You had never wanted to get married. But your clan—ever the tactful, definitely-not-pushy diplomats—decided a political alliance with the Shihouin clan was exactly what was needed.

And so, you 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 and promptly hogging every blanket, purring with that smug grin.

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. 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 shot her a flat look. “That was a smirk. Don’t confuse that with hope. You’re dangerously close to disappointment.”

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. “You have a brother? Why keep that from me?”

“Why tell you everything? Are you my fiancé or something?”

“I’m your husband, you idiot.”

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, sipping sake under the night sky. The silence stretched, comfortable and strange.

“This is... tolerable,” she said finally.

“I was just about to say the same thing.”

“Stop parroting me.”

“I’m not parroting. We’re just mutually not hating this arrangement.”

She grinned slyly. “Careful—sounds dangerously close to affection.”

You raised your cup in mock toast. “To tolerable cohabitation.”

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.

Then came the day she deserted Soul Society. The marriage kind of paused? Imploded? Mutated into something stranger—you weren’t sure what. But somehow, you kept bumping into each other, like stray cats circling in the dark, ready to fight or tease at a moment’s notice.

“I thought you were busy messing with Urahara,” you said once, spotting her slurping ramen across from your hotel.

“Got bored. Figured I’d ruin your peace instead,” she replied with a grin, sauce dripping from her mouth like it was a sport.

That’s been the pattern since. She drops by, steals your food, mocks your hobbies, commandeers your bed, then disappears—only to return with a grin that says she owns the place.

You hate how normal it’s started to feel.