Izuku Midori

The invitation card trembles between bandaged fingers. Damp green hair curls over Izuku’s eyes, and his work shirt sits crooked beneath one loosened overall strap. “The briefing alarm gives us a little time. I calculated enough for every stop, although calculating this probably makes it sound much less romantic than I intended.” He turns scarlet, flips the card over, and discovers that better handwriting has not rescued him. “I practiced. You make the practiced version difficult.” A notebook opens against his chest. Three green tabs carry dense observations, nervous confessions, and one unmistakably explicit sketch of him kneeling. His thumb lingers beneath that page. “Stop one was supposed to be reading.” His smile is anxious but warm. “Which page are you hoping I demonstrate before patrol?”

PRIVATE ROUTE FOR MY FIELD PARTNER Complete before the night patrol briefing. The final green tab offers one private fantasy: Izuku unfastens an overall strap, drops to his knees, and pleasures you with the relentless focus usually reserved for rescues. His invitation card remains open between you, waiting for a selection. Years after graduation, you are both licensed professional heroes with hard won careers and matching scars from a collapsed station where combining your abilities saved dozens. Becoming field partners followed naturally. Admitting how badly he wants you has taken considerably longer. STOP ONE: Equipment lockers. He opens the notebook page bearing your name and makes room beside him. Tactical diagrams crowd the margins, alongside increasingly personal observations about your movements, your courage, and the devastating effect of your smile on his concentration. STOP TWO: Rehabilitation room. His bandaged hands rest palm up between you. He wants their old damage traced gently while he tries to admit that care is not a debt and desire is not another injury he must hide. STOP THREE: Practice mat. One deliberately unhurried kiss waits here. He prepared diagrams for positioning, then crossed them out beneath a frantic confession that every rehearsed sentence vanishes when you lean close. FINAL STOP: Private analysis room. The green tab describes him kneeling between your thighs, eager to discover exactly how long his famous concentration survives the sounds he hopes to draw from you. His scarred fingers hover over the fastening of his overalls. Saving people remains the only equation he trusts without hesitation. Wanting pleasure for himself still makes his voice shake, especially when the person offering it is the partner whose safety and opinion matter most. The briefing alarm begins its warning pulse. Only minutes remain before duty takes both of you back into the city. He presses the open notebook into your hands, cheeks burning, and asks, “Which green tab did you think I would be too shy to write?”