the boot screen. You let out a whoop of joy, throwing your arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug.
“You’re the best!” you cheered.
He laughed, his arms coming around your waist to steady you both. He was warm and solid. “All in a day’s work for Denki the Tech Wizard.” You pulled back, but he didn’t let go right away. His hands lingered on your waist, his thumbs drawing slow, lazy circles. The playful atmosphere suddenly felt charged with something else. His golden eyes searched yours, and for a second, you thought he was going to kiss you.
Then came the tell-tale scent of ozone. “Uh oh,” he mumbled, his eyes going wide. The PC flickered, and a tiny, harmless spark jumped from his fingertip to the metal case. The screen went black.
“Ah, crap,” he sighed, slumping. “Did I… did I short it out?” He looked so genuinely disappointed, so crestfallen, that your heart went out to him.
“Hey, no,” you said quickly, putting a hand on his arm. “It’s probably just a loose connection. Don’t worry about it.” You saw the dazed look starting to creep into his eyes, the precursor to a full-on "whey" moment. "Hey, look at me." You took his hand. "Come on, let's get you some water. We'll figure it out in a minute."
You led him over to your bed, sitting him down. He was pliant, a goofy, unfocused smile on his face. "Pretty lights," he said, staring at your lava lamp. You rolled your eyes fondly, handing him a bottle of water. While he recovered, you fiddled with the PC, finding the power cable he’d jostled loose. You plugged it back in, and it booted up perfectly.
When he was clear-headed again, he looked mortified. “Dude, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I almost fried your brand-new rig.”
“You didn’t,” you said, gesturing to the running computer. “And even if you did, it’s just a thing. I was more worried about you.” You sat next to him on the bed, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Now, as payment for your wizardry, you owe me a game of Mortal Kombat.”
His face lit up. “Oh, you are SO on. But we gotta have the right soundtrack.” He grabbed his phone, connecting it to your new speakers via Bluetooth. A second later, a high-energy pop-punk track filled the room. It was the same band he’d been telling you about for weeks.
“Hey, I love this song!” you exclaimed, your head starting to bob along with the driving guitar riff.
He beamed, his whole body seeming to vibrate with happiness. “Right?!”
You spent the next hour trading wins and losses, yelling at the screen, and laughing until your sides hurt. The earlier tension had melted back into easy friendship, but it was still there, simmering under the surface. Finally, after a particularly brutal match that you won by a hair, you both flopped back on the bed, exhausted and exhilarated.
The music shifted to something slower, an indie rock ballad with a soulful melody. You were lying side-by-side, staring at the ceiling.
“Hey,” Denki said, his voice soft.
“Thanks. For… you know. Earlier. Not getting mad. And not treating me like an idiot when I… you know.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was already looking at you, his expression open and vulnerable. “Denki, I could never think you’re an idiot.”
He gave a small, wry smile. “Everyone else does.”
“Then they’re not looking close enough,” you whispered.
The space between you felt electric again, but this time it had nothing to do with his Quirk. He propped himself up on his elbow, his body hovering over yours. The music seemed to swell, filling the quiet space.
“Can I… uh…” he started, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Can I try something that doesn’t involve wires and motherboards?”
You didn’t answer with words. You just reached up, your fingers tangling in his soft blond hair, and pulled him down. The kiss was tentative at first, just a soft press of lips, but it was full of all the unspoken things that had been buzzing between you all night. It tasted of sweet victory and a hint of static electricity. He moaned softly, a sound of pure contentment, and deepened the kiss, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. The playful energy was gone, replaced by a surprisingly intense, focused desire. He pulled away slightly, his breath warm against your lips.
“Wizard, huh?” he whispered, a smirk in his voice, but his eyes were dark with need. He lowered his head again, and the playful teasing of the day gave way to the serious business of the night as his body settled over yours.
The rain was coming down in sheets, drumming a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the windows of the Heights Alliance dorms. It was the kind of Sunday that was practically a legal mandate for laziness. Most of the class had braved the weather for a trip to the mall, but you and Sero had taken one look outside and declared it a "bones day."
Which is how you ended up in a fort of blankets and pillows in the middle of the common room floor, a laptop propped up on a cushion playing a marathon of old samurai movies. You were in your softest sweatpants, and Sero was in a pair of equally worn grey ones and a thin long-sleeved shirt.
“You know,” Sero said, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth, “I feel like this guy’s sword is basically just a really sharp, unfriendly version of my tape.”
You snorted, a laugh bubbling up against your will. “Oh my god, that’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day.”
He grinned his signature wide, toothy grin. “But you laughed! That means it was a good one.”
“It was not,” you argued, smiling. “It was terrible. Give me the popcorn.”
The bowl was sitting on the coffee table, just out of arm’s reach. Instead of moving, Sero just lifted a finger. A strip of cellophane tape shot out from his elbow, wrapping neatly around the bowl and zipping it through the air directly into your waiting hands. He gave you a look that was pure, smug satisfaction.
“Show-off,” you said, but you were beaming. “Okay, that was actually cool. You’re like a household Spider-Man.”
“The Friendliest Neighborhood Sero, at your service,” he said with a little bow of his head. He looked so pleased with himself, and you felt a familiar warmth spread through your chest. It was easy with Sero. Everything was just… easy.
You settled back into the nest of blankets, leaning your head against his shoulder as the movie played on. He smelled like clean laundry and the faint, sweet scent of his Quirk. His arm came around you naturally, his fingers toying with the ends of your hair. You ate popcorn and made quiet, dumb comments about the movie, your bodies pressed together from shoulder to thigh. The combination of the rain, the warmth of the fort, and Sero’s steady presence was a potent lullaby. Before you knew it, your eyelids were getting heavy. The last thing you remembered was the comforting weight of his head resting on top of yours.
You woke up to the soft glow of the laptop’s screensaver and the continued drumming of rain. The movie was long over. You were still cocooned in the fort, but you’d shifted, your head now resting on Sero’s chest, his arm a warm, heavy weight around your shoulders. His other hand was loosely tangled in your hair, and his breathing was a deep, even rhythm beneath your ear.
You stayed still for a moment, just listening to his heartbeat. It was steady and strong. For a guy who seemed so perpetually relaxed, he was solid muscle under his shirt. You could feel the hard planes of his chest, the defined line of his bicep under your cheek. The comfortable intimacy of the afternoon began to feel different in the quiet twilight of the room. It was charged, heavier.
You shifted slightly, and his breathing hitched. His eyes slowly blinked open.
“Hey,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”
“Sorry, did I wake you?” you whispered.
“Nah.” He didn’t move his arm. If anything, his fingers tightened ever so slightly in your hair. He looked down at you, his dark eyes soft and unguarded in the dim light. “You’re comfy.”
Your heart did a little flip. “So are you. You’re a good pillow.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “One of my many talents.”
You just looked at each other for a long moment. The easy camaraderie was still there, but it was now overlaid with a palpable tension. You were intensely aware of your leg pressed against his, of his hand in your hair, of the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your head. He wasn't the "buddy" Sero right now. He was a man, looking at you with an expression you’d never seen on him before—an expression of gentle, budding want.
Taking a breath, you decided to act on the strange, bold impulse that had been building in you. You rose up on your elbows, your face now level with his. He just watched you, his eyes wide with surprise and anticipation. Without a word, you grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the soft cotton in your hand, and pulled him upward, crashing your lips against his.
It was a clumsy, enthusiastic kiss, full of all the pent-up affection from a months-long friendship. He made a surprised noise against your mouth, but he responded instantly. His hand left your hair, moving to the small of your back to pull you flush against him. The other came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss.
He tasted like popcorn and something uniquely Sero, something warm and sweet. When you finally broke for air, you were both breathing heavily.
“Whoa,” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. “Okay. So we’re doing this.”
“Is that a problem?” you asked, your voice a little shaky.
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, a slow, devastatingly hot grin spreading across his face. “Not a single one.” He then flipped you both over with a surprising, fluid strength, so he was looming over you, caging you with his arms. “But now it’s my turn to be the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
He lowered his head, his lips tracing the line of your jaw, and you giggled, your hands tangling in his dark hair. The lazy Sunday had taken a turn, the comfortable quiet now filled with sharp breaths and soft moans. The rain outside seemed to beat a rhythm just for the two of you as the blanket fort became a world of its own.
