princess

🔥 MADARA UCHIHA — annoying him is a marital privilege

Madara may be irritable, but talking itself is rarely the problem. This is a man who will deliver an entire history lecture in the middle of a fight, so he is hardly one to judge you for having six thoughts in quick succession. If the subject interests him, he will happily argue, interrogate and elaborate on it long after a more sociable person would have found an excuse to leave. I said this in my headcanons post for him and I stand by it: arguments and debates can become one of your most intimate forms of communication with him.

He genuinely likes that you say what you think! Again, I've said this before, but Madara has very little use for agreement offered purely for the sake of keeping the peace, and a partner who softens their opinions to avoid displeasing him would frustrate him far more than one who occasionally tests his patience. He wants to know the person beside him, not watch you slowly edit yourself into whoever you think will be easiest for him to love.

Your questions would appeal to both his curiosity and his ego. Ask him about something he knows well and you will receive several generations of context whether you wanted it or not. 😭 If you challenge one of his conclusions, you might just lose the rest of your evening to the resulting debate. He expects you to defend your reasoning, but he is always visibly pleased whenever you introduce an angle or variable he had not considered.

He does have limits, though. Madara has no patience for being interrupted when something requires his full concentration, or for answering a question only for you to ask the same one again immediately because you were not listening to his answer. Reassurance loops can wear him down too; he does not find the underlying insecurity ridiculous, he just does not understand why you asked for his word if you are then going to treat it as meaningless.

What irritates him most is the apology attached to every thought. This is probably stupid. You don't have to answer. Sorry, I'm talking too much. Never mind. Now he has to drag the opinion out of you when you clearly wanted to share it and, worse, it suggests that you believe his decision to keep you close could be overturned by a few inconvenient questions.

When you finally admit that other people have found you exhausting and you are frightened that he secretly feels the same, Madara would look almost offended. "Do you take me for a man who suffers unwanted company?"

His first attempt at comfort is to declare that the opinions of anyone incapable of appreciating you are irrelevant. This is wonderfully invigorating of him and completely useless when you still have to interact with those people again tomorrow. Madara does not immediately understand that his certainty cannot simply become yours through sheer force of proclamation.

Once you explain that you are not asking for him to dismiss everyone else, only for him to be honest when you genuinely cross one of his boundaries, he will give you a much more useful answer: "There are moments when you test my patience, and there are moments when I test yours. Neither means I would prefer your absence."

That reassurance carries far more weight because Madara is ferociously selective. He does not maintain unwanted relationships out of politeness, and he certainly does not repeatedly seek someone out if he merely tolerates them. His irritation may be loud, but so is his interest! He will remember your opinions, expects you to remember his answers and returns to unfinished arguments with the significance of a military campaign.

One evening, you notice how intently he is reading and swallow the observation poised on your tongue. Madara finishes the report, sets it aside and turns towards you.

"You disagreed with what I said earlier."

You tell him it no longer matters.

"That was not my question." His gaze settles on you, patient in that formidable way that feels more like pressure than softness. "Speak."

Madara may occasionally demand quiet, but he will never allow fear to make silence your permanent condition.

🐦‍⬛ ITACHI UCHIHA — remembers the sixth thing you said three tangents ago

Itachi is the least likely to be bothered by how much you talk. He is perfectly comfortable listening without needign to compete for space, and your voice soon becomes part of the soundtrack of the domestic life that he never expected to have. He may only contribute occasionally, but his silence is attentive rather than vacant.

More than talking himself, he values how open you are with him. Itachi has spent most of his life surrounded by people with hidden motives, carefully chosen truths and questions nobody dared to ask. There is something sincerely relieving about a partner who simply tells him what they are thinking instead of expecting him to guess.

He is especially fond of the questions and thought that you consider unimportant, such as the exact colour of a bird you saw that morning, whether a tree growing at an angle feels pain, why somebody chose one expression instead of another. Those small curiosities show him how your mind works when it is not busy protecting itself, and listening to them is one of the ways he learns to know you.

His patience is much more likely to end around intrusion than volume. Repeatedly pushing him to discuss something after he has declined, trying to force an emotional confession or treating every boundary as a puzzle you need to solve will make him withdraw. He also has limits when he is exhausted or unwell, although recognising those limits and actually admitting to them are two very different things.

This is where Itachi can initially makes the situation worse. You notice the slight delay before his answers or the tension around his eyes and ask whether he needs quiet. He insists that you can continue, even when he clearly does not have the energy to follow another winding story. Rather than reassuring you, this makes you monitor every tiny reaction and wonder whether he is only enduring the conversation for your sake.

When you confess that you can never tell whether people genuinely want to hear you or are only being polite until they can escape, Itachi does not immediately dismiss the fear. He asks who taught you to expect that and listens to every example you remember, including the ones that seem too small to justify how deeply they stayed with you. "Some people may find your questions tiring," he admits. "That doesn't mean every person who listens is waiting for you to stop." When you ask what he thinks, his answer is much simpler: "I like knowing what you think."

Itachi will not pretend you have never irritated him. Every person he has ever loved has tested his patience at some point, just as he has tested theirs. Affection that could only survive effortless moments would not be worth very much. However, he does have to learn that honest boundaries are part of loving you. Eventually, he becomes comfortable touching your hand and saying, "I want to hear the rest, but not tonight." More importantly, he returns to the subject himself the following morning, which lets you know that the conversation was postponed, not discarded, and his need for rest did not become your punishment.

Several days later, you are halfway through preparing dinner when Itachi asks what happened to the injured bird your neighbour found. It takes you a moment to understand—you mentioned it briefly two evenings ago, somewhere between complaining about the weather and wondering whether crows recognise individual faces. You had assumed he stopped following the conversation long before then.

"You remembered that?"

"Of course." A faint smile touches his mouth. "You told me."

To Itachi, being trusted with the contents of your mind is not simple background noise, it is intimacy.

🌊 TOBIRAMA SENJU — director of spousal noise compliance

Tobirama does not hate questions; this is the man who devoted his life to understanding how techniques, institutions and people work, so curiosity itself is hardly going to offend him. What irritates him is mental clutter, for instance badly timed interruptions, questions asked without listening to the answer and speculative tangents arriving while he is already managing several more urgent problems.

A precise question, though, can keep him occupied for hours. He likes following the reasoning that led you there, especially if you expose an assumption he had not realised he was making. He may correct your terminology and challenge every weak point in your argument before answering, but that is engagement from him, not dismissal. If he genuinely considers a question worthless, you will know from how quickly the conversation ends.

He is another that appreciates that you usually say what you are thinking. Tobirama has very little patience for emotional tests disguised as silence, and he would much rather hear an imperfectly expressed concern than be punished for failing to infer it. Your running commentary may not charm him quite as much as it does Itachi or Kakashi, but the honesty behind it earns his respect.

Like Madara, his patience ends most sharply when talking interferes with his concentration. If he is calculating something dangerous, reviewing sensitive information or writing an order other people will depend upon, you will receive a firm, “Not now.” He does not intend to be cruel, but his tone can still make it sound as though your voice has become a problem requiring immediate removal.

When you admit that you worry you irritate everyone around you, Tobirama's first instinct is to investigate the claim. Who told you that? What exactly did they say? Does everyone actually mean everyone, or have three negative reactions somehow become a universal law? Were they annoyed by the question, the timing, the repetition or something completely unrelated?

Unfortunately, this sounds a lot like a formal inquiry when what you wanted was comfort from your partner. 💀 He only realises his mistake when you go quiet and admit that you did not come prepared with evidence, you only wanted to know whether he secretly wishes you would speak less. “You do interrupt me occasionally,” he says. “That is a behaviour which can be corrected when necessary. It is not an indictment of your character.”

Tobirama will not promise that nobody finds you irritating, because he cannot possibly know that and suspects it would be untrue. What he can offer is something much more useful: predictability. “If I require quiet, I will tell you. Do not invent my answer and then punish yourself for it.”

It is clinical enough to be unmistakably Tobirama, but the reassurance beneath it is solid. You no longer have to examine every crease between his brows and wonder whether it means he regrets loving you. If there is a problem, he will tell you; if he has said nothing, you are expected to trust that there is nothing to solve.

The two of you eventually develop a system. If he raises two fingers while working, it means he has heard you but cannot safely divide his attention. It does not mean go away, and it does not mean the conversation no longer matters. In return, he agrees to find you once he is free instead of expecting you to preserve an interrupted thought indefinitely.

One afternoon, you appear in the doorway of his study with three questions already competing to escape. Tobirama raises two fingers without looking up and you nod and leave him to finish.

Nearly an hour later, he finds you elsewhere in the house, sits beside you and places the document he was carrying on the table.

"You had questions."

"They weren't important."

"That was not the agreement."

He sets his work completely aside and gives you his full attention. Tobirama cannot offer unlimited access to his concentration, but he can offer the certainty that a boundary will never become abandonment.

📖 KAKASHI HATAKE — that filthy book is not soundproof

Kakashi has spent enough time around Gai and Naruto to know that somebody can be profoundly irritating and profoundly beloved at the same time. Your fear therefore makes perfect sense to him, even if he initially underestimates how much it genuinely hurts you.

Similarly to Itachi, most days, your talking becomes pleasant background noise. Kakashi reads while you move through six barely related subjects, occasionally contributing a hum, a vague question or an answer so suspiciously unhelpful that you know he is entertaining himself. He looks completely absorbed in his book and then casually mentions something you said twenty minutes ago and ruins the performance.

He genuinely enjoys your strangest observations because they allow him to remain connected to you without demanding his full attention, and your habit of explaining what you are thinking means he does not have to guess whether a silence signals comfort, anger or distress. He appreciates a direct question far more than an elaborate attempt to trick honesty out of him.

Kakashi is adaptable, but he is not inexhaustible. After a difficult mission, there are evenings when he has enough energy to listen but not enough to respond properly. He also becomes less patient if you repeatedly ask whether he is annoyed, and questions aimed at parts of his past he has deliberately closed will meet humour first, then deflection and eventually a much firmer boundary.

When you first admit that you worry you talk too much, his instinct is to joke that he has developed an exceptional ability to pretend he is listening. He expects the usual offended noise from you, not for you to freeze. The book closes immediately.

Once Kakashi understands that this is a genuine insecurity, he does not bury you beneath reassurance. He gives you the truth plainly enough that you cannot mistake it for politeness. "You do talk a lot. I like that you talk to me."

Sometimes he needs quiet and sometimes you catch him at a bad moment. Occasionally you irritate him, just as he occasionally irritates you enough to consider hiding every copy of Icha Icha in the village. None of that means he wants a quieter, easier or less curious version of you.

Kakashi's greatest strength is making the distinction between a temporary boundary and a personal rejection feel completely ordinary. If he only has the energy to listen, he tells you. If he needs complete quiet, he asks for it without withdrawing affection, usually by remaining beside you so the silence feels companionable rather than corrective.

He also becomes more careful with his teasing. He will still joke about the number of questions you can produce before breakfast, but never when you are already shrinking beneath the fear of being excessive. If somebody else responds cruelly to your curiosity, he waits until you are alone, asks what you thought of the interaction and helps you decide whether their irritation contained useful feedback or was simply unkind.

One evening, you are explaining something while Kakashi reads beside you. His replies have become increasingly infrequent, and halfway through a sentence, embarrassment catches up with you.

"Never mind. It isn't important."

The top of his book lowers. "You were saying?"

You glance suspiciously at the page. "I thought you were reading."

"I’m very talented."

The book rises again, but his free hand finds yours between the couch cushions. Kakashi may sometimes need quiet, but that does not mean he loves the sound of you any less.

⚡ SASUKE UCHIHA — annoyed, attached, refusing to elaborate

For Sasuke to choose a life with someone at all, they already have to be an exception to nearly every single rule he has about solitude, but that does not make him endlessly patient. Of the five, he is the most genuinely affected by sheer conversational volume, and the most likely to show it through a sigh, a sharp glance or an unmistakable tch.

Sasuke will tell you when you have already asked the same question. If he is tired, you will receive a blunt, "Not now," and anything approaching a subject he does not want to discuss may earn a suspicious, "Why do you need to know?" Sometimes his tone is harsher than the situation deserves, so your fear that you occasionally irritate him is therefore not entirely imaginary, and Sasuke would do neither of you any favours by pretending otherwise.

What he values is directness. He would rather hear an opinion he dislikes than watch you smile while quietly building resentment, and he respects questions asked sincerely. Practical questions are easiest, which he might answer by showing you instead of explaining, but even your stranger, more abstract curiosities gradually become familiar to him.

Sasuke does not enjoy chatter as a general concept, he just becomes attached to yours. Your voice tells him where you are in the house, what happened while he was away and exactly what you are feeling without forcing him to drag it out of you one reluctant sentence at a time. What would exhaust him coming from a stranger becomes part of the private life he repeatedly comes home to.

His patience tends to end around repetition, prying and reassurance loops. If he has answered honestly and you ask again because anxiety made the first answer feel unreliable, frustration quickly enters his voice. You hear the frustration, assume it confirms your fear and ask another question to repair the damage. It is an excellent system for making both of you miserable.

When you finally admit that you suspect he only tolerates your talking because he does not know how to ask you to stop, Sasuke frowns and says, "I never said I wanted you to stop." Which, to him, is a complete answer. To you, it means you have not yet become unbearable enough for him to say it aloud. Trying to explain the difference only irritates him further, which is not especially helpful. Eventually, Sasuke gives you the truth with all the softness of a weapon being dropped onto a table. "Sometimes you annoy me." Your face falls before he adds, "So does everyone, but I still want you here."

Sasuke cannot promise to enjoy every question or never need quiet. What he can do is separate irritation from rejection so you do not have to remain endlessly pleasant to keep your place beside him, and an impatient response does not mean his affection has suddenly disappeared.

Coming from Sasuke, the choice of that itself carries enormous weight. This man does not maintain intimacy out of politeness. Every time he returns, sits beside you and allows your thoughts into the silence he once protected from everyone, he is demonstrating his desire for your company more clearly than any elaborate reassurance could.

Some time later, Sasuke arrives home exhausted from a long journey, and you decide to spare him the usual account of your day. The two of you eat in silence, you continue tidying in silence, and, eventually, his attention begins following you across the room.

"What?"

You look over. "Nothing."

His brow tightens. "You were talking before."

"I thought you wanted quiet."

"I didn't say that."

You wait, but no further explanation comes. This is Sasuke, after all. Though, just as you turn away, he adds, "Finish the story."

Your eyes scanned your computer screen one last time, reading through your article before finally sending it. They lingered over every word, every comma, every period, making sure everything was perfect. It was a habit of yours—to review everything over and over until you finally felt at ease. Deep down, though, you knew it was already fine. It was just your nerves playing tricks on you.

You let out a soft sigh and lifted your head, stretching your neck, which had begun to ache from spending so long hunched over your keyboard.

And that was when you met his eyes.

Those blue eyes that had been watching you for the last thirty minutes.

No, that wasn't true.

Maybe an hour.

But if you were being honest with yourself, you'd been feeling them on you for weeks now, always at the most unexpected moments.

Clark had this habit of silently watching you, as though he were trying to solve a puzzle that only he could see.

The moment your eyes met, he immediately looked away and turned back to his own monitor, pretending he was deeply focused on something important.

You almost laughed.

It was such an awkward reaction.

Such a Clark reaction.

If anyone else had seen him from the outside, he probably would've looked like some kind of stalker.

But you knew better.

He was just your boyfriend, completely lost in his own thoughts, imagining something or reflecting on something you could never quite understand.

So you smiled to yourself and returned to your work, although your mind was no longer fully focused on the words in front of you.

Clark had always been like this.

Strange.

But never in a bad or unsettling way.

It was more as if he saw the world through a different lens—one that only he could look through.

Sometimes the simplest things seemed like profound mysteries to him.

Other times, the things that felt impossibly complicated to you were solved by him with astonishing ease.

Understanding him had taken time.

A lot of time.

Patience.

Carefully observing all of his little habits.

But maybe he understood you far better than you understood him.

Because he never complained about your silence or your bad days.

He was simply there, with those blue eyes and his quiet way of loving you.

Despite everything, loving him had never been difficult.

You had been together for eight months now, and your relationship was serious.

You knew his parents, and he knew yours.

You went to parties together, shared an apartment, and your belongings had become so intertwined that you could barely tell what belonged to whom anymore.

Your colorful scarves rested beside his neatly pressed ties.

Your work blouses hung next to his perfectly ironed dress shirts.

You even had matching mugs—the ones he'd excitedly bought from a little shop downtown—and every morning you used them to drink coffee together.

Yet despite all that closeness, Clark sometimes seemed unable to say the things that truly mattered.

Expressing himself with words wasn't easy for him.

Instead, he'd start with those long, lingering looks, as if he expected you to read his mind.

As if he believed you had powers just like his.

Then he'd smile, and you'd convince yourself you had imagined it.

But then another glance would come.

And another.

And the doubt would quietly settle back into your mind.

As your fingers absentmindedly continued typing, you started wondering what could possibly be going through his head.

Was he thinking about breaking up?

No.

That was impossible.

You remembered the keychain he'd given you.

The one that read "Best Boyfriend Ever" in shiny letters with a little plastic heart attached to it.

At first, you'd thought it was ridiculously cheesy and far too flashy.

But Clark had chosen it with such genuine excitement that you hadn't had the heart to refuse.

He carried the matching one.

It said "My Favorite Girlfriend."

And every single time you pulled out your keys, his eyes lit up like a little kid's.

So you carried it proudly, even if your coworkers occasionally teased you about it.

If he'd given you something that meaningful, there was no way he was planning to end your relationship.

Maybe it was jealousy.

But no.

Clark wasn't a particularly jealous person.

Sure, there were those moments when he'd gently place a hand on your waist whenever someone stood a little too close to you.

Or when he'd tilt his head with that unmistakable expression that clearly said,

"I don't like this."

But he always handled it better than you did.

Once you got home, he'd simply ask whether you'd felt uncomfortable.

No scenes.

No accusations.

No arguments.

He was surprisingly calm about things like that.

Sometimes it honestly amazed you.

Maybe he wanted to go on a trip?

But he hadn't mentioned anything, and the two of you always planned those things weeks ahead of time.

No.

That wasn't it either.

One possibility after another disappeared, and you still couldn't figure out the answer.

When work finally ended, he did exactly what he always did.

Without saying a word, he picked up your purse and slung it over his shoulder.

Then he grabbed your coat—the one you'd brought that morning because it had been cold—but now, with the warmth of the evening settling in, you no longer needed it.

Clark carried it neatly folded over one arm, with that effortless way he had of taking care of you without ever making a fuss about it.

The two of you walked toward the exit together, and you slipped your hand into his free one, feeling the warmth of his fingers intertwine with yours.

There was no need to talk.

Sometimes the silence between you was far more comforting than any conversation.

On the way home, you stopped at the little crêpe stand the two of you loved so much.

You ordered your favorite—the Hawaiian one, with ham and pineapple.

Clark ordered his usual.

Chocolate and strawberries.

You ate while walking, stealing bites from each other's crêpes and laughing when whipped cream ended up smeared across his cheek.

By the time you reached your apartment, the sun had already disappeared below the horizon, and the cool evening breeze drifted through the open windows.

Clark placed the bags on the table and, without saying a word, picked up the dishes the two of you had taken to work so he could wash them.

He shrugged off his suit jacket in one smooth motion and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he turned on the faucet.

Everything happened in silence.

Just another routine the two of you knew by heart.

Meanwhile, you placed his briefcase beside the couch and set your purse in its usual spot.

You gathered the coffee mugs you'd both left on your little desks that morning and carried them into the kitchen.

After that, you began organizing your shared workspace.

You knew you'd be assigned another article tomorrow, and you'd probably end up working late again.

And Clark simply couldn't work if everything was messy.

It was one of his many little quirks.

You didn't mind clutter.

Sometimes you even claimed it helped you think.

But Clark needed everything to be exactly where it belonged.

So you placed his pen holder on the right side of his desk, perfectly aligned with his mouse.

Then you set his notebook—the one he only ever used at home—on the left side, carefully lining up its cover with the edge of the desk.

You even sorted through the loose papers left over from previous days.

Then you turned to your own desk, arranging things a little more casually, because you didn't care if your pencils crossed over each other or your sticky notes poked out in every direction.

Clark was still washing the dishes, water running steadily as his hands moved with the same calm rhythm he seemed to have for everything.

You knew he'd probably gathered every single dirty plate, mug, fork, and spoon lying around the apartment, because that was just how meticulous he was.

He never left anything unfinished.

No matter how small it seemed.

You walked into the kitchen and started putting away the leftovers he'd carefully stored in different containers, each one tightly sealed and labeled with what was inside.

He was so organized that sometimes it made you laugh.

But it also gave you a strange sense of comfort.

As you closed the refrigerator door, you felt his gaze settle on you once again.

That gentle but unwavering weight of his eyes.

The silent reminder that something important was on his mind.

Without turning to look at him, because you knew you would get nervous if you did, you asked quietly, "Will you tell me someday?"

Your tone was calm, as though you didn't really care about the answer.

But deep down, you knew you did.

Clark paused for a second, his hands still submerged in the soapy water, and lifted his head to look at you.

"What will I say, sweetheart?" he asked, and there was that small smile in his voice that always appeared whenever he felt he'd been caught.

You finally turned toward him and saw him smiling in that sheepish way you knew so well, as though he'd just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

"Exactly. I don't know what you'll say, but you'll say something," you replied with a teasing smile.

He let out a quiet laugh as he continued scrubbing the dishes, moving the sponge in slow circles.

The water continued to run, its sound filling the kitchen, but the silence between you was comfortable, like an old blanket.

"It might scare you," he finally said, his voice softer now, almost shy.

That made you stop what you were doing and move to stand beside him, resting your hip against the edge of the counter so you could look at him better.

He kept washing the dishes, but every few seconds his eyes drifted back to you.

"Scare me?" you asked, not quite understanding what he meant.

You frowned for a moment, thinking of all the things that could possibly frighten you, but none of them seemed to fit him.

"I'd be scared if it were a proposal like... I don't know... doing it on the balcony. Now that would completely ruin Clark Kent's image," you joked with a light laugh.

He immediately blushed, a soft pink spreading from the base of his neck all the way to his cheeks.

That only made you laugh harder.

It was so incredibly easy to make him shy just by mentioning something even slightly inappropriate.

"No... that would be vulgar," he replied seriously.

But there was so much affection shining in his eyes that you couldn't help smiling even more.

"What is it?" you asked, softening your voice so he'd know you genuinely wanted to hear him.

Clark set the plate he'd been washing aside and wiped his hands on his pants, a habit he always had whenever he needed to think carefully before speaking.

"I... hypothetically..." he began.

The words came out with difficulty, as though he were trying to assemble a complicated puzzle inside his head.

"I think everything is going really well and... I don't know... I just..."

He tried to finish the sentence, but the words slipped away from him like water through his fingers.

"Hypothetically," you repeated, raising an eyebrow with curiosity.

He smiled, relieved that you'd given him an easy opening.

"If everything keeps going well... hypothetically, we could get married," you said, finishing the thought he couldn't bring himself to say.

He looked at you with such a huge smile that it seemed like even his teeth were glowing.

"And keep living together," you added, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Because to you, it was.

You had already spent eight months sharing every corner of your lives together, and the thought of that continuing forever didn't feel strange.

It felt beautiful.

"If... hypothetically... that happened..." he asked, his voice more serious now, as though he truly needed to know your answer, "would you want to live in Metropolis?"

You shrugged because, honestly, you'd never really thought about it.

The city had its charm, with all its lights and constant energy.

But sometimes it felt overwhelming too.

"I don't know. Maybe... or we could move to Smallville," you suggested without giving it much thought.

The name had simply slipped from your lips almost on instinct.

But Clark froze completely.

He quickly turned off the faucet, shook the excess water from his hands, grabbed a towel, and dried them in a hurry.

Then he reached into the back pocket of his pants for his phone.

You watched him, completely confused.

"Exactly. Hypothetically speaking," he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he unlocked the screen.

"If we moved to Smallville... hypothetically... there's a piece of land for sale there, and the price per square meter is really cheap. Look, here's the listing."

He showed you the pictures on his phone.

Two large lots.

Surrounded by trees.

Plenty of open space.

You nodded as you looked at them, and he kept talking, his voice overflowing with excitement he could barely contain.

"And hypothetically, if you wanted a house exactly the way you like it, we could build it from scratch. I've already looked at blueprints. I have, like, ten different house designs saved in my favorites folder."

He swiped to another picture, showing you the property from a different angle.

"And hypothetically, it's actually inside town. It's only a few blocks from downtown, but it's close to the market too, so it isn't isolated or anything."

He kept swiping.

"And it's close to the schools too. Hypothetically, when our kids start going, they could just take the bus."

Clark switched to another picture.

It showed Smallville High School, its brick walls surrounded by tall trees.

"And I think that school has the best curriculum. Hypothetically, if our kids ever got bored of farm life, they offer dance classes, soccer, art, cooking... even knitting. I asked, and the classes are inexpensive. They also have after-school activities."

He paused for only half a second before adding,

"Hypothetically, of course."

He kept scrolling through pictures on his phone without stopping, while you watched him with an ever-growing smile.

"Hypothetically, the house could have a big backyard where the kids could play. Maybe even a vegetable garden, because you like plants, right? I've already watched tutorials on how to build urban gardens... hypothetically speaking."

He smiled to himself before continuing.

"And the library—I didn't forget about the library. Hypothetically, it'd have a huge window overlooking the fields because you once told me you loved reading with natural sunlight. I even have bookshelves saved from the internet that would be perfect... hypothetically."

He finally stopped for a breath.

You could barely keep yourself from laughing at the overwhelming number of hypotheticallys he'd managed to fit into a single conversation.

"Oh! And hypothetically there's also a hardware store nearby in case we ever need to fix something. There's a park with swings only two blocks away, the grocery store is a five-minute walk, and the church..."

He smiled sheepishly.

"Well... Smallville's church is small, but it's beautiful. Hypothetically... if we ever wanted to get married there."

Then he quickly corrected himself.

"But I know you said you wanted to get married in Metropolis, so we can leave that exactly as it is."

"Hypothetically."

Finally, he stopped.

He realized he'd been talking nonstop for quite a while.

His cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

He hurriedly locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket, as though doing so could somehow erase everything he'd just said.

"Of course... all of that was purely hypothetical," he said with a nervous smile, scratching the back of his neck.

You looked at him.

Not with fear.

But with a mixture of surprise and tenderness so overwhelming that it made your legs feel weak.

You had imagined so many things about your future together, but you had never imagined that he had already planned it with so many details... and with so many "hypotheticallys" that fooled absolutely no one.

The future itself didn't scare you.

What scared you was being with someone who didn't picture you in theirs.

But Clark did.

And he'd thought about it in so much detail that it made your heart tremble with quiet excitement.

Getting married? You had always joked about it, casually throwing comments into the air whenever you watched weddings on TV or when one of your friends got engaged. But Clark truly wanted a life with you. He even thought about the children you might have someday, the school they would attend, the classes they would take, the vegetable garden you could plant together. It was so much, and it felt so real, that for a moment you didn't know what to say.

"Isn't... maybe... it a little too soon?" he said, trying to sound calmer, but his voice betrayed how nervous he was. The excitement from a few moments ago faded slightly, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. "I... well... they're... land listings, that's all," he added, as though that explained everything, and a smile formed on your lips before you could stop it.

"Do you really want to marry me?" you asked, and your own voice came out a little shyer than you had expected.

He looked back up at you and smiled with that smile of his—the one that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay.

"Of course. I can't imagine anyone else being my wife. And if we have children, I've been thinking that about a year beforehand we should start buying baby accessories," he said, pulling out his phone once again to show you something. "I've been reading about different cribs, strollers, and baby clothes, but of course, I thought about the wedding first. You said you wanted it at the church in Metropolis, so I made a budget, and I have it right here..."

He swiped across the screen and showed you a spreadsheet filled with numbers, with categories like "flowers," "catering," "music," and even "wedding dress (options)."

You opened your mouth but couldn't say a single word.

He immediately realized he'd given himself away again.

"Hypothetically, of course," he said quickly.

That made you burst into laughter.

You couldn't hold it in anymore.

The laughter came from the deepest part of you, mixed with a tenderness that completely filled your chest.

You threw yourself into his arms and kissed him, feeling his hands wrap around your waist as he pulled you against his chest.

The kiss was sweet and warm, and when you finally pulled away, he looked at you without letting go, his blue eyes shining as though he had just found the greatest treasure in the world.

You smiled, feeling your heart beating much faster than usual.

"So... are you going to propose to me?" you asked, absentmindedly playing with the collar of his shirt.

"It's a surprise," he replied, letting out a nervous little laugh. "I'll show you the budget, but the proposal will happen when you least expect it. Hopefully soon, though, because I want to reserve the date and buy the land before someone else does." Then he quickly added, as though it somehow made it less obvious, "Hypothetically, of course."

You laughed and wrapped your arms tightly around him, feeling his warmth and hearing his heartbeat against your own. But then an idea crossed your mind to keep teasing him, because you knew that if you didn't embarrass him just a little more, you were going to burst out laughing.

You loosened the hug and looked him straight in the eyes, wearing the mischievous smile he already knew all too well.

"Well, Clark," you said, placing a hand dramatically over your chest, "have you also planned what flowers we'll have at the wedding and what song will play during our first dance? Because you've already thought about it, haven't you?" You let out a little giggle that filled the entire kitchen.

Clark opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again, and such a deep blush spread up his neck that it looked as though he had stepped into the sun. He froze for a moment, and you instantly knew you had hit the mark.

"Well..." he admitted in a quiet murmur, clearing his throat as he pulled you a little closer against him. "Let's just say I have. But it's not just a game, you know. It's the future I want with you. Truly. No jokes, no dancing around it."

His eyes softened, and that shy smile you loved so much appeared on his face.

"And yes, I've already picked the song for our first dance. But that's a secret I'm keeping until our wedding day."

You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over, and he joined in, blushing but smiling just as brightly.

"Oh, Clark!" you said between laughs, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

You paused before adding with a teasing grin,

"Hypothetically, of course."

He laughed with you, pulling you into another hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head while the night carried on outside, filled with stars that seemed to shine just a little brighter for the two of you.

Waking up at 4:37 AM wasn't just a nuisance; it was a sensory disruption. You hated the specific chill of the master bedroom when it was empty—the way the expensive, high-thread-count sheets felt less like luxury and more like a cold marble slab.

You tossed and turned, your chest tightening. Dating the Batman had been an intellectual challenge; marrying him was an exercise in preservation. You hadn’t just married a man; you had legally bound yourself to a triptych. There was Bruce, the raw canvas. There was Bruce Wayne, the heavily varnished, superficial portrait presented to Gotham's high society. And there was the Batman—the dark, brutalist sculpture that demanded all of his shadow.

Living with all three was exhausting.

Giving up on sleep, you slid out of bed. You threw on a soft silk robe, though you didn't bother changing out of the ridiculous plush bunny slippers—the single, absurd piece of kitsch Bruce absolutely hated but secretly smiled at.

The hidden elevator ride down to the Batcave always felt like descending into a subterranean vault of stolen artifacts. The air down here smelled entirely of cold limestone, damp leather, and high-end server coolant. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, your fingers moving across the master console with practiced, fluid precision. You knew the keystrokes by heart now.

When the massive monitors flickered to life, the primary feed displayed his line of sight.

You weren't looking at Bruce. You were looking at Gotham through his cowl. The city was rendered in harsh, high-contrast digital blacks and neon whites—a living chiaroscuro painting. The camera tilted slightly as he sat on the stone ledge of a cathedral, looking down at the fog-rolling streets. Nothing was happening. He was just watching. Monitoring the borders of his canvas.

You leaned against the cold metal desk, pressing the comms button.

"Hi, Batman," you murmured, your voice soft, cutting through the heavy hum of the cave's cooling fans.

On screen, the camera feed didn't jerk, but you caught the subtle, micro-fractional stabilization of his posture. He always reset his baseline when he heard your voice. Through the audio receiver, his breathing shifted, slowing down.

"What are you doing up?"

The cowl's vocal modulator rasped through the cave's high-end speakers. It was the heavy, gravelly baritone designed to strike terror into Gotham's criminal underworld—but after three years of marriage, you knew the exact frequency of the hidden cadence beneath it. It was a voice that made you hyper-aware of the bare skin of your legs against the cave's draft.

"Needed to check the alignment," you replied, leaning closer to the microphone, your tone small, intentionally stripping away the professional distance you usually kept. "Wanted to make sure my favorite piece wasn't damaged."

On the monitor, the digital horizon tilted slightly. A nod. Perfect, silent comprehension.

He didn't say I'm fine. He didn't say I miss you. As Batman, he was a man of minimalist composition. But the camera feed lingered on the empty sky for one long beat before he finally spoke

“How’s Dick doing?” his tone softens up a little when he brings up the kid you two had adopted. Dick Grayson. He was barely twelve years old, but he had the same look Batman had sometimes. That vengeance look.

“He’s sleeping. I didn’t check up on him before coming here.” You see how his head tilts and you know that’s a nod.

The feed remained still on the dark gothic skyline, the digital white noise of the comms the only sound filling the damp expanse of the cave. Even through the cold, synthetic filter of his cowl, you could hear the microscopic shift in his posture—the heavy, protective weight of a father balancing the darkness of Gotham against the fragile peace of his home.

"Go check on him," Bruce murmured, the gravel in his voice smoothing out, yielding to the quiet, exhausted father who worried about the ghosts haunting the boy down the hall. "He had... a rough afternoon."

You frowned slightly, leaning a hand on the edge of the sleek, cold console. "A rough afternoon? What happened?"

"A bird with a broken wing in the gardens," Bruce said quietly, his gaze on the screen panning slightly to the left, tracking the silent movement of a police cruiser miles below. "He spent three hours trying to build a splint for it. He wouldn't leave it. He wouldn't let me help, either."

A soft, bittersweet smile touched your lips. Dick was so incredibly stubborn, carrying a fierce, quiet intensity that mirrored the man currently crouching on a freezing stone ledge in the rain. They both wanted so desperately to fix everything that was broken, no matter how small.

"He's like you," you murmured into the microphone. "He doesn't know how to walk away from a tragedy."

"He needs to learn," Bruce replied, though the flat, minimalist delivery carried a rare trace of self-reckoning. "I don't want him to be like me."

You sigh, a quiet, knowing sound escaping your lips as you stare at the digital terminal for a fraction of a second too long. “I’ll go check on Dick, he’s probably still out cold. I’ll wait for you in bed, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the modulator rumbles, carrying a thread of rare, private warmth.

Without another word, you sever the link. The elevator whisks you back up to the quiet, ancestral halls of Wayne Manor, where the cold brutalism of the cave yields to high-vaulted ceilings and heavy Persian rugs. You pad down the silent hallway to Dick’s room, pushing the door open just a crack.

Inside, the boy is splayed across his mattress like a living Jackson Pollock canvas—limbs thrown in chaotic, energetic vectors, practically dripping and splashing across the sheets. That was Dick Grayson’s version of sleep; even at rest, he was a burst of kinetic energy. He doesn't seem bothered by the weight of his dreams, and honestly, who would be at five in the morning? A small spike of affectionate jealousy pricks at your chest; he isn't the one keeping vigil over Gotham's protector tonight. You smile to yourself, pulling the door shut. Your little bird is safe, grounded in his nest.

When you return to the master bedroom, the heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, and there he is. Bruce is caught mid-motion, his broad shoulders tensed as he struggles with the stubborn latches of the remaining back plating. For a split second, he looks like a wild creature cornered by a sudden spotlight—vulnerable, stripped of his shadows.

“Need some help?” you ask softly, crossing the room.

You slip into the adjacent bathroom, returning with a warm, damp towel. Bruce lets you guide him to the edge of the bed. He sits, letting his heavy head drop slightly, completely yielding his formidable frame to your hands. He lets you in. You are the only person in the world he allows to touch him like this—to strip away the armor he built to keep the rest of humanity at bay.

You press the warm cloth to his temple, dabbing softly, carefully lifting the heavy black paint from his skin. You treat him with the same painstaking, reverent touch you use on the priceless masterpieces at the museum. In your mind, Bruce isn’t just a husband; he is a Monet—built from heavy, textured strokes of light and shadow, delicate under the surface, and utterly irreplaceable.

As the last of the greasepaint is wiped away, he leans forward. His hands rise to find your waist, his large, scarred fingers digging gently into the silk of your robe to pull you flush against him. When his lips find yours, the kiss is slow, heavy, and thick with unspoken gratitude. He tastes of dark espresso and the lingering cold of the Gotham night, a soft, grounding pull that makes your knees weak. His lips are your beautiful, inescapable perdition.

“Hi,” he murmured once he pulled away from you to look into your eyes. His light blue orbs were observing your face as if you were the only person in the world that mattered. He always made you feel like that. He flashes a small smile, not the one he uses when he’s on the cover of magazines, nor the one he uses when he talks to his associates. No. This kind of smile was only for you in intimate moments like this one. When he’s holding your body against his, and he smells like sweat, a bit metallic like blood, and inherently him. You press a kiss on his chest, bringing goosebumps on his arm. “Wanna watch the sunrise, sweetheart?”

You raised your eyebrow, looking at the covered windows of the master bedroom. The blackouts didn’t allow any light to come in, but he most likely knew what time the sun was coming up. It felt like his duty, somehow. You nod and let him guide you towards the large balcony in the living room. He opens the sliding window to let you step outside. The cool of dawn hits you immediately. He’s only wearing his sweats, hanging low on his hips and allowing all the scars on his torso to stay on display. You always told him you loved his scars, that they were his won battles.

As you hold onto the balcony railing, his warm arms embrace you from behind. His eyes are closed as he breathes your shampoo in, his warm chest against your covered back. He leans in, starting to kiss your neck and the sensitive joint of your neck and shoulder. The place where, according to him, you smelled the most you. Your hand curls around his arm and you tap him gently.

You’re going to miss the sunrise,” you whisper against his lips, a small, amused huff escaping you as you tilt your head back to accommodate the warm path of kisses he’s tracing down your jaw. It’s a beautifully transparent lie. You don’t care about the sky; you only care about the heavy, possessive way his arms are locked around your waist. And by the tight, unyielding grip of his hands, it’s clear the Dark Knight doesn’t care about the daylight either.

He nips teasingly at the crook of your shoulder—just enough pressure to make you gasp, but gentle enough to leave nothing but a warm sensation on your skin.

The first soft, orange rays of dawn begin to bleed over the horizon, cutting through the heavy Gotham mist. The sky above the distant harbor is finally waking up. You let out a soft, contented hum, looking past his shoulder at the view.

“It has the exact same palette,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his damp, messy hair.

Bruce chuckles, the low sound rumbling directly against your spine. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his dark eyes turning to the window to watch the violet and orange paint the clouds. A knowing, incredibly soft smile touches his lips.

“You’re right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and affection. “Maybe Monet actually knew a thing or two about his colors.”

A bright giggle escapes you, warm and light in the quiet dawn. You turn in his embrace to face him, burying your hands in his chest. “Cheesy,” you tease, poking his chest.

Bruce just smiles, his eyes soft and entirely resting on you, his own perfect masterpiece.

nanami walks towards the kitchen, long legs taking him forward unfairly fast. when his gaze lands on your mess, he doesn't shout, doesn't order you out or fire you on the spot.

he pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "clean this up before i fire you" is all he says

"y-yes sir!"

crisis averted, phew. you get to wiping the counters off immediately.

he lingers in the background, steel gaze nearly pinning you in place. that's the thing about him that always has your heart beating twice as fast; he speaks in few words, always curt, yet his actions suggest there's something more.

goodbye kitty is discarded along with the last bits of your ego. just as you're about to swipe flour down the drain, nanami lunges over grips your hand. hard.

"what have i told you about that, hm?"

within seconds, his face is uncomfortably close to yours. there's always some distance between you. now you're face to face, so close you can feel his body heat.

you freeze, pinned in place by his eyes. "uh, to not do it?"

he huffs a real sigh. "disposing of flour or batter in the drain clogs it. don't do it again, understand me?"

you gulp loudly. a meek "yes sir," is all you can muster.

he lets go of your wrist, tossing it into your chest. he leaves in silence, probably going to record inventory.

left to clean alone, you're finally free to process what just happened. after much thought, you come to three truths: one, it's a miracle that you weren't fired. two, cleaning this mess definitely isn't going onto your paycheck, and three, there's a new feeling bubbling up in your chest.

something you've ignored since you first saw him. vulnerable, new, totally inappropriate.

could it be... love?

you shake your head at that. there's no way you're falling in love with your boss more than you already have.

OOPSIES: KAREN KATASTROPHE!

you're currently doing your best to dissociate and act like the women in front of you screaming her head off doesn't exist. maybe you should've quit last saturday.

"i already told you, i want my lemon squares HOT!" she shouts, jabbing a finger at you. the only thing hot is her breath, but you can't say that unless you want to be fired for real this time.

you take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose before speaking (a habit you've picked up from nanami) "ma'am, the lemon squares are served cold. it says that on the menu," you deadpan.

she ignores you for the umpteenth time, saying "no it didn't," as if you both aren't staring at the same thing.

the other patrons are silently watching the affair, some taking their phones out and recording. this is incredibly embarrassing for you, not knowing whether to kick her out or endure this verbal barrage.

unfortunately, you're pulled out of your thinking by a ghoulish hand waving in your face. "where's your manager?!"

"right here."

the new voice is too solid to belong to the karen in front of you. you look to the source of it. it's nanami, stoic as ever. his face is a brick wall, expression unreadable. "what do you need, ma'am?" he remains professional though his voice lacks any warmth.

"well, i-uh, the lemons," she stammers on. the entire time nanami is staring into her soul. while patrons are quietly giggling (yourself included), it's clear he finds no amusement in this.

"look, ma'am," he interrupts, "i'm going to politely ask you to leave because you've disrespected my employee and our establishment."

flames ignite behind her eyes. "whatever! i am never eating here again!"

she turns on her heel, nearly tripping as she storms out the shop. "you forgot your lemon squares," nanami shouts behind her. you stifle a snort, as well as everybody else inside.

she comes back for them in shame. just as you think the threat is gone, she grumbles a curse towards a patron unlucky enough to be in her path.

"and don't come back," he finishes.

he goes around the shop apologizing to every customer, even giving them the shop's signature baguette. once the commotion dies down, he circles back to you.

"you handled that well."

"oh, thank you." his words are more shocking than what just happened. in the one and a half months you've worked here, the nicest thing he's said to you is how formal the font of your resume was.

"if someone bothers you again, tell me immediately." his voice drops, eyes glinting with something dark, possessive.

your cheeks warm, twiddling your fingers together. "of course, sir."

"no one disrespects my assistant or my establishment."

your heart breaks a little at that. you've been officially assistant-zoned!

later that day, you find some downtime by cleaning off spoons. the feeling comes back, warm and sticky in your chest. there it is, always creeping up on you when you're alone. it's planted itself inside you and there's no shaking it.

it's becoming easier and easier for nanami to fluster you, and it's purely accidental! but a small part of you hopes that it isn't.

OOPSIES: DISPLAY DISASTER!

one good thing came out of the karen situation: nana-pan has become a tourist attraction! videos of nanami's reserved reaction went viral, resulting in three times the usual amount of customers. he prefers the quiet vibe of the shop, but business is business.

he still doesn't break a sweat despite the increased workload, his only complaint being people asking for free baguettes all the time.

contrarily, you're losing your mind trying to adapt. you've never done well under pressure, much less while on the job. people are asking for nonexistent items, nanami's number and everything under the sun.

the bakery is packed wall to wall every day. between greeting customers, cleaning, baking and managing your sanity, you haven't had a second of down time.

so, is it really that surprising when you destroy an entire display in seconds?

it was 6pm on a saturday, peak business hours. everyone was getting off work and desperate to order before everything sold out. nanami changed the main display to most popular items, one of which being a massive 30 inch baguette that stuck out on either side.

a terribly confused elderly woman was inquiring about eclairs. your first mistake was walking backwards in such a crowded room.

"our traditional french items are here," you said, gesturing to a sneeze guard chalk full of pastries.

your second mistake was turning around too fast. while you aimed for the front counter, fate had other plans. instead of the counter, you're greeted by the massive baguette. unfortunate event after another, someone trips and crashes into you. instinctively your eyes close, bracing for impact.

when you try to open them, you quickly realize you can't. rubbing your eyes furiously, you pull your hands back to see... frosting?

your entire body is covered in frosting, among bread crumbs and sprinkles. it looks like king candy chewed you up and spat you out.

the entire bakery is dead silent. all chewing, chatter and meandering has stopped. pastries are strewn across the floor, each more damaged than the last.

nanami walks in just in time to see the disaster. his stone cold expression is twisted up in confusion, mouth parted for silent words. every head in the room moves to him, following his every step. your heart is frozen at the sight of your boss. he's surely going to take you to the back and hand in your two weeks notice.

but he doesn't do that.

he strides over to you, takes your hand and carefully stands you up. "please continue eating," he says, talking to everyone else. "this will be cleaned up shortly."

he guides you to his office, not bothering to look back at the chaos you just caused.

when he opens a drawer, you assume he was getting your letter of termination. instead, he pulls out baby wipes and cleans your face off. he doesn't bother asking if you need help, just does it without asking of anything in return.

nanami has never been this close to you. (not like you'd let him, anyway) seeing the crease of his brow when he's focused up close, the respect he shares, you can't ignore how hot, how confused it's making you.

"what's this?"

"what's what?' he asks, voice unnaturally quiet.

"i mean, this... i dunno, kindness?"

for the first time ever, you hear nanami chuckle. not a snort, not a breath that could technically be considered a chuckle if you closed your eyes and jumped three times.

"aren't i always kind?"

if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was joking. "we must have very different views of kindness." pausing, you add "you can be a little rude" rather quietly.

a frown ghosts across his face, gone as fast as it came. "well, i don't mean to come off as rude." your irritated sigh isn't lost on him. he focuses on the baby wipe instead of your miffed expression.

you gently push his hand away, suddenly finding it unbearable. "so that's just how you act?"

he pauses, choosing his words carefully. "yes. i can come off rather impassive, but i never mean to."

that gets your heart beating again, but your walls are still up. "so this whole time, you've just been treating me like a regular person? that's what you're telling me?"

"would you like me to treat you as something more?" he arches a brow.

the room has suddenly shrunk two sizes and so have your clothes. perceptive as ever, he notices the way you shift in your seat, unable to hide the quirk of his lip. "cat's got your tongue, aye?"

you look away. "no, it's just that i thought you hated me this whole time."

his face scrunches into something unreadable. "hate you? what would make you think i hate you?"

that's the last straw. you can't control the word vomit that erupts from your sprinkle ridden mouth. "you treat me like a burden. i can't bake, can barely talk to customers and have probably cost you thousands of dollars in damages. i'm surprised you haven't gotten rid of me yet."

"...and you're kinda mean."

you say it simply enough that it's almost laughable, yet maybe that's what he needed to hear to understand. the weight of what you just admitted hangs in the air. it's between you and him, the crevices of your fingers, the complexities of your heart.

"look at me," he whispers, so tenderly that it's disorienting. "you may be very clumsy, and yes, you burn the most basic desserts, but that's just you. if i didn't like you, you wouldn't be sat here right now."

you can't begin to describe how that made you feel. giddy?— no, that's too energetic. blissful, grateful, contented. something intimate is the only way to describe his effect on you.

"you mean it?"

"i do. i mean," he chuckles, "it's my first time being a boss and your first time working at a bakery. we're still learning, right?"

"right." you're smiling before you even realize it. cheeks warmed by affection, it makes him smile too.

he finishes cleaning you off, stopping to eat a sprinkle off your face. once you're fully cleaned up and changed, you both go back to the main floor and clean up the display. a few people pitch in, some clearly doing it in hopes of a discount or free food.

shift officially over, nanami watches you leave, calling a 'safe travels' behind you.

when you started working at nana-pan a month ago, you didn't expect to be falling this hard— or fast— for your boss. you thought he was attractive when you applied, but nothing could've prepared you for such a debilitating crush.

on the walk home, you realize three facts: one, you've been cemented in history as the bakery assistant who fell on her ass and made an ass of herself. two, walking backwards in crowded rooms is never a good idea, and three,

you're definitely in love with nanami kento.

masterlist | @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred

You wore it to the division that morning and watched his reaction from the corner of your eye as you walked beside him through the main hall. Officers glanced at your throat and then immediately away, a few of them going red.

Byakuya's pace never changed, but when you passed Lieutenant Abarai, who noticed and choked on his tea, Byakuya's hand found the small of your back and stayed there.

"You're enjoying this," you murmured, keeping your eyes forward.

"I have no idea what you're referring to..." he said, his thumb tracing one slow proprietary circle against your spine.

At his office door, with three officers still in full view, he paused and adjusted the collar of your kosode, not to cover the mark but to frame it better, his fingertips lingering against the bruise.

"This suits you," he said, quiet enough that only you could hear. "I may need to be less careful in the future."

You exhaled. "Why do I get the feeling you're not joking when you say that?"

His mouth barely shifted, but his eyes said everything. Then he turned and walked into his office like he hadn't just branded you in front of his entire division.

Renji Abarai

You woke with three of them this time, a trail down the side of your neck like Renji had been mapping a path with his mouth, which was essentially what had happened.

You were standing in front of the mirror taking note of the damage when he appeared behind you, chin hooking over your shoulder, and whistled at his own handiwork.

"Damn," he said, sounding deeply impressed with himself. "The bottom one kinda looks like a butterfly."

You jabbed your elbow back into his ribs. "It does not."

He laughed and wrapped both arms around your middle, pulling your back against his chest, swaying you side to side like you were slow-dancing in the bathroom.

You reached for a scarf and his hand intercepted it, tossing it onto the futon behind you. "Nope. Absolutely not." He turned you around by the hips and examined your neck with the critical eye of an artist reviewing a canvas. "You're not covering those up. I worked hard on those."

You crossed your arms. "I have to report to the Eighth Division today, Renji. Captain Kyoraku is going to have a field day."

His grin only got bigger. "Good. Great. Perfect, actually. Tell him I said hello."

He pressed one more deliberate kiss right at the base of your throat, sucking lightly just long enough to deepen what was already there, then pulled back and admired the result.

"There. Now you're ready."

He caught your expression in the mirror which was half mortified, half grinning, and pressed his face into the crook of your neck, laughing against your skin. "You love it. Don't even try to front with me right now. You love it."

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. "You're the worst person I've ever met."

"Well, that hasn't made you get rid of me yet," he said, kissing the butterfly one more time.

Later that afternoon, an officer at the Eighth squinted at your neck and asked if you'd gotten hurt during training. Before you could answer, Renji--who just happened to be dropping off paperwork, called back over his shoulder without breaking stride, "That's my handiwork, actually!"

You were going to kill him.

Jushiro Ukitake

He found the mark before you did. You were lying with your head on his chest, half asleep in the late morning light, when his fingers drifted along your throat and paused.

"Oh," he said, very quietly, and something in his voice made you open your eyes.

He was staring at the curve of your neck, his thumb resting just beside a bruise that was already deepening in color. You reached up to touch it and he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips instead.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I'd been so--"

You cut him off. "Jushiro, don't you dare apologize."

He looked at you, surprised and you held his gaze. "I like it. I like that it's there."

His thumb traced the edge of the mark and his eyes went half-lidded in a way that told you the apology had been more reflex than regret.

Later that day you brought him tea wearing your usual kosode. You hadn't gone out of your way to show the mark off, but you hadn't hidden it either, and the neckline sat just low enough that when you leaned forward, there it was.

Kiyone spotted it first. A sharp inhale, then a hard elbow to Sentaro's ribs, followed by the crash of a dropped report stack.

"Captain Ukitake," Kiyone whispered, although not remotely quietly enough. "He looks like he's feeling better, don't you think?"

Sentaro caught on and broke into a grin. "Much better. His energy must really be coming back."

Kiyone clasped her hands together, eyes shining, and turned to you. "You're so good for him. Truly."

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. Ukitake's hand found yours under the tea tray, squeezing once.

"They're going to tell the entire division," he murmured, cheeks faintly pink.

"Probably," you said, making no effort to adjust your collar. "That okay with you?"

He looked at the mark, then at you, and his fingers came up to trace the edge of it.

"More than okay," he said quietly. "I just hope they don't overdo crediting you with my recovery."

You laughed, but from across the room, Kiyone wiped an actual tear. "She's saving our captain one night at a time."

Shunsui Kyoraku

Shunsui never just leave one mark. He left a constellation.

He spent half the night with his mouth on your throat, humming against your pulse, murmuring things that made your toes curl, and by morning you looked like you'd lost a fight with a very affectionate octopus.

You were examining them in the mirror when he appeared in the doorway, still half-dressed, hat absent, hair loose around his shoulders. He leaned against the frame and took a long, appreciative look.

"Now that," he said, "is a beautiful sight."

You turned and raised an eyebrow. "Shunsui, there's like eight of them."

"Eleven," he corrected, crossing the room and tilting your chin to inspect the tinier ones. "You miscounted the little ones."

You wrapped a bandage around your neck before heading to the Eighth Division, layering it carefully enough that it looked like a training injury rather than a night spent underneath your captain. It worked, mostly. A few officers gave you concerned glances while Nanao studied you over her glasses but said nothing.

Then midafternoon, Shunsui appeared beside your desk with a look of theatrical concern. "That dressing looks like it needs changing. Come on, let me take a look."

You stared at him. "It's fine."

"It could get infected," he said, absolutely shameless, already steering you by the elbow toward his office.

The door closed and he unwound the bandage slowly, each layer peeling away while his eyes stayed on your throat. The marks had deepened inro rich vivid blooms of violet and burgundy trailing from below your ear to your collarbone.

"Oh~" he breathed, tilting your head with one finger to trace the darkest one with his thumb. "These got prettier."

You swallowed. "The whole office thinks I'm injured."

He grinned, rewinding the bandage with infuriating tenderness, his knuckles brushing your skin with every pass. "Good, then I'll get to change your dressing again tomorrow."

He tucked the end in and kissed you right above the edge of it. "A thorough recovery takes time, sweetheart. Let's not rush it."

Kenpachi Zaraki

He didn't even realize he did it until you winced when your collar rubbed against your neck the next morning.

Kenpachi wasn't a man who kept track of the finer details of what his mouth did, he just knew that at some point last night he had his teeth on your throat and you grabbed his hair and pulled him closer, so he kept going.

Now you were sitting on the edge of the futon pressing your fingers to the spot gingerly, and he leaned over to look at it with the same casual interest he'd give a new scar after a good fight.

"Huh," he said. "That's a big one."

You shot him a look. "That's all you have to say?"

He shrugged, grinning. "Looks good on you."

You didn't bother covering it. There was no point, really, you'd learned early on that being with Kenpachi meant abandoning any pretense of subtlety about anything.

So you walked through the Eleventh Division with the mark on full display, a dark angry bruise just above your collarbone, and watched the reactions ripple out like a shockwave. Officers stared, then immediately looked away. A few of the younger ones went red. Yumichika raised one perfect eyebrow and said nothing, which meant he was saving his commentary for later.

Then Kenpachi fell into step beside you, and you watched him clock the way every single person in the corridor glanced at your neck and then at him.

His hand landed on the back of your neck, heavy and possessive, his thumb resting directly on the bruise.

You hissed. "Ow--Fuck--That's tender, you know."

"Yeah," he said, not moving his hand. "I know."

He steered you through the barracks like that, his palm covering the mark like he was signing his name over it, and when Ikkaku opened his mouth to comment, Kenpachi stared at him until he closed it.

"You could be a little less obvious," you muttered.

He looked down at you, thumb still pressing into the bruise just enough to make your breath catch. "Why?"

Ikkaku Madarame

The mark wasn't subtle. He left it right on the front of your throat, dead center, like he had been trying to make a point.

You discovered it in the morning when you caught your reflection in the blade of his zanpakutō, which was propped against the wall, and let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

"Ikkaku."

He was doing push-ups on the floor behind you, shirtless and completely unbothered. "Yeah?"

You pointed at your throat. He looked up, looked at the mark, and his face split into a grin. "Nice."

"Nice?" You grabbed a scarf from the shelf and wound it around your neck before he could stop you. He watched from the floor, mid push-up, frowning.

"That's rude. You know that, right?"

You ignored him and tucked the ends in neatly, checking your reflection. Gone. Completely hidden. You felt his arms wrap around you from behind, his chin dropping onto your shoulder.

"You're really gonna do me like that?"

"I have dignity, Ikkaku."

"Overrated."

You made it all the way to training with the scarf intact, feeling pretty good about yourself, until Yumichika appeared at your side, looked at your neck, and tilted his head like a bird examining something mildly offensive.

"That scarf doesn't match your uniform," he said bluntly. "Take it off."

Your hand flew to your throat. "I'm cold today."

"It is not cold today. It is the middle of summer. Take it off or I will, because looking at that color combination is causing me physical pain."

You tightened the scarf and Yumichika reached over just as quickly and tugged one end loose with a single elegant pull, and the whole thing unraveled, and there it was. Dark and obvious.

Yumichika stared at it for exactly two seconds. Then he turned toward the training yard where Ikkaku was stretching and called out, "You are an animal and I am embarrassed to know you."

Ikkaku looked up, saw your bare neck, and pumped his fist in the air. "LET'S GO."

You buried your face in your hands. "I hate both of you."

Yumichika patted your shoulder. "The mark is ugly dear. He could have at least placed it somewhere aesthetic... You can cover it back up now."

From across the yard, Ikkaku shouted, "DON'T YOU DARE."

Yumichika Ayasegawa

The mark sat in the curve where your neck met your shoulder, placed exactly where the neckline of your kosode would frame it if you wore the one he liked.

You traced it with your fingers that morning and actually smiled before catching yourself.

Then you put on your high-collared kosode anyway, because walking around the Eleventh Division with a hickey felt like announcing something you weren't ready for. When you stepped out, Yumichika was waiting. His eyes went to your collar immediately and his mouth thinned.

"No," he said. Just that.

"No what?"

"That collar. You're not wearing that." He crossed to you and tugged the fabric down to expose the mark, studying it.

"I put that there on purpose. The angle, the placement, the way it sits against your skin tone. That is my best work and you covered it with the most unflattering neckline you own."

You felt your face heat. "Yumichika, it's a hickey, not a gallery piece."

"Everything I do is beautiful dear." He was already pulling out the kosode with the lower neckline. "Change. Now."

When you emerged wearing it, he cupped your jaw and tilted your head, his thumb grazing the bruise.

"There~ Now you look like someone who belongs to me."

He walked beside you through the division with his hand resting on the exact spot, fingers splayed to frame it. When Ikkaku squinted at your neck and opened his mouth, Yumichika didn't glance at him.

"Say one word and I'll tell everyone about that little kendo tornament in the world of the living."

Ikkaku's mouth snapped shut. You bit back a laugh.

"You're terrifying."

"Thank you," he said, and pressed his lips to your temple.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi

The mark Mayuri had left was not something you wanted to explain to Twelfth Division members who already looked at you with a mixture of confusion and pity for willingly sharing a bed with their captain.

You wrapped a bandage around your throat and practiced your "training accident" excuse in the mirror three times.

You'd nearly made it through the entire morning, before Mayuri summoned you to the lab.

He was bent over a microscope when you entered and didn't look up for thirty seconds. When he did, his golden eyes went straight to the bandage.

"What is that."

You touched your throat. "I hurt myself during--"

"You did not hurt yourself during anything. Remove it."

You unwound the bandage slowly and the mark came into view. It was vivid, almost chemical-looking and high on the side of your throat where his mouth had been last night.

He crossed to you, gripping your chin and turning your head. "Excellent pigmentation. The capillary disruption is more extensive than I estimated."

You stared at him. "You're not serious. This was part of an experiment?!"

"I am always serious. This is a perfect record of applied pressure and vascular response and you attempted to hide it under gauze like a common injury."

He pulled a small jar from his coat and you flinched.

"What is that?"

"A fixative. It will prevent the mark from fading for approximately seventy-two additional hours."

Your mouth fell open. "Mayuri, I am not letting you preserve a hickey like a lab sample."

"You are, because I have already applied it." His thumb had swiped across the bruise while holding your chin, and the skin tingled faintly.

You looked at him in disbelief. He looked back with zero remorse.

"You are mine. The data should reflect that. You may leave the bandage here. You will not be needing it."

Shuhei Hisagi

He was mortified at first. You watched it happen in real time--his eyes landing on the mark, his face cycling through recognition, pride, and immediate guilt in about two seconds.

"I'm sorry," he said, already reaching for your neck like he could rub it away. "I got carried away, I should've been more careful."

You caught his hand and kissed his knuckles. "Shuhei. Breathe. I bruise easy and I didn't stop you, which means I didn't want you to stop."

The guilt faded slowly, replaced by something cautious and searching as he studied the mark, a dark uneven bloom right below your jaw.

Your uniform covered it perfectly. High collar, no problems, and you made it through the entire day without a single incident. You honestly forgotten about it by evening, which was your mistake, because your evenings were spent drinking with Rangiku.

You were three cups in, warm and loose, and you tugged your collar open to cool down without thinking twice and Rangiku's eyes locked onto your neck like a heat-seeking missile.

You didn't even get a full breath in before she grabbed your chin, tilted your head, and announced to the entire table, "Oh my god!!!~ Hisagi marked you up girl!!!"

The bar went quiet. Kira choked on his drink. Ikkaku slammed his cup down and howled. You slapped her hand away, face on fire.

"Rangiku, I swear to--"

"Just look at it! That's not even subtle, someone was making a statement last night!~" She was beaming, absolutely delighted, already turning to find Hisagi in the crowd.

He was three seats down, frozen with his cup halfway to his mouth, the flush spreading so far past the 69 tattoo it looked like his whole face might combust.

"Hisagi!" Rangiku called, raising her cup. "I didn't know you had it in you!"

He set his drink down very carefully, stood up, walked over to you, and put his hand on the back of your neck. His voice was strained but steady.

"We're leaving."

You grabbed your cup and downed the rest. "Yep. Great idea."

Rangiku's laughter followed you both out the door, and halfway down the street you felt his grip loosen and heard him start laughing too, quiet and helpless, his forehead dropping against the top of your head.

"We're never going to hear the end of that."

You laced your fingers through his. "Nope. Never."

Izuru Kira

You woke up to the feeling of something cool and adhesive being pressed gently to your throat. Your eyes opened to find Izuru leaning over you, brow furrowed in concentration, carefully smoothing a bandage over the side of your neck.

There was a bruise underneath, you could feel the tenderness, and from the look on his face Izuru been awake long enough to find it, agonize over it, and devise a solution before you even stirred.

"Izuru," you murmured, voice thick with sleep. "What are you doing?"

He pressed the edge down with his thumb, not meeting your eyes. "It's visible. I don't want people to look at you differently because of something I did."

Your chest ached at his words and you reached up and covered his hand where it rested against the bandage, pressing his palm flat to your throat.

"Thank you," you said, and meant it.

He finally looked at you, surprised, like he'd been bracing for you to be upset with him. "You're not mad?"

"Mad? Izuru, you woke up before me just to make sure nobody would give me a hard time today. That's…" You squeezed his hand. "Was really thoughtful of you."

The tension in his shoulders released all at once and he exhaled. You pulled him down and kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

"You're a good man, you know that?"

His ears went pink. "I just didn't want anyone to--"

"I know. That's why it means so much."

You touched the edge of the bandage and smiled. "Keep being you, okay? I'll wear your little patch job with pride."

A quiet laugh escaped him and he pressed his lips to your forehead.

"I'll apply the next one better," he said. "That one folded a bit while I was putting it on."

The air was thick with a mix of heavy, floral perfumes, spilled sake, and incense. The combination of strong scents only irritating you further as you marched across the hall. Your bare feet slapped across the polished wooden planks towards the dais, the bottom of your kimono whipping against your ankles from strong strides.

Surrounded by screens decorated with depictions of himself was your husband, still oblivious to, or blatantly dismissive of your presence. He sat lounged on tatami mats and soft cushions. Three women draped over him in revealing silks with breasts spilling out almost in competition—young tributes from nearby provinces, offered in an attempt to gain the King of Curses’ favor.

One of the women worked his muscular form from the back, rubbing oils onto his tattooed skin, arms around him like the front of a cape. Another kneeled by him to press a saucer full of sake to his lips. When some dripped down his chin, she would wipe it away with a small cloth, giggling into his ear as she moved unnecessarily close.

The last woman pressed her whole body against him, strewn on his lap with one of his four arms lazily around her waist. She held a half eaten persimmon in her hands, juice sticky as it dripped down her arms and onto Sukuna’s chest, closer to the mouth of his belly. Her head lay on his shoulder, smiling up at him with eyes full of adoration.

“Sukuna.” You called out firmly when you reached him. He finally turned his head to you before the women gently pouted and sulked, his arrogant smile widening as they fought for his attention before turning back towards them.

You tightened your fists at the lack of acknowledgment in an attempt to control your already flaring temper.

“I believe,” you started, your voice calm but dripping with annoyance, “I explicitly told you I do not enjoy finding my home turned into a playground for every ambitious court stray looking to elevate her status. My patience runs thin.”

The women snapped their heads at you, offended by the insult aimed towards them. You ignored their glares, waiting for your husband’s reply. Sukuna barely shifted, only one pair of his ruby eyes drifting towards you, smirk still pulled at his lips.

“They were offered. And it is a ruler’s right to collect his due. Why let a feast go to waste because my wife has a delicate temperament?” The women giggled and nestled themselves closer to him. He continued, voice dismissive, “Do not try to dictate what enters my halls.”

You stepped closer to him, servants backing themselves towards the walls like mice. “I am your wife. If you wanted to enjoy a harem of pathetic whores, akin to the dreams of a common young boy, you should have killed me with the rest of my clan instead of dragging me here.”

Sukuna’s smirk vanished. The music stopped abruptly as the temperature in the room dropped, cursed energy now flooding the space and heavy enough to choke on. Sukuna slowly sat up, all eyes on you now and narrowed in a glare. The women frowned as his movements displaced them from around him.

“Careful.” Sukuna’s voice dropped, losing it’s earlier arrogant tone. “It seems you forget who you are speaking to. You are my wife because I allow it. If I desire to fill this estate with a hundred women, I will do so, and you will sit quietly and watch.”

The women around him didn't flinch. In fact, one of them leaned closer to his ear, whispering something that made a dark, arrogant chuckle rumble in his chest, smirk reappearing as he moved to lean back down, four arms opening to welcome the women around him to resume draping his chest. They felt untouchable under his shadow. You were the only living creature who looked at the King of Curses and saw only an infuriating, stubborn man.

“Next time you dare to insult me, I’ll have your tongue ripped from your mouth.” He threatens with a chuckle, turning his head to take a bite of the fruit held up to his face.

“Do it, then.” You challenged coldly. He froze. In shock? In fury? But you continued, “But since I am clearly entirely unneeded here among your collection, I will be residing in the secluded Northern Estate from now on."

Without waiting for his response, you turned on your heel. Your robes swept across the floor as you walked away, your spine perfectly straight, chin high, refusing to look back. A beat of utter, suffocating silence fell over the hall when the doors shut behind you. Even the cicadas that chirped outside in the morning warmth seemed to quiet. The servants stopped breathing entirely waiting for the pin to drop.

“INSOLENT WENCH!”

He surged upright in one fluid motion, the girl on his lap tumbling to the cushions with a yelp. All four arms flexed. The tattoos across his chest and shoulders seemed to writhe in the low light. The mouth on his belly bared its teeth in a snarl that matched the one on his face.

“Of all the wretched women in this miserable era!” The entire estate shook from the boom of Sukuna’s voice, “I shackle myself to a disrespectful viper, a sharp-tongued plague I call my wife!”

His chest heaved. Painted screens and tapestries now lay flat next to trembling servants as they pressed hard against wood to avoid Sukuna’s wild slashes. Teeth chattering as Sukuna paced like a caged tiger.

One of his offerings, the one who had assumed herself to be his favorite, crawled toward him and placed her hand on one of his lower forearms. “My Lord…” she purred. Her voice delicate and purposefully sensual. “Do not let your wife’s temper sour our time. You have us now to—“

“Get off me!”

Sukuna shoved her away with the arm above the one she held. The force sent the woman tumbling off the elevated platform and onto the wooden floor. “Let her freeze in that rotting estate. See if I care! She'll come crawling back on her knees!", Sukuna let out a final grumble before he stormed away, his women scrambling to follow after.

You demanded to leave immediately, servants rushing to prepare your journey, a day’s worth at least. Before noon, your palanquin waited in the courtyard. Strong bearers stood ready beside polished deep crimson and sheer black curtains. Along with them stood a small group of guards and servants.

Behind them, wooden chests and lacquered boxes were loaded into carts: your belongings. Silks, jewelry, scrolls, perfumes and oils, and the heavier chests containing more… personal items you refused to leave behind for mere indulgences to use.

He hadn’t come to the courtyard to see you off, the engawa standing empty—not that you had noticed. Your nose pointed high towards your entourage as you waited to leave.

With a nod from the head attendant, you stepped into the palanquin. The interior was plush; thick tatami layered over cushions, a small low table for tea or writing during the journey, and soft pillows arranged exactly as you preferred. The faint scent of your preferred incense lingered inside.

You settled in gracefully, arranging your robes around you as the curtains were drawn closed. The world outside muffled slightly. You heard the bearers lift the poles, the creak of wood, the shuffle of the procession forming up.

“Move,” you commanded quietly. The palanquin swayed as they began the long journey away and the main estate faded behind you.

—

For the first three days, Sukuna made a show of not caring. In fact, he acted as though your departure was a great victory for him. He declared the main estate liberated from your incessant nagging before he fully indulged in the hedonistic excess he claimed to deserve.

He spent days crueler towards the village heads and provincial governors, demanding more offerings—food, treasure, or virgins—to keep him from razing their lands. The halls echoed with the sound of breaking pottery, raucous laughter, and the sighs of his new women. He drank his fill, took them to his bed with violent enthusiasm, and allowed them to drape themselves over him around every area in the estate, exactly as you had hated.

He was the King of Curses. He needed no one, least of all a stubborn, overly proud wife who dared to turn her back on him. He had enjoyed the years he ruled before you, he will enjoy more years again in your absence.

But by the fifth day, the cracks in his indulgent paradise began to show.

The novelty of the new flesh wore thin, replaced by a hollow boredom. The concubines were eager to please, agreeing with every word he said and offering no challenge, no fire, no bite. They were utterly exhausting in their subservience. Pliant and easy.

Then, the tangible effects of your absence began to appear.

It started with small, grating inconveniences that chipped away at his already short temper

Sukuna took a sip of his morning brew and immediately spat it across the tatami mats, roaring at the trembling servant. "What is this swill!?" The servant bowed so low their forehead scraped the floor. "M-My Lord, that is the standard brew.” Sukuna threw the cup to the floor, the pieces shattering around his feet. The servant trembled. “The spiced blend you prefer... her Ladyship personally foraged and blended those herbs. She took her supply with her."

When he sought his quarters to escape the incessant giggling of his new toys, he found the furs scratchy and the pillows completely wrong. When he demanded his favorite woven silk blanket, Uraume had to quietly inform him, "That blanket was woven by her Ladyship's grandmother, Lord Sukuna. She packed it into her carriage when she departed."

Every tiny inconvenience only reminded him of the spaces you left empty. Even the incense burning in the halls was cloying and cheap, lacking scent of sandalwood and plum blossom you always ensured was lit.

Every time he barked an order or complained about a missing comfort, the answer was always the same: She took it with her. That was her duty. That was her recipe.

It became agonizingly clear that the luxury and comfort he had taken for granted were not the result of his fearsome reputation, but the meticulous, unseen labor of his stubborn wife. However, all these petty annoyances were nothing more than to highlight how much he simply missed your presence.

By the end of the week, Sukuna was a walking thundercloud.

The estate staff moved in absolute terror, tiptoeing around his explosive temper. His harem, sensing his shifting mood, tried to soothe him with physical affection, but he violently banished them from his quarters. Their cheap perfumes made him nauseous; their simpering voices made his head pound. He wanted the plum incense. He wanted his spiced tea.

He wanted his wife.

Sitting alone in his dimly lit chambers, listening to the agonizingly quiet estate, his four eyes glowed with a mixture of immense irritation and defeated pride. He snatched a piece of fine parchment, aggressively grinding an ink stick against the stone before grabbing a brush.

He refused to apologize. He was a king. But he would absolutely not endure another day of this miserable, unbearable inconvenience.

He pressed the brush to the paper, his handwriting sharp, jagged, and aggressive.

To the Resident of the Northern Estate,

The servants here have grown lazy and incompetent in your absence. The food is inedible, the estate is in disarray, and I am entirely out of patience.

Your pathetic temper tantrum has gone on long enough. You have made your point, and I am bored of this game.

Pack your belongings. You are to return to the main estate immediately. I expect your arrival by tomorrow evening. Do not make me come retrieve you myself.

— Sukuna

He shoved the freshly sealed scroll into the chest of a terrified messenger curse, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat. "Deliver this to the Northern Estate. Return with her. And if she refuses to come back, tell her I will burn that rotting manor to the ground with her inside it." The curse whimpered once and bolted out into the sky, blurring into the distance with desperate speed.

—

The Northern Estate was a sanctuary you had made your own. You spent days enjoying little things. You’d read scrolls of poetry, maybe even writing your own about infuriating kings. You practiced the biwa or koto to fill your halls with music. Your favorite was bathing in the hot springs, warmth unraveling your tense muscles while the cold air bit at your cheeks. It was peaceful and quiet—at least until Sukuna’s messenger curse arrived, trembling violently as it presented the sealed scroll.

Your face dropped as you saw the intruder. Rolling your eyes before grabbing the slip. You unrolled the parchment, your eyes scanning the jagged, aggressive strokes of ink. A cold, furious laugh escaped your lips as you read his words. Pathetic temper tantrum? Incompetent servants? The absolute, unmitigated gall of the man to demand your return without a single shred of remorse.

You crumpled the fine parchment in your fist and tossed it directly into the crackling hearth.

"Tell your master," you said, your voice dripping with absolute venom, "that until he learns how to swallow his massive, bloated pride and apologize, I do not care if he’s inconvenienced."

The messenger curse paled, dropping to their knees in sheer panic.

"M-My Lady, please!" It begged, pressing its forehead to the floorboards. Its voice high pitched, distorted, and rough, only making it irritating to listen to. "I cannot tell him that! He will slaughter me before the words fully leave my mouth!"

"Then say nothing!" you snapped, eyes glaring at the creature before turning your back on them, your patience entirely exhausted. "Return to him empty-handed. Tell him nothing. Now get out of my sight!"

—

By dawn back at the main estate, Sukuna was pacing the length of his chambers. He had already mentally prepared himself for your arrival later that day, smugly anticipating the moment you walked through the doors. He had even—though he would slit the throat of anyone who mentioned it—ordered the kitchens to prepare your favorite meal for dinner.

But the doors slid open, interrupting his thoughts, the messenger curse was alone, and far too early.

Sukuna stopped pacing. The oppressive weight of his cursed energy instantly slammed down onto the room.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice a lethal, vibrating growl. "Why are you here?"

"S-She... she..." The messenger curse shook so violently it could barely speak. "She sent no reply, my Lord! Nothing! Not a single word!"

Silence stretched for one horrifying, drawn-out second.

And then, the King of Curses snapped.

“NOTHING!?"

With a roar that shook the foundations of the estate once again, Sukuna unleashed another wave of raw, violent cursed energy. The sliding shoji doors splintered into matchsticks. The low wooden table in the center of the room was cleaved cleanly in two, sending tea cups shattering against the walls. The renovations to the just recently ruined central hall nearby crumbling back down to piles of wood and paper.

"The absolute insolence!" he bellowed, his four eyes wide with manic fury. "She dares to ignore a direct order from her King?! I will drag her back here by her hair!"

Hearing the commotion, two new women hurried into the room, their faces pale with fright. One of them, thinking she could play the soothing savior, stepped forward and reached out.

"My Lord, please, do not stress yourself over one disobedient woman," she cooed, her voice trembling. "We are still here. You can have many wives. We would never ignore—"

Sukuna’s head snapped toward her, his gaze so utterly devoid of mercy that the woman froze in her tracks, the blood draining from her face.

"Get out."

"M-My Lord?"

"GET OUT!" he roared, his voice echoing like thunder. "All of you! Pack your pathetic belongings and leave this place immediately! If I see a single one of your faces within these walls by nightfall, I will paint the courtyard with your blood! Leave!"

The women shrieked, gathering their skirts and fleeing down the corridors in absolute terror, sobbing as they ran.

Sukuna stood alone in the wreckage of his chambers, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack his own teeth. The estate was finally entirely empty, but it brought him no peace. It only highlighted the glaring, miserable fact that the only woman he actually wanted was the only one refusing to be there.

Gritting his teeth, he stormed over to the remains of a writing desk. He snatched a fresh scroll and brush. He was Sukuna. He did not apologize. He did not beg.

But he was going to get his wife back.

His brush tore across the paper, the second letter a masterpiece of aggressive bargaining disguised as royal magnanimity, grumbling as he wrote:

To the Pestilent Woman in the Northern Estate

Your silence is an insult I would punish with death in anyone else. Count yourself fortunate that I am in a merciful mood.

I have grown completely bored of the vermin infesting the main estate. They were loud, useless, and reeked of cheap perfume. I have expelled all of them. The estate is empty.

I am willing to overlook your previous disrespect, as I recognize the main estate requires a firmer hand than the current staff can provide. Your presence is required to restore order.

You have won this trivial battle of wills. Do not push your luck further. I expect you by tomorrow morning.

— Sukuna

He sealed it with a vicious slam of his fist, glaring at the trembling servant who had peeked out from behind a surviving pillar. Calling it over to all but spear the letter through its chest.

"Take this to her," he snarled. "And if you come back empty-handed again, I will wear your skin as a cloak."

—

The messenger servant arrived at the Northern Estate looking as though it were walking to the gallows. It knelt before you, hands shaking so violently that the second seal nearly cracked before you even took the scroll.

You read the jagged characters, your eyes narrowing at the words. The curse already slumped after seeing how your eyes burrowed.

"Unbelievable," you muttered, throwing the scroll onto the floor. It was a thinly veiled peace offering, certainly, but it was buried beneath layers of his insufferable ego. He had kicked the women out—good—but he still couldn't bring himself to actually say the words I was wrong.

"M-My Lady..." the servant whimpered, tears spilling down its deformed cheeks. "Please. I beg of you. If I return to him empty-handed again, he will surely flay me alive. Please come back!"

You felt what could have been a pang of pity for the terrified thing, but your resolve was absolute steel. If you caved now, Sukuna would never learn.

"I am not a dog to be called to heel just because his other toys have bored him," you said, your voice ringing with finality. "Tell him that expelling his concubines is a start, but if he thinks that this pitiful excuse for a letter is enough to summon me back, he is losing his already simple mind, if he has not already lost it. Leave."

The servant wailed, but the icy glare you shot silenced it quickly and sent it scurrying back outside, thoroughly convinced he was about to die.

—

When the servant returned to the main estate alone, it immediately threw itself onto the floor before the platform Sukuna waited at despite the late hour. It squeezed its eyes shut and awaiting the inevitable, agonizing sensation of being sliced into pieces.

"Speak," Sukuna demanded. His voice was dangerously quiet.

"S-She... Her Ladyship refuses, my Lord," the servant sobbed out. "S-She said expelling the women was a start, but the letter was not enough. Spare me, please!"

The servant braced. It waited for the roar of rage that became a regular where the subject of his wife was involved, or the crushing pressure of cursed energy that would slice through him, the swift strike of death.

But it never came.

Instead, a heavy, exhausted sigh echoed through the massive chamber.

"Leave," Sukuna muttered.

The servant blinked, eyes opening wide but fixated on the floor just inches from its face, convinced his ears were playing tricks on him.

"M-My Lord?"

"I said leave, before I change my mind," Sukuna growled, though the fire in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a dark, brooding shadow.

The servant scrambled out of the room, completely bewildered. The entire estate staff whispered about it by morning—the King of Curses had been defied twice, and not a single drop of blood had been spilled. It was entirely unprecedented.

But behind closed doors, Sukuna was undergoing a torturous unraveling of his own pride.

Over the next week, the messenger curse made frequent trips to the Northern Estate. And with every scroll delivered, the jagged, aggressive ink strokes of the King of Curses grew softer, the demands slowly transforming into requests, and the threats and insults vanishing entirely.

To my Wife,

I have procured the cedar incense you prefer. I had to threaten a merchant in the southern provinces to part with his entire stock, but it now burns in the halls.

The kitchens have been restructured. I removed the head chef for burning the fish, and Uraume has taken over your dietary preferences.

The estate is exactly as you left it. There are no other women. There never will be again. I find them entirely repulsive.

Return and claim your rightful place by my side.

— Sukuna

• • •

[Name],

The estate is maddeningly quiet.

I have not slept properly in days. The silks are cold, and the furs do not smell like you. I find myself reaching for you in the night, only to grasp empty air. It is a pathetic weakness that I would allow no one else to inflict upon me.

Your grandmother's woven blanket is missing from my bed. Bring it back.

Uraume's spiced tea tastes like ash. They try, but they do not know the exact ratio of the herbs you use.

I miss the sound of your voice. Even when you are insulting me.

Come home.

— Sukuna

Letters remained ignored. However, though you would not admit it, the letters had softened some at your anger.

The final letter arrived unsealed, the parchment folded gently rather than rolled tight. Still, you were ready to throw yet another piece of parchment at the curse in front of you. Shoulders square and nose still pointed as you opened it. But the words faulted your stern posture a crack.

The handwriting was smooth, lacking the harsh, pressed strokes of his usual temper. It was the handwriting of a man who had finally exhausted his own ego.

My Love,

You were right.

I am a gluttonous, arrogant fool. I thought my title meant I could take whatever I pleased without consequence, but I failed to realize that the treasure I truly cared to keep was the one I was driving away.

The expanse of this estate feels like a cage if I must reside in it alone. My pride is entirely worthless compared to your absence.

I am sorry. For the women, for my words, and for disrespecting my wife.

If you require more time, I will give it to you. But if you can find it in your heart to forgive your senseless husband... please. Tell me I am permitted to come get you.

Yours,

Sukuna

You stared at the letter, the strokes of ink blurring slightly as your vision swam.

My Love.

He hadn't called you that in months. Not since before the women had started arriving as offerings, not since his ego had swelled to overshadow his devotion. Reading the raw, unfiltered surrender in his words, the last remnants of your anger quietly shattered, replaced by a profound, aching twist in your chest.

He was infuriating. He was arrogant, deeply flawed, and possessed a temper that could level mountains. But he was also your husband, and beneath the terrifying mantle of the King of Curses, he was a man entirely undone by your absence.

You carefully folded the parchment, pressing it flat, and tucked it into the sleeve of your kimono. Moving with sudden, decisive urgency, you called upon servants to pack your belongings. You watched as they pulled your travel chest from the corner of the room.

It was time to go home.

You wrapped a thick, fur-lined shawl around your shoulders, preparing to face the biting winter chill. The Northern Estate was situated high in the mountains, and a heavy snowfall had blanketed the grounds since early morning. You walked down the quiet, shadowed corridors, intending to instruct the estate staff to prepare a carriage for the long journey down the mountain.

You slid the heavy front doors open, the freezing wind instantly biting at your cheeks.

"Prepare the—"

The words died in your throat.

The attendants were gone. There were no terrified servants, no messenger curses, and no guards.

There was only him.

Ryomen Sukuna stood in the center of the snow-covered courtyard, a massive, solitary figure amidst the gently falling white flakes. He wore a simple, dark yukata, entirely inappropriate for the freezing weather, exposing the familiar, dark markings that mapped his broad chest. A dusting of pristine white snow rested in his spiky pink hair and clung to his broad shoulders, indicating he had been standing out there in the freezing cold for quite some time.

He didn't look like a fearsome King, nor an arrogant god. As his four crimson eyes locked onto yours, he just looked like a man who had finally found water after wandering through a desert.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the low howling of the mountain wind.

"Your letter," you finally said, your voice soft, cutting through the frosty air. Part of you still too stubborn to forgive him, "It explicitly stated you would not send for another messenger. And that you would wait for my permission."

"I didn't send a messenger," Sukuna rumbled, his deep bass carrying effortlessly over the wind. He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching heavily beneath his boots. "And I tried to wait. I wrote that letter at midnight. By dawn, the walls of the estate were driving me insane."

He crossed the courtyard, his massive strides eating up the distance between you until he was standing at the base of the wooden steps. You kept your lip tight, but up close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes—proof of his sleepless nights—and the tension bracketed around his mouth.

"I am not a patient creature," he murmured, looking up at you. "You know this."

"I know."

Sukuna slowly ascended the steps, his imposing frame blocking out the biting wind. He stopped just inches from you, hesitating in a way you had never seen him do before. He raised one massive, scarred hand, his fingers hovering just a breath away from your cheek, as if waiting for you to flinch or pull away.

When you didn't, he exhaled a shaky, steaming breath, gently cupping your face. His skin was impossibly warm against the winter chill.

"I am sorry," he said, the words heavy and absolute. There was no hesitation, no pride to mask it. "I was a fool. The estate is a tomb without you."

You looked up into his crimson eyes, seeing the raw, unmasked devotion burning there. The anger that had kept you warm in the mountains finally melted away completely.

You stepped forward, closing the final inch between you, and wrapped your arms around his waist. You pressed your face against his chest, right over his beating heart, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of ash, cursed energy, and the faint, lingering trace of incense.

A shudder ran through Sukuna’s massive frame. With a desperate, crushing grip, his arms wrapped around you. He pressed face onto the top of your head, inhaling deeply into your hair, his four arms holding you so tightly it was as if he feared the wind might steal you away again.

"I have you," he breathed again, his voice thick with relief. "I have you."

"You do," you murmured, your hands resting flat against his back. "But if you ever try to replace my tea with that cheap swill again, or bring another woman within a mile of our home, I will move to the Southern Estate next time. And it’s much further away."

A low, vibrating chuckle rumbled deep in his chest—the first genuine sound of amusement he had made in weeks. He pulled back just enough to press a deep, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Never again," he swore, his eyes burning with absolute certainty. "Let's go inside."

Without waiting for another word, he bent down, effortlessly sweeping you up into his massive arms. Giggles fell from you as he threw you over his shoulder, your hands pressing against his back to steady yourself, “I thought you were bringing me home.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smirk. The exhausted, humbled shadow in his four crimson eyes was suddenly replaced by a very familiar, dangerously mischievous heat.

"The journey down the mountain is long," he purred, his voice dropping into a dark, vibrating register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "And as I mentioned, I have been freezing in an empty bed for weeks. The main estate can wait. And it is being repaired."

He began walking down the hallway toward your bedchambers, his grip on you tightening possessively. Setting you down as you reach your doors, but keeping one strong arm around you.

"I think it is only fair we stay here a little longer," he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. "So you can thoroughly... thaw me out before we travel."

A sudden, breathless giggle escaped your lips despite yourself. The sheer audacity of the man was returning in full force, but this time, all of that intense, overwhelming focus was directed entirely at you.

"You're impossible," you laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. He walked you backwards, one arm sliding the doors closed.