Chapter 344: Practicing Normal
The closet was a country.
Yes, it was just a room, but also not a room—a country: cedar-paneled hills of shoe cabinets, lacquered rivers of sliding drawers, a horizon of rails that curved into the distance and came back again like the light from a rising sun. Full-length mirrors stood on every wall; paper screens painted with cranes and camellias parceled the space into little provinces of light. A soft breeze (the mansion's magic, of course) kept the air cool and faintly perfumed—tea, starch, new silk.
Malik sat on a low velvet bench, already dressed, already restless, already smiling.
He wore "trying-to-be-normal" like an ensemble: a charcoal haori over a dove-gray shirt, slim trousers, boots clean enough to shame a mirror. A narrow ribbon of sakura-pink silk threaded his pocket square—his concession to being himself. A smooth gold watch on his wrist. He drummed a gentle rhythm on his knee and watched the paper screen.
Behind it, a goddess changed clothes.
"We have exactly one goal tonight," Shisui had said, appearing an hour ago with a firm kiss and a firmer jaw. "We go to dinner like a normal married couple. We eat food. We make small talk. We do not detour into a covert extraction or a 'quick' meeting with a nobel."
"I agree," Malik had replied solemnly. "We can try to be normal."
Now the screen whispered on its track as it rolled back. Shisui stepped out.
Look One — Street Lantern
A short, pleated navy skirt; black ribbed tights; a cream turtleneck tucked neat at the waist; a cropped, quilted jacket the color of plum wine. Her hair, usually coiled for war, fell straight to her shoulders, a lacquered sheen catching the closet lamps. A thin chain at her throat held the sapphire twin to his.
Malik put a hand to his heart. "You look like all the street lanterns turned human and agreed to escort me through winter."
The corner of her mouth tipped. "First attempt. Mood: casual, not 'Root commander on shore leave.'"
He snapped his fingers; his jacket darkened to plum, his pocket square blushed cream. "Mood matched."
Her eyes flicked—approving, exasperated—in equal measure. "We are not matching."
"We are… rhyming," he countered.
Her hand lifts, fingertips brushing the edge of her plum jacket. "Rhyming is conspicuous."
"It is cozy," Malik argues, rising from the bench. His reflection multiplies in the surrounding mirrors—two of him, four of him, a dozen matching plum-and-cream figures stepping toward her. "Like two lines of the same poem meeting for dinner."
Shisui's expression doesn't soften, but a light ignites behind her gaze. "Normal couples don't speak in verse."
"They do if they're us." Malik reached out, not touching her, just tracing the shape of her in the air, a breath away from the quilted fabric of her sleeve. "Besides, you started it. Your image, putting the sight 'Street lanterns turned human' in my mind and voice, That's practically a haiku."
A soft chime echoes through the cedar expanse—the mansion's gentle reminder that time is passing. Shisui turns her wrist, checking a delicate silver watch. "My love," Malik started as he moved behind her, "Feel free not to answer, but what are you wearing under that short, pleated navy skirt and those tight black ribbed tights, your husband must know, or better yet, you could show me."
Shisui's reflection in the nearest mirror darkens at the edges—just a subtle shift, but it transforms her entire expression. The commander straightens, one hand moving to the waistband of her skirt as if considering the question. Then, with practiced motion, she turns on her heel and steps away from the mirror, putting her back to Malik.
The plum jacket falls open slightly as she moves, revealing the cream turtleneck stretched taut across her shoulders and full, large, heavy breasts that stretch out the soft wool. "If you must know," she says, voice clipped and controlled, "I'm wearing the same underthings I always wear. Practical. Appropriate. Not designed for—" Her hand makes a small, dismissive gesture. "This."
Malik watches her retreat, the multiplied reflections showing him stepping forward, then stopping.
He tilts his head, considering her stance. "I think that's the most interesting answer you could have given," he says, his words light despite the charged atmosphere. But Malik shakes his head as he goes back to sit on his bench. "Very well, my love, if you don't want to flash your spicy underwear to your loyal and loving husband, then you don't have to," his face set in a mock sad expression.
Still, his eyes and tone of voice were all smiles as he drank in the beauty that was the woman in front of him. She smooths her jacket, her expression unreadable as she adjusts the hem of her skirt. "Spicy underwear is for alonetime and honeymoons. Tonight is dinner." She turns back toward him, her posture rigid, yet her eyes hold a hint of warmth he knows is reserved for him alone. "And you, with your rhyming and your questions, are making it difficult to remember the mission."
The soft chime sounds again, a little more insistent this time. Shisui's gaze flicks toward the door, then back to Malik. " The reservation is for seven, and I'd prefer not to be late simply because my husband can't stop admiring the cut of my clothes."
She disappeared behind the screen again.
Look Two — Archive Whisper
A high-waisted black skirt kissed the knee; a slate blouse with soft, almost invisible Uchiha-fan jacquard; a long camel coat that swung when she turned. She added thin silver hoops and half gloves. The effect was crisp, quiet, devastating.
"Shisui of the Body Flicker," Malik murmured, "but make it Board of Education."
She blinked slowly. "I could escort you to a museum in this."
"You could shut down a museum in this." He tugged his haori—now camel—and saluted. "Curator-chic."
She gave him a look that said focus and vanished again.
Look Three — Snow Theatre
Faint-blue hakama trousers; an ivory wrap top crossed and tied with a midnight sash; a wool cloak the color of storm glass; soft-soled boots. Hair half-up with a single silver pin. Sleek, severe, and somehow still soft.
Malik exhaled. "You're the last quiet minute before a snowfall."
Shisui's ears went faintly pink. "That's dangerously poetic for talk inside a closet."
"The closet deserves poetry," he said, gesturing to the teetering battlements of folded knit. "So do you."
She rolled her eyes—fondly this time—and slipped back behind the screen.
They were doing it. They were being normal—an almost domestic dance of "how about this?" and "what about that?" The mansion's wardrobe magic translated Shisui's smallest intent into ready pieces—hooks found the right hanger, hems settled to perfect lengths, a patient little wind cleared lint like a devoted attendant.
And then, without warning, she stopped choosing outfits.
The screen drew wide.
Shisui stepped out in memory.
Look Forever — The Wedding
Crimson and black. The Uchiha fan woven in a field of night, cherry blossoms drifting through the pattern like vows breathed into silk. The sleeves were long and noble; the obi knotted with the spare elegance of a sword kata. Her hair was down—down—a dark river along her shoulders, tamed only by a single blossom pin. The makeup around her eyes sharpened the steel and the light of the Sharingan at once; she didn't need to activate it for the room to notice.
The closet seemed to inhale. Malik did too—without meaning to.
He slid off the bench to his knees and crossed the distance like a pilgrim, stopping just short of the embroidered hem. His fingertips hovered an inch from the silk, reverent. "You… remembered."
"It was at the back," she said lightly. "I thought it would be funny."
"It's unkind," he said, the words warm and ruined. "Because now we're going to be late."
She smirked—and then tugged a fold near her ribs with a tiny wince. "Also because it's tighter than I remember. The tailor didn't plan for—" a flick of her eyes downward, a very un-Uchiha hint of sheepishness "—growth."
Malik's brain bluescreened for a polite half second, then rebooted into sincerity. "You look perfect. If any cloth ever complained about holding you, I would set the loom on fire."
"Please don't set the loom on fire."
"I will write it a stern letter."
He rose, slow, and took her hands. The sapphires—hers at her throat, his at his breast—glinted in sync. "Do you remember the smell of the garden?" he asked, voice gone soft as wisteria. "The lantern wax and the sweet rain in the cedars?"
"Wind in the prayer streamers," she said. "Hiruzen's hand steady on mine. Your smile like you'd rehearsed it and then forgot how to use it on purpose."
He laughed—caught. "I was going to faint. Shizune promised to resuscitate me with a shoe."
"You were brave."
"I was in love."
They stood in the closet with invisible cherry petals falling around them, both watching the past together. Lanterns in old trees; friends kneeling on cushions; Hiruzen's nod that felt like a door opening. They heard themselves repeating words that had never worn out:
I promise to stand with you.
I promise to honor what you fight for.
I promise to be home, even when home shifts.
Malik kissed her knuckles, one by one. "We are going to be late," he repeated, smiling as though lateness were a private holiday.
Shisui's mouth tipped. "Normal couples are late."
"Then we are very normal."
"Not yet." She reached to the side, and the mansion, eager to please, sighed an outfit onto him: deep navy suit; crisp white shirt; a narrow tie, blossom-pink. He barely adjusted it before she tugged him closer by it—just once—then let go.
"Focus," she said. "We're going to dinner. We will eat food. We will discuss nothing of missions, treaties, or clandestine evaluations."
"I will only ask the sommelier about all aspects of wine service as well as wine and food pairing," he promised.
She gave him the Uchiha Glare™ (domestic edition), which lasted exactly three seconds before dissolving into amusement.
He leaned in and kissed her—soft, not the kind that tangled fate, just the kind that smoothed it. When he drew back, the joke rose unbidden and honest: "Shisui Uchiha, will you marry me?"
She arched a brow, gloved fingers curving at his lapels. "Maybe."
Then she kissed him again, a little longer. The mansion lights warmed. Somewhere, far away, a clock nudged the hour.
She stepped back first, fingertips briskly retying her obi as if the moment hadn't just rewired a continent. "Shoes," she said.
"Already sorted out," he replied, and the bench obligingly rolled forward with polished boots and lacquered zori.
But even as the moment lingered, as the weight of memory and silk wrapped around them both, Shisui exhaled softly and looked down at herself.
"I can't wear this," she said, not with regret, but with a kind of quiet finality. "This was made for a different battlefield."
Malik nodded, understanding instantly. The wedding kimono was sacred. It was a relic of a promise, a ceremony, a night when the world had paused to let them be only themselves. It wasn't for restaurants or wine lists or pretending to be normal. It was for vows and gardens and the kind of silence that echoed with eternity.
"These clothes were made for us," she added, brushing her fingers along the embroidered Uchiha fan. "Not for anyone else to see."
Malik stepped forward and gently helped her out of the outer layer, folding it with reverence. The mansion responded to their mood, dimming the lights to a hush, the breeze stilling as if holding its breath.
The moment the closet door slid shut behind them, the air between Malik and Shisui shifted.
Giving them more privacy and trapping them in the moment.
The weight of the wedding kimono still lingered, a ghost of silk and memory clinging to their skin. Malik's fingers twitched at his sides, his pulse thrumming with the kind of anticipation that only came when he was standing on the edge of something sacred—and something filthy.
Shisui exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she leaned back against the cedar-paneled wall, her obsidian coat parting around her like wings. The garnet blouse clung to her torso, the fabric thin enough that Malik could see the faint outline of her bra beneath it, the way her breath made the silk rise and fall. Her dark eyes flicked to him, knowing. Always knowing.
"Malik," she said, her voice low, a warning and an invitation all at once.
He didn't hesitate.
Malik dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands already reaching for the silver cord at her waist. The belt unraveled with a single, smooth tug, the ends slithering to the floor like a snake shedding its skin. Shisui didn't stop him. Instead, she lifted his chin, her gaze burning into his as her fingers found the buttons of her blouse, undoing them one by one with deliberate slowness.
"You have five minutes," she murmured, her voice thick with amusement and something darker, something hungrier. "We are going to dinner."
Malik's grin was all teeth. "I work well under pressure."
The blouse fell open, revealing the black lace bra beneath—delicate, intricate, the kind of thing that looked like it had been woven by spiders who understood the art of temptation. The cups were sheer, her dark nipples already hard beneath the fabric, the lace barely containing the swell of her breasts. Malik's breath hitched, his fingers pausing just long enough to admire the way the lace framed her, the way her ribs rose and fell with every shallow breath.
"You're stunning," he murmured, his voice rough.
Shisui's lips curled. "Flattery won't make me let you take longer."
"Who said anything about letting?" Malik's hands slid up her thighs, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of her trousers. He didn't rush. He savored—the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch, the way her breath hitched as he dragged the fabric down her hips, revealing the black lace panties that matched her bra. They were perfect—high-waisted, the lace clinging to the curve of her hips, the front a tantalizing veil over the dense, wild bush beneath. The hair was thick, black as ink, curling in tight rings that spilled over the edges of the lace, untamed and glorious.
Malik's cock twitched in his trousers, already hard, already aching.
Shisui's fingers tangled in his hair, her grip firm. "Hurry up."
He didn't need to be told twice.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Malik pressed his face against the lace, inhaling deeply. The scent of her—musky, warm, hers—filled his lungs, making his head spin. His tongue flicked out, dragging along the damp fabric, tasting the faint salt of her arousal. Shisui's breath tightened again, her thighs trembling just slightly.
"You're already wet," Malik growled against her, his voice muffled by the lace. "My Perfect, Shisui—"
She didn't answer. Instead, her fingers tightened in his hair, guiding him exactly where she wanted him. Malik obeyed, his mouth opening as he pulled the lace aside with his teeth, exposing her fully.
And god, she was beautiful.
Her bush was a wild tangle of black curls, thick and dense, the kind of natural, untamed perfection that made his mouth water. He could see the glisten of her arousal already, her lips swollen and parted, her clit peeking out from beneath the curls like a hidden treasure. Malik's tongue darted out, tracing the outline of her through the hair, teasing her without quite touching where she needed him most.
Shisui's breath came faster, her free hand bracing against the wall. "Malik—"
"Patience," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. Then, finally, he gave in, his tongue sliding between her thick lips, finding her clit with unerring precision.
Shisui gasped, her body jerking as pleasure arced through her. "You bastard—!"
Malik chuckled, the vibration making her shudder. Then he feasted.
His tongue worked in slow, deliberate circles, parting her curls, exploring every fold, every sensitive inch of her. He didn't rush. He worshipped—licking, sucking, nipping at the sensitive bundle of nerves until Shisui's knees nearly buckled. Her grip on his hair turned painful, her hips rolling forward, seeking more, demanding more.
"Harder—Malik—!" she gasped, her voice breaking.
He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her as he flattened his tongue, dragging it from her entrance to her clit in one long, slow stroke. Shisui's thighs clenched around his head, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"You like that, don't you?" Malik murmured, pulling back just enough to speak. "When I make you beg."
Shisui's answer was a broken moan as his mouth sealed over her clit, his tongue flicking in fast, relentless patterns. Her hips rocked against his face, her body taking what it needed, riding his tongue with abandon. Malik's hands gripped her ass, holding her in place as she ground against him, her movements growing more frantic, more desperate.
"You're such a tease—!" she snarled, but her words dissolved into a cry as his fingers finally slid inside her, curling just right to make her see stars.
"And you love it," Malik growled, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Look at you. So hot and wet for me. So need—"
His words cut off as Shisui's body tensed, her orgasm crashing over her with the force of a storm. She came with a broken cry, her thighs locking around his head, her release soaking his tongue, his chin, his everything. Malik didn't stop. He kept licking, kept tasting, drawing out every last shudder until she was a trembling, boneless mess above him.
Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening, his breath ragged. He pressed a final, lingering kiss to her inner thigh before using his teeth to tug her panties back into place, the lace clinging to her damp skin.
Shisui's chest heaved, her face flushed, her eyes dark with satisfaction—and something else. Something feral.
Malik grinned up at her, his face a mess of her arousal, his lips swollen from the force of her pleasure. "Told you I work well under pressure."
Shisui's response was to yank him up by his hair, crashing her mouth against his in a kiss that was all teeth and hunger. Malik groaned, his hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against him as she claimed his mouth, tasting herself on his tongue.
When she finally pulled back, her breath was ragged, her voice a low purr. "You're filthy."
Malik's grin didn't waver. "And you love it."
She didn't deny it. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his face with brisk, efficient motions—though her fingers lingered just a second too long on his lips.
"Dinner," she reminded him, her voice husky. "We're late."
Malik's cock throbbed, his body still aching for release. But he knew better than to push. Not now. Not when she was still riding the high of her orgasm, her eyes dark with promise.
"Next time," he murmured, pressing a final kiss to her wrist. "I'm taking my time."
Shisui's smirk was slow, dangerous. "Maybe."
And with that, she turned, adjusting her coat with the ease of a woman who had just been thoroughly ruined—and loved every second of it.
Malik watched her go, his body still humming, his mind already racing with all the ways he was going to make her beg again later.
(Five minutes, his brain supplied helpfully. You did it in five minutes.)
He adjusted himself with a groan, following her with his eyes as she moved deeper into the closet—the cool air of the room, cooling down his body heat.
Shisui turned back to the screen, but this time, she didn't vanish behind it. Instead, she stood in the open, letting the magic of the wardrobe respond to her unspoken need.
The air shimmered.
The wedding kimono dissolved into threads of light, and from those threads, a new outfit wove itself around her—elegant, modern, and unmistakably hers.
Look Four — Lantern Walk
A long, high-collared coat in obsidian velvet, cut to move like a cloak but tailored like armor. Beneath it, a sleeveless silk blouse in deep garnet, tucked into wide-legged black trousers that somewhat stretch over her long legs with every step. A belt of braided silver cord cinched her waist, and her boots—polished, silent—rose to mid-calf. Her earrings caught the light, twin sapphires gleaming like twin moons.
Her hair was swept into a loose twist, held by a single lacquered pin shaped like a falling camellia. No makeup now—just the natural sharpness of her cheekbones, the quiet fire in her eyes, and the kind of beauty that didn't need framing.
Malik stared, then gave a low, appreciative whistle. "You look like a diplomatic assassin sent to seduce a prince and then lecture him about trade policy."
Shisui tilted her head. "That's… oddly specific."
"I have very specific dreams."
She stepped forward, smoothing his collar with a soldier's economy, tugging his tie into perfect alignment. He knelt to buckle the straps of her boots, fingers brushing her ankles with a reverence that made her breath catch. They moved like a unit, like a ritual—no wasted motion, no second-guessing. Just instinct.
"Normal," she said again, quieter now. "We can do this."
"We can," he agreed, extending his arm. "And if normal cracks, we'll hold the pieces and call it art."
She hooked her hand through his, Sharingan-dark eyes turning back into her black, bright ones with something no dojutsu could measure. "Let's be late like ordinary people."
They left the country of clothes for the world that waited, the mansion obligingly dimming the lights behind them. As they walked down the hall together—two dangerous hearts practicing tenderness—Malik glanced aside, unable to help himself.
"You know," he murmured, "after dinner, when we come back… the wedding kimono is already out."
Shisui didn't turn her head. Her mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite a threat.
"Maybe," she said again.
And for the first time that long day, "maybe" felt exactly like yes.