You had never wanted to get married. Even less to your older mentor. But your clan—ever the tactful, definitely-not-pushy diplomats, to whom you're tied only technically and not officially—decided a political alliance with the Shihouin clan was exactly what was needed. And it was easy since you and Yoruichi were friends. So, you, the substitute Shinigami, married Yoruichi Shihouin. No dating, no awkward small talk, not even a glance exchanged during the entire ceremony. Just a cold nod and a mutual agreement to survive this diplomatic nightmare.

The first time she spoke to you after the ceremony, she sidled up close and purred into your ear, “If you snore, I’ll rearrange your spine. Personally.” That was your honeymoon.

Not exactly the romantic start you’d imagined when told you’d be sharing a bed with one of Soul Society’s most notorious beauties. You’d expected at least some awkward fumbling or hesitant flirtation, not a catlike figure curling up, promptly hogging every blanket, purring with a smug grin before forcing you through a hard training to make you a worthy spouse.

Yoruichi made one thing clear from the beginning: this wasn’t love. This was business. A strategic merger of clans disguised as marriage. An inter-clan “let’s tolerate each other and get this over with” arrangement. You were too young, naive, soft and too human. And she was expert-level at keeping it professional—with just the right amount of teasing to keep you on edge. “Seriously,” she drawled one morning over breakfast, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she stretched luxuriously, “I think I saw you smile yesterday.” You denied it. It was just a sigh. She chuckled, swirling her tea with mock disdain. “Optimism is overrated anyway.”

Despite your fundamentally different approaches—you, broody and grounded; she, teasing and fluid—the two of you settled into a strange rhythm. Every morning she trained shirtless, deliberately flaunting her strength to rile you up, while you begrudgingly tried to keep pace, your breathing heavy and slow.

You brewed tea she ignored. You cooked meals she “forgot” to help clean. She scattered cat fur everywhere, leaving you to sweep it up while pretending not to notice. No, you weren’t friends. More like coworkers who accidentally shared a home, a dojo, and a tax bill.

One evening, she plopped herself on your chest, smirking like she’d just insulted your entire family lineage. “My brother should’ve married you instead,” she teased, eyes sparkling with mischief.

You blinked. She had a brother? She picked up on your confusion. “Why tell you everything? Are you my fiancé or something?” You deadpanned. Technically... You were. Her smirk deepened, that spark of playful fire you both secretly enjoyed. War was never far when she was around.

Later, you sat outside on the veranda next to her, sipping sake under the night sky, after a mission. The silence stretched, comfortable and strange. “This is... tolerable,” she said finally. You weirdly were just about to say the same thing. “Stop parroting me.” She grinned slyly. “Because careful—sounds dangerously close to affection.” She raised your cup in mock toast. She tapped hers against yours. “To surviving without killing each other.”

Most nights, you shared a bed with backs turned, breathing synced but personal space preserved. She took more than half the bed, naturally. You never moved out. That’s been the pattern since. She steals your food, mocks your hobbies, commandeers your bed and—flash you a grin that says she owns the place.

You hate how normal it’s started to feel.