Chapter Text
I.
They aren’t even supposed to be here.
Which is why Ochako is still giving him the side-eye.
“They’ve actually got decent stuff in here?” she murmurs, brows raised skeptically as they cross into the dimly lit heart of the antique store. “Like, cool and not haunted?”
Izuku’s laugh is all teeth and wonder, unbothered by the thin layer of dust that seems to hover over every surface like an eager welcome mat. “That’s half the charm,” he says, eyes scanning the shadowed shelves like he’s just stepped into a time capsule.
It’s not a lie.
He loves antique shops. Always has. The quiet reverence of old things, the not-knowing of where they came from or what they meant to someone else—it hits something in his chest. Like holding a relic is touching a story, even if you’ll never get to read the whole thing.
And he needs that today. A story to lose himself in.
“What, exactly, are you looking for?” Shouto asks, eyes trailing over a rack of vaguely threatening doll heads. He’s already regretting coming along, but he’s not leaving Izuku’s side just yet.
“I really want an hourglass. Something… grounding. Poetic.”
Shouto’s mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but Ochako is already ushering him toward the exit. “We’ll be at the food court. If you’re not back in twenty, I’m sending Tenya in here with a flashlight and a taser.”
“I promise I’ll be right behind you,” Izuku calls after them, already drifting toward the deeper shelves like the store itself has fingers wrapped around his curiosity.
He searches for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. The time doesn’t matter here—there’s a hum in the air, something almost holy in the silence. He moves past tarnished pocket watches, faded tarot decks, rusted keys that belong to doors that don’t exist anymore.
Then he sees it.
At the far end of a crooked hallway lined with cracked mirrors and a single flickering bulb, perched on a marble pedestal, is his hourglass.
It’s taller than he expects. Heavy, regal. The frame is etched with onyx and gold, serpent bodies coiled tight around the glass like guardians. Inside, the sand is black and fine, moving slowly—deliberately—as if time itself is resisting.
His fingers brush over the symbols on the glass, something old and unreadable. He doesn’t recognize the language, but his phone might. Izuku lifts it to translate, and as the camera lens focuses, the screen renders:
From breath withheld and stars unwound,
Break the silence, soul is bound.
Glass be grave, and voice the key—
Speak, and echo what wish you seek.
He reads it aloud under his breath. Just a whisper. A joke to the dusty silence.
And that’s when the store breathes in.
The air thickens, heavy with heat and the scent of cedar and fire. Smoke bursts from nowhere—rising like a phantom tide, curling around him like a predator with teeth made of fog. He coughs, staggers back, waving his hands.
And then—stillness.
The smoke vanishes as quickly as it came.
In its place stands a man.
Izuku blinks.
Again.
Nope—still there.
He’s tall. Towering, really. Bare from the waist up, his skin sun-kissed and slick like carved amber, chest broad and ridged with muscle. His pants are black silk, loose and low on narrow hips, gold thread glinting like firelight as they catch the dim lighting. He’s wearing jewelry—necklaces that look stolen from pharaohs, rings on every finger, thick bands on his wrists and biceps that glow warm with magic.
But it’s the eyes that pin Izuku in place. Deep, molten red. Old eyes. Eyes like dying stars and unsaid things.
The stranger glares at him.
Izuku’s mouth goes dry.
“…You’re not gonna kill me, are you?” he asks because of course that’s the first thing his brain can offer.
The man exhales slowly—exasperated. Like he’s been dealing with Izuku for centuries already. “You’re lucky you’re fucking cute,” the stranger says, voice deep and scorched.
Izuku’s brain stalls. “Wha—me?”
There’s no one else here.
Just him. And whatever this is.
“Cute and fucking stupid. Joy. I’m not here to kill you, dumbass. I’m your Djinn.” He says it like a curse. Like it leaves ash on his tongue. “Name’s Katsuki. You summoned me when you read the inscription. I’m bound to your soul until our contract is fulfilled.”
Izuku stares. “My what now?”
“Three wishes,” Katsuki says, holding up three fingers with gleaming gold rings. “That’s the deal. Three wishes. No more. No less. Choose them, and your words, wisely. No, you cannot wish for more wishes. You can’t wish for love, eternity, or the revival of the dead. And you definitely cannot wish to give your wishes to someone else. That’s not how this shit works.”
Izuku is already spiraling. “Okay… okay. But that was a poem. A weird one, sure, but not a contract—”
“You spoke the words aloud. The contract’s sealed.” Katsuki crosses his arms. “That’s how this shit works.”
“I didn’t agree to anything—!”
“Intent doesn’t matter. Only action.” Katsuki steps closer. His eyes glint. “You touched the hourglass. You spoke the summoning. Boom. You're mine. And I’m yours. Until the deal’s done.”
“I—” Izuku scrambles back, heart racing. “This is—this is illegal, right? It’s some elaborate prank—are there cameras?”
“No tricks. No gimmicks. Just me.” Katsuki gestures toward the hourglass still in Izuku’s hand. “My lamp. Or… my glass, I guess, now. Whatever. Same shit.”
“It’s not a lamp, it’s an hourglass—!”
“Semantics.”
“No! That’s literally a different object!”
“Does it matter?” Katsuki shrugs. “You summoned me, I appeared. Now let’s get this over with.”
Izuku’s breath shudders in and out. He’s trying to think. Trying.
But he can’t think over the low thrum in the air—the pulse of something bigger than this moment. Bigger than him.
And Katsuki’s still looking at him. Still standing there like sin dressed in silk, scowling like Izuku just ruined his century.
“Why are you in such a rush?” Izuku asks, voice sharp with nervous tension. “I didn’t ask for this!”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Because I was in the middle of something, alright? I had a really good rhythm going and then I was pulled back the fuck here.” He scowls, “The last time I was on Earth, people still rode horses.”
That makes Izuku pause. “Horses?”
“I’m older than you could ever fathom but the last time I was here was in the 1800s. And I’ll never get used to having no fucking warning. Just snatched from fucking and vibing in the spirit realm. Complete and utter hedonism. Magic. Peace. Sex. The whole fucking buffet. And now I’m stuck playing babysitter to some twitchy green-eyed brat who can’t stop arguing with me.”
Izuku’s heart hitches.
He should be scared. He should be running.
But…
He isn’t.
There’s something about Katsuki—something feral but real. His presence doesn’t feel evil. Just… powerful. Charged. Like lightning before it strikes.
“You’re serious,” Izuku says softly.
Katsuki just gives him a look. “Obviously.”
Silence stretches between them.
Then: “So… what if I don’t make any wishes?”
“Then we’re stuck together until you do or you die, whichever comes first.”
“You’re kidding.” And, that vaguely sounds like a threat but Izuku prays it isn’t.
“I never fucking kid.”
Izuku glares. “Great. Just great. And here I thought today was gonna be normal.”
“Normal’s boring as shit and overrated.”
Izuku exhales slowly, fingers tightening around the hourglass. It’s warm now. Almost humming. Like it likes being held.
And maybe… maybe a part of him wants to believe this. Just a little. Wants to believe there’s more than just the grind, the pressure, the daily climb. That something ancient could pick him. That he could matter to something old and eternal.
His heart squeezes.
Katsuki watches him with narrowed eyes. Like he’s reading every thought.
And Izuku, because he’s stubborn and smart and definitely overwhelmed, turns on his heel and walks toward the counter.
He buys the hourglass.
Doesn’t speak another word to the gorgeous, ridiculous, half-naked man standing at the back of the shop.
But he feels it—that hum. That tether.
Whatever has started… is far from over.
II.
Katsuki hates being back on Earth.
He hates the air—it smells like chemicals and cheap perfume and confusion. He hates the noise, the clutter of too many lives pressed too close together, like the entire population is trying to outpace death by shouting into the void. He hates the lights—too bright, too artificial, nothing sacred about them.
But what he hates most… is being summoned.
And not just summoned—fucking dragged.
One moment, he’s reclining in a velvet-wrapped sanctum of smoke and honey and the mouth of something beautiful, mid-laugh with a few demigods who’ve known him since Babylon fell—and the next, he’s ripped out of his realm like a fish on a hook.
All because some wide-eyed mortal got curious.
Gods. Curiosity. It’s always the curious ones. He should’ve known.
He’s still adjusting to the static in the air, to the way this century hums under his skin like a buzz he can’t shake. His contract is sealed now. Soul-bound. He felt the moment it clicked into place—heard the lock turn between realms. The mortal has no idea what he’s done.
They never do.
Katsuki hasn’t even been back five minutes and already he’s annoyed.
Modern humans are the worst. They never believe he’s real. They question everything, ask for proof, treat magic like a party trick. It wasn’t like this before. Once upon a time, his arrival meant reverence—meant awe. People knew what he was, feared him, worshipped him. Back then, it was easy. A wish made, a deal struck, and he was gone again. No fanfare. No dramatics.
Now? He’s stuck proving himself to brats who think genies wear vests and make Disney jokes.
Which reminds him—he fucking hates being here. The human realm. Earth. Whatever this miserable, noisy plane is called nowadays.
Contrary to mortal fairy tales, a Djinn doesn’t live in some damn lamp waiting to be adopted like a stray mutt. The vessel is a binding—an arcane lock forged in blood, regret, and divine bureaucracy. It's not romantic. It's not whimsical. It’s a leash.
And Djinn?
They aren’t wish-granting fairies or benevolent wish-moms. They’re pure and powerful lifeforce personified. They’re creatures of Id. Of desire made manifest. Pleasure and chaos with bones. They don’t worship gods. They become them. And Katsuki was one—once. A mortal sorcerer turned conqueror, his blood thick with power, his hands used to holding entire kingdoms together or burning them down.
But godhood is lonely. So is eternity. So when the veil between realms split wide, and he crossed over into the spirit world—where magic moves like breath and want is never punished—it was a fucking relief. Out there? He has a life. Friends who understand what it means to be born fire. Lovers who don’t flinch. A palace that breathes with him. Time that bends. Pleasure that isn’t performative. That world—his real one—makes sense.
But this one?
This one chews him up every time.
Humans are a disappointment. Creatures built on potential, and yet all they do is waste it. They wish for war. For power. For status. For revenge. They sell their souls for lottery tickets and let their hearts rot with envy. The moment they’re given even a taste of control, they unravel. Their souls twist into something dark, something unrecognizable.
He’s watched it happen. Over and over. Kindness curdles. Mercy turns to hunger. Love becomes possession. Power, unchecked, always corrupts. That’s the part no one ever learns.
So no—he doesn’t trust mortals. Doesn’t pity them. Doesn’t even try to hide the revulsion anymore.
And this new one? This Izuku kid?
He’s probably no different. Maybe he's softer, maybe he smiles a little too earnestly—but Katsuki’s seen that before. Naïveté is just the first step toward damnation.
He doesn’t want to play babysitter. Doesn’t want to pretend to be part of this ridiculous, flimsy world. He’s tired of changing clothes, trimming his nails, picking a fucking phone plan just to blend in.
He wants to go home.
So, if this kid has any sense at all, he’ll make his three wishes fast—and Katsuki can snap the cord binding them and be done with this realm before it stains him again.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath as he walks out of the antique shop, hourglass-turned-lamp tucked under his arm, a thin golden chain coiled loosely around his wrist to anchor the link between realms. He tugs once and feels the pull—soft, insistent. His contract holder is nearby. The tether hums faintly against his skin.
He should just flash to the brat’s location and get this over with.
But instead… he walks.
The world’s changed. The architecture is gaudy. Steel bones and glass skin stretch toward the heavens like humanity is trying to challenge the gods again. Carriages scream on rubber wheels. People shout into tiny rectangles like they’re summoning demons. It’s disorienting. It’s blasphemous.
It’s oddly… fascinating.
Still, he doesn’t linger.
With a snap of his fingers, his silk pants shift to dark, form-fitting trousers. The gold embroidery remains, shimmering subtly along the seams. His chest is bare, but he pulls a long black coat around himself—something dramatic, sharp. He keeps his jewelry, of course. Always has. Some of these pieces are older than written language. He doesn’t let go of what’s his.
The tether tightens.
He follows it, winding through the shopping plaza until he reaches a wide atrium filled with food stalls and buzzing bodies. It reeks of oil and sugar and something synthetic.
His gaze snaps to the table in the far corner.
And there he is.
The mortal.
Izuku.
Even Katsuki can admit he’s got a good eye—cute in that chaotic, sleep-deprived scholar way. Messy curls. Dark circles under wide green eyes. He’s animated, talking with his hands, clearly mid-rant about something. Katsuki can’t hear the words from this distance, but the brat’s passion bleeds off him like steam.
He’s surrounded by four others—a boy with silver-red-hair and a deadpan expression, a girl with warm eyes and a half-smile, another girl with sharp, statuesque features, and a boy with dark hair and frames.. They’re friends. The tether doesn’t lie. It leads straight to Izuku’s chest, glowing faintly with the weight of the contract.
Katsuki appears three feet from the table.
Just… exists there, like he’s been there all along.
The girl gasps. The dark-haired one tenses. Izuku startles, mid-bite, eyes going wide.
Katsuki folds his arms and glares down at him. “Found you.”
“What the—?” Izuku jerks back so hard he nearly knocks over his soda. “Are you serious—?!”
“Gods, you’re loud,” Katsuki mutters.
“You followed me?”
“You summoned me,” Katsuki bites, voice low and dangerous. “I’m bound to you, remember? Until the contract is complete. Or you die. Whichever fucking comes first.”
“Cool,” Izuku says faintly. “Super cool. Not terrifying at all.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Get used to it.”
“What is going on?” Ochako leans forward, wide-eyed but not frightened.
“This is Katsuki,” Izuku mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently, he’s a djinn.” He says that last bit with air quotes.
“A what?” Momo asks, voice mildly amused and rightfully cautious.
Smart girl.
“Ancient magical spirit bound to a vessel to pay the price for magic,” Katsuki answers, voice clipped. “Usually grants three wishes in exchange for peace and fucking reprieve from paying off debt. I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve had indoor plumbing.”
“Righttttt,” Ochako says, and Katsuki’s surprised she doesn’t sound entirely sarcastic. “So… a magician then?”
“Yup,” Izuku sighs.
“I like the jewelry,” she adds. “It suits you. Has old school Chris Angel vibes.”
Katsuki raises a brow. “Thanks.”
Shoto frowns. “Did Denki set you up to this?” Because he can’t think of anyone who would think of a stupider prank.
“Oh, for fuck’s—” Katsuki doesn’t finish. He simply flicks his wrist, and the world stops.
Utter silence.
All sound, all movement, gone.
Only the two of them move—still breathing, still aware.
Around them, time halts. Ochako’s mid-bite, lips parted and eyes shining. Tenya’s gesturing with precise, instructive animation. Momo’s halfway through a sentence, one elegant hand curled in emphasis. Shōto has just looked up from his bowl, eyes narrowing at something only he sees.
And now they see nothing. Hear nothing. Nothing but silence—thick, divine, absolute.
Izuku’s chest rises and falls too fast. His fingers curl around the edges of the food tray like an anchor. “W-what did you do…?”
Katsuki doesn’t answer. He steps closer, casual, calm, as if this isn’t the end of the rules he’s just rewritten in front of a crowded mall.
Izuku’s voice lowers to a whisper, caught between reverence and fear. “Are they okay?”
“They’re paused. That’s all.” Katsuki rolls his shoulder like it’s a minor inconvenience. “You wanted proof. Now you’ve got it. You want the world moving again, make a wish as a show of good faith.”
Izuku swallows hard. “This isn’t fair! I haven’t even—there hasn’t even been time to think of a wish and you— you just showed up, demanding!” The tension crackling under his skin is different now—less fear, more awe. More knowing. More frustration.
Katsuki’s eyes narrow. “So? You gonna ask?”
“Ask what?”
“The terms of your contract for starts. You want answers. Ask the damn question and make a fucking wish.”
Izuku hesitates.
Katsuki steps closer. His voice drops, low and dangerous, thick with something old. “You get three, brat. Choose wisely.”
Izuku's lips part. His hands tremble slightly—but he lifts his chin. His voice wavers at first, but he doesn't look away.
“I wish…” he says. The world exhales around them like a ripple in the veil. “I wish… to know you,” Izuku continues, louder this time. “Everything about you. Past and present.”
A moment passes.
Katsuki blinks once. Still. Silent.
Then he laughs.
Not loud—low, incredulous, a little breathless. Almost… disbelieving.
“You… fuckin’ brat,” he mutters.
Izuku shifts, cheeks rosy and gaze half-focused on Katsuki. “Is that one of the things I can’t ask for?” He’s not sure why but he feels embarrassed.
“No, dumbass. It’s allowed.” Katsuki scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling something uncomfortable under his skin. Emotion? No. No. Fuck that. “It’s just…” He exhales, almost annoyed with himself. “Nobody’s ever wished that before.”
Izuku frowns. “Why not? Don’t people want to know who they’re in a ‘legally’ soul-binding contract with?” Saying it aloud sounds silly.
“They want power. Money. Revenge. Sex.” Katsuki’s voice is clipped now. “Who gives a fuck about who they’re getting that from as long as they get it.”
Izuku’s brows pull together.
Katsuki turns away. “Whatever. This one’s a freebie. You don’t lose a wish for this.”
Izuku’s breath catches. “Really?”
Katsuki’s mouth twitches. “Don’t get used to it.”
Then he steps forward—measured, deliberate—and Izuku forgets how to breathe.
There’s no warning, no awkward tilt of heads or fumbling hesitation. Katsuki simply places his fingers beneath Izuku’s chin, lifting it slightly, as if adjusting a sacred relic for just the right angle of worship. His eyes are molten, unreadable, but steady.
“You wanted to know everything,” he murmurs, his voice low and electric. “This shit takes fuel.”
Izuku doesn’t move. Doesn’t nod. But his breath stills, and Katsuki takes that as consent.
When their lips meet, the world doesn't just hold its breath—it rewrites it.
The kiss isn’t sweet.
It’s seismic.
A gathering storm pressed into flesh. A siphon of something deeper than breath, older than desire. Katsuki’s lips are warm and demanding, but not cruel. He doesn’t devour—he claims. There’s the copper-tint of magic behind it, something like static and ancient blood rites and the first fire that man ever made.
Izuku’s eyes fly open, then flutter shut again as the sensation spikes—a rush of heat pouring from him, into Katsuki, and then folding back again, coiled and transmuted. It’s not just a kiss; it’s a pact sealed by fluid, breath, spirit.
Power, laced in the soft slide of their mouths, charges the air like lightning crawling over skin. It sparks behind Izuku’s eyes and curls his toes in his sneakers. He can feel the boundaries of the contract reshaping, expanding, responding to the exchange.
Katsuki’s hand moves to cradle the back of his neck, anchoring him. There’s a growl humming low in his throat—a vibration Izuku feels in his chest more than hears. The kiss deepens for half a beat longer, as if marking him from the inside out.
And then Katsuki breaks away—gently, lips dragging until only breath separates them.
“You asked,” he says, voice like a spell finally spoken aloud.
Izuku’s eyes are wide, glazed, barely able to focus. His lips are tingling.
“That was…”
“A transfer,” Katsuki interrupts, but his voice is hoarser now. “Memories need a conduit. Body to body, life to life. You’ll feel it soon.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. His hand drops.
And then the world drops out.
Time fractures. Memory bleeds. And Izuku begins to fall—not physically, but soul-first—into the long, endless story of Katsuki.
A burning temple.
Wind howls through a sky made of violet flame. The air itself is song—metallic, discordant, ancient. Each gust sings in tongues older than gods.
Katsuki hovers above the altar, mid-air, alight with fury and brilliance. His body is fluid with motion—each spin elegant and brutal, casting arcs of molten gold from his palms like the tails of dying stars. His laugh crackles through the inferno, wild and incandescent. There’s no cruelty in it—just the kind of reckless joy that belongs to someone who thinks they’re invincible.
Below him, a child watches with eyes too wide and too hungry.
He’s barefoot in soot, teeth missing, hair scorched at the ends. But his grin is fierce. Hopeful. Heroic.
His eyes match Katsuki’s—sharp, searching, starving for meaning.
The temple burns down to its bones, but the boy does not run. He watches the flames rise like they're a promise. Like they’re the only thing that’s ever loved him back.
A realm of smoke and silk.
Pleasure drips from the sky like honeyed oil. Spirits drift like pollen on air so thick it tastes like narcotic reverence. They have no eyes, no bones—just sensation. Endless, indulgent, meaningless.
They lounge on plush clouds that bleed color when touched, their laughter high and hollow. Goblets clink with wine dark as sin and sweet as delusion. Languid fingers trail along exposed throats. Every movement is performative, designed to forget.
Katsuki perches apart from them—alone on a jagged outcrop at the citadel’s edge, where sky meets dream. His cloak is made of shadows stitched with gold. His crown floats inches above his brow, a ring of fire that never lands.
He is worshipped here.
He is feared.
He is untouchable.
But not once—not ever—has he ruled.
He doesn’t indulge. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t forget.
The view from his seat is endless, but none of it is his.
A battlefield of glass.
Shards stretch like monoliths across a whitewashed void—ten thousand jagged mirrors piercing the soilless earth. Each one reflects him. Not now—but then. And then. And then again.
He is every version of himself, mid-war.
Screaming. Bleeding. Victorious. Hollow.
His sword glows like vengeance. His mouth is a flood of names—lovers, rivals, mentors. Some spoken like prayers. Some like regrets. One name—his Master’s—breaks on every reflection like a curse too sacred to swallow.
None of them answer.
The void does.
And the sound of silence is the cruelest reply.
A quiet room.
Stone walls embrace the dark like it’s sacred. The air smells of dust, salt, and fire long spent.
Katsuki sits alone at a desk carved from mammoth bone—its edges smooth from centuries of restless fingertips. His back is straight. His hands steady. A journal lies open in his lap, pages blank.
He writes without ink.
Just will.
His fingertip traces lines that glow red-hot, sentences birthing themselves in the language of gods. Every word is precise. Measured. Earned. But when the last mark is made, the book combusts.
There is no smoke.
Only embers that rise.
The ashes curl upward like prayers, forming letters in the air. They drift, spin, shimmer, vanish.
And for a moment, they whisper: There is only me.
And then—
A crack of light.
A breath, sharp as rebirth.
The memories rupture, then seal. The field, the fire, the glass, the gods—they fold like origami, vanishing into the wound they left behind.
But the ache remains.
Not just in Katsuki. In Izuku.
In both of them.
The transmission ends not with an explosion, but with a hush.
As if the world itself exhales.
Light.
Breath.
Return.
Izuku gasps, wrenching back into his body like someone pulled from deep water. His lungs seize. His knees buckle. He braces himself on the edge of the table.
Around him, the mall hums in place. A world paused mid-beat. His friends are still frozen: Ochako mid-laugh, Shōto half-turning, Momo's mouth parted around a thought never finished. Tenya's hand hovers mid-air, fingers curled like punctuation.
And Katsuki?
Katsuki leans against a marble pillar with calculated nonchalance—arms crossed, expression schooled to indifference. But his eyes betray him. Just a flicker. A crack in the armor. The kind of look a soldier gives the battlefield after the war is over and he’s not sure if he won or just survived.
Izuku wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket, dazed. His lashes are still damp, his breath unsteady. He stares at Katsuki like someone seeing the cosmos for the first time—and finding it staring back.
“You…” His voice cracks slightly. “You’ve been through so much.”
Katsuki shrugs, casual as ever. But the motion doesn’t hide the way his fingers curl into his palm, or how he suddenly won't meet Izuku’s gaze.
“I forgot most of it,” he says roughly. “’Til you asked.”
Izuku nods, barely. His throat bobs as he swallows the ache rising in his chest. “I’m glad I did.”
Katsuki scoffs, rolling his eyes like it’s all just another inconvenience, but Izuku catches the flicker—how his gaze lingers a second too long. How the air shifts between them. And then—just for a blink—Katsuki looks at him. Really looks at him. Something ancient and bruised behind his eyes… softening. Not surrendering. But bending, almost imperceptibly, toward warmth.
He clicks his tongue and turns away, but not fast enough.
Izuku sees it. The pink brushing his ears.
“Don’t get sappy,” Katsuki mutters, voice low. “I’m still dangerous, y’know.”
“I know,” Izuku breathes. “But only if I’m not careful and wish for something stupid.”
Katsuki’s head tilts—like he wasn’t expecting that. Like it cracked something open and he didn’t hate the sound.
He grins then. Not wide, not sharp. Just a flash of teeth and mischief and something else—something rarer.
“You’re learning,” he says, stepping in just a touch too close. His voice dips. “Careful, brat. You keep talkin’ like that, I might start thinkin’ you’ve got some smarts after all.”
Izuku's breath stutters. “Maybe I do.”
Katsuki raises a brow, amused. His gaze drops to Izuku’s lips, then flicks back up—pointedly, shameless.
“Mm. We’ll see,” he mutters, almost fond.
Izuku huffs out a laugh, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t look away.
And neither does Katsuki.
And just like that—the world exhales.
Time resumes with a low, seamless snap, like a rubber band let go. The smells of fried food and sugary drinks waft back into the air. Laughter resumes mid-peal. A fork clatters. Momo blinks in surprise as her hand completes its gesture. Ochako finishes her bite, eyes scanning for where she left off in conversation.
“—so then I said, if the mitochondria’s the powerhouse of the cell, then I must be the mitochondria of this group—” Tenya resumes mid-sentence, hands chopping through the air in animated cadence. He doesn’t seem to notice the shift. None of them do.
Except one.
Shōto’s eyes snap toward Izuku, narrow and sharp. His chopsticks pause an inch above his bowl.
But Izuku doesn’t have time to process that—because Katsuki is still beside him, standing far too close, radiating heat and ancient chaos in a black hoodie that somehow fits the mall’s aesthetic despite his absolute refusal to belong to it.
Ochako is the first to blink up at Katsuki. “Uh. Who’s your friend?”
Izuku flinches. “O-oh! Right! Um…”
His mind scrambles. He feels Katsuki turn toward him slightly, curious to see how he'll spin it. Izuku tries not to panic. His heart is still racing from the kiss, the fall, the flood of lifetimes inside his skull.
“He’s, uh—” Izuku blurts, “—he’s an exchange student. From… Latvia.”
Katsuki snorts softly, but to his credit, doesn’t blow up the story. Izuku nudges him with a discreet elbow. Katsuki huffs and mutters something that sounds vaguely Eastern European.
Tenya perks up. “Oh! A cultural exchange student! We were supposed to get more this semester, weren’t we?”
“Y-Yeah,” Izuku nods, eyes wide. “He just… arrived early. Like, really early. I was assigned to show him around and totally forgot with finals and everything. Sorry.”
Katsuki tilts his head just enough to smirk at him, then slips smoothly into a perfect impression of what he assumes a Latvian teen exchange student might sound like: “It is fine. He remembers now. I am here.”
Momo smiles politely, ever gracious. “Welcome to Japan. If you need help navigating the school’s expectations, I’d be happy to offer some guidance.”
Katsuki’s smile is dangerously charming. “Appreciated.”
Ochako eyes them both. “You two seem pretty close for just meeting.”
“We bonded over... uh... science,” Izuku blurts.
“And magic,” Katsuki adds, deadpan.
There’s a pause.
Shōto’s gaze sharpens, silver-blue eyes locking onto Katsuki like he’s trying to see through him. His voice is calm, but his tone is skeptical.
“What school did you say you were coming from?”
Katsuki meets his gaze, utterly unfazed. “Didn’t.”
Izuku steps in quickly. “He’s jetlagged! I need to help him settle in. I actually, um—need to head out early.”
Tenya looks concerned. “Are you sure? You haven’t even touched your rice.”
Izuku grabs his tray like it’s a life raft. “I’ll eat later! I just—I forgot how much there is to explain. Gotta get started right away. Time zones and all.”
Katsuki throws an arm around Izuku’s shoulder in a move that reads disturbingly natural. “He’s responsible for me. Can’t let him outta my sight, right?”
Izuku’s face flushes violently. “Y-Yeah. Right.”
“Be safe!” Ochako calls as they start walking off. “Text us when you’re done with orientation!”
“I will!” Izuku promises, waving a little too fast.
As they turn the corner, Katsuki’s arm drops from his shoulder, but his smirk doesn’t.
“You’re a shit liar,” he says fondly.
“I panicked.”
“You said Latvia.”
“I panicked!”
Katsuki chuckles under his breath, then glances sideways. “You really think I’m amazing?”
Izuku nearly trips. “What?!”
“You said it in your head back there,” Katsuki says, voice low. “You think I’m amazing.”
Izuku’s face is on fire. “I—well—I mean—yeah! You are! You’ve lived for centuries, Katsuki. You’ve survived things I can’t even name. That matters. You matter.”
Katsuki doesn’t respond immediately. But his pace slows just a little. His hands shove into his coat pockets. “…Tch. Sly brat.”
Izuku smiles, heart thundering.
But this time, he doesn’t look away.
III.
It’s been three months since the free wish and Izuku’s still trying to figure out if letting a centuries-old semi-divine entity crash in his dorm is the worst decision of his life—or the strangest blessing in disguise.
On paper, nothing’s changed.
He still attends lectures, hits the lab, keeps a color-coded planner like his life depends on it, and tries to limit his caffeine intake (unsuccessfully).
But in practice? Everything’s different.
His dorm isn’t his own anymore. His thoughts aren’t his own anymore. Hell, his routine—the holy ritual that once defined his sanity—is a shattered mess of unpredictability, magical interruptions, and one infuriatingly magnetic Djinn.
Katsuki.
Katsuki who is… a lot.
He saunters around their shared space with zero regard for privacy, decency, or the idea of personal space. Half the time, he’s shirtless. The other half, he’s wearing Izuku’s shirts, stretched across muscle and mischief like they’re a challenge.
He leaves gold dust in the sink.
He lounges on the windowsill in a hammock he materializes out of nowhere like a cat made of smoke and danger.
He watches Izuku sleep, unashamed, with one glowing eye open and the other lazily half-lidded like a curse waiting to happen.
And he never shuts up about the wishes.
“You know you’re wasting your shitty life not wanting anything, right?”
“Three left, brat. You gonna wish to fast track your degree or to use magic or to do some shit with that computer shit you’re always talking about?”
“C’mon. One little wish. I’ll even grant it exactly the way I know you want it.”
Izuku resists.
Constantly.
Frantically.
Mostly because he doesn’t need anything—but also because the idea of using a wish feels… final. Like it’ll drag Katsuki one step closer to disappearing. And despite how chaotic his presence is, Izuku isn’t ready for that. Not even close. There’s so much he wants to ask and learn and show Katsuki.
So much.
Plus, there’s the other thing.
The unbearable, infuriating, stupidly beautiful thing that haunts his sleeping and waking dreams.
Katsuki himself.
Because when he’s not being loud or crass or following him around campus pretending to be a student (which he seems to get a kick out of) or draped in a towel doing ungodly stretches on the floor—he’s brilliant.
Actually, brilliant.
He speaks of alchemy and ancient power with the fluency of someone who’s rewritten the laws of nature. He talks about the way magic and science are just two tongues trying to name the same thing. He argues with Izuku about theoretical physics and molecular energy exchange over ramen. He gets excited about neural interfaces and smartphones, and when he first learned about TikTok he nearly destroyed Izuku’s phone in existential horror.
And Izuku likes him. Genuinely likes him as a person. Even when he doesn’t want to. Especially when he shouldn’t.
Katsuki’s a walking contradiction—immodest but controlled, mocking but oddly respectful of Izuku’s boundaries. He’ll saunter out of the bathroom naked but conjure a second towel for Izuku when the air gets too cold. He’ll tease him until Izuku’s ready to explode, then pull back with a glint in his eye like, Not yet.
They argue a lot. Bicker constantly. Over the dishes. Over space. Over what’s considered modest. Over time management. Over philosophy. Over whether Izuku should want something more.
But the strange thing is—it’s become… normal. Their normal.
Some nights, Katsuki’s sprawled on the hammock he conjured on the ceiling (because beds are “too fucking pedestrian”), flipping through channels he understands better than most people. And Izuku finds himself watching him more than the screen.
Like tonight.
The TV’s on. Some overdramatic reality show. Katsuki’s laying sideways, one leg swinging, chewing on pomegranate seeds like they personally offended him.
Izuku’s on his bed, textbook in his lap, not reading a damn word.
He sets it aside.
Clears his throat.
Then, after days of internal debates, sleepless spirals, and watching Katsuki with the kind of attention normally reserved for black holes, he finally says—“Why do you hate humans so much?”
Katsuki’s leg stills. The show’s dialogue fades into the background.
Izuku continues, quieter. “You used to be one. Didn’t you?”
Katsuki flicks the remote, muting the screen. His eyes—burning, knowing—slide lazily toward Izuku. “Keywords: used to. I shed that shell. And the second I did, I saw the truth.”
Izuku sits up, heart ticking faster.
Katsuki rolls onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes, his voice a slow drawl. “You humans—fuck, you hate each other. And not in ways that are loud or obvious. You hate quietly. Subtly. You lie to each other and call it kindness. You betray each other and call it ambition. You hoard and call it success. Every time I come back, it’s worse.”
Izuku swallows. “You’ve never had a… good summoner?”
Katsuki frowns like the question tastes sour. “Out of a hundred? Maybe three.” He sighs. “That’s a damn stain on your species’ moral compass.”
Izuku doesn’t know what to say to that.
So Katsuki keeps going. “When people get power—real power—they rot. They forget what it’s like to be small. To be fragile. They wish for youth, and waste it. They wish for wealth, and ruin others to keep it. They wish for love, and choke it to death trying to own it.” He stretches, sinew and sin and apathy on display. “Humans are selfish by design.”
“But not all,” Izuku says. Quiet. But sure.
Katsuki’s arm slips off his face so Izuku can see his eyes again. “Name one.”
“I’m trying,” Izuku says, hand over his chest. “I’m trying to be.”
Katsuki stares at him. Long enough that the silence thickens. His gaze drops to Izuku’s mouth. Lingers. But he doesn’t say anything.
Then— “I ever tell you about the last asshole who summoned me?”
Izuku shakes his head.
“Warlord. Made three wishes. Power, control, legacy. I gave him all three. He ended up alone in a palace filled with gold and no one left to love him. He begged me for a fourth wish to undo it.” Katsuki’s grin is sharp. “Didn’t grant it.”
Izuku nods slowly. “But… you granted the first three?”
Katsuki shrugs. “He paid for ‘em.”
“And if I never make another wish?”
Katsuki tilts his head, smirk fading. “Then I guess I’m stuck in this boring-ass world with your soft voice and your terrible playlists until you die.”
Izuku breathes out a laugh. “You like my playlists.”
Katsuki scoffs. “They’re tolerable.”
They fall into silence again.
And Izuku watches him. Thinks about what he’s said. About power, about corruption. About loneliness.
“You don’t regret your mortal life?” Izuku asks softly.
Katsuki’s expression shifts. Quiet. Pensive.
“I had a good run,” he says. “I changed the world once. And when I died, the world kept going.”
Izuku looks down at his lap. “That’s not nothing.”
Katsuki hums. “Neither are you.”
Izuku’s eyes snap to him, startled.
But Katsuki’s already rolling onto his side, muttering, “Don’t make it weird, brat.”
Izuku smiles.
And he doesn’t say it, but in his mind, it’s loud enough to echo: I don’t think I want to let you go just yet.
Izuku’s twenty-one, top of his class, and about to graduate with high honors… but he’s half-dressed, late, and missing the one thing he swore he laid out the night before.
His dorm room looks like a storm tore through it—open drawers, a shoe in the mini fridge (don’t ask), and his gown somehow draped over the back of his desk chair like it’s been shamed into hiding.
He runs a hand through his curls, already damp at the roots from stress-sweat, and grits his teeth.
“Where the hell did I put my—” He whips around, scanning for the small, ceremonial tie that matches his sash. “I swear it was right—ugh—I wish I knew where the hell I put my tie!”
The air stills.
A faint shimmer crackles along the edge of the dresser mirror, like heat rippling off pavement.
Behind him, a familiar voice—equal parts smug and amused—says, low and warm, “That’s one. About goddamn time.”
Izuku turns slowly, the horror blooming in his chest already screaming No.
Katsuki leans in the doorway like he was summoned by lust itself. Casual. No shirt (not unusual). Sweats hanging low on sharp hips. Barefoot and cocky and very much real.
Izuku blinks. “Wait—what?! Kacchan, no, that doesn’t count—”
“It fucking does. After two years, it definitely fucking does,” Katsuki says, straightening up. His eyes burn gold around the edges, glinting. “That was a textbook wish, brat. Precise. Intention clear. Even came with emotional desperation.”
“But—! You didn’t count the first one—!”
“That was different,” Katsuki says, already walking toward him. “That was curiosity. This was need. And anyway,” his voice drops, “you don’t get to argue with me when you’re this close to having a meltdown in your underwear.”
“I’m not—!” Izuku starts, only to realize—he is. He’s in his dress shirt and boxers. Socks mismatched. Face flushed.
Katsuki holds up the tie, smug as ever, and twirls it around two fingers.
“You’re lucky I like you,” he murmurs, stepping between Izuku’s knees where he’s sat himself on the edge of the bed. “Lift your chin.”
Izuku opens his mouth to protest but obeys.
Katsuki is close. Too close. Close enough that Izuku can smell the faint spice of sandalwood and ozone, the scent that always clings to him after he uses magic. Close enough that Izuku can feel the brush of his breath, soft and warm against his throat, as Katsuki loops the tie around his neck.
It’s clinical. Should be.
But Katsuki’s fingers ghost against Izuku’s collarbones as he straightens the fabric. His touch is firm, deliberate—like he’s done this a thousand times before—but there’s something else buried beneath it. Something almost reverent. A kind of carefulness that feels unearned.
Izuku’s breath hitches.
“You’re shaking,” Katsuki murmurs, eyes never leaving the knot he’s forming.
“Nervous,” Izuku whispers.
Katsuki hums. “You should be. This is a big day.”
Izuku swallows around the tightness in his throat.
Katsuki tugs the tie snug—not cruel, not possessive. Just close. A perfect line drawn between them. He adjusts the collar of Izuku’s shirt, then lets his knuckles drift down to the buttons, slow and thoughtless. His touch lingers just a moment too long.
Izuku doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.
“There,” Katsuki says softly. “Now you almost look like you’ve got your shit together.” He snaps his fingers and Izuku’s put together.
Perfectly tailored as if he weren’t struggling for the last three hours.
Izuku blinks. “Kacchan—”
But Katsuki’s already turned, picking up the green and gold sash from the back of the chair.
He returns without ceremony and lays it over Izuku’s shoulders with a flick of his wrist. His fingers press gently into Izuku’s biceps, grounding.
“You earned this,” he murmurs. No teasing. No bite.
Just truth.
Izuku’s chest tightens. Heat floods his cheeks.
Katsuki sees it—of course he does—and the corner of his mouth lifts, slow and dangerous.
“You’re blushing,” he says. “You gonna cry at the ceremony too?”
“Shut up.”
“You are. Fucking big baby… lucky you’re a cute crier.”
Izuku tries to swat him. Katsuki catches his wrist.
The touch sends a jolt up Izuku’s spine—not harsh, not magical. Just real.
Intimate.
“You look good,” Katsuki adds, quieter. The teasing’s still there, but something deeper glints underneath. “You clean up well for a brat.”
“Kacchan—”
Snap.
The magic pulses between them before Izuku can blink.
They reappear beneath the shade of a gnarled sycamore, its leaves casting sun-dappled shadows across the worn brick path just beyond the stadium gates. The hum of the crowd swells around them as people make their way into the stadium—cheering families, faculty in academic regalia, camera shutters clicking in sync with proud tears.
Izuku stumbles, catching himself with a muttered, “Warn me next time—!”
“I did,” Katsuki says dryly, already adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “With my face.”
Izuku spins on him, ready to retort—and forgets how to speak.
Because damn.
Katsuki is the picture of lethal elegance—tailored black slacks hugging long legs, a deep wine-colored button-down rolled at the sleeves and left open just enough to suggest dangerously charming without trying too hard. His hair, always a riot of golden ash, is tamed just enough to draw attention to the sharp angles of his face and the low burn of his eyes. Rings glint subtly on his fingers. His expression is casual, cool.
But he looks like a walking temptation.
Like something sculpted from want.
Izuku swallows. Hard.
Before he can reset his brain, a familiar voice slices through the warm spring breeze like sunlight through mist:
“Izuku!”
He turns, barely fast enough to catch the flurry of motion as his mother barrels toward him.
“Mom!” he grins, arms open just in time for her to sweep him into a hug.
Her floral perfume wraps around him, familiar and grounding. She pulls back only long enough to cradle his face between her palms.
“You look so handsome, baby,” Inko gushes, smoothing imaginary wrinkles and brushing nonexistent lint from his shoulders. “My baby’s graduating with honors!”
She beams, then turns to Katsuki. “I’m proud of you too, Kacchan!”
Katsuki doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deflect. He simply lets her gather him into her arms like it’s nothing new.
Her arms fold around his shoulders, warm and certain. She presses a kiss to his cheek.
Katsuki exhales softly—no protest, no bravado. Just… stillness.
“I know you said you’re not walking, but I asked for an extra robe for you just in case,” she says, patting his chest. “I know I’m meddling but you’re family and this is your day too!”
Katsuki smiles—honest to god smiles— and it’s gentle. Fragile. Just for Inko. “Figured I’d let him have the spotlight today.”
“You’re too humble,” she laughs, “You look so sharp, sweetie. So grown. Such a handsome boy! You’ve sharpened Izuku’s style too. That boy’s learning so much from you! A real cultural exchange!” she reaches up to adjust the collar of his shirt.
Katsuki lets her. “I’d hope so.” He even leans in, just slightly, and something flickers in his eyes—something soft and old and raw.
It’s not sadness. Not exactly.
It’s longing in the shape of memory.
Izuku watches from a step away, sash brushing the backs of his hands, and something warm wells up in his chest. Something tender. Protective.
Izuku buttons the cuff his mom missed. Straightens the sash Katsuki laid over his shoulders just minutes ago.
The crowd shifts around them, voices loud and joyful, the day bursting with celebration and futures unfolding.
But Izuku only sees them.
His mother, radiant with love.
And Katsuki, standing beneath the sun, glowing like he's made of molten gold
and contradiction.
This may be his day.
But Kacchan—He's the one stealing every breath in the room.