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Chapter Text

Chapter One: The Last Shrine

Sesshōmaru did not consider himself easily embarrassed.

He had long outgrown such petty mortal feelings. He didn’t flinch, didn’t startle, didn’t twitch. Emotions were a weakness. Embarrassment, specifically, was beneath him. That was a human indulgence—like flavored lattes and panic-buying bath towels.

And yet.

As the footage replayed for the seventh time that morning—on every human news network, social media feed, and council internal memo—he could admit, quietly, that this was not ideal.

The slow-motion edit of the moment his scarf caught fire was now set to a trending pop song.

The pop song had been remixed.

The remix had gone viral.

And the public had decided to call her the Miko of Mayhem.

Ridiculous.

Sesshōmaru sipped his tea with restrained loathing and resisted the urge to smash the television.

All he had wanted was to finish the damned shrine tour.

The demon council’s latest public relations stunt—an interspecies unity initiative—had required him, as one of the oldest and most recognizable daiyōkai, to appear at every major human spiritual site across the country. Bow. Nod. Pretend to find their shrines fascinating. Pretend to care.

He had done so.

Twelve shrines. Twelve camera crews. Twelve painfully dull interviews.

Every one of them had been spiritually defunct—no real power, no true priesthood left. Just aging stones and photo ops and overpriced talismans being sold for ¥800 a piece.

He had endured all of it.

This shrine, Higurashi Shrine, had been the final stop. His last act of public service before retreating into the quiet, peaceful anonymity he so thoroughly deserved.

And then the priestess shot him.

On live television.

With a blessed arrow.

That caught fire midair.

And torched his imported silk scarf.

The edge of his suit collar had been singed. He still hadn’t replaced it. Partly out of spite. Mostly because the burn mark had become a talking point, and the council insisted he keep it for “relatability.”

Humans were calling it a meet-cute.

The headline on one of the larger news sites had read:
“Sparks Fly: Demon Lord Takes the Heat from Miko of Mayhem.”

He could not remember the last time he considered burning down an entire news station.

He remembered the moment perfectly.

He had been mid-sentence—speaking directly to the camera, reciting the line they had given him. “Today, we arrive at the historic Higurashi Shrine. A quaint—”
He’d paused. Smirked slightly. Emphasized it, just enough to let his real opinion bleed through. Quaint. Mediocre. Harmless.

And then the arrow came.

Silent, fast, unnaturally precise.

Holy energy hummed in the air as it passed.

It hadn’t hit him. Of course not. She’d aimed just off-center. It had clipped his scarf. Sparked. Burned. The fire danced dramatically across his shoulder, caught the edge of his coat, and sizzled into blackened ash with a hiss that still echoed in his memory.

The smell had been… potent.

He had turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

And there she had stood—bow lowered, expression flat, mouth pulled into a line of almost-smug defiance. Kagome Higurashi. The acting priestess of the shrine. Mid-twenties. Spiritually gifted. Undeniably annoyed.

He hadn’t known her name yet, but he had recognized the aura immediately.

It pressed against him like heat. Dense. Alive. Sharp enough to sting. And entirely unexpected.

She had power.

Not the performative kind.

Not the dusted-off rituals passed down for show.

Real, true, inherited spiritual power—raw and unfiltered, ancient in origin and clearly untrained in diplomacy.

It was the first thing about this entire tour that had caught his attention.

Unfortunately, she had caught everyone’s attention.

The footage had been clipped and replayed across platforms within minutes. Humans were calling it an act of protest. Others were calling it flirtation. One particularly unhinged blogger had dubbed it “holy foreplay” and analyzed the eye contact frame by frame.

Sesshōmaru had not commented.

The council had, though.

They had issued a bland public statement about “the exciting passion of interspecies cooperation,” which he was still mentally punishing them for.

Worse still, they had decided the solution was more publicity.

The press wanted more of them—him, the stoic demon lord; her, the firebrand priestess with weaponized aim.

So now, instead of escaping this mess, he was scheduled for three additional events. Together. With her.

When they’d informed him, he hadn’t spoken for a full thirty seconds.

When he had, he’d said only, “Will she be armed?”

The council had laughed.

He hadn’t.

Kagome Higurashi, for her part, had issued a public apology with all the sincerity of a cat coughing up a hairball. She had stood next to him on the shrine steps, speaking into the microphone, tone breezy, eyes glittering with challenge.

“I regret that my arrow startled Lord Taishō,” she said, not bothering to look at him. “I had no intention of hitting him directly. The scarf was… collateral. I’m sure we can move forward with harmony and mutual respect.”

He had stared at her. Slowly. Silently.

She’d smiled. Sharp and sweet and insufferable.

He hadn’t decided yet if he wanted to strangle her or hire her.

Possibly both.

Possibly one after the other.

As it stood, he was scheduled to return to the shrine tomorrow. They were meant to “appear as a united front.” There would be joint interviews. Shared duties. A mock purification ceremony to show the “blending of traditions.”

It was a disaster waiting to happen.

He adjusted the cuff of his shirt, smoothed the scorched edge of his coat, and exhaled slowly.

She had power.

And nerve.

And far too many nicknames in the human press.

Miko of Mayhem. The Shrine Sniper. Lady of the Flame.

Someone had made a Twitter account for the scarf.

Someone else had photoshopped a wedding invitation.

Sesshōmaru stared at the muted television as another reporter chirped about their “undeniable chemistry” and “tense, magical eye contact.”

He wondered, very briefly, what it would take to erase one’s entire presence from the mortal internet.

He also wondered what kind of bow she would bring tomorrow.

He didn’t trust her.

But he wanted to see her again.

And he didn’t know which of those facts annoyed him more.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: A Model of Restraint

Sesshōmaru had faced down rampaging warlords, cursed blades, dragonspawn, and five centuries of internal council meetings. He had endured all of it with composure.

Today, however, he was attending a “Spiritual Harmony Demonstration” at the Higurashi Shrine.

Live.

Televised.

And with a camera crew he suspected was getting paid extra to zoom in on his reactions.

He did not want to be here.

The council, however, was thrilled. The humans, even more so. The arrow incident had triggered a frenzy of social media content, fan edits, and dramatic conspiracy threads about ancient love curses and cosmic mating bonds. One person had started selling replica flaming scarves online. Another had created a poll titled: “Should she shoot him again?”

Sesshōmaru had not checked the results.

He didn’t need to.

The public had spoken. And what they wanted—loudly, obnoxiously—was more tension. More sparks. More Priestess Cupid.

Which was why he was now standing beneath the torii gate of the Higurashi Shrine, wearing a replacement coat, holding a scroll of talking points, and mentally preparing for what the humans were calling “a day of interactive reconciliation.”

The name alone made his eye twitch.

From up the hill, he heard the reporters before he saw them.

“Lord Taishō, you look great today—any nervousness after last week’s incident?”

“No,” he said.

“Kagome said she’s ready to show off her skills. Should we expect more sparks?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

“Would you consider catching another arrow for diplomacy?”

He stared at the man until the microphone slowly lowered itself in fear.

At the top of the shrine steps, the crowd had gathered around the training platform. Cameras framed the view. Tourists held up phones. Someone was selling “Cupid vs. Ice Lord” keychains near the offering box.

And there she was—Kagome Higurashi. Bow in hand. Smirking. Absolutely no sense of self-preservation in her eyes.

He didn’t know what annoyed him more: her arrogance, or the fact that she had the power to back it up.

She drew her bow smoothly, facing the range where a series of wooden targets had been set up for the live demonstration.

A man with a microphone shouted excitedly over the speaker system. “For those just joining us, Priestess Higurashi will now demonstrate her incredible precision with sacred archery. And just behind her—look! It’s Lord Taishō himself, here to witness the purification in action!”

Sesshōmaru did not wave. He did not smile. He stood quietly at the edge of the platform, away from the crowd, arms crossed.

The humans cheered anyway.

Kagome turned her head slightly, her eyes flicking toward him. “Nice of you to show up, Your Lordship.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Try not to set me on fire this time.”

“Try not to stand so close to the drama.”

She faced forward again. Drew back her bow. Focused.

He watched carefully, quietly. She was centered. Calm. Her power coiled around her fingertips. The arrow pulsed with holy energy.

She was, to his reluctant irritation, impressive.

A reporter leaned over to whisper something to him. Something about ratings. Kagome must have caught the movement out of the corner of her eye—because just as he turned slightly to respond, she whipped her head around to snap, “Could you not breathe down my neck? Some of us are trying to be ancient and mystical over here—”

And the arrow flew.

Not toward the target.

Not even toward the audience.

Straight sideways.

Right into the coat he’d laid on the bench beside him.

It burst into flames.

Sesshōmaru turned slowly. Watched the fire eat through the expensive black wool with almost theatrical flair. The edge of it curled, blackened, and finally disintegrated with a cheerful pop.

The silence was immediate.

Someone in the crowd gasped.

A child shouted, “She did it again!”

Someone else clapped.

Kagome froze mid-pose, bow still in hand, eyes wide.

Sesshōmaru stared at the smoldering remains of his coat. Again.

For the second time in a week.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He considered, briefly, walking into the forest and never returning.

The announcer scrambled to fill the silence, laughing nervously into the microphone. “Aha! Wow! Another fiery moment from our beloved priestess! So passionate! So precise! What incredible tension between our two stars!”

Kagome slowly lowered her bow.

“I… wasn’t aiming at that.”

Sesshōmaru turned his head.

“You don’t say.”

“It was supposed to go forward.”

“It did not.”

She winced. “Do you want another apology?”

“No,” he said evenly. “I want a flame-retardant wardrobe.”

She tried very, very hard not to laugh. He could see it twitching at the corner of her mouth.

A reporter yelled, “Lord Taishō, how does it feel to be struck by Cupid’s arrow twice in a row?”

He didn’t answer.

He just stared at Kagome, whose expression had slipped into something unreadable—half guilt, half challenge, and a dangerous flicker of amusement.

He should be furious.

Instead, for some cursed, unexplainable reason, he felt…

Interested.

Not pleased. Not amused. Not even charmed.

Just… intrigued.

Once again, her power hadn’t faltered. The arrow had still radiated with energy. And she’d clearly reacted to him—instinctively. Her power responded to his presence. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t coincidence.

That was something else.

Something rare.

Something worth watching.

Even if it cost him another coat.

Even if it made him a walking internet meme.

Even if she did it on purpose next time.

He straightened slowly and stepped toward the bench, calmly patting out the last of the embers. He lifted what was left of the coat and looked back at her, expression unreadable.

Kagome blinked at him, biting the inside of her cheek. “So… we’re still good for the purification dance later?”

He stared.

Then handed her the charred remains of the coat.

“Not if I’m flammable.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Hand-Holding for Hostile Diplomacy

Sesshōmaru had been through a lot lately.

He’d survived modern media. Flaming scarves. Flaming coats. Flaming public opinion. He had been publicly sniped twice, trended under the hashtag #BurningLove, and was currently starring in fan art he refused to acknowledge.

And now, someone was trying to get him to hold hands.

“This is a traditional gesture of purification unity,” the shrine elder explained patiently, gesturing toward the platform where the cameras were already positioned. “It shows the balance between demon and human energies. A symbolic clasp of spiritual trust.”

Sesshōmaru stared at him.

“I will burn,” he said.

The elder nodded solemnly. “That’s the spirit.”

Beside him, Kagome was already tugging her glove off, expression unreadable. But he could feel it—the reiki crackling off her like static. Controlled, yes, but barely. Her power was still singing from the morning’s little archery accident. His coat had not survived. His pride? Hanging by a thread.

And now this.

He watched as she turned to him, palm open, fingers waiting.

“Ready when you are, Lord Taishō,” she said, voice far too calm for someone about to commit mystical assault in front of a live audience.

“You’re enjoying this,” he muttered.

“A little,” she admitted. “But I’m still legally obligated to smile through it.”

So he stepped forward.

And took her hand.

The moment their palms touched, her reiki flared.

Not a polite little buzz—not the subdued, ceremonial hum one would expect from a televised event. No, Kagome’s power shot up like someone had dropped a toaster into a holy hot spring. Sparks jumped between their fingers. The air hissed.

Sesshōmaru’s skin prickled instantly.

Of course she wasn’t holding back.

She was trying to burn him.

He gave her a thin smile. “You do realize the entire country is watching.”

She returned it sweetly. “Then you better not flinch.”

He did not flinch.

Instead, he let his youki rise.

Slowly. Carefully. Just enough to push back against the sting of her power. It coiled around hers like smoke, dark and controlled, crackling with cold energy.

The crowd could not see what was happening. The spiritual tension. The arcane wrestling match between their hands. All they saw was two figures standing on a sacred platform, clasping hands like civil representatives of two realms, surrounded by flickering candlelight.

The press called it beautiful.

Sesshōmaru called it war.

“You’re resisting,” she hissed under her breath.

“You started it.”

“Because you’re smug.”

“Because you set me on fire. Twice.”

“I said sorry!”

“You smirked during it.”

“Fair.”

Her reiki surged again, high and hot. His youki curled tighter, colder, like frost under her heat. The magic clashed in their hands, sparks visible now to anyone paying attention. The camera lights picked up a glow between their fingers.

Someone gasped.

Someone else whispered, “They’re glowing.”

The elder began chanting.

Sesshōmaru didn’t hear the words. He was too focused on the way her energy pushed against his—erratic, stubborn, powerful. And slowly, he realized, tiring.

Her grip faltered.

A pulse of his youki met her reiki head-on, and she staggered slightly.

Her knees buckled.

And she dropped—gracefully, suddenly—to the floor.

Panting. Knees down. Head tilted back toward him, brows furrowed, face flushed with exertion.

The press erupted.

Flashes went off like strobe lights.

Someone screamed, “She’s kneeling before him!”

Another shouted, “Look at that devotion!”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

Kagome, still catching her breath, realized where she was. Realized what it looked like. Realized the cameras were still rolling.

“Oh, for—” she began, then cut herself off and gave him the fakest, tightest smile known to humankind.

He looked down at her, his hand still tingling faintly, and deadpanned:
“Would you like help up, or shall I knight you?”

“I will purify your kneecaps,” she muttered.

The crowd swooned.

The elder cleared his throat with suspicious delight. “Such harmony! Such spiritual chemistry!”

Sesshōmaru did not speak.

Because he could still feel her reiki pulsing faintly against his skin.

And despite the smoke, the sparks, the sheer absurdity of her nearly combusting him again, there was one undeniable fact:

She hadn’t backed down.

Not really.

And worse, he found himself… impressed.

Infuriating.

Unavoidable.

And a little addicting.

He extended a hand.

She took it.

They stood together, stiff-backed, hands still joined, while the crowd clapped and someone in the front row shouted, “Kiss already!”

Sesshōmaru exhaled slowly.

He was going to need another coat.

And possibly a restraining order.

Or a ring.

It was still too early to tell.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Duel Me, Maybe

She had burned his scarf.

She had burned his coat.

And, to be entirely fair, he had dropped her to her knees on national television. At this point, Sesshōmaru didn’t know who was winning. But he did know one thing: he wanted another round.

Apparently, so did the public.

Because the next event the council scheduled for them—by popular demand—was not a panel, not a purification ceremony, not a dignified sit-down interview.

It was a sparring match. On camera. On sacred ground. With weapons. Swords. He hadn’t even suggested it. Not out loud.

Though when the announcement came through, Sesshōmaru had looked at the screen, at the headline “Spiritual Combat: Priestess vs. Prince!”, and thought—finally.

Kagome, for her part, had simply rolled her eyes and said, “They better let me use the sharp one.”

The shrine courtyard was packed.

Humans stood shoulder to shoulder, pressed against the makeshift barriers. Drones hummed overhead, capturing every angle. The media was calling it a “historic event,” “a cultural showcase,” and—his personal favorite—“a supernatural pas de deux.”

Sesshōmaru arrived early.

He wore black. No scarf. No coat. Just traditional hakama, sleeveless, formal, precise. His sword at his side.

He wasn’t here to show off.

He was here to win.

If Kagome wanted to play with fire, he would show her exactly how close she could get to the flame before it bit back.

She arrived five minutes before the broadcast started.

Hair tied back. Sword slung across her back. Loose, confident, glowing with that maddening, untamed reiki. When she caught sight of him across the courtyard, she gave him a look.

Not hostile. Not playful.

Just ready.

He returned it in kind.

They stepped into the ring. Not a circle of sand or chalk, but a square of consecrated earth, roped off with ceremonial banners. Cameras panned around them.

A priest read out something ceremonial.

Sesshōmaru tuned it out.

Across from him, Kagome was stretching her shoulders. Her hand brushed the hilt of her sword, and a soft shimmer of power rolled off her skin.

He’d admit it—to himself only—that she looked dangerous like this.

She looked good.

He did not have time for that thought.

A bell rang.

They bowed.

Then moved.

The clash was immediate. Her sword swept low, fast, testing. His blocked it with ease. Her energy was lighter than his—flickering, reactive. His was steady. Anchored. They circled, blades sparking, not striking hard enough to draw blood, but close enough to feel the real weight of every blow.

The crowd was dead silent.

Every time her sword met his, her reiki sparked against his youki. Not violently. Not like before. But sharp, crackling. Like lightning over water.

She moved well.

Better than he expected.

He didn’t like how much he noticed.

A swing came in from her left. He dodged, let her blade pass close, just enough to make her stumble as she over-corrected. She caught herself, turned on a pivot, swung again.

He blocked.

Twisted.

Pushed back.

She slid—feet skimming the dirt, balance tipping.

And for one second, he saw it coming.

Her heel caught on the uneven edge of the platform.

Her reiki flared wildly in surprise.

And she started to fall.

Sesshōmaru stepped in instantly.

One arm locked around her waist. The other caught her sword hand mid-flail.

She landed against him, awkward and off-balance, eyes wide.

Their swords hung frozen in the air.

The crowd exploded.

Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. Someone screamed, “He caught her! He saved her!”

Another person yelled, “Zoom in on that—look at their faces!”

Kagome was looking at him like she wasn’t sure whether to thank him or punch him in the ribs.

He looked down at her with the same deadpan expression he always wore—though he was, in fact, trying not to notice how close her mouth was to his collarbone.

She didn’t move.

He didn’t let go.

She blinked up at him, flushed. “…Okay, but if you dip me, I will set you on fire again.”

“Noted,” he said.

“Also, that totally would’ve been a cool roll if you hadn’t caught me.”

“You were about to fall on your face.”

“I had a plan.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It looked ineffective.”

She muttered something under her breath. It might’ve been jackass.

Slowly, he let her go.

She stepped back, adjusted her grip on her sword, and looked over at the audience.

They were clapping.

Cheering.

Possibly chanting something. He couldn’t hear it over the blood in his ears.

Kagome looked back at him and sighed. “Great. Now they’re gonna start saying I swooned into your arms.”

“You did not swoon,” he said.

“Tell that to Twitter.”

He didn’t want to.

He wanted to spar again.

He wanted to push her until her power flared and she stopped pretending everything was a joke. He wanted to see what it would take to make her serious. Focused. Honest.

He also wanted her to trip again, but maybe slightly slower this time.

The bell rang.

The match was called.

The press flooded the field.

Kagome sheathed her sword and walked past him, deliberately bumping her shoulder against his as she passed.

“Still counts as a tie,” she said.

“It does not.”

“You caught me.”

“I spared you.”

“You stared at me.”

“You fell.”

She just grinned.

Sesshōmaru stood there, surrounded by reporters, the buzz of magic still lingering on his fingers, and realized something troubling:

He didn’t want this to end.

He wanted another match.

Another excuse.

Another round.

Preferably with fewer cameras.

And no catching.

Next time, he’d let her fall.

Probably.

Maybe.

Unlikely.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: The Sit-Down Spiral

This was supposed to be the final event.

One last obligation. One more carefully staged moment of unity before the council let him return to his well-earned life of silence, stillness, and absolutely no social media mentions. No interviews. No cameras. No human nicknames.

And yet, here he was—on a floral-backed livestream set, preparing to discuss his personal life on camera with a sleep-deprived priestess and a moderator who smelled like enthusiasm and oversteeped tea.

Because unfortunately, humanity was on fire.

Not literally. Though honestly, after the recent arrow incidents, that still felt possible.

Figuratively, of course.

The sparring match had triggered an online frenzy. Memes, reaction videos, slow-motion replays of him catching Kagome mid-fall like they were in a romance anime. The caption game had escalated into madness.

“Get you a man who can cradle you AND crush empires.”
“He caught her like he catches bodies.”
“Spiritual enemies-to-lovers speedrun.”

His public relations assistant was 50% thrilled and 50% sobbing into a clipboard.

The council had no choice. The public wanted more.

So they scheduled one last event: a live-streamed sit-down interview. One hour. No swords. No holy arrows. Just fan-submitted questions and a teapot he suspected had been blessed specifically for this event.

Sesshōmaru arrived first.

Black suit. No scarf. He had learned.

He seated himself calmly, ignoring the rustle of camera crews, the too-friendly moderator, and the live comment thread already flashing things like “ICE LORD IN A SUIT, I’M NOT OKAY” and “Do you think he lets her braid his hair offscreen?”

He refused to acknowledge them.

Kagome arrived three minutes later, looking like she had sprinted through two realms and wrestled a small kami on the way in. She wore jeans, a slightly wrinkled blouse, and the expression of a woman who had accepted her fate only because she’d been promised caffeine.

She flopped into the chair beside him, holding a convenience store coffee cup with both hands like it contained the meaning of life.

The cameras rolled.

The host beamed. “Welcome, everyone! We’re here today with the two cultural figures you’ve all been talking about—Lord Taishō and Priestess Higurashi—for a little one-on-one connection session!”

Kagome blinked blearily. “One-on-one? There are three of us.”

The moderator smiled tighter. “Ready for some questions?”

She sipped her coffee. “Do I have a choice?”

Sesshōmaru folded his hands. “Proceed.”

“First question,” the moderator said, adjusting his mic. “Did you both train growing up?”

Kagome straightened slightly. “Yeah. Consistently. Grandpa was big on discipline, and I had strong spiritual energy early on. Plus, I lived near a lot of spiritual hotspots, so… trial by exorcism.”

Sesshōmaru nodded. “Training is essential. Discipline should begin early.”

Kagome shot him a dry look. “You’d get along with my grandfather.”

“I would not.”

The moderator chuckled awkwardly. “All right, next question: Do you have siblings?”

“Yes,” Sesshōmaru replied. “A younger half-brother.”

Kagome made a face. “Little brother here, too. Absolute menace. Hasn’t returned my rice cooker in three months. We’re at war.”

“Do you want a family in the future?” the moderator asked, sounding a little too eager.

Kagome blinked. “Wow, we’re really just skipping foreplay and going straight for the commitment questions.”

“It’s from the top-rated fan comments,” the host said.

She shrugged. “Sure. Someday. I love kids. Not right this second—I don’t even have matching socks—but I’d like one.”

Sesshōmaru nodded. “Legacy is important. Stability. Continuation of bloodline.”

Kagome turned to him. “That was the most ancient demon answer I’ve ever heard.”

He ignored her.

“Relationship status?” the host continued. “Are either of you… currently involved?”

Both of them sighed in unison.

“No time,” Kagome said first. “The shrine is full-time. Spiritual work doesn’t come with vacation days. Or hazard pay. Or dental.”

Sesshōmaru exhaled. “Too many council meetings.”

Kagome raised an eyebrow. “That is the coldest-sounding ‘I’m single’ I’ve ever heard.”

“Would you prefer I say ‘emotionally unavailable’?”

She choked on her coffee. “No, no, this is funnier.”

“Favorite way to calm down?” the host asked, still clearly enjoying himself.

“Walking,” Sesshōmaru said.

Kagome pointed at him. “Same. Quiet roads. Or pacing until I forget why I was mad.”

Another question scrolled onto the screen, cheered on by viewers.

“If you could do anything right now, what would it be?”

Sesshōmaru sat up straighter. “Strengthen inter-realm cooperation. Ensure a lasting foundation of mutual respect between our peoples.”

Kagome yawned. “Nap.”

The host snorted. “Just like that?”

“I’m the only one maintaining the shrine right now,” she said, waving her coffee for emphasis. “Between the spiritual upkeep, the structural repairs, the school tours, the budgeting, the cursed donation box incidents, and the random tanuki that won’t leave—I haven’t slept in three days.”

Sesshōmaru looked at her.

Really looked.

There was no dramatics in her aura, no performance in her tone. Just a very real, very tired priestess trying to carry something ancient and crumbling on her back because no one else would.

The rest of the interview passed in a blur.

They posed for photos.

They signed the offering box.

Kagome gave the camera a lopsided wave and wandered off halfway through the closing remarks, still clutching her coffee like a lifeline. He watched her walk toward the shrine steps, shoulders slouched, braid slightly undone.

It should have ended there.

But it didn’t.

Within two hours, the sit-down had gone viral.

Not just clips. Full edits.

One video paired her “nap” moment with footage of her nearly falling during their sparring match. A soft piano soundtrack. A voiceover.

“She’s just trying to keep her family shrine alive.
He’s a cold-hearted demon lord with a legacy to protect.
Together? Sparks fly.”

A fake Netflix trailer appeared.

So did a fanfiction tag called #ShrineWifeEnergy.

And then, someone launched a fundraiser.

The post was simple.
Kagome Higurashi runs the Higurashi Shrine full-time. No trust fund. No big-name sponsors. Just a girl, a bow, and an ancient spiritual legacy held together with paper wards and duct tape. Let’s help her keep it alive.

He read it once.

Then again.

He didn’t sign in through his official accounts.

He didn’t leave a comment.

He simply visited the donation site, noted the goal, and entered a number.

Exactly enough to cover the full amount.

Precisely.

Anonymously.

He clicked “submit.”

The bar slid from 12% to 100% in one second.

And then he closed the laptop.

It wasn’t charity.

It was legacy preservation.

That’s what he told himself.

Repeatedly.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes closed in the quiet of his office—and deliberately ignored the buzz of his assistant’s phone across the room.

A moment later, a new edit landed in his inbox anyway.

This one showed Kagome curled up in his lap, a blanket draped over her shoulders, while he read a scroll with one hand and held her tea in the other.

The caption read:
“When your demon sugar daddy funds your family shrine and makes sure you nap.”

Sesshōmaru did not respond.

But he might have watched it twice.

And bookmarked it.

By mistake.

Probably.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Absolutely Not Checking on Her

The publicity campaign had ended.

The final interviews were wrapped, the donation bar had long since hit 100%, and even his PR assistant had stopped weeping into spreadsheets. By all accounts, the council had gotten what they wanted—public interest, inter-realm buzz, and an unlikely duo that kept trend algorithms fed for weeks.

Sesshōmaru had fulfilled his obligations.

There was no reason to return to the shrine.

None at all.

Which is why, obviously, when he found himself in Tokyo two days later with exactly ninety unscheduled minutes and absolutely no intention of being bored, he did not fly over the city in his suppressed form and accidentally land near a familiar torii gate.

He simply… happened to be in the area.

For air.

And peace.

And definitely not because he had wondered—absently, only once—if she’d gotten any rest.

The shrine grounds were quiet when he arrived. Still. The scent of incense hung faintly in the air, chased by distant traffic and spring dust. The wards hummed. The barriers were solid. Kagome was nowhere in sight.

He told himself he would leave in three minutes.

Maybe four.

He walked the grounds once, slow and casual, just to “observe the maintenance.” The bell ropes had been tightened. The steps swept. A new layer of protective salt lined the offering path.

It was… well-kept.

Which was when he heard it.

Not a scream. Not a spell.

A snore.

Soft.

He turned the corner and froze.

There she was.

Asleep.

Curled sideways on a bench beneath the sacred tree, her braid tucked under her chin, hoodie sleeves bunched over her fists. One arm dangled slightly off the bench like she’d passed out mid-task.

She was surrounded by cats.

Three on the bench beside her. One perched on her hip. Two curled at her feet. Another slowly making its way up her chest like a furred mountain climber with no regard for personal space.

Sesshōmaru stared.

He could not look away.

Something about the sight hit him unexpectedly—like catching an echo of a memory that didn’t belong to him. Something ancient. Peaceful. Soft.

He had no plan for this.

No prepared expression.

No exit strategy.

He should leave. Quietly. Respectfully. Before she woke up and accused him of stalking.

But he didn’t.

He stood there longer than he meant to.

Just watching.

And then—of course—someone saw him.

He didn’t notice at first. He didn’t sense the phone. Or the girl by the shrine gate. But when he turned his head slightly, there she was—teenage, phone out, grinning like she’d just summoned a fox spirit.

Their eyes met.

Her smile widened.

He narrowed his gaze.

Too late.

She took the photo anyway.

And posted it within five minutes.

@spiritualtea:
Spotted at the Higurashi Shrine: a literal demon lord watching over a sleeping priestess and her cat army like a cursed Disney prince.
There’s hope for humanity yet.
#ShrineWife #DemonDaddyReturns #HeNeverLeftActually

It went viral before he’d even made it back to the city.

The photo was blurry but unmistakable: him standing at the edge of the bench, hands in his sleeves, unreadable expression firmly locked on Kagome’s snoring, cat-covered form.

Someone had drawn hearts around it.

Another person had photoshopped a crown on his head and a flower halo on hers.

One comment had 30k likes and simply read:
“He missed her. Your honor, he missed her.”

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t repost.

He definitely didn’t check the replies every thirty minutes.

Instead, he returned to his residence, removed his coat, and tried not to think about how peaceful she had looked. Or how loud the silence had been before she snored.

Or how unfairly charming it was that she had weaponized exhaustion and somehow still had a cat asleep on her face.

It wasn’t concern.

It was simple curiosity.

Maybe mild interest.

And legacy preservation.

Always that.

Definitely not checking on her.

Obviously.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: The Ice Lord Gets Warmed Up

This was supposed to be a standard CEO feature.

A polite, carefully managed sit-down to highlight his work in the private sector—his contributions to sustainable infrastructure, advancements in supernatural safety tech, and his company’s recent expansion into cross-realm energy distribution.

Corporate branding. Legacy preservation. Shareholder satisfaction.

He had done a dozen of these over the years.

They never rattled him.

Until now.

The interviewer—a clean-cut mortal in a tailored jacket and the self-satisfied smile of someone who’d definitely prepared too many “casual” questions—was three pages into the outline when it happened.

The tone shifted.

Just slightly.

And Sesshōmaru noticed.

“Of course,” the interviewer said smoothly, glancing down at his notes. “You’re known not just as a leader in your field, but also as a prominent figure in demon-human diplomacy, particularly following your recent shrine collaboration.”

Sesshōmaru inclined his head once. Neutral. Noncommittal.

“It had quite the public reaction,” the man continued, chuckling lightly. “And since then, there’s been significant interest in both your personal and professional… compatibility with one Priestess Higurashi.”

Sesshōmaru’s fingers stilled slightly against the edge of the chair arm.

The interviewer perked up. Clearly, this was the moment he’d been waiting for.

“Miss Higurashi,” he said, “recently gave an interview of her own.”

Sesshōmaru said nothing.

“She mentioned that the events—despite the chaos—were enjoyable. And that you were, quote, ‘surprisingly good company.’”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

That… could not be correct.

She had said that?

Enjoyable?

Surprisingly good company?

The interviewer, sensing blood in the water, pressed on cheerfully.

“She also said she’d be willing to do it again—should the councils ask—because it was a rewarding experience. Paid off the shrine, gave her time to nap, and in her words”—he flipped the card over dramatically—“‘He was like a blessing. You know. One of those really fancy celestial types. Except in ice form.’”

Sesshōmaru stared.

A… blessing.

In ice form.

He did not know what that meant.

He also didn’t know why the temperature in the room suddenly felt warmer.

“Ice form?” he repeated, carefully.

The interviewer grinned. “Yes. Her exact phrasing. She also added—and this is a direct quote—‘He’s got that elegant glowery thing going on, but he’s actually thoughtful. The coat incident was my fault, but he never even yelled. Just looked at me like I was a mild inconvenience.’”

Sesshōmaru had no idea what glowery meant, but he had a sinking suspicion it had something to do with the way she narrowed her eyes when she was amused.

The interviewer looked up with gleaming eyes. “So the public wants to know—is this a partnership we might see again? For diplomacy, of course.”

Sesshōmaru didn’t respond immediately.

He was still trying to process the phrase elegant glowery thing.

He cleared his throat—quietly. Professionally. “If the councils deem it necessary, I would not oppose future collaborations.”

Which, translated from formal demon-CEO-speak, was dangerously close to: I would absolutely do it again if she asks.

The interviewer beamed. “Wonderful.”

The interview wrapped shortly after that.

He gave the appropriate nods. Said the appropriate goodbyes. Posed for one last promotional shot with the company logo in the background.

Then went directly back to his office, sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and searched every single Kagome Higurashi interview clip posted in the last seventy-two hours.

He found the footage in question almost immediately.

It was a short segment from a community radio program—low budget, casual, no dramatic lighting. Kagome sat cross-legged in a folding chair, hair in a bun, wearing a sweater that looked older than most of the crew, and sipping something from a chipped mug that probably had ancient energy residue in it.

She was laughing.

And blushing.

“Okay, yeah, it was chaotic,” she was saying. “I mean, I nearly set him on fire—twice. He nearly dropped me. I may have called him emotionally unavailable to his face.”

The host wheezed in the background.

“But,” Kagome continued, smiling down into her tea, “he was actually really good company. I know people expected us to hate each other, but he was… respectful. Sharp. Thoughtful, in that ‘I’m silently judging you but also subtly saving your life’ kind of way.”

Sesshōmaru leaned back in his chair, brows furrowing.

“I’d do it again,” she added. “If the council asked. Or even just to check in. The funding helped the shrine a lot. I got actual sleep. And honestly… he was kind of like a blessing. You know. Those really rare celestial visits? Where you think it’s going to be terrifying but instead you’re left weirdly calm and all your paperwork is done? That. Except colder.”

She paused, then added under her breath, “Like, super hot, but in an icy way.”

The host absolutely lost it.

Sesshōmaru paused the video.

Stared at the screen.

Then hit rewind and played it again.

Really good company.

A blessing.

Super hot.

Now this, he had not been expecting.

It had unnerved him more than the sparring, more than the flaming scarf, more than the interviews.

He didn’t know what to do with… fondness.

It was one thing for the public to fabricate affection between them. That he could ignore. But this was different. This was Kagome. Unfiltered. Laughing. Drinking tea and talking about him like he wasn’t a terrifying ancient predator with six centuries of emotional repression and a collection of tailored coats.

He opened a new tab.

Browsed his schedule.

Made a note.

He didn’t know what the councils were planning next—but if it involved Kagome Higurashi, he was suddenly very available.

And if it didn’t?

He’d make something happen anyway.

Quietly.

Elegantly.

Like the cold celestial blessing he apparently was.

Probably.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight: Professional Curiosity, Obviously

Sesshōmaru did not miss people.

That wasn’t how he functioned.

He did not yearn, he did not linger, and he certainly did not go out of his way to reconnect with anyone unless it was for a valid, politically strategic reason that could be itemized and backed by official records.

Which was why, three days after the CEO interview and two days after rewatching Kagome’s radio segment for the fifth time—purely for tone analysis—he found himself dialing into the council’s central office line.

For reasons.

Professional ones.

He leaned back in his chair as the enchanted speaker crackled to life.

“Council scheduling office,” came a voice that was too chipper for 9 a.m. “How may I direct your call?”

“This is Sesshōmaru Taishō,” he said evenly. “I have a question regarding… recent public relations efforts.”

A brief pause. A frantic shuffling of papers. Then a significantly more respectful tone. “Of course, sir. I’ll patch you through to the interspecies relations coordinator.”

A longer pause. A faint chime. Then a new voice—older, slower, smugger.

“Lord Taishō,” said Councilor Genji. “To what do we owe the honor? We were just discussing your latest interview. It performed extremely well in the under-thirty demographic.”

Sesshōmaru did not care about the under-thirty demographic.

“I wanted to inquire,” he said slowly, “if there have been any developments regarding shrine-based diplomatic outreach.”

Another pause.

“Developments?” Genji echoed, intrigued.

“Any future programming,” Sesshōmaru said. “Pending requests. Civilian-engaged projects. Collaborations.”

Genji hummed. “Interesting. Are you looking to suggest a proposal?”

“No.”

“A follow-up, perhaps?”

“No.”

“But you’re calling to ask… if the priestess has been requested for further council work?”

Sesshōmaru didn’t answer.

He simply exhaled—quiet, precise, polite enough to be dismissive but just threatening enough to stop the man from pushing.

Genji chuckled anyway.

“Well, nothing official yet,” he said. “But there’s been overwhelming public support. Human engagement metrics are unusually high. The priestess has certainly made an impression.”

Sesshōmaru stared at the office wall.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “She does that.”

“I can keep you informed, if you’d like. Should something… develop.”

There was no winning tone in Genji’s voice—just amusement. Old, knowing, and slightly entertained.

Sesshōmaru resisted the urge to hang up on him.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said.

Genji chuckled again. “Of course not, my lord.”

The line clicked off.

Sesshōmaru sat back.

Fingers steepled.

Mind blank.

That had not helped.

He had not obtained a reason to meet with her.

He had not accidentally acquired a new council mandate.

And worst of all, he had now proactively asked if there were ways to see Kagome Higurashi again… while pretending he hadn’t.

Unacceptable.

Unprofessional.

Also ineffective.

He drummed his claws once on the desk. Considered calling back and pretending to suggest a ward-inspection program. Or a shrine-focused infrastructure audit. Or anything that could be legally justified as work.

But it was too late.

Now, if something did happen, Genji would know.

Everyone would know.

He leaned back in his chair with a long breath and stared at the ceiling.

He wasn’t restless.

He wasn’t distracted.

He simply required updated information on the ongoing conditions of interspecies alliances and their effect on spiritual site funding.

That was all.

Nothing more.

Absolutely not trying to see her again.

Obviously.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: Definitely Not a Date

It wasn’t stalking.

That was important.

Sesshōmaru had, in fact, located a perfectly valid reason to revisit the Higurashi Shrine.

It wasn’t a social call. It wasn’t lingering curiosity. And it absolutely wasn’t because he’d been mentally replaying her “super hot, in an icy way” comment for the past six days like some cursed mortal with no impulse control.

No.

This was a retrieval mission.

One of the ceremonial ward fans used during the reconciliation ritual had been mistakenly stored with his belongings.

It was hers.

Technically.

And thus, it needed to be returned.

Formally. Respectfully. In person.

While wearing a suit.

Because he’d come straight from a board meeting. Not because he wanted to look like a dramatic romantic interest emerging from a drama fog with dangerous intentions.

That was coincidence.

All of it.

He landed near the shrine steps and ascended calmly, ward fan wrapped neatly in silk, expression neutral. The shrine was quiet again—except for a small, exasperated voice somewhere in the distance.

“Okay, I know you said ten minutes,” Kagome muttered, “but ten minutes has passed and this bag is trying to rip my arm off—”

He turned the corner just as she emerged from the side gate, carrying three paper grocery bags stacked precariously in her arms and one on her shoulder. Her hair was loose. Her sleeves were pushed up. Her expression was the unique, exhausted fury of a woman betrayed by cheap packaging and fate.

She stopped when she saw him.

He stopped when he saw the third bag slowly sliding sideways off her shoulder like it wanted to die.

“Oh,” she said.

Sesshōmaru blinked. “I came to return something.”

“Of course you did,” she said, half-sarcastic, half-out of breath. “Because the universe thinks I’m funnier when I look like a grocery-themed disaster.”

The bag tilted farther.

He caught it before it fell.

Silently. Casually. Like it was instinct.

She stared at him.

He did not return it.

Instead, he stepped forward and took another bag from her arms.

She blinked.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m already holding them.”

“You’re in a suit.”

“I have hands.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing else as she led him toward the main house, clearly too tired to fight over who got to carry the bok choy.

The walk was brief.

The silence wasn’t awkward.

It should’ve been. But it wasn’t.

They reached the kitchen door. She slid it open with her foot and gestured him inside.

He followed.

Still not a date.

He set the bags down neatly on the counter while she exhaled like someone trying not to let her soul escape through her teeth.

“Thanks,” she said finally. “You didn’t have to. But I would’ve dropped all of that in the koi pond.”

He set the wrapped fan beside the sink.

“You left this.”

She frowned. “Oh, wow. I didn’t even realize. You came all this way for that?”

He didn’t answer.

Because technically, no.

But also yes.

Also possibly: shut up.

She gave him a look—searching, tired, amused. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Because if you are, I’d prefer you do it while holding bags of rice.”

“Noted.”

They were standing too close.

He knew it. She knew it. The bag of leeks on the counter knew it.

Before anything could tip toward something extremely not diplomatic, the click of a phone camera sounded from outside the window.

Kagome froze.

Sesshōmaru turned his head.

A girl in a school uniform was halfway down the shrine steps with her phone still raised and the speed of someone who had just captured a celebrity sighting and planned to monetize it.

“Oh no,” Kagome muttered. “Oh no, no, no—”

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Because within an hour, the internet had it.

@sunsetblessings:
IS THIS WHAT HE DOES ON WEEKENDS???
Sesshōmaru Taishō, CEO, demon lord, shrine boyfriend.
She’s carrying groceries. He’s in a suit. This man brought his own romantic lighting.
#ShrineWife
#DefinitelyNotADate
#HeLiftedTheRiceBagAndMyStandards

Sesshōmaru stared at the photo.

It was somehow perfect.

She was mid-turn, looking back over her shoulder, laughing at something. He was a step behind her, coat still buttoned, paper bag in one hand, expression unreadable. The late afternoon light hit them both like a low-budget romance film on its final act.

It looked staged.

It wasn’t.

It looked intimate.

That… wasn’t her fault.

He did not comment.

He did not deny it.

But he might have opened his calendar and blocked out a few hours for “future diplomatic errands.”

Just in case.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: Shrine Wife Trending Worldwide

The photo went international in under six hours.

First, it was Japan. Then Seoul. Then New York. Then whatever chaotic magic ran fandom culture in Brazil got hold of it and built a shipping empire in his name.

One blurry photo—Kagome laughing, him in a suit, a bag of groceries in his hand, the soft glow of shrine lanterns in the background. Someone edited flower petals over it. Someone else made an acoustic playlist titled “Groceries with Your Emotionally Reserved Demon Husband.”

And then came the headlines.

“Mysterious Shrine Priestess: Is the Ice CEO Engaged?”
“Groceries, Glances, and a Glorious Glow-Up: Kagome Higurashi Identified as the Shrine Wife of the Century.”
“Confirmed: Sesshōmaru Taishō Smiles. Slightly. Maybe.”

His inbox exploded.

His assistant entered a fugue state.

And somewhere near the peak of the social media tsunami, Sesshōmaru did what any rational daiyōkai would do.

He turned off his phone and went to work.

It was a solid plan.

Professional. Predictable. Quiet.

Until she walked into his office.

Without an appointment.

Holding a plastic bag of snacks.

“Hi,” Kagome said, stepping inside like it was her living room. “I figured if my face is going to be ruining your PR life, the least I could do was bring senbei.”

He stared at her.

She held out the bag.

“Also, I wanted to apologize. For the clothes. And, you know… the public engagement rumors.”

Sesshōmaru raised a brow. “You’ve set me on fire twice and ruined two coats. This feels disproportionate.”

“I brought the good kind,” she said, holding up the senbei bag and shaking it slightly. “Sweet and salty.”

He did not take the snack.

He did, however, gesture her toward the chair across from his desk.

She plopped into it without ceremony, arms resting on the armrests like this was some casual afternoon chat between coworkers instead of an internationally misinterpreted courtship follow-up.

He folded his hands. “You are not responsible for my appearance on social media.”

She smiled wryly. “I am the one who fell asleep in public with three bags of rice and somehow dragged you into shrine-wife TikTok.”

“I was notable before your internet trend.”

She blinked. Then grinned. “Right. Demon CEO. Billionaire. Spiritual PR nightmare.”

“I am not a nightmare.”

“Fine,” she said, chewing her snack, “you’re a mildly disruptive celestial cold front.”

He didn’t respond.

Mostly because that wasn’t… entirely inaccurate.

She exhaled and reached into the snack bag again. “Look, I don’t want this to keep being weird. It’s not your fault I have a publicist now and an inbox full of shrine marriage proposals.”

Sesshōmaru blinked. “Proposals?”

“From strangers,” she clarified. “Mostly well-meaning weirdos. One offered goats.”

“Unacceptable.”

“That’s what I said. I told them you were the high-maintenance one.”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Then opened it again. “You did?”

“Well, yeah.” She tilted her head. “You’re a walking press release in a suit. It takes at least three meetings to get you to admit you eat food.”

“I eat plenty.”

“Exactly one bite of mochi and the internet passed out.”

He did not dignify that with a reply.

She leaned back, suddenly a little more serious. “But… all this attention? It could do something good. If we’re gonna keep being stalked by phones, maybe we should actually redirect that into something that matters.”

Sesshōmaru tilted his head. “Such as?”

“There’s a human-yōkai orphanage in Tokyo,” she said. “It’s small. Half-funded. Nobody talks about it. Mixed kids don’t get a lot of support in either system. But I used to volunteer there. They could use the spotlight.”

He regarded her for a long, quiet moment.

No dramatics. No humblebragging. No speech rehearsed for interviews.

Just her. Earnest. Unpolished. Still holding a snack bag with one foot tucked under her like she hadn’t just waltzed into the office of a six-century-old daiyōkai CEO like it was a family convenience store.

He nodded. “Find a time that works.”

She blinked. “Wait, really?”

“I will arrange funding. Provide coverage. And attend.”

“For… human-yōkai relations?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “Among other things.”

She smiled.

This time, it reached her eyes.

“Well. If you’re going to be all supportive and cooperative, I’ll have to bring better snacks next time.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

She grinned and stood, tossing him the bag. “Oh, I always keep snack-related promises.”

And with that, she turned and walked out, ponytail swinging, energy sharp and grounded and impossible not to follow with his eyes until the door shut quietly behind her.

Sesshōmaru sat there.

Looking at the empty chair.

Holding a half-eaten senbei bag.

And wondering how, exactly, she kept turning PR disasters into personal milestones.

He did not smile.

But he did open his calendar.

And he blocked off the entire next weekend.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: Orphanage, Outreach, and Other Inconvenient Feelings

The council loved it.

Predictably. Enthusiastically. With the sort of shallow diplomacy-giddy delight that came from the rare combination of good press and visible kindness.

“Brilliant,” one of them said.

“Inspired,” said another.

“Touching without being patronizing,” added a third, clearly quoting someone who had a degree in marketing and too much time.

Sesshōmaru said nothing for a moment.

Then—calm, calculated, intentional: “It was the priestess’s idea.”

That part mattered.

He had no interest in taking credit for something that hadn’t come from him.

Especially not this.

It had been Kagome who suggested the orphanage. Kagome who lit up when she talked about the children. Kagome who turned a snack-bribed office visit into a national funding initiative with the ease of someone who didn’t realize how powerful she actually was.

The council, to their credit, processed this information quickly.

And used it even faster.

“Well,” Genji said, smiling like someone who’d just realized the value of a golden goose, “if Miss Higurashi is so committed to interspecies outreach, we should give her the opportunity to engage further.”

Sesshōmaru’s eyes narrowed.

“We’ll pencil in a follow-up visit,” Genji continued. “Nothing too formal. A spontaneous check-in next week at the orphanage. The children would benefit. The public would enjoy it. And of course,” he added with mild smugness, “she’ll represent the human side. Naturally.”

Sesshōmaru didn’t respond.

Because yes, it was already decided.

He would represent the daiyōkai.

She would represent humanity.

And the internet would, inevitably, lose its mind.

Again.

But this time, he didn’t even pretend to protest.

A day later, he sent the official message.

Miss Higurashi,
The council has scheduled a visit to the Tokyo hybrid orphanage. You are requested to attend as a representative of the human delegation.
Prepare accordingly.
—Taishō

It was formal. Cold. Perfectly professional.

She replied two hours later.

So we’re doing surprise diplomacy now? Love that for me.
Do I need to wear something council-appropriate or can I bring cookies?
–K

He stared at the message for exactly thirty-five seconds before responding.

Both.

He didn’t receive a reply, but she left a laughing emoji reaction.

The very idea that Sesshōmaru Taishō—ancient, dignified, infamously silent—was now sending one-word replies to shrine priestesses like a polite text penpal was… troubling.

But then again, so was everything about this partnership.

It wasn’t obligation anymore.

Not really.

The moment she stepped into his office with snacks and an idea that mattered, something shifted. She wasn’t just a face the public loved or a name that trended for twenty-four hours. She was Kagome.

And she had good instincts.

And he trusted those.

Which was why, when the council confirmed the visit time and the itinerary came through his inbox, Sesshōmaru didn’t edit a thing.

He simply read it.

Noted the date.

And looked forward to it.

Privately.

Silently.

Obviously.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve: The Visit

Sesshōmaru had survived war, assassination attempts, interspecies negotiations, and two full council budget reviews without blinking.

He was not, however, prepared for a field trip featuring thirty-six half-demon children, five over-caffeinated caretakers, and one very excited human priestess in a cardigan.

The Tokyo Human-Yōkai Outreach Orphanage was loud.

And sticky.

And—for reasons no one explained—currently streaming live across three news networks and one suspiciously popular fan channel that had started posting clips before they even arrived.

Kagome didn’t seem fazed.

She waved to the press, adjusted the basket of snacks she’d brought, and immediately vanished into the crowd of children like some kind of mythical caregiver tornado.

He watched her kneel, laugh, ruffle hair, pull out bandaids, and answer three spiritual questions and one inquiry about Pokémon evolution in the span of sixty seconds.

Sesshōmaru stood precisely where the cameras could see him, hands calmly folded, looking like the one adult who had wandered into a school event by accident and was waiting for someone to give him permission to leave.

“Excuse me,” came a small voice.

He looked down.

A little girl with blunt bangs, sparkly sneakers, and dangerous confidence was holding up a bouquet of dandelions like she was offering him a diplomatic gift on behalf of a fae kingdom.

“These are for you,” she said. “You looked like you needed help.”

Sesshōmaru blinked. “Help.”

“With your face,” she said.

He stared.

She smiled sweetly. “I’m Rin. I’m a human. But I’m very advanced.”

He took the flowers.

Slowly.

She nodded in approval. “Good job. That’s step one. Step two is hugging Kagome.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Not today,” Rin allowed. “But soon.”

Before he could formulate a response to that absurd prophecy, a yip of laughter broke across the courtyard, and Kagome appeared, holding the hand of a small, orange-furred kitsune cub with a puffy tail and the attitude of someone who’d just won the lottery.

“This,” she said brightly, “is Shippo. He’s sticking with me today.”

“I already decided,” Shippo said, clinging to her hand like a vine. “I picked her.”

Sesshōmaru raised an eyebrow. “Picked her.”

“Yup,” Shippo said. “Met her first.”

Kagome’s eyes widened slightly. “Shippo—”

“We have a bond now,” he declared proudly. “We held hands. I gave her my pudding cup.”

Sesshōmaru glanced at Kagome. “You accepted the pudding.”

“It was banana-flavored,” she hissed back. “You don’t say no to that kind of diplomacy.”

A reporter’s mic hovered near them. The camera zoomed in.

Shippo puffed up. “You can’t take her. I met her first.”

Sesshōmaru’s jaw moved slightly.

Kagome wheezed into her sleeve.

The media devoured it instantly.

The live feed caption updated to:
“Fox Cub Declares Romantic Rights Over Priestess: Sesshōmaru Remains Calm(?).”

The crowd of children swelled around them. Someone started chanting “hug, hug, hug” in the background. Kagome was pulled toward the painting table. Sesshōmaru was pulled toward what he was assured was “snack diplomacy.”

Rin reappeared at his side.

“This is going well,” she said approvingly.

“That’s subjective.”

“You’re doing great. I think the camera caught your smile.”

“I did not smile.”

“Your eye twitched,” she said. “It counts.”

He sighed.

She leaned in, suddenly conspiratorial. “Shippo and I are a package deal.”

He stared at her.

She nodded. “Like you and Kagome.”

Sesshōmaru almost dropped the dandelions.

“So,” she whispered, “you better plan accordingly.”

He had never been threatened so efficiently by someone under four feet tall.

She patted his sleeve, gave him a thumbs-up, and ran off to go climb something the staff definitely did not approve of.

He remained where he was, flowers still in hand, surrounded by chaos, children, and one woman who kept turning PR into prophecy.

He glanced across the courtyard.

Kagome was helping Shippo glue macaroni to an ofuda. She looked up, caught his eye, and smiled.

And that’s when the news banner updated again:

“Local CEO, Legendary Daiyōkai, Possibly in Love: Sources Say ‘About Time.’”

Sesshōmaru didn’t speak.

But he did not, at any point, correct them.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen: Press, Pocky, and Problematic Feelings

The event had gone better than expected.

The children were content, the press got their photos, and no one burst into flames—physically or politically. He hadn’t even needed to threaten a reporter. Rin had handled most of the threats for him, with a flower crown and an attitude.

But then came the post-event interviews.

Sesshōmaru had hoped to avoid them entirely. He was standing just out of frame, arms crossed, expression blank, watching the children chase Shippo and a flying rice cracker across the courtyard, when a camera crew swept in on Kagome.

She smiled, slightly winded from corralling crafts and candy, and accepted a bottle of water like she hadn’t just been spiritually headbutted by a six-year-old.

Then came the question.

“Miss Higurashi,” the reporter said brightly, “you’ve spoken publicly about your love for children. After today’s visit—and such an incredible connection with the kids—are you considering adoption in the future?”

Sesshōmaru turned his head.

Slowly.

Kagome blinked.

Laughed once.

And began talking like no one had installed a mental filter that morning.

“I mean, yeah, I’ve always loved kids,” she said, waving a hand. “And if I keep up my track record of emotionally sabotaging my love life, adoption’s looking like the most realistic option.”

The reporter laughed.

Kagome kept going.

“I’m serious! Biologically having kids takes two people, and considering my current romantic record is just me, ice cream, and one very confused matchmaking tanuki, adoption’s probably the path.”

Sesshōmaru exhaled slowly through his nose.

She wasn’t done.

“But you’re right,” she added, more thoughtfully now. “Adoption is beautiful. And if I’m lucky enough to reach a point where I can give a kid stability and safety and, you know, a rice cooker that works—that’d be amazing.”

She paused.

Smiled softly.

“And I guess, yeah. If that happens, it’d be with someone I trust. Someone stable. Kind. Weirdly obsessed with legacy, maybe.”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

Once.

Then again.

Because she was looking vaguely in his direction.

Like she was expecting something.

Approval? Acknowledgment?

…Consent?

And then, like her soul suddenly rebooted mid-interview, she froze.

“Oh no,” she said abruptly, going pale. “No, no, I didn’t mean him. Like—I mean—not that I wouldn’t—I just—I’m not—We’re not—Oh my god, no, I’m not speaking for him!”

The reporter looked delighted.

Kagome looked like she was about to throw herself off the shrine steps.

“We’re not together,” she clarified frantically. “I misunderstood the vibe of the question! There was a vibe! I picked up a vibe that wasn’t there! Abort! ABORT!”

Sesshōmaru slowly stepped forward.

The cameras all turned to him in a synchronized movement that would’ve terrified lesser creatures.

He looked directly into the lens.

Straightened.

And said, calmly: “More people should adopt.”

A breathless pause.

“It is an honorable path. Legacy is not limited to blood. Family is a choice.”

The reporters blinked.

One gasped.

Kagome made a noise that sounded like a dying puff of steam.

He glanced at her. Just briefly.

She was frozen, holding an unopened box of Pocky like it had personally betrayed her.

The cameras surged closer.

“Are you confirming something?” a reporter shouted.

Kagome choked. “NO.”

Sesshōmaru said nothing else.

He simply turned and walked away—serene, dignified, and entirely too calm for a man who had just been spiritually proposed to in public and accepted it like a business merger.

He didn’t smile.

But his pulse was a little faster than normal.

Probably the humidity.

Definitely not her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen: He Brought Her Soup. It’s Over.

She faked an illness.

Not a dramatic one. Nothing that warranted flowers or healing rituals or any kind of panic.

No. Kagome Higurashi—a fully functioning adult woman with terrifying spiritual power and the posture of a feral raccoon in a cardigan—had seen one too many engagement rumor headlines and told the press she was “a bit under the weather.”

Which, of course, was immediately taken as code for “pregnant.”

The news cycle spiraled.

“Shrine Wife Takes Time Off: Is There a Baby Taishō?”
“The Demon CEO’s Soup Era Begins.”
“She Said She Liked Kids AND Soup: We Know What That Means.”

Sesshōmaru did not dignify any of this with a response.

But he did read them.

Every one.

And then, without warning or permission or any emotional clarity, he showed up at the shrine.

With soup.

And paperwork.

And the quiet, dangerous calm of a man who insisted this was a professional visit and not at all because he’d been checking her name on trending sites like a bored mortal teenager in denial.

The door to the shrine’s residence creaked open after the second knock.

Kagome blinked at him.

Messy bun. Hoodie. One slipper. A faint smear of what looked like miso paste on her cheek.

He stared.

“You’re not sick,” he said flatly.

“Define sick,” she muttered.

“You are holding Pocky.”

“I’ve got spiritual fatigue,” she said. “From being emotionally whiplashed by the press.”

“That is not a condition.”

“It is when your ex calls you to ask if you’re married and expecting after he hasn’t spoken to you in years.”

He did not flinch.

But it was close.

An Ex?

Interesting. 

“Why are you here?” she asked, stepping aside with a sigh. “Unless it’s for the shrine’s taxes. Then you can stay.”

“I brought soup,” he said.

She stared.

“Also documents.”

“Right,” she said slowly, closing the door behind him. “Because soup and legal forms go hand-in-hand.”

“It’s medicinal,” he said.

“It’s miso.”

“It’s effective.”

She squinted. “Are you trying to nurture me right now?”

“No.”

“You’re holding the bowl like it’s an offering.”

He placed the container on her table with the precision of a man who absolutely was trying to nurture someone and would die before saying it out loud.

Kagome crossed her arms.

He pulled out the folder.

“Orphanage funds have cleared,” he said. “I included the breakdown for your review.”

“Is this what we’re doing now?” she asked. “Soup and spreadsheets?”

“You’re unwell.”

“I’m hiding.”

“Same thing.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not even pretending anymore.”

“I never said this was personal.”

“You’re in my living room.”

“You answered the door.”

She stared at him for a long, quiet beat.

Then picked up the soup.

Sat down.

And ate.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” she said, quieter now. “Not with all this… press. Council stuff. Chaos.”

He sat across from her. “The council approved this visit.”

She snorted. “Of course they did. They’re loving this.”

They were, in fact, thrilled.

A private council message thread had labeled this entire relationship arc as “organic brand development.” One member had created a GIF folder of his reactions mid-interview. Another had scheduled a holiday around blended public union initiatives.

“I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you,” she said, poking at a piece of tofu. “Just… the press. And the part where I sort of maybe accidentally almost proposed to you last week. On live television.”

He tilted his head. “You were discussing family planning. In general terms.”

“While looking directly at you like a lunatic.”

“You are not a lunatic.”

“Oh no,” she muttered, “he’s reassuring me. It’s over. I’ve lost. The demon CEO is emotionally invested. Sound the bells.”

He didn’t respond.

But he did refill her water.

Quietly.

Professionally.

With just enough attention that it could maybe, possibly, be affection in disguise.

Outside, somewhere down the steps, someone took a photo through the window.

It hit the internet within minutes.

@demonicdispatch:
He brought her soup. He sat at her table. They’re reviewing paperwork like a married couple post-Netflix.
HE BROUGHT. HER. SOUP.
#ShrineWife
#EmotionallyAvailableNow
#ThisIsTheRealDeal

Sesshōmaru did not comment.

But he did return to his seat.

And remained there.

Longer than necessary.

Because soup wasn’t weakness.

And silence wasn’t denial.

And legacy?

Could look a lot like this.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen: Kiss or Tell

Sesshōmaru had endured many indignities in the name of diplomacy.

But this?

This was on another plane entirely.

It was supposed to be a council-sponsored discussion—an elegant, multi-perspective conversation on the realities of human-demon-holy relations in the modern world.

What it became was a live-streamed relationship game show.

The title?

“Kiss or Tell.”

The rules were insultingly simple:
Each participant would be asked a question.
Answer it, or kiss someone on set.

Sesshōmaru had stared at the program description for two full minutes before asking, “Is this a formal council initiative or a dating ritual invented by mortals with concussions?”

The answer had been yes.

Because the ratings were expected to be record-breaking.

Because he was a PR success story.

And because someone—probably his assistant, definitely evil—had “surprised” him with the final guest list.

Two priestesses.

Two dog demons.

Which meant Kagome was seated across from him in a high chair under studio lights, looking ten percent amused and ninety percent like she would purify the entire council if given the chance.

And beside her?

Kikyo.

Her cousin.

Sharp-eyed. Calm. Slightly terrifying in the same way library silence is terrifying—controlled, still, and absolutely capable of murder if someone speaks too loud.

Across from them sat Sesshōmaru.

And his brother.

Inuyasha.

Uninvited. Undeterred. Already lounging like this was a ramen shop date and not a diplomatic television production.

“I’m just here to represent the common man,” Inuyasha had said cheerfully in the green room. “And also because I heard there’d be hot priestesses.”

Sesshōmaru had considered stabbing him with a complimentary pen.

The cameras rolled.

The first few questions were simple.

Kagome spoke about spiritual balance. Sesshōmaru delivered clean, neutral council-approved answers. Kikyo dissected political theology like she’d swallowed a dictionary and sharpened the edges.

Then it was Inuyasha’s turn.

“What’s your ideal type?” the host asked with a smirk.

Inuyasha shrugged. “Apparently tall, terrifying, and wearing ten pounds of spiritual pressure like a perfume.”

He said it while looking directly at Kikyo.

Kikyo blinked.

Sesshōmaru exhaled sharply through his nose.

The show went on.

They talked about integration efforts.

About representation.

About navigating a world where 70% of the global population was human, 15% demon, and 15% holy beings—each with their own histories, powers, prejudices.

Kikyo and Inuyasha clashed instantly.

Over language. Over laws. Over very minor philosophical definitions that no one asked about.

It was like watching a building catch fire in slow motion—fascinating, horrifying, impossible to stop.

And then it happened.

The host turned to Kikyo, smiling a little too brightly.

“All right, Priestess,” he said. “When do you plan to settle down and get married?”

Kikyo stared.

A long pause.

The audience held its breath.

And then—without blinking—Kikyo stood up, turned, and kissed Inuyasha.

Full-on.

On live television.

He choked once in surprise, arms halfway up like what the hell just happened, and then something clicked in his feral little brain and he grabbed her waist, hauled her into his lap, and deepened the kiss like this was a romance finale and not a tax-funded diplomatic event.

The audience lost their minds.

The soundboard operator made a noise like a dying bird.

Sesshōmaru sighed.

Long. Ancient. Soul-deep.

Across from him, Kagome made a noise halfway between a gasp and a squeak.

Her cheeks were red.

Very red.

He could feel the warmth radiating off her aura like she’d caught secondhand embarrassment and it was now a communicable condition.

“I didn’t know she was like that,” Kagome whispered.

“I did,” he muttered. “It runs in the family.”

Kikyo finally pulled away from Inuyasha, calm as a glacier.

“I’m not answering the question,” she said, brushing her hair back into place.

Inuyasha looked like someone had just declared war on his soul and he wanted to lose.

“I don’t even know your last name,” he said.

“You’ll learn.”

Sesshōmaru closed his eyes briefly.

There will be a wedding, he thought grimly. There will be a wedding in this family, and it will involve property damage.

Kikyo returned to her seat like she hadn’t just spiritually steamrolled a Taishō with her mouth. She crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap, and blinked at the camera with all the serene poise of a temple statue—untouched, unbothered, and vaguely radiating judgment.

Inuyasha was still stunned into silence. Or possibly euphoria. It was hard to tell with his ears twitching like a short-circuited radio tower.

The host—clearly fighting for composure—turned toward Kagome.

“And you, Miss Higurashi? Same question. When do you see yourself settling down?”

Kagome didn’t even hesitate.

She sat up straighter, hands clenched around her water bottle, and said with wild, almost dangerous intensity:
“I will answer anything. Anything. No kissing. Nope. None. Questions only. I’m an open book.”

The audience laughed.

The camera zoomed in.

Sesshōmaru raised one perfectly arched brow.

Beside her, Kikyo looked faintly amused. Inuyasha was still in the honeymoon fog. But Kagome? She looked like someone bracing for combat and praying not to trip in the opening act.

Interesting.

Sesshōmaru turned toward her slightly.

She was flushed again—not the soft blush of embarrassment but the full-bodied glow of a woman desperate to avoid becoming the internet’s next favorite ship edit.

She refused to even glance in his direction.

Which meant she was very aware of him.

Apparently I would have to do the kissing, Sesshōmaru thought, mildly exasperated. Should it come to that.

He didn’t know if that made her bold or terrified.

He didn’t know which one unnerved him more.

The next question rolled in—something simple about religious representation in inter-realm events—and Kagome launched into her answer like she was clinging to it for dear life.

Sesshōmaru didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t comment.

But he did cross one leg over the other, fold his hands, and glance once—just once—at her mouth.

She choked mid-sentence.

Recovered.

Kept talking faster.

Kikyo smirked knowingly behind her teacup.

Inuyasha finally exhaled and muttered, “This is the best council gig I’ve ever had.”

Sesshōmaru didn’t respond.

But he did glance at the question card on the table, the one still left for him.

If he refused to answer it—whatever it was—

He would have to kiss someone.

And if that someone was Kagome…

Well.

The ratings would certainly remain high.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen: He Didn’t Answer the Question

By the time they reached question ten, Sesshōmaru was ready to declare this the most absurd diplomatic event since the Great Inter-Realm Karaoke Summit of 1983.

Still, the show had managed—for a moment—to return to something resembling professionalism. The host had pivoted back to safe ground, reading off fan-submitted questions about interspecies communication, cultural preservation, and sacred site neutrality with an increasingly cautious tone.

Kagome answered thoughtfully.

Kikyo answered sharply.

Inuyasha mostly said “yeah, same,” with a thumbs-up and a crooked grin.

Sesshōmaru gave exactly the kind of answers he was known for—concise, cold, and quoted word-for-word in every media outlet within thirty minutes.

But then.

The host grinned.

Too wide.

Too familiar.

And said, “All right, Lord Taishō—this next one’s just for you.”

Sesshōmaru narrowed his eyes.

The host didn’t flinch. “The audience wants to know: What would your ideal date look like?”

Inuyasha coughed so hard he nearly swallowed his mic.

Kikyo tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable.

Kagome turned.

Very slowly.

And stared at him with the intensity of a woman who had fought spirits, politicians, and teenagers and was about to snap like a cheap prayer bead string.

Sesshōmaru remained silent.

The seconds ticked by.

The studio held its collective breath.

Kagome leaned in just a fraction, eyes narrowing.

“I swear to god,” she hissed under her breath, “answer the question.”

He blinked once.

“Swear to god?” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Not very spiritual of you.”

Kagome’s mouth dropped open.

Kikyo made a noise that might have been a snort.

Inuyasha choked again.

Kagome’s hand twitched toward her water bottle like she was debating whether to sip it or throw it at someone.

“You—you can’t just come for my spiritual integrity like that,” she hissed, scandalized.

Sesshōmaru tilted his head, calmly. “You invoked a deity mid-threat.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

“From a shrine priestess.”

Kikyo was full-on smiling now, one brow arched like she was watching a particularly good stage play where someone was about to get smited—or married.

The host, sensing chaos and leaning into it, smiled brightly. “Would you like to kiss someone instead?”

Sesshōmaru blinked. “No.”

Kagome made a strangled sound like a teakettle left too long on a burner.

Inuyasha muttered, “You’d think he was the one with holy powers, with how hard he just judged you.”

“I wasn’t judging her,” Sesshōmaru said smoothly.

“I felt judged,” Kagome said, still red-faced. “I was judged spiritually and publicly.”

“You cursed on sacred television.”

“I was provoked!”

“You said ‘I swear to God’ to a daiyōkai with cameras present.”

“I didn’t mean your god!”

The audience was wheezing.

The host gave up entirely and just took a sip from his mug while watching like this was his favorite soap opera.

Kikyo finally leaned forward. “You know,” she said dryly, “in some cultures, that would be considered verbal foreplay.”

Sesshōmaru blinked once.

Kagome dropped her forehead to the table.

“Nope,” she said, muffled against the surface. “We’re done. I’m done. I rebuke this energy.”

“You sound very spiritual now,” Sesshōmaru murmured.

She groaned louder.

Inuyasha, still recovering, said, “This is better than cable.”

“Shut up, you’re sitting next to your soulmate.”

Kikyo smirked. “Not yet.”

Sesshōmaru stared into the camera with the expression of a man debating whether to commit violence or ask someone to dinner.

Possibly both.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen: This Show Was a Lot

The show wrapped with polite smiles, over-eager clapping, and a producer clearly ready to pop champagne over the ratings.

“Next week,” the host announced, still grinning like a possessed paper doll, “we’ll be rotating in new priestesses and representatives from the Southern Demon Alliance—including a fire kitsune elder and a very exciting half-holy, half-demon healer. Be sure to tune in!”

Translation: Thanks for your time, now get off our stage before the sexual tension sets something on fire.

They were thanked profusely.

Cameras were turned off.

Someone tried to hand Sesshōmaru a branded gift basket.

He did not accept it.

Inuyasha, on the other hand, grabbed three.

“Yo, Kikyo,” he said, catching up to her near the studio exit, “you wanna grab a bite? I know a place. You strike me as a soba girl.”

“I strike people,” Kikyo said coolly, brushing her hair over her shoulder.

Inuyasha grinned. “Even better.”

Sesshōmaru tuned them out. He’d seen this dance before. Once Kikyo started sarcastically correcting Inuyasha’s grammar mid-sentence, they’d be inseparable.

He made his way to the parking lot.

Slipped into his car. Closed the door. Silence.

He didn’t drive away.

Not yet.

He spotted Kagome across the lot, just now reaching her car.

She moved like someone trying not to crumble.

There was no performance left—no camera smile, no priestess grace. Just her, in her coat, hair loose, shoulders curled inward as she opened the door with one hand and rubbed her face with the other.

It was brief. But unmistakable.

The way she leaned her forehead to the steering wheel.

Not crying.

Not yet.

But close.

Sesshōmaru stared.

He didn’t understand.

She had funding now.

He’d ensured that. Personally. Anonymously. With receipts.

The shrine was stable. Her name was respected. The public adored her. The council called her the face of “warm integration.”

Was she still not napping?

Had he missed something?

Had the plumbing failed again?

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.

Then opened his phone.

Accessed the donation portal.

Located the shrine’s account.

One click.

The total doubled.

He didn’t think. Didn’t analyze.

Just stared at the screen and confirmed the transfer.

She needed naps.

She needed more than this.

He wasn’t sure if it would fix anything.

But if rest could be bought, he’d buy her the whole damn season.

And then—because fate had no decency—she leaned back in her seat.

In her car.

Still parked.

Still not moving.

She closed her eyes. Tipped her head against the headrest. Arms crossed like a tired gremlin trying to squeeze in a nap before the weight of the world found her again.

Sesshōmaru blinked once.

Twice.

No.

Absolutely not.

She was not about to take a nap in the parking lot of a televised council set, in her Civic, after publicly stumbling through a fake proposal, a national matchmaking segment, and whatever spiritual identity crisis she’d gone through when she hissed at him on stage.

She was many things.

Admirable. Exhausting. Suspiciously powerful.

But she was not allowed to sleep in a compact sedan like an overworked delivery driver with mild seasonal depression.

He was still staring when her hand slipped up to shield her eyes from the overhead lights.

Her mouth moved.

Something like “just ten minutes.”

Unacceptable.

Did she not own curtains? A sofa? A mattress?

He watched her curl slightly, hoodie bunching at the waist, like she was trying to shrink into the upholstery. Her mouth relaxed. Her breathing evened.

She was actually doing it.

Actually napping.

In a car.

After he had just—just—wired an entire second donation into her account like some mythically restrained sugar daddy with a strong legacy brand and poor boundaries.

And she was going to nap in a car.

He exhaled slowly.

Emotionless.

Glacial.

Icy, even.

And then he pulled out his phone again.

And opened a second tab.

Because apparently, if naps couldn’t be bought, then furniture could.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen: This Is a Sofa Bribe, Not a Confession

He saw the photo before she even messaged him.

It appeared on Twitter.

Then Instagram.

Then three dozen fan accounts dedicated to interspecies diplomacy and unhinged romantic conspiracy theories.

Someone—likely that nosy neighbor with the camera and too much incense in her diet—had posted a picture of the latest delivery to the Higurashi Shrine.

A lounge chair.

Not just any lounge chair.

A handcrafted, imported, limited-edition designer piece so aggressively luxurious that it screamed “someone wants you to never sit on the floor again.”

And on it—balanced with the kind of precision Sesshōmaru reserved for council treaties and ceremonial daggers—was a small, handwritten note.

“Sleep somewhere with lumbar support. —T”

The caption underneath the photo read:
“If he wanted to, he would. AND HE DID.”
#ShrineWife #DemonDaddyDelivers #ChairGate2025

It had 45,000 likes in ten minutes.

The top reply was simply:
“I’m gonna start manifesting with this man’s initials. —T, take me too.”

Sesshōmaru turned off his screen.

Then turned it back on.

Just in case the post had disappeared due to logic or shame.

It had not.

The second highest trending tag was now #LumbarSupportIsLove.

He leaned back in his office chair—the one significantly less comfortable than the one he’d ordered for her, not that he was bitter—and steepled his fingers.

He hadn’t even included a note at first.

But then he pictured her blinking down at the delivery, chewing her lip, wondering if this was another council gift or a prank or—gods forbid—something Inuyasha had sent with leftover ramen.

So he wrote the card.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t sentimental.

It was, if anything, medically practical.

He didn’t sign his full name.

Just T.

Short. Efficient. Vague.

It could’ve been any other cold-hearted, emotionally stunted daiyōkai with a spine-awareness complex and a deep sense of territorial obligation.

Obviously.

His phone buzzed.

Kagome.

He stared at the screen.

The message was short.

Are you serious with this chair??

No hello. No thank you. No immediate denial of feelings or rejection of implied intimacy.

Just: this chair.

He replied.

You were sleeping in a car.

She answered immediately.

You were stalking me in a parking lot?!

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, he added:

You need rest. That chair provides full recline, memory foam, and a heated option. You’re welcome.

She was typing for a long time.

Then stopped.

Then typed again.

Then sent:

You’re so weird. But like… the kind of weird that’s ruining me for mortal men.

Sesshōmaru stared at the screen.

Read it again.

Then closed his phone.

And immediately opened the furniture site again.

Because clearly, the chair was only phase one.

But even as he scrolled through ergonomic accessories and cursed himself for knowing the phrase “weighted blanket with chakra alignment support,” his mind wasn’t on lumbar.

It was on her text.

“You’re so weird. But like… the kind of weird that’s ruining me for mortal men.”

He stared at it again.

Mortal men.

She had jokes.

She thought she was being flirty.

Casual.

Cute.

Sesshōmaru set his phone down with a calmness that bordered on spiritual suppression.

Because the truth was—

He would murder them.

All of them.

Not even violently, necessarily. Just…efficiently. Quietly. Paper trails erased. Life insurance claimed. Nothing left behind but a suspiciously cold breeze and a vague memory of someone impossibly tall and unimpressed.

Ruining her for mortal men, she’d said.

As if that wasn’t already the case.

As if a thousand years of bone-deep instinct didn’t rise at the thought of anyone else touching her wrist, much less holding her hand.

She wanted to joke?

Fine.

Let her joke.

Let her call him “weird” and tease him about chairs and emotionally ambiguous soup offerings.

But let her also remember—

No mortal would bring her tea and fund her shrine and order high-end orthopedic seating based solely on how she drooped in her sedan like a wilted priestess.

Only he would do that.

Only he could do that.

Legacy wasn’t just power.

It was planning.

Provision.

Possession.

Sesshōmaru picked his phone back up, stared at her message a final time, and then opened the site’s checkout tab.

He added a custom silk throw blanket.

Monogrammed.

K.H.

Not “from him,” of course.

From “T.”

Then he paused.

Smirked—barely.

And changed it to T.S.

Let them wonder.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen: The Blanket Did Something to Her

Sesshōmaru had discovered something dangerous.

No—efficient.

Twitter.

Not for his own use. Gods, no. He wasn’t about to join the cesspool of mortals screaming into the void between ads for skincare and cursed astrology threads. But…he had noticed something.

He no longer needed a direct line to Kagome to know what she was doing.

Because the internet did it for him.

The shipping fanbase—those strange, relentless mortals with photo-editing apps and no sense of boundaries—had evolved into a full intelligence network. One account in particular, @ShrineWifeWatch, had posted ten updates in the last hour.

He read each one.

Not that he cared.

It was information-gathering. Legacy monitoring. Strategic observation.

That’s all.

And then—

There it was.

A video.

Captured through a questionable but persistent lens.

Kagome. At her doorstep.

The monogrammed blanket clutched in both hands. Wrinkled hoodie. Messy bun. The aura of someone absolutely not handling her emotions like a grown adult.

She looked down at the soft silk throw—embroidered with K.H. in the corner—and made a noise.

Not a cute noise.

A “he’s doing this on purpose” kind of noise.

Then she huffed.

Actually huffed.

And turned toward whoever was filming.

“He’s doing this on purpose,” she said, loud enough to be heard on the video. “So they think we’re together. What an absolute brat.”

Sesshōmaru paused the video.

Rewound it.

Played it again.

What an absolute brat.

It was, frankly, a compliment. Especially considering she’d said it while wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like it was woven from emotional manipulation and smug demon energy.

Which, to be fair, it was.

She hadn’t thrown it out.
She hadn’t returned it.

She hadn’t even taken it inside before speaking to the camera like she was the star of a romantic comedy with deep denial issues and excellent lighting.

She kept it.

Wore it.

Complained about it in it.

Sesshōmaru minimized the video.

Then opened the gifting site again.

Because this was clearly working.

And he had a legacy to preserve.

And a priestess to exhaust into submission.

One soft, overpriced gift at a time.

He scrolled.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Pillows? Too expected.

Essential oil diffusers? Too aggressive.

An ambient sound machine with pre-loaded thunderstorm tracks? Possibly.

He added it to the cart.

Paused.

Then added the matching eye mask.

He wasn’t spoiling her. He was simply…applying pressure. Comfort was a tool. Soothing was a strategy. And if Kagome wanted to accuse him of being a brat while actively burrito’d in a 1,200-thread-count monogrammed silk throw, that was her own contradiction to wrestle with.

He minimized the tab and reopened the video again.

The huff made him smirk.

Barely.

And the part where she muttered, “He’s smug and he knows it,” while visibly cocooned in said smugness?

That was satisfying in ways council approval never could be.

She thought she was still in control.
Still the one navigating the dynamic.

Still untouchable.

But Sesshōmaru knew the truth.

She wore every gift.

Used every item.

Snarked, whined, resisted—and then folded like a priestess hit with a weighted comfort charm.

He closed the browser, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling.

Because this wasn’t flirtation anymore.

This was war.

A slow, silk-lined siege.

And he had the upper hand.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty: He Laughs, He Dies

He wasn’t invited.

Which was fine.

Really.

He wasn’t offended. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t staring at the council memo for the fourth time that morning wondering who, exactly, thought “Let’s replace the face of cross-realm diplomacy with a feral middle-school dropout in leather.”

No.

Sesshōmaru Taishō did not sulk.

He simply gathered data.

And the data?

Came in the form of a livestream.

A very public, very active, very irritating livestream.

The event was titled “Unity Through Power: Humanity, Demons, and the Sacred Path Forward.”

Respectable. Predictable.

Kagome was seated on the panel—poised, bright-eyed, in a modest dress with her hair pinned back and her mouth smiling at things that didn’t deserve to be smiled at.

Things like Kōga.

The demon lord of the Eastern wolf tribes.

A reckless, grinning, cocky bastard with too many teeth and no filter.

And there he was.

Leaning in.

Grinning at her.

Saying things.

Sesshōmaru muted the panel host mid-introduction just in time to catch Kōga’s voice—smooth, self-satisfied, and audibly smirking through every sentence.

“—and if I’d known humans could look that good holding a bow, I would’ve joined the last summit just to get purified.”

Kagome laughed.

Laughed.

Not politely. Not nervously.

Full laugh. Shoulders-shaking, mouth-wide, joyful laugh.

Sesshōmaru blinked.

Once.

Then again.

Kōga was still going.

“Seriously. She’s got all that holy power and not a single warning label? It’s reckless. Dangerous. Tempting.”

He winked.

Kagome covered her mouth to stop laughing.

Sesshōmaru stared at the screen like it had personally offended his bloodline.

Tempting.

She was laughing.

He clenched the edge of the desk hard enough to dent it.

Kōga leaned closer on the couch, tapping his knee against hers, and said something Sesshōmaru didn’t catch—because he was already mentally drafting three different assassination strategies.

Not literal assassination.

Probably.

But if something did happen to Kōga, it would be the universe correcting itself. He’d be doing public relations a favor.

The host cut in again. Sesshōmaru unmuted it.

“So, Lord Kōga—any final thoughts on cross-species relationships?”

“Only that I’m open to them,” Kōga said smoothly. “Exclusively. Frequently. And if the council’s watching—next time, don’t send me home alone.”

Kagome wheezed into her sleeve.

Sesshōmaru paused the video.

The screen froze with Kagome mid-laugh, glowing with amusement, while Kōga looked like the smug winner of a mating game no one had agreed to play.

He stared at it for five long seconds.

Then closed the laptop.

Then stood.

Then calmly pulled up the council contact sheet and scheduled a mandatory “follow-up advisory session” regarding regional representation for inter-realm outreach programs.

With his name on it.

Effective immediately.

He closed the calendar tab.

Calm.

Measured.

Strategic.

And then—because he was already standing, and clearly self-sabotaging today—he reopened the stream.

The panel was still running.

Kagome was still glowing.

And Kōga was still alive.

Unfortunate.

The wolf was lounging across his segment of the couch like it was a throne he’d stolen from someone better. One arm slung across the backrest, the other gesturing with obnoxious confidence.

“So, Priestess,” he said, grinning wide, “you purify everything you touch, huh?”

Kagome raised a brow. “That’s the idea.”

Kōga leaned closer. “Even when you’re touching someone in the dark?”

The audience laughed.

Sesshōmaru did not.

Kagome tilted her head, amused. “Depends what I’m touching.”

The audience oohed.

Sesshōmaru gritted his jaw.

Kōga—absolutely high on attention and his own voice—pushed further.

“So what’s your stance on biting?” he asked casually. “Symbolic or situational? Because, personally, I think it’s underrated. Especially when paired with a little dominance in the bedroom.”

The moderator choked on his water.

Kagome went still for half a second.

Then—

She laughed.

Not girlish. Not coy.

Dark.

Delighted.

Absolutely entertained.

“Oh,” she said, “you’re one of those.”

Kōga leaned in like it was a compliment. “I’m just saying—we’re animals. Might as well play like it.”

She shook her head, still laughing. “And here I thought demons were supposed to have restraint.”

Sesshōmaru muted the stream before he shattered the screen with his claws.

Restraint.

She wanted to talk about restraint?

He was a centuries-old daiyōkai who had just watched a glorified mutt flirt with his priestess on public television using lines that belonged in the trash can of a third-rate dating app—and he had not yet incinerated anything.

That was restraint.

He re-opened his laptop, pulled up the council’s internal scheduler, and changed his advisory session title.

New title:
“Urgent Oversight Review: Interpersonal Boundaries and Diplomatic Decorum in Council-Affiliated Broadcasts.”

He added Kagome’s name to the participant list.

And Kōga’s.

And then his own.

And submitted it.

With one note in the comment box:
“It’s time we re-evaluate protocol. In person.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One: He Brought Notes and Bloodlust

It was still streaming.

Which meant he could crash the party.

Sesshōmaru didn’t wait.

No announcement. No PR rep. No camera-prep or talking points.

He arrived at the building, walked past security like he was the event’s purpose, opened the panel room doors mid-discussion, and made his way calmly to the stage.

No one stopped him.

The cameras caught it all.

The panel host blinked like he was seeing a ghost. Kōga smirked like he was waiting for a fight. And Kagome—

Kagome’s mouth dropped open as Sesshōmaru sat down directly beside her, adjusted his cuffs, and placed a bottle of water and a neatly boxed salad in her lap.

As if this was normal.

As if he hadn’t just pulled off a live televised ambush with side greens and zero context.

She stared at him.

Down at the salad.

Back up.

“Are—are you serious?” she whispered.

“You needed a reward,” he said. “For surviving the wolf.”

She made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze.

Kōga leaned forward on his elbows, grinning. “What, you jealous? You here to stake your claim in front of the cameras?”

Sesshōmaru turned his head, expression made of ice and pure disgusted professionalism. “I am here,” he said coolly, “to advise that public flirting of your caliber undermines council credibility and makes us appear unhinged and excessively hormonal.”

The audience started laughing.

Kōga smirked. “Not like I was bending her the—”

Kagome choked on her water.

Audibly. Visibly. Spectacularly.

Sesshōmaru turned and glared.

The kind of glare that melted barriers and made minor demons apologize for their existence.

Kōga, the bastard, only laughed harder.

“Relax,” he said. “Even if you two showed up wearing his-and-hers council robes and had matching rings and a prenup carved into stone, I’d still flirt with her.”

Kagome, trying to breathe, held up a hand. “Okay, okay! Just—just to be clear—Sesshōmaru and I aren’t—this isn’t a thing. It’s a Twitter joke. A meme. The council’s just… leaning into it.”

Kōga leaned back, smug as ever. “Yeah, I know. I mean, come on. The guy’s what—six hundred? What would he even do in a relationship now? File it under ‘Strategic Partnership: Emotional’? Lecture his mate about legacy while making spreadsheets?”

Kagome visibly froze.

Sesshōmaru did not.

He spoke.

Coolly.

Deadly.

Soft enough to silence the entire room.

“This,” he said, “is not about her.”

The room blinked.

Kagome turned.

He continued.

“This is not about ownership. Or relationships. Or who can or cannot flirt on camera. This—” he motioned toward the still-rolling live feed, the frozen expressions, the very public chaos, “—is about reputation. About the fact that the Demon Council is currently trending under the tag ‘horny warlords,’ and that, Kōga, is your fault.”

Kōga looked halfway between offended and delighted.

Sesshōmaru folded his hands. “I am here to ensure that the public does not view us as unstable, undisciplined, and sexually desperate.”

Kagome whispered, “You brought me salad.”

“Discipline,” he said, as if that explained everything.

The host blinked.

Paused.

Checked his cue cards like they might offer divine intervention.

And then, realizing the live feed was still running and the ratings were climbing like a spiritual stock bubble, cleared his throat and said with forced cheer:

“Well, looks like we’ve got a surprise three-guest panel today! Lord Sesshōmaru, since you’ve joined us so graciously, why don’t we continue the discussion—with all three of you?”

Kagome’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Kōga’s grin widened indecently.

Sesshōmaru nodded once, as if this had been planned the entire time and not a calculated act of televised war.

The host jumped on it.

“Excellent! So—we’ll start simple. Many viewers are asking: What’s the most difficult part of navigating public perception as powerful figures from different realms?”

Kagome, still holding her salad like it was a fragile bomb, answered first.

“Well, it’s weird,” she said. “I mean, one week I’m spiritually purifying cursed beads, and the next I’m trending because someone thinks a monogrammed blanket is a love confession.”

Sesshōmaru glanced at her.

She did not glance back.

Kōga chuckled. “Yeah, well, welcome to fame. First they ship you. Then they stalk your lunch orders. Then someone makes a fanfic where you fall in love during a hostage situation.”

Sesshōmaru blinked. “That is oddly specific.”

Kōga shrugged. “They gave me a flower crown and a tragic backstory. I read the whole thing. It was good.”

The host was wheezing.

“Okay, next question,” he said, trying to stay alive. “If each of you could implement one change in inter-realm relations, what would it be?”

“Cultural literacy,” Kagome said immediately. “Less assuming, more listening. Understanding holy customs, demon rituals, and how we’re all just trying to survive bureaucracy without starting a war.”

Sesshōmaru nodded. “Efficiency. Eliminate red tape. Create direct communication pathways between sectors.”

Kōga leaned forward. “Mandatory hot springs retreats for mixed teams. Coed. Minimal robes. Maximum bonding.”

Kagome snorted.

Sesshōmaru exhaled slowly through his nose. “Your diplomatic initiatives belong in a cautionary tale.”

Kōga smirked. “And yours sound like a death threat written by a bureaucrat.”

“I accept that.”

The host, now clearly regretting everything, powered through. “Right, right—uh, next! What advice would you give to young demons or humans who feel like they don’t belong in either world?”

Kagome’s expression softened. “Find the people who see your strength instead of your differences. Build something with them.”

Kōga nodded, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. You don’t have to fit in everywhere. You just need one place that feels like home.”

Sesshōmaru tilted his head. “Belonging is earned through consistency. Show up. Stand your ground. Legacy doesn’t require approval.”

Kagome glanced at him then.

Just briefly.

But it lingered.

Kōga raised an eyebrow. “That was almost touching. What’s next? You gonna offer me a blanket too? Remember to initial mine too.”

Sesshōmaru did not answer.

But Kagome almost choked again.

The host, wheezing into his notes, tried to recover. “Okay! Last question for today! Final thoughts on partnership between realms—and each other?”

Kagome opened her mouth.

Paused.

Then smiled, a little tired, a little amused. “It’s not easy. But if people can learn to work together even when they drive each other crazy… there’s hope.”

Kōga leaned back. “Speak for yourself. I think some tension makes things fun.”

Sesshōmaru didn’t look at either of them.

He looked at the camera.

And said, evenly: “Tension is a distraction. Progress comes from discipline.”

Kagome coughed once into her hand. “You keep saying that like it explains things.”

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because the comment section had already exploded.

#DisciplineAndSalad

#ShrineWifeVsWolfKing

#HeBroughtHerLunchOnLiveTV

The host barely got through the sign-off before the stream cut.

And the second it did, Kagome looked at Sesshōmaru and said, “So, just out of curiosity, how many things are you going to buy me this week just to have everyone believe we’re together?”

He stood.

Adjusted his cuffs.

And said calmly, “As many as it takes.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Wolf Brings Flowers, The World Burns

Sesshōmaru had endured many trials in his long life—war, famine, incompetent junior council members.

But nothing was as excruciating as this quarterly funding review meeting.

He sat in silence, three screens open, six charts projected onto the wall, while a demon from the Southern finance sector explained—painfully slowly—why merging spiritual zoning reports with infrastructure maintenance was “a cross-realm opportunity for synergy.”

He resisted the urge to bite someone.

Instead, he opened his tablet and—out of sheer survival instinct—checked the trending tags.

A few months ago, he wouldn’t have bothered.

Now?

It was necessary.

The #ShrineWife tags were still alive. Still active.

But something was… wrong.

The tide had shifted.

The energy had changed.

Mentions of his name were down.

Mentions of the wolf were up.

His eyes narrowed.

He scrolled.

@shrinematchmaker: idk y’all… maybe the wolf is a better fit? He shows up.

@flirtyyoukai: Kōga brought flowers. Sesshōmaru brought… salad?

@foxcubapproved: someone tell Lord Ice that emotional support lettuce is not a love language.

Sesshōmaru’s fingers twitched.

The spreadsheet on screen continued detailing “sacred pathway road repaving estimates.”

He stopped listening.

And clicked.

A new post had just gone up. High-res. Multiple angles.

There it was.

Kōga.

On a motorcycle.

Parked at the base of the Higurashi Shrine.

Wearing a leather jacket.

Holding flowers.

Bright. Gaudy. Smug.

And Kagome?

Leaning against the gate, laughing.

Not just polite laughter. Not formal laughter.

Real. Head-tilted, hand-to-mouth, “you’re ridiculous” kind of laughter.

Sesshōmaru stared at the screen.

Very still.

Very quiet.

One of the council reps across the table cleared their throat. “Lord Taishō, do you have a response to the energy audit proposal?”

Sesshōmaru didn’t look up.

He closed the tab.

Closed his laptop.

Stood.

“Emergency,” he said flatly.

And walked out.

Because there were flowers on his shrine steps.

Because the public was confused.

And because the next post said “#TeamWolf” and included a fan edit of Kōga picking Kagome up bridal-style—with Sesshōmaru photoshopped in the background fuming in a suit.

Unacceptable.

This was war.

By the time he arrived at the Higurashi Shrine, they were still flirting.

Sesshōmaru stood at the top of the shrine steps, backlit by the setting sun like the harbinger of war in Gucci tailoring, and stared down at them with all the composure of a man deciding whether he was going to sue the entire wolf clan for emotional damages.

Kōga was leaning against the torii gate, helmet dangling from two fingers, flowers still in hand, grin still reckless.

Kagome stood across from him, arms crossed, hair loose, smiling like she wasn’t under siege.

The moment Sesshōmaru stepped into view, Kōga’s eyes lit up.

“Well, well,” he drawled, pushing off the gate. “Missed me that much, huh?”

Kagome turned, startled. Then groaned. “Oh no.”

She stepped forward, arms waving like she could deflect him with exasperation alone. “You really don’t have to do this. You don’t need to show up every time the council or Twitter thinks your brand is in danger.”

He didn’t respond.

She kept going, like she had to explain it before he made things worse. “I get it, okay? I do. You’ve got a legacy to uphold. A reputation. A schedule that runs on inter-realm punctuality. It’s okay to lose a battle. Especially one that’s not… important.”

She swallowed.

Didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Or real.”

Ah.

So that’s what she thought.

Kōga snorted behind her. “Clueless priestesses,” he muttered, clearly delighted.

Then leaned over and whispered—not quietly—“Violence is the love language of demons, sweetheart. That, and power. You should be careful which one you pull.”

Kagome laughed like it was a joke.

Sesshōmaru did not.

He walked down the last three steps, silent as frost, coat unwrinkled, expression unreadable.

No flowers.

No smug rebuttal.

Just a folder.

He held it out to her.

Flat. Unassuming. Crisp.

Kagome blinked. “What’s this?”

“Five years of fully funded shrine renovations,” he said. “Approved. Finalized. Filed this morning.”

She stared at it like it might explode.

“I—Sesshōmaru—”

“You’ll need to sign page three.”

Then he turned.

And walked away.

No explanation.
No thank-you.
No glance back.

Because it wasn’t about the wolf.

It wasn’t about the camera angle or the tweet thread or who had gotten her to laugh harder.

It was about one thing:

Winning.

And he wasn’t here to win her affection.

He was here to win everything else.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Three: I Signed It, Didn’t I?

Sesshōmaru had just returned to his office.

He hadn’t even taken off his coat.

The ink on the shrine renovation contract wasn’t dry.

The memory of her saying “it’s not important or real” was still echoing somewhere deep in his mind—alongside the urge to throw Kōga off the nearest cliff and bury the evidence under imported topsoil.

And then—

His phone rang.

He didn’t want to answer it.

But it was the Council Line.

Meaning someone, somewhere, had found a way to make his life worse.

He tapped Accept.

“Lord Taishō,” came Genji’s irritatingly smug voice. “We wanted to congratulate you on your latest success.”

Sesshōmaru stared at the window.

“Success,” he repeated flatly.

“Oh, yes. The numbers are in,” Genji said, clearly thrilled with himself. “Since your partnership with Priestess Higurashi became public—and with Lord Kōga’s involvement—we’ve seen a 62% increase in public petitions for interspecies cultural exchange.”

Sesshōmaru did not react.

Genji continued.

“More importantly,” he said, “we’re also seeing a marked rise in hybrid family planning inquiries.”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Fertility centers. Matchmaking services. Blended housing requests. It’s brilliant.” The councilor chuckled. “Between you, Kagome, and the wolf, you’ve turned interspecies diplomacy into a romantic fantasy narrative the public is begging to replicate.”

“I did not approve this interpretation.”

Genji hummed. “Well, your face did. And so did your contract. And your salad.”

Sesshōmaru briefly considered destroying the entire salad industry.

“We’ve never seen this level of engagement,” Genji said. “People are finally imagining a future where humans, demons, and holy beings coexist and even… procreate.”

Sesshōmaru closed his eyes. “Are you suggesting I am personally responsible for a spike in population planning?”

“Well,” Genji said brightly, “you and your little triangle.”

There was silence.

Murderous. Elegant. Absolute.

“Don’t call it that again.”

“Understood.”

The call ended.

Sesshōmaru stared at his phone.

Then placed it face-down on the desk like it had insulted his bloodline.

The council thought he was fostering cross-species love.

The public thought he was in a romantic rivalry with a wolf.

Kagome thought none of it was real.

And the shrine renovation paperwork was now signed, sealed, and archived under “Personal Expenses: Recurring.”

He didn’t know whether to scream or strategize.

So instead—

He sat down.

And waited.

Because she’d signed it.

Which meant eventually, she’d come looking.

And when she did…

He’d be ready.

He had three meetings blocked off, an assistant running interference, and a security alert set to notify him the second anyone matching Kagome Higurashi’s spiritual signature entered the building.

She showed up twelve minutes later.

No appointment. No warning.

Just a blur of boots, righteous indignation, and the sound of someone who was done being polite.

The elevator dinged.

The hallway lights flickered.

His assistant cracked the door open and whispered, “She has baked goods and fury. Should I—?”

“No,” Sesshōmaru said without looking up. “Let her in.”

The door slammed open.

Kagome marched in like she owned the building, clutching a Tupperware container in one hand and the signed contract in the other.

“You,” she snapped, slamming the folder on his desk, “are a manipulative, emotionally repressed legacy goblin.”

Sesshōmaru blinked once. “Good afternoon.”

“Don’t ‘good afternoon’ me!” she pointed at the folder. “I signed this thinking it was a nice gesture, not a public declaration of cohabitation and shared finances!”

He arched a brow. “You read page three.”

“I skimmed page three! You don’t put shared shrine infrastructure rights under a heading labeled ‘Additional Blessings.’ That’s sneaky. That’s illegal. That’s practically marriage!”

Sesshōmaru looked completely unbothered. “You brought muffins.”

Her mouth opened. Then shut.

She stared down at the container in her hands like she’d just realized it betrayed her.

“They’re not for you,” she muttered.

“Who are they for, then?”

She paused.

Scowled.

“Fine. I had extras. But that’s not the point.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Then enlighten me.”

Kagome planted both hands on the desk and narrowed her eyes at him.

“Why are you doing all this?” she asked. “The donations. The renovations. The salad ambushes. You show up, make grand gestures, and then vanish like a repressed Batman. What is this, Sesshōmaru? Guilt? Ego? A PR stunt so the world thinks you’re generous?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He stood.

Rounded the desk.

Stopped in front of her.

Looked down.

And said, quietly:
“You signed it.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You signed it,” he repeated. “You always do. You argue. You yell. But you accept the gifts. You keep the chair. You eat the soup. You wear the blanket.”

Kagome flushed. “That doesn’t mean anything!”

“It means everything.”

He leaned in—just slightly.

Voice low.

Even.

“Because you keep thinking I do this for the council. Or for the public. Or to win. But if that were true… I would have stopped the moment you said it wasn’t real.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Sharp.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared at him—wide-eyed, cornered, and maybe a little breathless.

Then she shoved the muffin container into his chest.

Hard.

“You’re a menace,” she muttered.

He accepted it without blinking. “You brought me baked goods.”

“They’re slightly burnt.”

“I like burnt.”

Kagome muttered something unholy under her breath and turned on her heel, storming toward the door.

She paused.

Looked over her shoulder.

“…Did you really call the renovation clause ‘Additional Blessings’?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Efficiently.”

She left.

And this time?

She didn’t slam the door.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Four: I Can’t Keep Letting You Fund My Shrine

“I can’t keep letting him fund my shrine.”

Kagome flopped face-first onto her couch.

Muffled, into a pillow: “I’m enabling a legacy-obsessed sugar demon.”

Sango—best friend, ex-demon slayer, current tea-fueled chaos agent—sipped her matcha, entirely unfazed.

“Okay, but are you enabling him… or slowly accepting your fate as a well-kept shrine wife with orthopedic furniture and emotionally expensive muffins?”

“I made the muffins!”

“You hand-delivered them. To his office. While yelling.”

“I also insulted him.”

“Foreplay.”

“Sango.”

“I’m just saying.” Sango kicked her feet up, totally unbothered. “You’re halfway mated. You just haven’t tripped into bed or admitted your feelings yet.”

Kagome made a noise only spiritually exhausted priestesses could make.

“This is not a relationship,” she groaned into the cushion. “It’s a high-stakes standoff. With passive-aggressive donations and occasional carbs.”

Sango grinned. “Which sounds a lot like marriage to me.”

Kagome threw a throw pillow at her.

“Besides,” Sango continued, “you can’t fight this. Twitter’s already made it official.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“You do want to know.”

Kagome lifted her head, resigned. “Fine. What now?”

Sango turned her phone so she could see the screen.

There it was.

A photo.

Blurry. Low angle. Clearly snapped from someone hiding behind a potted plant.

Sesshōmaru.

In his office.

Holding the Tupperware container of slightly-burnt muffins like it was a national treasure. Still in his suit. Staring down at it like he’d never seen pastries before and wasn’t sure if this meant affection or war.

The caption read:

“He doesn’t smile—but he accepts snacks.”
#ShrineWifeConfirmed
#SnackOfApproval
#DemonDaddyDeservesDessert

The comment section was a mix of:
 • “They’re already married in his mind.”
 • “This is like watching an arranged marriage develop feelings in real time.”
 • “I want someone to look at my baked goods like that.”

Kagome covered her face with both hands.

“I hate the internet.”

“It loves you. And it’s already picked your husband.”

“He hasn’t even flirted!”

“He renovated your entire ancestral shrine.”

“That doesn’t count!”

Sango raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because I count that under ‘acts of service’ in love languages.”

Kagome groaned again, flopping back into the pillow abyss.

She didn’t know what this was.

A game?
A power struggle?
A miscommunication that got too generous?

All she knew was that every time she tried to set a boundary, Sesshōmaru showed up with a contract, a couch, or a salad.

And the worst part?

She used all of it.

Including the chair.

Which she was currently sitting in.
Which reclined.
Which heated.
Which may or may not be the only reason she wasn’t a stressed-out puddle on the floor right now.

Sango stood up, stretched, and headed for the kitchen. “Want tea?”

Kagome groaned into the upholstery again. “Only if it erases my emotional confusion.”

“No promises.”

The recliner purred underneath her.

Kagome closed her eyes.

And whispered to the ceiling:

“I swear to the gods, if he sends me a mattress, I’m moving to the mountains.”

The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor.

Because not twenty minutes later—while Kagome was mid-sip of her emotionally stabilizing tea—a truck pulled up outside the shrine.

An expensive one.

The kind of truck that didn’t deliver groceries or spiritual donation boxes or cursed artifacts wrapped in plastic bags.

No.

This one had branding.

Gold-embossed lettering that read:
“Celestial Comfort: Mattresses Fit for Royalty.”

Sango peered out the window, eyes wide. “Kagome…”

“Don’t say it.”

“They’re unloading something.”

“Don’t say it.”

“There’s a handwritten note.”

“I will bite you.”

But it was too late.

A delivery man—a poor, innocent mortal caught in the crossfire of what was now a public courtship disguised as a logistical partnership—approached the front steps.

“Delivery for Higurashi Kagome?”

Kagome stared at him, frozen.

The man smiled awkwardly. “One—uh—custom mattress, spiritual-grade. Adjustable firmness. Memory-enhancing. Wards included. Also, there’s a tea set?”

Sango whispered, “He bundled.”

Kagome dropped her head into her hands.

She was going to lose her mind.
Or her shrine.
Or her mortal freedom.

Because sure enough, as the delivery crew hoisted the impossibly luxurious mattress into her entryway, Sango retrieved the note from atop the embroidered silk comforter.

It was short.

Neat.

And handwritten on heavy stationery that definitely cost more than her utilities.

“Rest is essential for preservation.
Legacy does not function on caffeine alone.
—T.S.”

Kagome stared at it.

Then at the mattress.

Then at the heavens.

“Oh my god,” she muttered. “I’m being wooed with orthopedic warfare.”

Sango sat on the edge of the new mattress, bouncing once. “You said you’d move to the mountains.”

“I didn’t think he’d call my bluff!”

“You didn’t think a six-hundred-year-old alpha demon would treat threats like binding contracts?”

Kagome paced across the tatami mat, ranting.

“This is absurd. It’s too much. It’s weird. It’s passive-aggressive domestic courtship with thread count. I’m going to drown in expensive linens and everyone on the internet is going to say I asked for it.”

“You kind of did.”

“I DIDN’T.”

“You whispered it to the ceiling.”

“That doesn’t count!”

Sango flopped back against the pillow top, arms spread. “If this is what spiritual partnership looks like in 2025, I’m sold.”

Kagome glared at her.

Then at the mattress.

Then at the note again.

It smelled faintly like sandalwood and hellish intentions.

And her name was on the receipt.

Personal. Direct. Nonrefundable.

She sat on the edge of the bed like it might bite her.

Then sighed.

“I’m not moving to the mountains.”

Sango beamed. “You’re halfway mated and mattress-claimed. It’s over.”

Kagome picked up a pillow and hurled it at her face.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Five: Are You Sleeping Well?

He’d seen enough.

It had taken exactly three swipes on his phone to locate the latest viral post.

A grainy photo. Early morning light.

Kagome.

On the shrine bench.

Asleep. Again.

Blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Head tipped to the side. One shoe missing. A stray cat draped over her lap like it paid rent. Her mouth slightly open in betrayal of the powerful, competent, deeply stubborn priestess she insisted on being.

His shrine renovations had been completed.

The chair had been delivered.

The mattress—custom, spiritually shielded, absurdly expensive—was confirmed signed for.

And she was sleeping. On a bench.

Outside.

As if none of his gestures mattered.

As if her spine wasn’t worth preserving.

As if she wasn’t now a diplomatic figurehead with a verified hashtag and a growing army of fans who referred to her as the future Mrs. Taishō.

Unacceptable.

Sesshōmaru unlocked his phone.

He’d been in possession of her number for weeks.

He had not used it often.

Until now.

He typed the message with the efficiency of a man about to commit legal affection and emotionally-infused restraint.

Are you sleeping well, priestess?

Pause.

Send.

He stared at it.

Five seconds passed.

No reply.

So he typed again.

If I catch you sleeping in your car or on a bench again, there will be consequences.

He considered that.

Then added:

Real ones.

Send.

There. Perfectly worded. Unmistakably threatening. Barely legal.

A full minute passed.

Then his phone buzzed.

Kagome:
There is nothing wrong with sleeping outside.

Sesshōmaru’s eye twitched.

He replied instantly.

If you’re homeless, just say so.

There was silence on the other end.

He imagined her face. The stunned expression. The breath she took before rage.

Sure enough:

Kagome:
I am not homeless! I’m just—I was stargazing and then I got tired!

So you live under the stars now. Bold.

Kagome:
You can’t just text people like this!

I can. I did. You responded.

Kagome:
Because I was confused!

Then let me clarify: Sleep inside. Or I will deliver a bed frame in your front courtyard with a crew. While livestreamed. With hashtags.

No reply.

Then:

Kagome:
You wouldn’t.

Try me.

He leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

No further messages came.

Which, for her, meant he’d won.

He opened the donation page for the shrine just to check her budget.

Then the furniture site.

Just to look.

And added a backup bed frame to the cart.

Just in case.

His phone buzzed again.

He fully expected a long paragraph. A diatribe. Possibly an emotional haiku.

Instead:

Kagome:
Some of us are like cats, okay? The sun hits right and it’s over for me. That’s not a cry for help—it’s a nap. A spiritual nap.

He stared at the message.

Then exhaled through his nose. Slowly. Patiently. Like a man preparing to argue with an actual sun-drunk kitten.

He responded.

If you’re a cat, then you’re one that refuses to use the velvet chaise provided and insists on dying in a cardboard box next to the recycling bin.

Kagome:
That’s how we assert dominance.

By surrendering to sunlight in public like a forfeit? Impressive.

Kagome:
You wouldn’t get it. You don’t even have a cat.

He paused.

Correct. I do not.

I also don’t have a priestess who listens.

There was a longer pause this time.

Almost a full minute.

Then:

Kagome:
Yeah, well, you also don’t have a priestess. Period.

He considered that.

Then smirked—slow, satisfied, ancient.

And replied:

Yet.

My inventory is always expanding.

There was no immediate response.

Just the little typing bubble.

Then it disappeared.

Then came back.

Then disappeared again.

He leaned back in his chair, calm, patient, vaguely entertained.

She was spiraling.

Good.

It was only fair.

After all, she’d been lounging on his renovations, napping on his bench, curled in his blanket, dreaming on his mattress—and still had the audacity to claim there was no ownership involved.

Let her think about it.

Let her stew.

He tapped the side of his phone, checking for updates.

Nothing yet.

But he could wait.

The priestess would come around.

All things, in time, became part of his collection.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Six: A New Challenger Appears

He was heading to lunch when it happened.

A perfectly ordinary afternoon. The sky was clear. His assistant was briefing him on the latest shrine zoning adjustments. He’d been considering a jasmine rice bowl.

And then—

The notification hit.

Not from a council source.

Not from Kagome.

From Twitter.

Specifically, one of the shipping fan accounts he pretended not to monitor.

@ShrineWifeWatch:
BREAKING: A new player has entered the arena.
And he has arms.
#TeamHumanRising #KdramaEnergy #SesshōmaruIsShaking

Sesshōmaru narrowed his eyes.

Tapped the photo.

And froze.

There it was.

Kagome.
In her courtyard.

Laughing.

Leaning back into the arms of a man.

Not just any man.

Sun-kissed. Tall. Built. Human.

His arms were wrapped around her waist. She was tipped backward in his hold like they were mid-spin in a romantic drama with dramatic flute music and cherry blossoms blowing in slow motion. She was laughing like he was the funniest thing on earth.

And the man?

He was laughing too.

Holding her like he’d done it before.

Like it wasn’t new.

The caption beneath the photo was short.

Kohaku’s back.

Sesshōmaru went very still.

Too still.

He read the comments.

He always read the comments.

“OMG I forgot about Kohaku!! They dated in college??”
“Long-distance breakup but she always spoke so fondly of him.”
“This man has the jawline of a protagonist. I’m switching ships.”
“What’s Sesshōmaru gonna do now, huh?? Drop a whole shrine annex on the guy??”
“Plot twist: it’s her first love. It’s always the first love.”
“#TeamKohaku is rising and we brought receipts.”

Sesshōmaru stopped walking.

Kohaku.

Sango’s brother.

A known figure. Smart. Capable. Apparently built like a romantic threat. And now, back in town.

Back in her space.

Back in her arms.

Sesshōmaru stared at the photo again.

It wasn’t just the hug.

It was the ease.

The familiarity.

The soft curve of her mouth, the way she looked at him—unguarded, radiant.

Like she’d missed him.

Like maybe she’d never really stopped.

His fingers twitched around his phone.

He should be above this.

He was a daiyōkai. A strategist. A diplomat.

But the image of human hands on her waist wouldn’t leave him.

And the laughter?

The laughter burned.

Lunch forgotten, he turned on his heel and walked back into the building, coat flaring behind him like a war banner.

Because if Kohaku had entered the arena—

Sesshōmaru was about to end the game.

He was halfway back to his office when another notification hit.

Twitter was giving live updates now.

Because of course it was.

He opened the thread with the cold precision of a man bracing for psychological warfare—and sure enough, there it was:

A video.

Someone—likely a neighbor with no respect for privacy and a deep love of romantic chaos—had started recording the moment Kagome opened the shrine gate.

He hit play.

The screen lit up.

Kagome was laughing. The human was grinning. The air was golden with late sunlight and betrayal.

“I can’t believe you’re back,” she said, smiling so brightly it felt personal.

“Missed you too much, beautiful.”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

Hard.

His thumb twitched near the pause button. But he didn’t stop it.

Couldn’t.

“Oh, just took two years, huh?” she teased.

“Better late than never?” Kohaku replied, voice annoyingly warm. Confident. Familiar.

She laughed again.

Louder.

Freer.

And it stabbed something ancient in Sesshōmaru’s chest.

Then the camera caught the moment—the look.

Kohaku wasn’t grinning anymore.

He was staring at her like she was something sacred.

“But seriously—full-on social media icon now, Kagome?”

She rolled her eyes. “You left me unsupervised.”

He smirked.

“I can admit when I made a mistake,” he said, low and steady.

“Won’t leave you again.”

Sesshōmaru stood motionless in the hallway, the screen lighting his face like a divine punishment.

The video ended.

The comment section did not.

“THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER I CAN’T BREATHE”
“Sorry Sesshōmaru but this man is HERE and he is AWARE of her WORTH”
“If my ex came back looking like this and said that, I’d hand over my soul and a down payment”
“#KohakuxKagome supremacy rise up”

Sesshōmaru closed the app.

Tightly.

Deliberately.

He turned toward his office, walked inside, and sat down at his desk with all the serenity of a man planning several low-key assassinations and maybe a political scandal.

Then he opened a document.

“Evaluation Request: Kohaku (Human, Male)”

He didn’t know what came next.

But he knew this:

That man was not walking back into Kagome’s life without going through him first.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Seven: He’s Not Even Registered

He was halfway through Kohaku’s file when the first red flag hit.

Then the second.

Then seven more.

The man wasn’t even spiritually registered.

Sesshōmaru sat back slowly in his chair, the document pulled up on three separate screens. Each screen highlighting a different category of egregious human failure.

Holy Alignment Classification: unranked.
Demon Interaction Clearance: expired.
Spiritual Boundary Acknowledgment Training: incomplete.
Dating Approval Form: nonexistent.
Ward Access Level: unauthorized.
Haircut-to-Personality Ratio: statistically suspicious.

Sesshōmaru clicked through each tab with the growing disgust of a man discovering his sworn enemy had filed none of the proper flirtation documentation and was still somehow smiling on his property.

Because yes—his.

The Higurashi shrine?

Technically his now.

The contracts for renovation had been finalized. Funded. Stamped by seven demon clan leaders and two very tired lawyers. The ink had barely dried.

The land was under protection, listed jointly under Higurashi and Sesshōmaru Holdings, a fact he’d filed quietly and legally—without her knowing.

For her safety, of course. Not sentiment.

Which meant this unranked, unregistered, spiritually feral human currently standing on their steps, handing his priestess a smoothie and smiling like he’d never broken a single oath in his life—wasn’t just out of line.

He was loitering in front of Sesshōmaru’s shrine.

Hugging Kagome like he was some kind of spiritual golden retriever with biceps.

Wearing a Henley three sizes too small and a smile that probably had its own gym membership.

The human was trespassing.

On sacred ground.
On contractual territory.
On Sesshōmaru’s last nerve.

Unacceptable.
Absolutely, cosmically, bureaucratically unacceptable.

He pressed a button on his desk. His assistant responded instantly.

“Sir?”

“Full background check on Kohaku.”

“Yes, sir. Specifics?”

“Employment. Residency. Military history. Romantic intent.”

“…Romantic intent, sir?”

“If it’s not on file, I want it subpoenaed.”

“…That’s not how romantic intent works—”

“Make it how it works.”

He ended the call.

Folded his arms.

Let the internet think this was a love triangle.
Let Kagome think this was coincidence or curiosity.
Let the world pretend this was harmless nostalgia and not a blatant, smiling violation of spiritual zoning ordinances.

This wasn’t jealousy.

This was about protocol.

And boundaries.

And the absolute gall of a sun-kissed, well-conditioned, allegedly charming “ex” to show up on ancient spiritual property with no badge, no clearance, and way too much access to her waist.

His phone buzzed.

A new trending post.

He opened it.

“Kagome and Kohaku are literally the plot. Look at this chemistry!”
Photo: Kagome laughing while Kohaku handed her a smoothie with two straws.
#TheyreTheMainCharacters
#TeamHumanIsWinning
#SorrySesshoumaru

Sesshōmaru blinked at the image.

Then calmly opened the spiritual zoning authority’s complaint portal.

Under “Report a Violation,” he began typing:

Unauthorized Use of Shrine Grounds by Unregistered Human Entity.

He paused.

Added:

Excessive flirtation.
Unregulated charm.
Suspiciously white teeth.
Unholy smoothie bonding.

Submit.

Sesshōmaru stood.

This was war.

And it hadn’t even started.

Moments later, the file came back.

Faster than expected.

Too fast.

Which meant someone else had already been looking.

He opened the document. Read it. Scowled.

Kohaku.

Species: Human (Enhanced).
Alignment: Neutral.
Affiliations:
– Director, Demon Extermination Council
– Special Ops Military Branch (Ret.)
– CEO, Arashi Tactical Solutions (Private Contracting for Inter-Realm Conflict Mediation)

Sesshōmaru squinted.

CEO?
Military?
Conflict mediation?

Was this a romance novel or a recruitment ad?

He scrolled down.

Combat Proficiency: Advanced.
Weaponry Certifications: All military classes, plus two forbidden.
Spiritual Resistance Rating: High.
Public Trust Index: 91%.
Council Security Clearance: Tier One.
Reputation: “Disciplined, lethal, polite. Hugs frequently. Smells like cedarwood and loyalty.”

Sesshōmaru stared at that last line like it had personally insulted his lineage.

But then—
the final blow.

Relationship History:
– Kagome Higurashi (Romantic – Long-Term)
– Duration: Five. Years.

Sesshōmaru froze.

Five years.

Half a decade.

Not a fling.
Not a college mistake.
An actual emotional investment with enough time to build a house, raise a puppy, and get divorced twice.

He reread the last line.

Then reread it again.

That wasn’t an ex-boyfriend.

That was a living ghost of shared toothpaste, seasonal allergies, and first-name contact with her family.

No wonder he was standing on the shrine steps like he belonged there.
No wonder the hug looked like a Hallmark finale.
No wonder they drank smoothies like synchronized swimmers in love.
No wonder her laugh sounded like she knew every version of his smile.

Because for five years—he probably did.

Sesshōmaru processed it all with the mechanical efficiency of a death sentence.

Five years. And then Kohaku left.

To serve. To lead. To rise.
To abandon.

To fight. To climb. To build a business and a reputation and vanish.

And now he was back.

With tactical humility.
Tragic backstory.
Abs and a Henley.

Sesshōmaru folded his hands slowly.

Then he’s a fool.

Five years.

No mating mark?
No claim?
No filing of spiritual union papers?
Not even a registry stamp?
No bond?
No ring?
No scrolls filed. No public declaration. No intent to mate ceremony?

Amateur.

What, exactly, had Kohaku been doing that whole time?

If Sesshōmaru had been in Kohaku’s place five years ago, Kagome would’ve had a full security team, a trademarked name, and a shrine app with subscription-based blessings. The entire Higurashi line would be council-protected. Her reiki would have a retirement plan.

She’d have been named.

Claimed.

Registered in three councils and protected under eight treaties.

She would’ve had a dynasty.

Instead?

She was exhausted.

Sleeping on benches.
Running herself raw.
Putting out fires with no one to back her up.

Because Kohaku left.

And now he was back—with smoothies and emotional momentum and a complete disregard for romantic licensing.

His phone buzzed again.

New trending clip.

A video of Kagome poking fun at Kohaku while he swept the shrine steps in slow, hot-boy form.

“He’s helping around the shrine! They’re so domestic!”
“Someone check on Sesshōmaru.”
#BoyfriendResume
#ShrineBaeConfirmed
#Sesshwho

Sesshōmaru did not flinch.

But one eye twitched.

Just once.

He closed the tab.

Rose from his chair.

The human was still on her shrine grounds.

Which meant it was time.

He was going there next.

Because if Kohaku thought he could just stroll back into Kagome’s life with a broom, a smoothie, and a spiritual resume without retribution—

Then he clearly hadn’t been properly introduced to Sesshōmaru, son of the Great Dog General, heir to the West, and current Director of Romantic Threat Mitigation.

War had been declared.

And this time?

The paperwork was already filled out.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Eight: He’s Still at Her Shrine

He had every intention of showing up.

In person.
With documentation.
Dignity.
Dominance.

A revised shrine zoning scroll under one arm and a spiritual presence strong enough to purge the memory of Kohaku’s jawline from the mortal consciousness.

Wool-blend. Black. Tailored like a threat.
The kind of coat that whispered “power” but screamed “step away from the priestess.”

Everything was prepped.

The coat. The contracts. The clause he was going to recite from memory about “territorial alignment sub-clauses in inter-species renovation partnerships.”

And then—he made a mistake.

He checked Twitter.

Again.

Because Sesshōmaru, son of the Great Dog General, lord of the Western lands, council-appointed demon liaison, and spiritual enforcer of ninety-seven binding treaties…

Did not trust humans unsupervised.

Especially on social media.

Especially when they were allegedly “ex-boyfriends” with triceps and time on their hands.

And he had been right.

There she was.
Sango.

At the shrine. First.

Already drinking a beer on the front steps like it was her patio and not a location of registered spiritual significance.

Arm casually tossed over her brother’s shoulder. Laughing. Unbothered.

Kagome was nowhere in sight—probably inside.

Sesshōmaru narrowed his eyes.

They looked relaxed. Too relaxed.

Like family.

Like people who had never once submitted shrine visitation paperwork in their entire smug, spiritually negligent lives.

Then a new post dropped.

A video.

He pressed play without hesitation—because restraint was for emotionally stable demons, and he hadn’t been one of those since Kohaku’s biceps reentered the region.

The footage was grainy.
Filmed behind the hydrangeas.
Standard fan-level espionage.

But the audio?

Perfect.

Sango: Took you long enough to come back.
Kohaku: You said it was an emergency.
Sango: Yeah. Like your woman being claimed in real time.
Kohaku: Thanks for the heads-up.
Sango: You were this close, Kohaku. This close to losing her. Step. It. Up.
Kohaku: My game’s never slipped when it comes to her.
Sango: You left.
Kohaku: I left so I could support her. And the shrine.
Sango: Yeah? Well great. Now stay back.
Kohaku: Yes ma’am.

Sesshōmaru didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Because he was calculating.

Slow. Precise. Cold.

Like someone manually rebooting their soul.

The audacity.

The sheer bureaucratic blasphemy of it.

Support her?
He funded her. Not the human. Quietly. Thoroughly. Without ego—okay, some ego—but with measurable results.

He had rerouted political tension, managed council optics, repaired the shrine’s foundation, and boosted human-demon relations because of her.

This man brought a beer and a smile.

And thought it counted.

Sesshōmaru stared at the screen.

Blank. Silent.

Thinking about a very specific shrine policy that banned emotional manipulation within ten meters of the purification gate.

This felt like a direct violation.

There was too much in that conversation.

Too much context.

Too much familiarity.

Too much intention.

And then—

Kagome stepped into frame.

Her hair pulled back. Her shirt slightly damp like she’d been cleaning. A towel in hand. Sun behind her like some casual deity of spiritual labor and social confusion.

The moment she appeared, Kohaku straightened like he’d rehearsed the scene in a mirror.

The moment she appeared, Kohaku straightened, beer in hand, voice low and fond.

Kohaku: Hey, gorgeous. You doing anything later tonight?
Kagome: Nope.

Sesshōmaru shut the video.
Gently.
With one tap of a very expensive, suddenly offensive touchscreen.

And just sat there.

The sound of the word “Nope” still echoing in his head like a war drum.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t throw anything.

Because he was calm.
He was collected.

He was dangerously, gloriously annoyed.

And not just with Kohaku.

With her.

Because hadn’t she mentioned—offhandedly, like it was nothing—that her ex called?

“Just wanted to know if I had a family now,” she’d said, brushing it off like a mosquito bite and not a war crime.

A family.

Now.

As in, because of him.

Because of the press. The photos. The headlines.

And Sesshōmaru—professional, elegant, emotionally stable Sesshōmaru—had believed her.

He thought it meant nothing.

She’d said “ex” like it meant two weeks in college.
Like a fling.
A hiccup.

She’d said it like the man hadn’t been in her life for five years.

Like he hadn’t made her laugh with smoothie straws and shrine-sweeping forearms.

Like she hadn’t trusted him first.

And now, this human—this unregistered, unclaimed, forehead-sheening idiot—thought he could just show up.

Smile.

Sweep.

Undo all of Sesshōmaru’s work.

Like the public flirting hadn’t taken months of restraint.
Like the meetings, the gestures, the subtle courting, the way Sesshōmaru learned when to let her breathe and when to stay—

None of it mattered?

Was he really so replaceable?

Was Kagome so oblivious?

No.

She wasn’t.

And Kohaku wasn’t just clueless.

He was stupid.

Stupid enough to think he could walk into the middle of a high-level pre-mating spiral and pretend like the last few months hadn’t happened.

And yet she hadn’t told this man. 

About him.

To stay away.

Or maybe she had? And Sango had caused his return. 

She had said “ex” like it meant “fling,” not “five years.”
She had said it with a shrug. Not a disclaimer.
She had said it like the man hadn’t just arrived at the shrine, emotionally hydrated and spiritually ripped, with a beer and an entire mission statement.

He was playing to win.

And now Sesshōmaru realized—

He wasn’t dealing with a rival.
He wasn’t dealing with jealousy.

He was dealing with a job interview.

Kohaku was a candidate.
With references.
And local support.
And possibly a secret handshake with her grandfather.

Sesshōmaru was now behind schedule.

This wasn’t just about dominance.
This was about reestablishing permanence.

And the next move?
Had to be flawless.

He closed the file.
Stared out the window.
Ignored another push notification reading:

“He’s sweeping again. Why is that hot? #DomesticKohaku”

His coat lay waiting on the back of the chair. His scrolls were tucked into his satchel.

He didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because if he showed up now?

If he walked into the shrine like a territorial mongrel, all bark and paperwork—

He’d lose her.

Maybe not right away.

But enough to matter.

So he sat back.

Eyes cold.
Jaw clenched.

And made plans.

Because she wasn’t claimed yet.
But she was close.

And he—

He had wars to win.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Nine: You Shouldn’t Look at Her Like That

He showed up.

No cameras.
No council entourage.
No scrolls.
No assistant reminding him to “smile with the corners of your eyes” for human media.

Just himself.

Unannounced.
Undeniable.

Wearing all black. Sharp-shouldered. Silence wrapped around him like armor.

The kind of presence that made people bow without knowing why.
The kind of quiet that stopped clocks.

He took the shrine steps two at a time. Not rushed. Not impatient. Just… deliberate.

The wards flickered around him, accepting him without protest.

Of course they did.

He’d reinforced half of them.

He stepped into the courtyard.

Paused.

No lights.
No laughter.
No scent of reiki curling through the air like wild flowers and stubborn willpower.

No one home.

Just stillness.
The moon.
And the creeping feeling in his gut that something had been moved in his absence.

He stood there. At the center of the place they had once shared—if not in name, then in presence. In rhythm. In breath.

And then—
His phone buzzed.

Twitter.

He stared at it.

Loathed it.

Checked it anyway.

Because the humans never shut up.
And they always knew where she was.

The notification was from a fan account.

@ShrineWifeWatch
Pinned post. A photo.
Caption screaming like a war cry:

“He brought the TRUCK. He brought the BLANKET. HE BROUGHT THE STARS.”
#KohakuAndKagome
#OutdoorRomanceChampion
#TeamHumanStayWinning

Sesshōmaru’s thumb hovered. Then tapped.

The image opened.

And for a moment—

Everything stilled.

Kagome.

In the bed of a truck.
Barefoot.
Hair loose.
Wrapped in a blanket that clearly wasn’t hers.

Laughing.

Her head tilted back as she pointed upward, clearly explaining some constellation like she hadn’t once claimed she was too tired for romance. Like her mouth hadn’t been too full of sharp, exhausted honesty to ever dream something like this out loud.

Beside her—

Kohaku.

One leg out. One arm behind her.

And—gods help him—

The man brought a candle.

A thermos.
Two mugs.
Tea. Probably brewed with filtered moonlight and human arrogance.

Sesshōmaru zoomed in like forensics would uncover a lie.

They were smiling.

She was leaning in.

Worse—she looked safe.

The second image?

A close-up of her profile. Lit by moonlight. Eyes crinkled. Laughing like she’d never known restraint. Like something had cracked her open and made her light again.

Below it, a tweet:

“He said she always wanted to go stargazing. So he made it happen.”

Sesshōmaru stared at the screen.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t exhale.

But something inside his chest pulled tight.

Kohaku wasn’t testing waters anymore.

He was promising oceans.

And Kagome?

She looked like she believed him.

He should have expected it.

The boy was a strategist.

He didn’t attack. He circled.

He didn’t ask for a second chance—he just made himself look inevitable.

He didn’t compete directly. He crafted scenes.

Truck beds. Blankets. Tea. Stars.

It was soft. Strategic. Charming.

Manipulative.

This wasn’t spontaneity.

It was curated emotional warfare.

And Kagome—damn her big heart and awful taste in timing—was falling for it.

Leaning into the nostalgia.
Letting the warmth of the night and a good memory convince her that years of abandonment could be romanticized with candlelight and a mug.

Sesshōmaru knew the type.

Humans had the attention span of squirrels but the memory of elephants when it came to old lovers.

All it took was a shared constellation and suddenly they forgot who watched them bleed.

Suddenly, a man with a pickup truck and a plan was “trying.”

As if Sesshōmaru hadn’t done anything.

As if cleaning her shrine with a war chest, filing seventeen council petitions, navigating the minefield of interspecies PR—and enduring countless events with her at his side, half-feral and half-holy—meant nothing compared to one perfectly lit date.

It was infuriating.

Because Kohaku had waited.

Waited until she was steady enough to glow again. Until her spine was upright. Until the circles under her eyes faded and she looked like someone ready to be adored again.

He hadn’t done the work.

He hadn’t seen the fractures.

He didn’t know what it cost to rebuild her trust, or get her to accept anything, let alone kindness.

But he’d timed it well.

Brought stars when the storm was over.

And Kagome?

She was letting him sit beside her like he hadn’t been gone when it mattered.

Sesshōmaru turned off the screen, jaw tight, breath measured.

Because this wasn’t about jealousy.

(It was.)

It wasn’t about possessiveness.

(Also that.)

It was about entitlement to earned ground.

Sesshōmaru did not lose.
He did not share.
And he absolutely, unequivocally, did not get replaced by a thermos and a warm smile.

He had paid attention.

He had listened.

He had provided. 

And maybe—he should’ve said more.

Maybe he should’ve taken her stargazing before the he had come back.

Maybe he should’ve carved out space for joy when she was exhausted. 

But he hadn’t.

He had rebuilt. Reinforced. Provided.

And he had waited.

But not sweetly.

Not like Kohaku.

He didn’t bring candles.
He brought shields.

He brought infrastructure.
Protection.
Loyalty in the form of action and silence and walls.

Walls he thought would keep her safe.

Instead, they’d kept her out.

And now?

Now she was in the back of a truck with someone who knew how to offer warmth at the exact moment Sesshōmaru had finally remembered how.

He let the silence stretch.

Then stood.

Shoulders square. Pulse thunderous.

Because Kagome might be wrapped in someone else’s blanket, under someone else’s sky—

But she was still his.

Even if she didn’t know it yet.

Even if he had to prove it the hard way.

Even if it meant peeling back every quiet failure and asking himself the question that terrified him more than losing:

Did she still want to be his?

And if the answer was no?

Then he’d still fight.

Because no one took from Sesshōmaru.

Not land.
Not legacy.
Not her.

Not without a war.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty: He Digs, the Wolf Bites

Sesshōmaru dug like a dog.

Not a refined, ancestral wolf. Not a celestial hound of lore. No. A dog—fur-flying, earth-kicking, paws-deep-in-dirt level of obsession that would’ve made his ancestors weep into their ceremonial robes.

But this was war.

And war required intelligence.

So he buried himself in council databases, cross-realm registries, military records, and one very private matchmaking archive with the kind of determination usually reserved for territorial marking and asset seizures.

By dawn, he had it.

A file.

Sleek. Black. Legally damning.

Thicker than a council budget and twice as incriminating.

The kind of file that reeks of scandal—and justice.

Stamped across the front in crimson ink:

Kohaku Taijiya — Personal Addendum: Unclassified Offspring, Civil Record

Sesshōmaru didn’t smile.

Not exactly.

But something sharp flickered at the edge of his mouth. A smirk, maybe. Or a warning.

The shrine was having breakfast.

He could smell it.

Miso. Toast. Sliced fruit. A little too much spiritual optimism for his taste.

He climbed the steps in black.

Black coat. Black boots. Black folder.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t greet.

He simply arrived.

Like a storm that filed paperwork first.

In the courtyard, the scene unfolded like a sitcom:
Sango on the porch, drinking tea with a smirk.
Kohaku in a Henley—again—pouring orange juice like a reformed war criminal turned suburban dad.
And Kagome, barefoot, hair wild, laughing like the sun had personally blessed her.

It was domestic.
It was cheerful.
It was unacceptable.

Sesshōmaru stepped into view, every inch of him a contrast to their soft morning.

All black. All silk. All cold.

The laughter died.

He didn’t wait for silence.

He made it.

Then he crossed the courtyard, elegant and predatory, and dropped the folder on the table with a solid, fated thunk.

Kagome blinked. “Sesshōmaru—what—?”

“You might want to review that,” he said, calm as judgment. “Before promoting the human to anything important.”

Kohaku didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just sighed.

Like he’d been expecting this exact moment since the second he returned.

“Okay, first off,” Kohaku said, reaching for his juice, “we’re on a break—”

Sesshōmaru tilted his head, raised a brow, and said dryly:

“How convenient. So is your moral compass.”

Sango choked on her tea.

Kagome looked between them, bewildered. “Wait—what’s going on?”

Kohaku gestured toward the folder like it had personally inconvenienced him. “I need to talk to you first. Before you open that.”

“You’re in it,” Sesshōmaru said flatly. “You are the folder.”

Kagome hesitated. Reached for it.

Kohaku stood quickly. “Kagome, I’m serious. Just give me a second to explain. It’s…a lot.”

“Oh, it’s a lot,” Sesshōmaru echoed, voice all silk and arsenic. “You might want to take notes. Or at least get a second chair—for your child.”

The air snapped.

Sango gaped.

Kagome froze.

And Kohaku visibly fought the urge to put his face in his hands.

“You have a kid?” Sango hissed, nearly knocking over her tea. “You didn’t tell me you had a kid!”

“I was going to!”

“When, during the shrine tour or the stargazing date?”

Sesshōmaru smoothed the cuff of his sleeve. “Don’t worry. The council is drafting a new transparency clause: ‘Declare your dependents before desecrating ancestral steps.’”

Kagome stood there, stunned. Her hands hovered near the folder like it might sprout fangs and bite her with truth.

Sesshōmaru didn’t look at her.

He looked at Kohaku.

Like a predator looks at a poorly-constructed fence.

Then, still perfectly composed, he turned to Kagome.

“I expect the trash to be removed from our shrine by end of day.”

Kohaku scoffed. “Seriously?”

“You’re still here,” Sesshōmaru replied without blinking.

Kagome opened her mouth—but he was already moving. Already turning. Already done.

Halfway through the gate, he paused.

Not for drama.
Not for effect.
Just because he could.

And without looking back, he said:

“I’ll pick you up for dinner at seven.”

Then he vanished down the stairs, coat trailing behind him like an exorcism of regret and competition.

Sango stared at the silence he left behind.

Kohaku muttered, “I should’ve brought coffee instead of juice.”

And Kagome?

Kagome slowly reached for the folder.

Because if he was picking her up for dinner…

She needed to know exactly what was on the menu.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-One: The Funeral of Chill

He arrived at exactly 6:59 p.m.

Because he was not the kind of male who made grand declarations of interest and then showed up “fashionably late” like a wolf.

No. He was punctual. Deliberate. Mildly terrifying.

He was the kind of man whose calendar had reminders for things like “spiritual negotiation tactics,” “council wine-tasting optics,” and “burn down the competition (subtle, polite, non-lethal).”

Tonight’s entry?
Pick up Kagome. Wear black. Win.

The car slid to a stop at the foot of the Higurashi shrine steps. Polished obsidian paint. Windows tinted like secrecy and spite. A vehicle that whispered, I don’t chase women—I offer transport at optimized luxury settings.

He stepped out. Adjusted his cuffs. Looked up.

And there she was.

Top of the stairs.

Dressed in all black.
Turtleneck sweater. Black skirt. Black tights. Black heels.
Hair in a twist like she’d yanked it up mid-fury and let vengeance handle the rest.

The outfit said:
 1. I am not emotionally available.
 2. This is not a date.
 3. If anyone breathes incorrectly, I will scream into the void.

Sesshōmaru sincerely hoped it was a funeral.

Preferably for her tolerance of idiots with unresolved romantic tension and paternity surprises.

“Priestess,” he greeted smoothly, like he hadn’t fantasized about this outfit all afternoon.

She squinted. “You’re wearing all black.”

“So are you.”

“Are we mourning something?”

“Your patience,” he offered.

“My last nerve.”

He inclined his head. “May it rest in peace.”

She started down the stairs in heels that made her walk like vengeance personified, the click-click-click of do not test me today, dog echoing like divine warning. She stopped halfway. Pointed at him.

“You came in a death car.”

“It’s a Lexus.”

“It’s brooding.”

“So are you.”

She scowled and kept walking.

At the bottom, he opened the passenger door.

She blinked at it.

Then at him.

Then crossed her arms. “This doesn’t erase what you did.”

“I didn’t intend to erase. Just…edit the narrative.”

“You printed the narrative on papyrus and mailed it to the entire council.”

“It was parchment.”

“You included graphs.”

“Bar graphs are persuasive.”

“THERE WAS A PIE CHART FOR ‘LIES MEN TELL.’”

He didn’t flinch.

“I enjoy visual aids.”

She slid into the seat with a groan of eternal suffering.

They drove.

Five blocks of icy silence.

Then:

“What was your problem with Kohaku?”

Sesshōmaru didn’t look away from the road.

“Besides the fact that he reappeared without a license, a registry stamp, or any formal announcement? Besides the smoothie? The dimples? The arms?”

“That’s not a crime.”

“It should be.”

“He’s a nice person.”

“He’s a charismatic safety hazard.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound so jealous.”

“I’m spiritually offended.”

“You reported him for ‘unholy flirtation.’”

“I stand by that report.”

“You put ‘suspicious jawline’ under spiritual violations.”

“It was both symmetrical and smug.”

Kagome slapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh my god, you’re insane.”

“I’m focused.”

“You ruined breakfast.”

“I improved it.”

“By dragging out a child like a courtroom exhibit?!”

“Exhibit A: The consequences of unsupervised nostalgia.”

She groaned into her hands.

He pressed a button. The car’s climate control shifted. Silence. Softer lighting.

Then he asked, too calmly:

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“About the kid?”

“No. About him. About your five-year live-in DIY boyfriend smoothie sponsor with the emotional backstory of a Netflix limited series.”

She glared. “Because I didn’t think I needed to. It was over.”

“I found out via social media.”

“So did I!”

“That’s not better.”

She muttered something about demons and egos and cryptids with cheekbones.

At the restaurant, he opened her door again.

She looked down at it.

Then up at him.

Then down again.

“This doesn’t undo the crime.”

“No. It’s dinner.”

She sighed so hard it shifted the air around her.

They walked in together, black on black, like the main characters in a noir film about emotionally constipated deities.

They were seated at a table with dim lighting, pristine cutlery, and exactly one rose in a vase that she stared at like it had personally betrayed her.

The waiter arrived.

She ordered wine.

He ordered silence with a twist of patience.

The food came quickly.

He sliced into his steak. Calm. Precise. Unbothered.

She stabbed a potato like it owed her rent.

Halfway through the meal, she set down her fork.

“You ambushed me.”

“I warned you.”

“You can’t warn someone with a manila folder.”

He sipped his wine.

“I was efficient.”

“You’re deranged.”

“You wore black.”

“I was matching your soul.”

“I wore it to honor the death of your tolerance.”

She blinked.

Then laughed.

Once.

Sharp. Wicked.

“Gods, you’re awful.”

He smiled.

Faint. But real.

“I try.”

She drank her wine like it was holy water.

Then leaned back. “I just don’t get it. You don’t care about anyone’s opinion. But when it’s me—”

“You matter.”

Silence.

She looked away.

Then whispered, “…There was a better way of letting me know.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”

“You’re an eight-hundred-year-old dog demon with seven titles, four bank accounts, and a public relations team. Use your words.”

He leaned forward. Calm. Steady.

“You have no problem lighting me on fire in public,” he said softly. “But the human? He gets excuses.”

She stared.

He didn’t blink.

“You light me on fire for breathing too loud,” he murmured. “You threatened to hex my salad once. But he comes back from the dead with a child and an arm tan and suddenly he gets soft laughter and trust.”

“That wasn’t trust.”

“It looked like trust.”

“It was shock!”

“It looked like he got a hug.”

“IT WAS A SHOULDER BUMP.”

“He brought tea.”

“I panicked!”

He sat back.

Smug.

“You panicked,” he echoed.

She glared. “Don’t read into that.”

He tilted his head.

“I’ll pick you up again at seven tomorrow.”

She blinked. “You’re assuming I’ll say yes.”

He smirked. “You wore heels.”

She threw her napkin at him.

It missed.

He caught it anyway.

And tucked it neatly beside his wine.

Because this was war.

And he was winning.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Two: Define “Like” (For Demons)

The main course had ended.

The plates had been cleared.

The awkward tension had mellowed into conversational violence lite™—mostly harmless, occasionally biting, and one sarcastic eye-roll away from “accidental intimacy.”

They were halfway through their wine.

And still no casualties.

Kagome looked across the table like she was trying to figure out if this was a job interview, a peace treaty, or the weirdest funeral repast in the history of modern dating.

“You’re watching me eat again,” she muttered, lifting her fork.

“I’m admiring your technique,” Sesshōmaru replied smoothly.

“You’re judging my fork-to-bite ratio.”

“It is chaotic.”

“It’s efficient.”

“It’s vertical.”

“It’s called stabbing.”

“You’re not in a shrine battle. You’re eating cake.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring holy water.”

He raised a brow. “You’re lucky I like chaos in small doses.”

The waiter returned.

“Would you care for dessert?”

Kagome opened her mouth—undoubtedly to request something caffeinated and aggressive—but Sesshōmaru beat her to it.

“One matcha torte,” he said. “And one dark chocolate mousse with chili. Extra heat.”

She blinked. “You ordered for me?”

He sipped his wine. “You burn when annoyed. I thought it was thematic.”

She stared at him, stunned. Then—unfortunately—smiled.

Dammit.

He liked that one.

The one she didn’t show the camera. Or the council. The one she gave to herself after surviving a long day. Soft. Small. Real.

It lasted three seconds.

Then she sat up straighter and ruined everything by saying:

“I still don’t get what this is.”

Sesshōmaru paused mid-sip.

Kagome set down her glass. “The dinner. The renovation. The weekly scrolls, surprise furniture, contract clauses labeled ‘Additional Blessings.’ I get that you’re invested in the shrine. I get that you’re efficient. I even get that you’re annoying on purpose.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly.

“But what I don’t get,” she continued, “is why.”

He said nothing.

She leaned forward. “You don’t like me.”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

What.

“I mean,” she said, waving her fork, “you can’t. You scowl every time I speak. You send muffins back. You physically flinch when someone mentions romance. You stare like I’m a structural failure. There’s no way you’re interested.”

He stared at her.

Then at the mousse.

Then back at her.

“…You believe I’m doing all of this for someone I don’t like?”

“I think you’re doing it out of duty. Politics. Legacy. I don’t know. You don’t flirt. You don’t touch. You haven’t even said one nice thing to me that didn’t involve taxes.”

“I said you were efficient.”

“You said my shrine donation spreadsheet was efficient.”

“That was a compliment.”

“You once said my spiritual aura was ‘erratic but salvageable.’”

“It was.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

He set his utensils down.

Folded his hands.

Then, with the patience of a man explaining calculus to a squirrel, he said:

“You are correct, Kagome. I did not ‘like’ you.”

She opened her mouth—probably to yell, stab, or both—but he lifted a finger.

“I was intrigued by you. And I respected you. But ‘like’ does not come first for demons.”

She blinked.

He leaned forward, voice calm. Even. Undeniably sincere.

“Courtship comes first. After intrigue. After respect. After confirmation that the target is powerful, capable, and not a liability. Then we pursue. Quietly. Strategically. Often through gifts. Infrastructure. Public claim. Subtle possession.”

“Subtle?”

“I could have built a statue.”

“You signed a municipal ownership contract!”

“It was poetic.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

“I don’t understand how you missed this,” he said finally, gesturing to the trail of very obvious demon courtship gestures that led from the shrine couch to the chocolate mousse.

“I didn’t think it was romantic,” she muttered, stunned.

“You thought I was helping.”

“I thought you were stressed!”

“I was! You made me stressed!”

She pointed a fork at him. “You don’t even flirt!”

“I brought you a chair!”

“Chairs are not courtship!”

“I tracked your sleep schedule and customized a mattress!”

She blinked. “That’s not—normal.”

“I am not human.”

“I noticed!”

He sat back.

She huffed.

They glared across the table, surrounded by expensive desserts and spiritual confusion.

Then, finally, she asked—quietly:

“…So you’re courting me.”

“I have been.”

“For how long?”

“Since the soup incident.”

She blinked. “That was two months ago!”

“You accepted the soup.”

“I was sick!”

“I brought broth.”

She groaned.

“This is insane.”

“Efficient.”

She covered her face.

He studied her.

Then, softly:

“I did not grow up in a world where love was loud. Where interest was verbal. Where affection came with explanation.”

She peeked at him through her fingers.

“I was taught to offer stability. Protection. Legacy. And let the other party choose.”

Silence.

Her fork dropped.

He continued, voice low:

“If you want words, I will give them. If you want something slower, clearer, more human—I will adjust. But do not confuse silence with disinterest.”

Kagome blinked. Slowly. Carefully. Like her worldview had just been punched by a chocolate mousse and a daiyōkai in a tailored suit.

“…I genuinely thought you were just emotionally constipated.”

“I am.”

She cracked a smile. “And terrifying.”

“I try.”

“And awful at flirting.”

“I disagree.”

“You bribed me with a mattress.”

“You’re welcome.”

She exhaled. “Gods, I need more wine.”

“You’ll get dessert.”

She stared at the mousse.

Then at him.

Then sighed.

“…So this is a date.”

“I said it was.”

“You didn’t say—you inferred—”

He picked up his spoon. “I’ll be clearer next time.”

“There’s a next time?”

She paused.

Then smirked.

“…Fine.”

Sesshōmaru hummed. “See? Courtship.”

She rolled her eyes.

But her smile—small, reluctant, real—stayed.

And this time?

It lasted longer than three seconds.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Three: A Shrine. A Kiss. A War Crime.

Sesshōmaru drove in silence.

Not the dignified, soul-soothing silence of a victorious daiyōkai post-dinner.

No.

This was the silence of consequences.

Because Kagome—who, twenty minutes ago, had accepted dessert, courtship, and a second date—was now sitting beside him like a woman who had just watched her entire romantic alignment chart detonate in real time.

She hadn’t said a word since the restaurant.

Not one.

She hadn’t screamed, rolled her eyes, threatened him with holy fire, or even poked him in the ribs with a fork.

She just… sat there.

Staring out the window.

Mouth tight.

Face blank.

He glanced at her.

Once.

Twice.

Still no sound.

Her hands were in her lap. Her aura was neutral. Her soul was whispering ancient shrine girl static that sounded like confusion and caffeine withdrawal.

Had he broken her?

He adjusted the air settings.

She still didn’t move.

He flexed his grip on the steering wheel, jaw ticking. He hadn’t meant to startle her. But apparently, explaining demon courtship through dessert and infrastructure had short-circuited her mortal comprehension.

Maybe the mattress had been too much.

Maybe the chocolate mousse had hit her frontal lobe.

Maybe the pie chart on “Lies Men Tell” had been ill-timed.

He cleared his throat.

Still nothing.

“…You’re quiet,” he said finally, voice low and even.

Kagome blinked once. Then twice.

Still looking out the window.

Then, without turning her head, she said:

“I don’t know if you’re joking or not.”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

“What.”

She huffed. Loudly. Like a woman spiritually haunted by spreadsheets and forehead-kissing ex-boyfriends with biceps.

“This entire thing,” she snapped, finally looking at him. “The mattress. The chair. The zoning paperwork labeled ‘Additional Blessings.’ The mousse. That speech. Are you serious or are you just—memeing your way through interspecies diplomacy and trying to cancel Kohaku with affection?”

Sesshōmaru inhaled sharply through his nose.

Memeing.

She thought he was memeing.

This was the worst dinner aftermath in the history of demon courtship. He had revealed feelings. He had used human emotional vocabulary. He had orchestrated matcha mousse.

And she thought it was a bit.

“I see,” he said flatly.

She turned back to the window. “I just—don’t know. Maybe you’re trying to fix your Twitter reputation. Or maybe this is a campaign. A PR move. Or maybe you’re just trying to spiritually neuter Kohaku via renovation contracts and emotional gaslighting.”

He didn’t respond.

Because what he wanted to say was: You are the most exhausting, dangerous, feral light in the spiritual void of my life and if I could staple my mating mark to your forehead, I would have done it after the soup.

But that, apparently, was “intense.”

So instead, he pulled into the shrine driveway.

Parked the car.

Opened the door without a word.

Walked around to her side and opened hers too.

With violence.

Soft violence.

The kind that made the air crackle.

She looked up, startled.

He didn’t speak.

Just offered his hand.

She didn’t take it.

So he huffed. Turned. And walked up the stairs.

Because fine.

Let the priestess stomp behind him like a woman plagued by uncertainty and charisma fatigue. Let her doubt him. Let her believe this was about social optics and not the fact that her scent was now embedded in his coat lining like a problem he didn’t want solved.

He reached the top of the stairs.

She followed.

Still arguing. Still flailing.

Still completely unaware that he was one moment away from putting her against the gate and into the timeline.

“Look,” she said, catching up, “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the dinner. Or the gesture. Or the mousse. But you can’t just kiss someone with a property deed and expect them to get the memo—”

He stopped walking.

She kept going.

Into him.

And suddenly?

She was pressed against the shrine gate.

Hard.

Pinned between old wood and something very tall, very quiet, and very fed up.

He grabbed her hair—gently, firmly, like he was done arguing with words—and tilted her head back.

Kagome blinked. “Wait—are you—”

He kissed her.

Like a court ruling.

Like divine punishment.

Like the answer to a prayer she hadn’t meant to speak out loud.

There was no warning. No warm-up. No tasteful hesitation.

Just Sesshōmaru.

Mouth firm. Hands deliberate. Aura wrapped around her like war and velvet.

He kissed her like he was tired of explanations.

Tired of being doubted.

Tired of living on the edge of a shrine gate while her ex did bicep curls and smoothies in the courtyard.

He kissed her like this was the goddamn declaration of intent.

And somewhere—just barely audible over the sound of her shocked inhale and his perfectly unbothered exhale—

CLICK.

A camera.

A camera flash.

A shriek.

“Oh my GOD,” someone gasped from the bushes. “I GOT IT. I GOT THE MONEY SHOT.”

Sesshōmaru didn’t move.

Kagome was frozen.

The air was still.

Then—

The sound of rapid footsteps.

And the unmistakable cry of a teenager possessed by fandom and crime:

“POSTING. IMMEDIATELY. #SHRINEWIFEFOREVER.”

Sesshōmaru sighed against her mouth.

Long. Deep. Soul-weary.

Then pulled back.

Just enough to glare at her.

She stared up at him, dazed. Breathless. Possibly short-circuiting.

“…You kissed me,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“In front of the gate.”

“Correct.”

“And the internet just saw.”

“Good.”

“Was that a threat?”

“It was a promise.”

Kagome’s knees buckled.

He caught her.

Lifted her upright like she weighed less than his annual shrine tax reports.

Then leaned in again.

Voice low. Steady. Dangerous.

“Next time,” he murmured, “you ask if I’m joking—I’ll kiss you harder.”

She choked.

The bushes rustled.

A fan account screamed.

And Sesshōmaru, Lord of the West, Strategic Director of Emotional Retaliation and Unholy Romance—

Walked her calmly into the shrine.

Because the next war?

Was already trending.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Four: Set Me Down, You Emotionally Eligible Menace

He carried her into the shrine like a bride.

Or a hostage.

Or possibly a tax-deductible holy acquisition with soft hair and a tendency to scream during spiritual audits.

Kagome was limp in his arms—but not relaxed limp. Not the satisfied post-kiss glow of a woman who had just been dramatically claimed against sacred architecture.

No.

This was rage paralysis.

The kind only a priestess could weaponize with crossed arms, flared nostrils, and a dignity so loud it nearly un-kissed him out of existence.

“Put me down,” she said, voice deadly calm.

“No,” he replied, walking deeper into the shrine like he hadn’t just set off romantic DEFCON 1 in front of God, Twitter, and the entire Higurashi bloodline.

“Sesshōmaru,” she hissed, squirming in his arms like a sanctified raccoon about to throw hands. “You cannot just manhandle people into emotional epiphanies!”

“I can,” he said smoothly, stepping over the threshold. “And I did.”

“This is illegal,” she muttered, slapping his shoulder with the force of someone who wasn’t even trying to hurt him—just emotionally dislodge his spine.

He blinked down at her, perfectly unfazed.

“This is trespassing,” she continued, kicking one heel off mid-air like it offended her spiritually. “Of my body. On my shrine. While I’m dressed like vengeance.”

“I thought you looked like regret,” he said mildly. “I was moved.”

“PUT. ME. DOWN.”

“No.”

“I will scream.”

“You already did.”

“I will hex your Lexus.”

He paused.

That one felt personal.

But still—not enough to change course.

He carried her into the main hall like she weighed nothing. Which she almost did—at least compared to the emotional gravity of this entire godforsaken romance arc. Her fingers curled around the edge of his coat like she couldn’t decide whether to fight him or file for joint custody of the shrine couch.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, half-sprawled across his arms like spiritual chaos wrapped in tights and poor coping skills. “You’re an eight-hundred-year-old walking HR violation with cheekbones and zero chill.”

He considered this.

“That’s accurate.”

She squawked.

“WHY are you like this?”

“Because you refuse to believe anything that isn’t bar graphed, notarized, and delivered with spiritual accessories.”

“I BELIEVED THE MOUSSE.”

“And yet,” he said, pausing by the inner room, “here we are.”

She kicked off her other shoe. Violently. It hit the wall with the force of a purification rite.

He adjusted his grip.

She flailed.

“Set me down, you emotionally eligible menace!”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

Then—slowly—lowered her to the tatami floor.

She staggered. Caught herself. Glared.

And he, very calmly, very serenely, looked her over.

And wondered, briefly, why he hadn’t done it sooner.

Because this?

This post-argument, post-kiss, barefoot and furious version of Kagome Higurashi?

She was glorious.

Hair wild. Eyes burning. Skirt slightly crooked. Aura flickering between divine judgment and whatever came after “furious flirting.”

She looked like she was five seconds from either marrying him or banishing him to the shadow realm.

And he?

He had never been more in love.

“You are the worst,” she muttered.

“You’re barefoot.”

“I had heels.”

“You looked taller.”

“I was taller.”

“I liked it.”

She picked up a pillow and threw it at his head.

He caught it. Gently. Like a gift.

Then sat down. Calm. Perfectly composed.

Like a demon who hadn’t just publicly announced his mating intentions via shrine gate assault and unexpected bridal carry.

Kagome stared at him. Huffed.

Then sat down across from him like she was settling in for a holy trial.

“What now?” she asked, exasperated.

Sesshōmaru folded his hands.

“We discuss boundaries.”

She blinked.

“Like adults,” he added. “In between battles.”

She narrowed her eyes.

He stared back.

Then smirked—barely.

“…Do I get a PowerPoint?” she muttered.

He reached into his satchel.

Pulled out a folder.

Labeled: Potential Joint Custody of Shared Property & Affection — Draft One.

Kagome made a noise so high-pitched it may have killed a moth in the rafters.

He passed her the folder.

She took it.

And for once—

Didn’t throw it.

Progress.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Holy Trinity of Nope

They sat facing each other.

Tatami beneath them. Tension between them. A shrine full of spiritual legacy around them. And on the table between their outstretched hands?

A single folder.

Neutral.

Heavy.

Probably cursed.

Kagome hadn’t opened it yet.

Mostly because she was suspicious that it contained either a legally binding mating contract or another pie chart.

She squinted across the table at Sesshōmaru, who looked—as always—like a man who ate tension for breakfast and paired it with still water and a mild disdain for emotion.

He folded his arms.

Straightened his cuffs.

Then spoke, calm as divine judgment and twice as condescending.

“There will be rules.”

Kagome stared. “Excuse me?”

“Boundaries,” he clarified, as if that was somehow less offensive. “Non-negotiable. Immediate implementation.”

She blinked once.

Then leaned forward. “You’re setting terms now?”

“Yes.”

“Like I’m a diplomatic hostage?”

“No,” he said, completely unbothered. “Like you’re mine.”

Her brain short-circuited. Possibly her spiritual core, too.

“…I’m sorry, was that possessive declaration number six this week?”

“Seven.”

“Oh, great. You’re keeping score.”

“It’s important to track progress.”

“I WILL set you on fire.”

He raised a brow. “Only after reviewing the rules.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Fine. Hit me.”

Sesshōmaru didn’t even blink. Just lifted a hand and calmly extended one clawed finger as if counting holy sins.

“Rule One: No Kohaku.”

Kagome stared.

“No what now?”

“No Kohaku,” he repeated, coldly. “No visits. No lingering. No ‘accidental’ shrine chores in Henleys.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“He brought a truck bed and thermos.”

Kagome groaned into her hands. “It was a date.”

“It was a strategic ambush with blankets.”

She peeked at him between her fingers. “Are you jealous of the thermos?”

“I am enraged by the thermos.”

She made a strangled noise.

He lifted a second finger.

“Rule Two: No exes. Of any kind.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Dead, undead, reincarnated, or immortal—no exceptions.”

“You literally have a shrine fanbase and three active stalkers on Twitter—”

“They do not have keys to your property.”

“They shouldn’t have art commissions, either!”

He ignored her.

Lifted a third finger.

“Rule Three: No wolves.”

She stared.

Flatly.

“Wow,” she said. “Speciesism. Love that for you.”

“It’s not speciesism,” he said calmly. “It’s pest control.”

“He brought flowers,” she hissed.

“He brought tulips,” Sesshōmaru snapped. “You hate tulips.”

“Wait—how do you even—”

“I read your shrine donation wishlist.”

Kagome blinked.

Then blinked again.

“You… you memorized my wishlist?”

He looked away.

Just slightly.

“…It was efficient.”

She covered her face and screamed into her palms.

He leaned forward across the table.

Low. Steady. Unforgiving.

“Exes,” he repeated, “represent unfinished business. Wolves represent hormonal stupidity. And Kohaku represents five years of unsupervised emotional damage and smoothie-based spiritual trespassing.”

“You need therapy.”

“I need peace.”

“You need a nap.”

“I sent you a mattress.”

She dropped her forehead to the table with a dramatic thunk.

“I hate how logical you make your insane points sound.”

“I am not insane,” he said gently. “I am territorial.”

“You’re possessive.”

“I am focused.”

“You’re terrifying.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She lifted her head. Sighed. Stared at him like she was calculating divine penalties for being this emotionally competent and this utterly unhinged.

And then—quietly, begrudgingly—

“…Fine.”

He raised a brow.

She glared. “No exes. No Kohaku. No wolves.”

He nodded once.

Regal. Composed. Triumph glowing faintly in the silvery shimmer of his eyes.

Kagome sighed again.

“…What do I get in return?”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

Paused.

Then—very calmly—reached into his folder and pulled out a laminated page labeled “Proposal: Shrine Wife Privileges & Perks”

She screamed.

And somewhere outside?

A fan account definitely heard it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Lamination of Doom

Kagome stared at the laminated document on the table like it was a cursed object. Like the second she touched it, she’d be bound by twelve marriage clauses, a brand partnership, and a lifetime subscription to whatever psychotic plan Sesshōmaru had just unleashed upon the world.

She didn’t touch it.

She just pointed.

Hard.

Accusingly.

“Why,” she said slowly, like she was reading him his last rites, “do you have a laminated page titled ‘Proposal: Shrine Wife Privileges & Perks’?”

Sesshōmaru blinked.

Once.

Completely calm. Completely sincere.

“Because,” he said smoothly, “I’m proposing.”

Kagome’s soul left her body.

“What?!”

“I’m proposing,” he repeated, as if this was a perfectly reasonable thing to do in the middle of her living room. “Obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“There’s a header.”

“There’s lamination!”

“It’s organized.”

“You included bullet points!”

“You prefer clarity.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Sesshōmaru gestured to the document like it was Exhibit A in a case for permanent holy matrimony. “Page one outlines the foundational benefits. Domestic autonomy. Joint shrine expansion. Formalized territory protection.”

Kagome made a horrified choking sound.

“Page two,” he continued, undeterred, “includes emotional compensation: nightly foot massages, seasonal flower offerings, optional forehead kisses, and exclusive rights to publicly humiliate me during council sessions.”

Her eye twitched. “You’re offering me…forehead kisses…and municipal zoning rights…as a marriage package?”

“Standard daiyōkai courtship,” he said evenly. “Custom-tailored. Efficient. Romantic.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“No normal person proposes with a laminated brochure.”

“I am not normal.”

“Understatement.”

“I am prepared.”

“You brought a stapled appendix marked ‘Bonus Wife Incentives!’”

“I offered scented candles.”

“You annotated them.”

Sesshōmaru blinked. “You like sandalwood.”

Kagome stood up.

Abruptly.

Like if she didn’t move her body, she would spontaneously combust from spiritual bewilderment.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m direct.”

“You’re unhinged.”

He tilted his head. “You haven’t said no.”

“I haven’t said yes!”

“You’re holding the document.”

“I—” She looked down at her hands. She was. Holding it. Somewhere in the emotional spiral, she’d grabbed the damn laminated proposal like a fool possessed by shiny objects and organized passion.

She dropped it like it burned.

He caught it before it hit the floor. Carefully. Casually. Like it was sacred scripture and not a glorified romance spreadsheet.

“I’ll print another,” he said smoothly.

“I will exorcise you.”

“I’ve been purified four times,” he said mildly. “It didn’t stick.”

Kagome spun on her heel. Marched toward the door. Muttered curses in three dialects. Waved her hands like a holy banshee full of caffeine and confused arousal.

Sesshōmaru followed.

At a respectful distance.

Still holding the laminated page.

She turned suddenly. Glared up at him. “Is this how all daiyōkai propose?”

“No,” he said simply.

She narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you doing it like this?”

He blinked. “Because I don’t want to give you flowers.”

“…What?”

“I want to give you infrastructure. I want to co-manage a shrine. I want to attend events with matching outfits and a legally protected emotional bond. I want you funded. Rested. Worshipped. I want our joint calendar synced and your holy aura optimized.”

Kagome’s mouth fell open.

Sesshōmaru didn’t stop.

“I want a child-proofed front gate, a privacy clause for spiritual rituals, and your grandfather banned from giving media interviews. I want our enemies confused. Our council terrified. And our fans legally required to donate to our anniversary fund.”

He stepped closer.

Soft now.
Dangerous.
Real.

“I want you to know that you were never a trend. Or a PR stunt. Or a temporary shrine wife for optics. I want you to know that I meant it. Every chair. Every document. Every strategically delivered soup container.”

She just… stared.

Breathing hard.
Eyes wild.
Voice faint.

“…You forgot one bullet point.”

He blinked.

She stepped forward.
Close now.
Closer.

“So help me,” she whispered, “if you don’t include blowjobs on the perks list, I will print my own.”

Sesshōmaru’s eye twitched.

Then—coolly, calmly, unapologetically—

“I have a separate appendix for that.”

And somewhere, outside the shrine, a phone camera definitely captured the moment she tackled him into the tatami and the document fluttered through the air like divine nonsense.

Because this?
This was courtship.

And she still hadn’t said no.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Audacity of Her Ankles

Kagome was still perched on top of him.

Tatami mats beneath them. One laminated proposal fluttering gently to the floor like a legal leaf of chaos. Her hair was askew. Her skirt was dangerously high. And her eyes were full of the kind of divine fury usually reserved for spiritual exorcisms and canceled delivery orders.

“You can’t propose to me like this,” she huffed.

Sesshōmaru blinked.

Once.

From beneath her.

“You’re straddling me.”

“Yes,” she snapped, “because you ambushed me with bullet points and emotional zoning clauses.”

“I brought dessert.”

“You tried to spreadsheet me into marriage!”

He tilted his head, only vaguely distracted by the way her knee was currently grazing his hip in a way that felt both illegal and blessed.

“This is an elite proposal format.”

“No,” she said flatly, “this is a demon PowerPoint with pelvic implications.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she steamrolled over him like a shrine-wife-turned-tax-auditor.

“If you want to propose to me,” she said, poking his chest with alarming authority, “there needs to be rings. And dates. And romance. And maybe a picnic that doesn’t involve laminated paperwork!”

Sesshōmaru stared at her finger.

Then at her mouth.

Then back at her finger like it might be legally liable for defamation of character.

“Noted,” he said slowly.

But she wasn’t done.

She leaned in.
Dangerously.
And poked again.

“I also need to ensure these so-called ‘benefits’ are worth it.”

He blinked. “…They are.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are they?”

His jaw twitched. “What are you implying?”

“Just that if you’re going to list ‘nightly massages’ under Perks, I should probably verify your technique.”

Sesshōmaru narrowed his eyes.

Kagome’s lips twitched.

“What,” he said lowly, “exactly, do you believe I might be bad at?”

She shrugged innocently. “Massage. Muscle pressure. Physical stamina. Other things.”

The temperature dropped.

Sesshōmaru’s eye twitched once—an ancient, elegant spasm of absolute disbelief.

“I know you are not implying—”

“You’re very still,” she said, poking again. “Maybe you have blood circulation issues.”

“I am a daiyōkai, not a lava lamp.”

“You’re very…composed.”

“I’m currently being accused of sexual incompetence by a woman sitting on my lap.”

“Not incompetence,” she said sweetly. “Just lack of evidence.”

Sesshōmaru sat up so fast he nearly took her with him.

She blinked.

He caught her waist—casually, proprietorially—and arched a brow like a man actively deciding whether this was still foreplay or an act of war.

“You want evidence?”

She opened her mouth.

He leaned in.

Fangs at her ear.

Hot breath trailing down her neck.

“You want data-backed courtship metrics?”

She twitched.

His grip tightened slightly.

“You want proof of benefit? Return on investment? A thesis on body worship?”

Kagome made a strangled sound best filed under “accidental moan with bonus reiki.”

He smirked.

Barely.

“Very well,” he murmured. “Trial phase begins tomorrow.”

She blinked. “Trial what now—”

“You’ll receive your first massage at seven p.m. Post-shrine duties. Full duration. Report back on satisfaction level, flexibility metrics, and spiritual muscle tension index.”

“That’s not—”

“Appendix A,” he continued calmly, “will include comparative data for other activities.”

“Sesshōmaru.”

“Appendix B will involve tongue.”

“OH MY GOD.”

He stood—with her still in his arms.

She shrieked.

He ignored it.

“You want courtship?” he said coolly. “You’ll get courtship. Dates. Rings. Emotional chaos. Laminated documentation and a preview of demonic stamina.”

Kagome tried to argue.

Failed.

Mostly because she was still being carried bridal-style toward the kitchen, where apparently the next phase of his courtship plan included tea, foot rubs, and a shocking amount of organized affection.

She buried her face in his shoulder.

“I regret everything,” she mumbled.

“No, you don’t,” he replied.

And damn it—

She really didn’t.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Future Lady Tashio—Maybe

Sesshōmaru had placed her—gently, reverently, strategically—on the couch like she was a shrine offering made of emotional backpay and latent mating energy.

Which would’ve been fine.

If he hadn’t then immediately sat beside her like they were co-owners of a mortgage, a spiritual enterprise, and five hypothetically perfect daiyōkai children.

Kagome blinked at the cushions.

Then at him.

Then at the laminated folder still somehow tucked into his sleeve like a proposal grenade.

Hard stop.

Immediate brake slam.

Spiritual emergency lever yanked.

“This is not a proposal,” she blurted, scooting approximately twelve inches away and raising a hand like she was stopping a demon bus.

Sesshōmaru blinked once. Slowly. Like she had just announced she didn’t believe in chairs.

“Excuse me?”

“This is not a proposal,” she repeated, gesturing wildly at the sofa, his face, and the whole general vibe of ‘I have claimed thee via bullet-pointed incentives.’

“You laminated a wife perks list, Sesshōmaru. A perks list. Like I’m a Costco membership with hips.”

He stared at her. Silent. Murderously elegant.

Kagome stood.

“This is not a mating ceremony. This is not a contract negotiation. We are not married. We are not even—” she paused, gesturing again, “—dating. We haven’t even gone on a normal date. We’ve had soup. One mousse. And a council-sanctioned orphanage meltdown.”

Sesshōmaru tilted his head.

“It was matcha mousse.”

“That’s not the point!”

He leaned back slightly on the couch, arms draped along the back, looking like the most emotionally expensive piece of furniture in existence.

“And yet you tackled me,” he said flatly. “On sacred tatami.”

“It was the tongue appendix! Anyone would’ve blacked out!”

“Hn.”

She inhaled through her nose.

Then exhaled through every chakra she possessed.

“I’m putting a boundary,” she said firmly. “Right here. Right now.”

Sesshōmaru raised a brow.

“Very well.”

“No more spontaneous mating proposals. No more laminated incentives. No tongue-based appendices. And absolutely no more bridal carrying unless I am actively fainting or holding a large cake.”

“…What kind of cake?”

“Sesshōmaru.”

He nodded once. “Understood.”

“And in return,” she said, exhaling like a priestess trying not to smite her romantic misfortune, “I’ll give you this.”

She pulled out her phone.

Logged into Twitter.

Found her barely alive account (three followers, one of them her grandfather, the other a bot who thought she sold skincare), and very calmly typed:

Future Lady Tashio — maybe.

She showed it to him.

He stared.

Then slowly, dangerously, his eyes narrowed.

“Are you trying to train me.”

Kagome blinked. “Excuse me?”

He sat up.

Straightened.

Suddenly radiating the spiritual energy of an apex predator who had just been handed a maybe instead of a blood-bound vow.

“You offer praise. Delayed gratification. Conditional reward structures. Public recognition with semantic escape clauses.”

“It’s a maybe,” she snapped. “It’s a trial period!”

He nodded slowly. “Like obedience school.”

Kagome made a strangled, high-pitched noise of divine offense.

“You absolute menace of a mating fantasy—this is not training—this is emotional boundary setting!”

He tilted his head again. “You offered me social proof in exchange for behavioral regulation.”

“It’s called hope with conditions!”

“You’re using tokenization for long-term behavioral reinforcement.”

“I will smite you.”

“Will you post it again if I make tea?”

“STOP BEING HOT WHILE MAKING SENSE.”

He stood. Calm. Lethal.

Walked to the kitchen.

“Chamomile?” he called over his shoulder.

Kagome threw a pillow at the doorway and collapsed back onto the couch like a woman emotionally hexed by her own poor romantic instincts.

She muttered into her hands.

“This was supposed to be a soft boundary. A maybe. A slow burn. Now it’s a fucking training arc.”

From the kitchen, Sesshōmaru replied serenely:

“Appendix C: verbal praise for progress is pending. Also, I accept your conditions.”

She let out a noise that was half a scream, half a moan, and 100% trademarked by shrine wives everywhere.

And somewhere—somewhere on Twitter—

The post began to spread.

Future Lady Tashio—maybe
Liked by: @DaiyokaiDaddy, @ShrineWifeMemes, and 13,027 others.
Trending: #MatingTrialEra

Because this? This was how spiritual slow burns ignited. With boundaries, branding, and one dangerously obedient demon lord.

She barely had time to collapse back into the couch and scream into a throw pillow before Sesshōmaru returned from the kitchen like some unholy combination of butler, warlord, and emotionally bonded husband she hadn’t agreed to yet.

He carried two teacups.

Porcelain. Elegant. Definitely not store-bought.

He set one down beside her.

Waited.

She reached for it—grateful, cautious, suspicious of the beverage and the implications.

And just as her fingers brushed the handle—

Sesshōmaru tilted his head.

“Another post,” he said calmly.

Kagome blinked.

“What.”

He gestured vaguely toward her phone. “If you’re setting public terms, consistency is important.”

She stared at him. “You want me to live-tweet our boundary setting?”

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “A selfie this time.”

Kagome squawked.

“I AM NOT POSTING A SELFIE WITH THE EMOTIONAL GREMLIN WHO LAMINATED A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL.”

Sesshōmaru raised a brow.

Folded his arms.

Waited.

Kagome exhaled the air of a woman trapped in a romantic dungeon she absolutely built herself.

“Who’s training who,” she muttered.

“I’m allowing shared authorship,” he replied, deadpan.

She groaned.

Pulled out her phone.

Snapped a very obvious, not cute selfie of them—her hair slightly wild, her expression screaming ‘I was emotionally ambushed,’ and Sesshōmaru beside her, perfect and smug and obviously thriving under demon-induced photogenic lighting.

She captioned it:

Trial period. He brought tea. I’m suspicious.

Then added:

#FutureLadyTashio #DefinitelyMaybe #NoTongueAppendicesYet

Posted. Done. The phone buzzed instantly. 

Sesshōmaru handed her the tea. Approved with a subtle nod.

“This arrangement is acceptable.”

Kagome stared at him. “You think this is a contractual agreement now?”

“No,” he said smoothly, sitting beside her again, “I think this is mutual escalation.”

“Oh gods.”

“You want to start officially,” he continued, “so do I.”

She froze. Looked at him.

“…Start what, exactly?”

He met her eyes. Steady. Calm. Like a man not just planning the wedding, but already mentally coordinating outfits for their hypothetical child’s school plays.

“This,” he said softly. “You. Me. No more pretending. No more plausible deniability. No more dating your ex-boyfriend in front of your sacred koi pond.”

“It was one smoothie—”

“If you’re going to train me,” he cut in, deadly serious, “then everyone better know we belong to each other.”

Kagome’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“You want us to go public-public?”

“You already did.”

“That was barely a selfie!”

“You tagged yourself as my future mate.”

“I said maybe!”

He sipped his tea. Unbothered. Unshaken.

“Then let us clarify that maybe together.”

Kagome made the noise of a woman who had just been spiritually overwhelmed by tea, testosterone, and terrifying sincerity.

And somewhere on Twitter—

The selfie hit 30,000 likes in under ten minutes.

Top comment:

@ShrineWifeMemes:
“Blink twice if you’re in danger. Blink once if you’re into it. Blink zero times if you’re spiritually mated and about to get folded like a sacred prayer scroll. #WeSeeYou”

Kagome buried her face in her tea.

“I regret everything.”

Sesshōmaru reached over. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then we’re making progress.”

And that?

That was when she knew she was doomed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Retweet of Doom

Kagome sipped her tea like it was poison.

Not because it was bad.

It was perfect, actually. Fragrant, warm, delicately brewed with just a hint of smug affection and silent promises.

Which was the problem.

She narrowed her eyes over the rim of the cup.

Across from her, Sesshōmaru sat with his own tea—unbothered, unreadable, and so calm he might as well have been carved from divine granite.

She squinted.

He stared.

Then—casually, silently, with the precision of a man who had never once been stopped by God, man, or Twitter’s terms of service—

He pulled out his phone.

Kagome froze.

“What are you doing,” she asked slowly.

He said nothing. Just scrolled. Tapped once. Then again. Then—

Liked her tweet. Her stomach dropped. 

Then he commented. Her soul died.

His comment appeared seconds later beneath the cursed shrine selfie, already gaining traction like a spiritual dumpster fire:

@WesternStrategist:
Trial accepted. You look divine. The tea was for your throat. You’ll need it.

Kagome choked so hard she nearly yeeted her mug.

“WHAT THE HELL—”

Sesshōmaru remained serenely seated.

Then—with the devastating grace of a man who paid no attention to human shame but all the attention to public declarations of war-mating—

He retweeted it. Retweeted. With his own caption.

@WesternStrategist [RT]:
My mate is in denial, but she’s photogenic. #FutureLadyTashio #TrialPeriod #EmotionalConquestPending

Kagome full-body screamed into a throw pillow.

“Sesshōmaru, take it down!”

“No.”

“This is a spiritual crime!”

“I cited my sources.”

“You tagged me in a conquest thread!”

He glanced up, sipping his tea like this was a perfectly reasonable day in the holy courtship of daiyōkai.

“You tagged yourself first.”

“That was before I knew you had Twitter.”

“I’ve had it for six years. It’s linked to my business card.”

“YOU CANNOT MIX WAR CRIMES WITH FLIRTING!”

Sesshōmaru raised a brow.

“Then stop flirting with warlords.”

“I DIDN’T—”

Her phone buzzed. Another comment. Another like. Another 400 retweets.

And at the top of her notifications:

Followed by:
@DaiyokaiCouncilOfficial
@EasternWolfCommand
@MamaHigurashi
@ShrineWifeMemes
@TashioCorpGlobal
@SpiritualAlignmentFanfic

Kagome dropped her phone like it burned.

“You’ve summoned the council.”

“Good,” he said, calmly setting his tea aside. “Then I won’t have to repeat myself when I post the mating clause addendum.”

“You are a terrorist.”

“I am in love.”

“I AM IN HELL.”

He leaned forward. Elegant. Quiet. Dangerous.

“You’re in my house now, shrine wife.”

“This is my shrine!”

“We share everything now.”

“No we don’t!”

She was still mid-existential collapse on the couch when her phone buzzed again. Not once. Not twice. But seventeen times in thirty seconds.

Kagome stared at the screen like it might bite her. Because surely—surely—he wasn’t tweeting again.

But alas. There it was. Another post. Another horrifying, deeply poetic war crime disguised as a tweet.

@WesternStrategist:
She burned my scarf and coat when we first met.
Now she’s aiming for my heart.
#FlameToClaim #TrialPeriod #SpiritualArsonist

Kagome made a sound so strangled it exited her body in octaves only dogs and divine beings could hear.

“YOU DID NOT—”

“I did,” Sesshōmaru said, calm as a goddamn glacier. “It’s important to document spiritual progression.”

“YOU SOUND LIKE A DANGEROUS ENGLISH MAJOR!”

“I’m a strategist.”

“You’re unhinged!”

He turned his phone toward her, showing her the like count climbing in real time.

37K.
42K.
50K.

Top comments:

@ShrineWifeMemes:
A man who knows she’ll destroy him but still offers his heart. Get in line, children. This is courtship.

@DaiyokaiDiaries:
Kohaku who???

@EmotionalWarCrimeWatch:
If she doesn’t marry him, I will. I’m free Wednesday. I can cook and commit tax fraud.

Kagome just…stared. At her phone. At him. At the yawning abyss of emotionally public romance she had somehow created with her one unholy tweet.

Because this? This was her fault. She posted the “maybe.” She took the selfie. She let him bring tea like they were already married and had matching bank accounts and a spiritual Netflix subscription.

And now?

Now she had the Western Lord of Emotional Chaos live-tweeting his feelings like a demon warlord who discovered metaphors and decided to weaponize vulnerability.

“…You wrote a poem,” she whispered, staring at him in numb awe. “You just casually posted a scarf-burning, soul-targeting poem.”

Sesshōmaru blinked. “It’s an accurate timeline.”

Kagome buried her face in her hands.

“This is so much worse than the zoning chart.”

“Disagree.”

She peeked at him between her fingers.

He looked…

Smug. Dangerous. A little too pleased with himself for a man who just posted spiritual arson metaphors to his verified account.

“You’re terrifying,” she whispered.

“You’re inspiring.”

“I’m mortified.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Kagome collapsed backward on the couch. And from the floor, staring at the ceiling, tea cooling beside her and her phone actively combusting, she exhaled:

“…I cannot believe the entire world is watching me spiritually date the wolf-repelling daiyōkai of the West.”

Sesshōmaru leaned over. And with the self-assured calm of a man whose next tweet was probably going to involve soul-binding clauses and a coupon for backrubs, he murmured:

“They’re not watching, Kagome. They’re witnessing.”

She let out another scream. The internet cheered. And Kohaku? Kohaku was officially forgotten. Because Trial Period: Shrine Wife Edition had just gone viral.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty: Trial Period Activated. God Help Us All.

Sesshōmaru was pleased.

Which, for him, meant he had not murdered anyone in the last four hours and was actively revising his Google Calendar to include cuddle opportunities.

This, in daiyōkai terms, was the equivalent of a mating dance and a blood moon blessing.

Kagome had not accepted his laminated marriage contract.
Nor had she signed the bonus appendix.
Nor the follow-up spiritual prenup with the optional clause for shrine dog visitation rights.

Instead?

She had posted a “maybe.”

On Twitter. With her face. While drinking his tea. In his lap. And tagging his account. It was, essentially, the romantic version of a corporate merger soft launch.

She had demoted him—from “potentially unhinged daiyōkai husband with terrifying stamina” to “currently tolerated trial boyfriend with extreme cheekbone privilege.”

Fine.

He accepted.

He would excel. He would date her. With intent. Like a daiyōkai. And not just any daiyōkai—the daiyōkai. A prince of the West. A master of war, diplomacy, and emotionally repressed yearning.

If she wanted courtship? She was going to get courtship so aggressively elegant it would ruin her for mortal men and modern HR policies forever.

He had already started planning.

First, the attire.

No more casual suits.

He needed casual-casual suits.
Tailored. Understated. Relaxed enough to say “I am emotionally available” but still sharp enough to say “I will destroy your enemies and fold your laundry.”

He texted his tailor.

I require romantic leisurewear.
Must imply marriage material.
Must not wrinkle during holy crises.

Second, scheduling.

He rearranged his calendar.

Cancelled a three-hour board meeting on quarterly soul acquisition strategy.

Replaced it with:
“Trial Period: Shrine Visit + Handholding (Optional With Consent)”

Third, meals. 

He made a list.

A full spreadsheet titled:
“Dishes to Emotionally Disarm a Spiritual Woman (With Bonus Aphrodisiac Symbols).”

It included:
 • Miso soup with heart-shaped tofu.
 • Strawberry daifuku with subtle seduction energy.
 • Rice balls that looked like small, edible declarations of loyalty.

He even considered baking. Not personally, of course. But he would supervise. Daiyōkai did not whisk. They commissioned.

Fourth—gift-giving.

This was crucial.

He’d already tried:
 • A mattress.
 • A zoning permit.
 • Laminated vows.

She had rejected all three with the ungrateful ferocity of a woman raised on holy fire and sarcasm.

Fine. He would start smaller. Emotional. Symbolic. Memorable.

He opened a new tab.

Searched:
“Gifts for spiritually volatile women who threaten arson but mean well.”

Top results:
 • Hand-carved hairpin (risk: intimate).
 • Custom tea blend (safe, possibly sensual).
 • A cat.

He clicked the cat. Scrolled. Paused. Brows furrowed.

“…No.”

He was many things. But not a pet boyfriend. Not yet.

He would get her the hairpin. Carved from wood of the old Western palace gates. Symbolic. Historic. Deeply extra.

It would whisper: I have slain kings for less than you, and here is a sentimental object for your hair.

Perfect.

He set the order. Scheduled delivery with a delay. 

Timing mattered. 

Emotional warfare required subtlety.

She thought she was training him. Teaching him how to “earn it.” As if he hadn’t already spent centuries earning enough trust from the universe to bench press thunderclouds and appear in Vogue.

But fine.

Let the training commence.

He would show up. He would show off. He would spiritually court her within an inch of her holy patience.

And then? He would win. Because this wasn’t just about courtship. This was legacy. This was spiritual warfare.

This was—

Buzz.

His phone lit up. A new tweet. From her.

@ShrinePriestess:
Trial boyfriend. Heavy on the “trial.”
Light on the “boy.”
Will accept applications for snacks, massages, and divine tolerance.
#PrayForMe

Sesshōmaru stared. Then slowly, calmly, retweeted.

@WesternStrategist:
Trial accepted.
Snacks acquired.
Massages scheduled.
You already tolerate me.
Now you’ll crave me.
#TryMePriestess

He set his phone down. Smirked. And checked his calendar.

Tomorrow:

7:00 p.m. – Massage Trial.

7:15 p.m. – Blow Her Mind (Metaphorically…For Now)

He looked out the window. Watched the moon rise. And whispered—dignified, deadly, divine:

“…This is going to be so romantic she’s going to scream.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-One: This Is Not a Trial, This Is a Trap

Kagome had genuinely, naively, believed that the “boyfriend phase” would be calmer than the possible-fiancé phase.

After all, she’d demoted him. She’d drawn a line. She had literally posted “maybe.”

There were boundaries. Conditions. Tea.

Sure, he had tweeted a war poem and started prepping his calendar like a man arranging a holy honeymoon with weaponized seduction. But still—boyfriend. Not fiancé. Not mate.

Surely things would slow down now.

Surely.

So it came as a brutal surprise when her phone rang the next morning at 7:03 a.m. and she answered it—groggy, messy-bunned, wrapped in a blanket burrito of denial—and heard:

“Congratulations, Miss Higurashi. The Council is thrilled about your official courtship!”

She blinked.

“…My what.”

“Your joint relationship status with Lord Sesshōmaru. He just confirmed it on the official record. We’ve slotted you both for the Interspecies Harmony Q&A livestream.”

Kagome sat up like she’d been tasered.

“What livestream?”

“The one next week. Two hours. Council-endorsed. Spiritual couples answering public questions about mating rituals, romantic compromise, and how to avoid species-based murder during cohabitation. Lord Sesshōmaru already confirmed your attendance. He used the word ‘thrilled.’”

Kagome made a strangled noise.

Like someone who had just realized they were in a public relationship with a demon CEO who defined foreplay as administrative paperwork and betrayal.

She hung up. Immediately called Sesshōmaru. He picked up on the second ring. As if he’d been waiting.

“Good morning,” he said smoothly. “Have you eaten? I scheduled your delivery.”

“You used the word ‘thrilled,’” she hissed.

“I am.”

“For a Council livestream?!”

“Yes. You’ll look radiant. I already requested the lighting package that enhances your holy aura and minimizes spiritual forehead shine.”

Kagome stared at her reflection in the mirror, disheveled and mascara-smeared, and briefly considered throwing her phone into the sacred well and living there forever.

“And,” he added, completely unbothered, “you’ll be pleased to know I’ve already submitted our talking points.”

She blinked. “Talking points?!”

“I included metaphors. And a diagram. We’ll be covering the transition from adversaries to cohabiting emotional forces.”

“YOU FILIBUSTERED MY LOVE LIFE.”

There was a pause.

Then:

“…Yes.”

She hung up. Or tried to. Her phone rang again.

This time?

The Kiss & Tell Show.

Kagome stared at the name on the screen. Froze. The one program that had haunted her since the Twitter Inception of Shrine Wife, featuring daily countdowns, spiritual thirst tweets, and fan-theorized mating charts.

She answered.

“Miss Higurashi!” The host’s voice rang with sparkles and contractual hellfire. “We just wanted to say how thrilled we are that your future mate has agreed to a live joint session next month!”

Kagome forgot how to breathe.

“Lord Sesshōmaru said you two were ‘public-facing, committed, and spiritually aligned,’ and that you’d be delighted to engage in fan questions regarding your romantic synergy.”

“HE WHAT.”

“You’re trending again, by the way. #DemonAndTheDivine. Just ahead of #ShrineWifeTrialPhase and #EmotionalArsonist.”

Kagome hung up. Laid down. Pulled her blanket over her face. And screamed. Muffled. Spiritual. Existential.

Sesshōmaru texted one minute later:

🧾 Agenda attached.
💻 Livestream rehearsal scheduled for Thursday.
👘 Outfit suggestion: divine but flirty.

She screamed louder. 

The doorbell rang.

Her breakfast delivery.

The bag read:

From your boyfriend.
Carbs for battle.
Also, I ordered you a new phone case. It says “Emotionally Claimed.”
You’re welcome.

She opened the bag.

Inside was a bento, a matcha pastry shaped like a heart, and a thermos that literally said “#FutureLadyTashio” in elegant, cursed calligraphy.

Kagome set it all down. Sat very still. Then finally, calmly, texted back:

I am going to kill you.

And he, the eternal menace, replied:

I accept your terms. 💍

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Two: The Moon, the Hairpin, and the Livestream of Doom

The Council’s Livestream Prep Session had begun.

Lights were being set. Backdrops arranged. Makeup summoned. Microphones calibrated with the anxious fervor of a broadcast scheduled to solve five hundred years of interspecies conflict in under ninety minutes.

Sesshōmaru stood at the edge of the preparation room, hands folded behind his back, expression neutral, radiating I own this studio and also the building and possibly your future.

He was not nervous.

He was not even concerned.

Because while lesser beings might falter under the combined pressure of a live diplomatic Q&A and the romantic bloodlust of three international fanbases, Sesshōmaru Taishō had survived wars.

And taxes. And middle management.

This was child’s play.

Still. His gaze slid, slowly, across the room—until it landed on Kagome.

She was perched in a makeup chair, glaring at her reflection like it had insulted her spiritually. A stylist was airbrushing her cheekbones. A second was fixing her lashes. A third was attempting to tame her hair, which—blessedly—refused to obey the laws of physics, dignity, or Council guidelines.

She looked stunning. Unintentionally. Stubbornly. Divinely. And completely unaware that she was currently driving the wardrobe director into a cardiac spiral by refusing the suggested “holy diplomat” outfit and insisting on “flirty modest disaster priestess” instead.

He approved.

But also—

There was something missing.

Something subtle. Personal. A gesture that said, this woman may threaten to hex me daily, but she is mine and I am hers and also, I win.

So.

He waited.

Waited until the makeup artists had retreated to panic over lighting temperatures and camera angles.

Waited until Kagome leaned over to check her phone, hair falling forward, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at something the Kiss & Tell Show had just posted about “relationship synergy.”

And then—

He moved. Silently. Gracefully. Like a dignified cat burglar of affection. He reached into his inner coat pocket, withdrew a small black box, opened it—

—and pulled out a silver crescent-moon hairpin.

Delicate. Subtle. Crafted with enchanted jade inlay, shaped into a soft arc that mirrored his family crest.

It was elegant without being loud. Traditional without being obvious. And romantic in the exact way that made her threaten to throw him off porches.

He stepped behind her. She didn’t notice.

Too busy typing something aggressively at the Kiss & Tell account (“stop using heart emojis unless you’re legally prepared to sponsor my therapy”).

With careful precision, he lifted a strand of her hair. Slipped the pin in. Secured it. And stepped away. Quiet. Neutral. Unthreatening.

The daiyōkai equivalent of a getaway car with feelings.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t notice. And that?Was deeply satisfying. Because now, when she walked on set in ten minutes, holy aura blazing and forehead ready to fight a nation, she’d be wearing his mark. Hidden. Elegant. Soft.

Unmistakable.

A statement.

She is loved. She is claimed. And she doesn’t even know it.

Sesshōmaru folded his arms and watched her stand, argue with a lighting assistant about her “glare angles,” and accidentally punch a teleprompter tech with her aura.

She still hadn’t noticed.

Perfect.

He turned to the director and spoke, cool and composed:

“We’re ready.”

The director nodded, sweating profusely.

The Kiss & Tell host adjusted her mic and whispered, “They’re trending again. #HolyAndPossessive.”

Kagome rolled her eyes and marched to her seat like she was about to give a TED Talk on demon nonsense and dating disaster mitigation.

Sesshōmaru followed. Smug. Silent. Victorious.

Because she had called this the boyfriend phase. But he had already begun the claiming arc. With accessories.

The livestream began at exactly 8:00 p.m.

Spotlights on. Cameras rolling. Shrine lanterns glowing softly in the background like decorative accessories to emotional warfare.

Kagome and Sesshōmaru sat side-by-side on a velvet couch of questionable taste and even more questionable symbolism. The Council’s backdrop read “Unity Through Intimacy: An Interspecies Dialogue.” The Kiss & Tell logo hovered in the corner like an omen.

Kagome adjusted her mic with the grace of a woman who wanted to set it on fire.

Sesshōmaru folded his hands and looked like he was conducting a press conference for his engagement to God.

The host beamed.

“Welcome back to Kiss & Tell—Council Edition! We’re here with the West’s most powerful daiyōkai and his newly official girlfriend-slash-shrine-warrior-priestess-disaster, Miss Higurashi Kagome!”

Kagome’s eye twitched.

Sesshōmaru inclined his head, calm as a death warrant signed in cursive.

The chat exploded instantly:

@mochifan27: SHE LOOKS SO MAD LMAOOO
@Inuyasha’sGhost: that man is vibrating at the frequency of smug
@blessedsimmer: they’re going to kiss and kill each other on air, mark my words

The host clapped her hands.

“Let’s get to the questions!”

“Lord Taishō—how does it feel being called… a boyfriend?”

The host said the word like it had personally insulted her ancestors. Kagome winced. Sesshōmaru tilted his head ever so slightly, as if dissecting the syllables for weakness.

Then:

“It is accurate.”

Kagome turned slowly. “Accurate?”

He nodded. “I provide consistent support, strategic protection, romantic investment, and snacks. It is, by all metrics, a promotion.”

The chat detonated.

@RinLivesHere: He said ‘promotion’ I AM DECEASED
@killmenowplease: snacks?? was that a FLEX?
@soupqueen23: can I get one in blue???

Question Two:
“Do you have pet names for each other?”

Kagome opened her mouth to say, “Absolutely not,” but Sesshōmaru was already pulling out his phone.

He tapped. Turned the screen. And revealed her contact:

🌙 Little Moon Disaster (Wife Pending)

Kagome stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the phone like it had stabbed her emotionally.

“I—why am I a disaster?!”

“You set my clothing on fire.”

The host moved things along before she could even respond.  A new voice crackled through the feed, giddy and unhinged.

“Hi, long-time listener, first-time caller! Just wondering—when do you two plan to move to the next stage? Like…the next stage. Wink wink.”

Kagome nearly choked on her tea.

Sesshōmaru answered smoothly. “We are progressing. Strategically. With care.”

The host leaned forward. “Kagome?”

She raised both hands. “No comment. Nope. We’re—this is stage…zero. We’re warming up. Pre-stage. Pre-relationship. This is—this is bootcamp.”

The host blinked. “So no answer?”

“Nope.”

“…Well then,” the host said cheerfully, “you’ll have to kiss him.”

Kagome stared. “Excuse me?”

“It’s Kiss & Tell, sweetheart. You don’t tell? You kiss. Those are the rules!”

“I didn’t agree to—”

But Sesshōmaru was already tilting his head slightly.

Waiting. Smug.  Clearly enjoying this.

Kagome sighed. Leaned over. And kissed him. Quick. Sharp. Annoyed.

It would’ve ended there. Should’ve ended there. But no. Sesshōmaru caught her chin. Tilted her face. And kissed her again. Properly. On livestream. Hands polite. Pressure not. Possessive. Slow. Precise.

Kagome let out a soft noise of surprise. When he pulled back, she blinked.

“…You deepened it,” she hissed.

“You underperformed,” he replied.

The host needed CPR.

“Okay, we’re opening the fan lines! We’ve got a live reaction queue and trending hashtags climbing in thirteen countries—OH, let’s read a few reactions!”

She clicked her tablet. Her eyes went wide.

“Oh my god—okay, top three live comments right now…”

@MoonstruckShrineFan:

WHO PUT THAT STUNNING MOON PIN IN HER HAIR. I AM CRYING. THIS IS ART. THIS IS A DECLARATION OF LOVE VIA ACCESSORY.

@CEOOfJealousy:

THAT’S HIS CREST. SHE’S WEARING HIS CREST. ON HER HEAD. WE’RE ALL DEAD.

@KohakuBlocked:

kohaku who. moon pin supremacy. you lose, garden boy.

Kagome blinked.

“What moon pin?”

Sesshōmaru remained silent. Serene.

The host zoomed in with her camera phone. “Right there, just above your left ear—THAT! Did you put that in yourself?!”

Kagome turned—caught her reflection in the monitor—and froze.

Sesshōmaru sipped his tea. “Mm.”

“Wait.” Her hands flew up to her hair. “Sesshōmaru. Did you—?”

He did not reply.

The camera zoomed in.

The pin glinted softly in the studio lights. Elegant. Crescent-shaped. Nestled right behind her ear like a quiet romantic ambush.

She turned, slow horror dawning.

“You accessorized me into a public relationship milestone?!”

“You’re my Little Moon Disaster,” he said calmly.

She shrieked into a couch pillow.

The host leaned toward the camera. “And that’s all for this week’s Kiss & Tell! Tune in next time to watch a daiyōkai openly commit romantic war crimes!”

Sesshōmaru leaned toward Kagome. Quietly. Smoothly.

“Your next penalty,” he murmured, “requires tongue.”

Kagome exploded into a holy exorcism threat so potent the sound team’s headphones caught fire. And somewhere in the building, someone fainted from shipping-related blood loss. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Three: The Boyfriend Escalation Crisis

It had been a week since the Kiss & Tell livestream.

A full week. Seven days. 168 hours. And Sesshōmaru Taishō—ancient daiyōkai, alleged boyfriend, accessory enthusiast, moon-themed menace—had not slowed down. Not once. Not even a little.

In fact? He had escalated. It started small. A single tweet. Innocent. Polite. Possibly premeditated.

@taisho_shrineCEO:
The Higurashi Shrine is currently running a restoration blessing this weekend. I recommend all spiritual pilgrims attend. The priestess is especially divine.

Kagome stared at her phone for ten full minutes after that one.

Especially divine?

Who even used that phrase? Who reposted their girlfriend’s work schedule and called her divine like it was a Yelp review for heavenly enlightenment?

She’d texted him “what the hell was that” and received a single emoji in return.

🌙

Which. Fine. Maybe she did wear the moon pin to bed the night after the livestream. But that didn’t mean he got to publicly flirt like a smitten grandpa with curated social media strategy.

But then came the second post. And the third. And the fourth.

Photos. 

He started taking photos of things that made him think of her.

A cup of matcha with a swirl shaped like a crescent? Posted. Captioned: “She would have mocked the foam but finished the cup.”

A small alley full of wind chimes? Posted. Captioned: “Reminds me of her voice. Soft, chaotic. Unexpectedly sharp.”

A dog toy shaped like a rice cooker? Posted. Captioned: “Sentimental value. Inside joke.”

Inside joke her ass.

The fan mail exploded.

She now had:
 • Fourteen shrine visitors asking if they could “take the love blessing tour”
 • Nine offers to purchase replica moon pins
 • Two proposals for a shrine drama adaptation (working title: Moon Priestess: Purify My Heart)
 • And one unhinged envelope containing nothing but glitter and a note that read “LET HIM KISS YOU ON CAMERA AGAIN OR WE RIOT”

Her inbox was a crime scene. Her publicist was drinking sake on the job. Her grandpa had started practicing his wave in case of royal weddings.

And Sesshōmaru? That emotionally unavailable, soft-voiced, revenge-kissing demon CEO? Was just sitting in his high-rise lair tweeting poetry and updating his profile bio to:

Mate Pending.
Shrine Affiliated.
Moon Loyal.

Kagome groaned into her futon pillow. Loudly. Repeatedly.

Because this? This was not a boyfriend. This was a goddamn branding strategy. She was being emotionally trademarked.

She needed it to stop. Or at the very least—pause. Because if he posted one more thing with the word “ours” in it? She was going to exorcise his Twitter app with holy fire and duct tape.

By day ten, Kagome was fairly certain she had lost all control over her life.

Her home? Swarmed with spiritual tourists.

Her inbox? A floodplain of emojis and desperate questions about the next livestream.

Her shrine donation box? Cursed. Some fan left a love letter in it. Sealed with a lipstick kiss and a hair sample. A hair sample.

But the true disaster?

The true unholy escalation of this entire divine romance spiral?

Sesshōmaru. On Twitter. Posting. Daily. Like a boomer who had just discovered social media and chosen chaos as his brand.

And worse? He was reposting her posts.

With commentary.

Supportive commentary.
Wholesome commentary.
United front commentary.

Like she was a fragile egg project for school and he was the over-invested helicopter parent making her a parachute.

Example One:

@kagome_higurashi:
Blessed the new ward stones today. If anyone feels a strange tingle in your right foot, that’s normal. Don’t panic.

@taisho_shrineCEO:
Her technique is excellent. I no longer fear foot-based curses. #Progress #DivineDexterity #UnitedFront

She choked on air reading that one.

#DivineDexterity.
He was making hashtag fan slogans for her purification style.

Example Two:

She posted a blurry photo of the shrine’s new broom, which looked like a raccoon had married a feather duster and gone through a rough divorce.

@kagome_higurashi:
I hate this broom.

@taisho_shrineCEO:
I offered to purchase her a titanium-grade, monogrammed, anti-demonic sweeping system. She refused.
Still proud. #UnitedFront #CharacterBuildingMoments #DomesticBliss

DOMESTIC BLISS.

IT WAS A BROOM.

She almost purified her phone.

Example Three:

She posted a status update about running out of tea.

@kagome_higurashi:
I swear I bought tea. Why do I live like this.

@taisho_shrineCEO:
Reminder to hydrate. She works hard. She deserves better tea. I’m resolving this immediately.
#UnitedFront #HydrationWife #MoonApproved

MOON. APPROVED.

HYDRATION. WIFE.

She was going to cry. Or hex him. Or both. Because Sesshōmaru wasn’t just supporting her shrine. He was amplifying her mediocre daily suffering with the energy of a proud stage mom at a kindergarten play where the kid forgot all the lines and fell off the stage but still got a standing ovation because “they tried so hard.”

He had become—

Kagome’s soul screamed—

A grandma. 

A digital grandma. 

A grandma whose only grandchild was her, and every blurry iPhone photo she posted was now National Treasure content.

She could’ve posted a bowl of soggy cereal and he’d still retweet it with “My shrine queen deserves a better breakfast. United front begins at dawn.”

And the worst part? The absolute worst part? The audience ate it up. They were frothing for more.

“They’re SO supportive 😭 I want this in my life.”
“God, he’s like a weird CEO dad who accidentally adopted a priestess and now can’t stop sponsoring her.”
“SHRINE WIFE ERA. PROTECT THEM.”
“My boyfriend won’t even Venmo me for ramen and this man is out here planning broom upgrades???”
“If she doesn’t marry him, I will. I have hair. I’ll leave it in the donation box next.”

Kagome screamed into her laundry pile.

This wasn’t romance. This was spiritual gentrification. This was brand identity theft. This was her boyfriend—her maybe boyfriend—using “hydration wife” like it was a political movement.

She needed an intervention. Or a new Twitter password. Or for Sesshōmaru to go back to being emotionally repressed and allergic to public attention like a normal demon lord.

But no. He was tweeting again.  She opened the app. And there it was.

@taisho_shrineCEO:
Some claim I am over-invested. They are correct. #UnitedFront #MoonLoyal #SheDeservesTheBroomSheDreamsOf

Kagome screamed.

And then accidentally liked it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Four: This Neck Was a Mistake

Kagome had had enough.

Enough moon emojis. Enough broom solidarity. Enough “Hydration Wife” hashtags and poetic retweets about “divine discipline” every time she posted a vaguely functional update about her spiritual duties.

If Sesshōmaru wanted to act like an emotionally unregulated grandmother with a marketing degree and a Thing™ for shrine girls?

Fine.

Fine.

Two could play at that game. He wanted public affection? He wanted a “united front”? He wanted to “amplify her aura” and “curate their romantic visibility across platforms”?

She could be worse. She could be unhinged. She could be feral. She could weaponize public affection in ways he hadn’t even considered.

So she opened Twitter. Took a breath. And snapped a photo. Of her neck. Artfully lit. Tastefully angled. A little holy, a little thirsty, and entirely designed to cause divine panic.

She captioned it:

@kagome_higurashi:
This neck is cold.
This finger is bare.
This aura? Untethered.

Weird.

Wonder what’s missing.

@taisho_shrineCEO

She hit post. Sat back. Smirked. Waited.

Because surely—surely—this would snap him out of it. Embarrass him. Make him realize just how ridiculous he sounded, reposting her expired tea rants with captions like “She deserves leaves that have never feared decay.”

This would be the mirror. The wake-up call. The “wow, maybe I’ve been doing too much” moment.

She refreshed the feed. The notifications exploded. The reactions? Unhinged.

 • @moonfangirl97: THE NECK. THE NECKKKKK
 • @matedinmyheart: oh we’re BOLD today 🧍‍♀️
 • @shrinedownlow: This aura? Untethered. I have passed away and gone to horny heaven.
 • @demonicbroomfund: can I be the ring? just let me be near you

Kagome grinned. Perfect. A spiritual sucker punch in 280 characters. Now Sesshōmaru would back off. Dial it down. Realize he was being ridiculous.

She waited. And then. A new tweet.

From @taisho_shrineCEO.

She tapped it open. And screamed. Because it was a photo.

Of him. In a jewelry store. Holding a tray of engagement rings.

Captioned:

@taisho_shrineCEO:
Narrowing options.
Moonstone? Platinum?

Either way—your aura won’t be untethered much longer.

#UnitedFront #FingerPending #ShrineWifeNeedsMetal

Kagome choked on her own breath. She dropped the phone. Missed the futon. Hit her own foot.

Because WHAT.

What level of instant, demon-lord-grade escalation was this?? 

She had posted a joke. A neck joke. A holy thirst trap, at most. And this man—

This maniac—

This eight-hundred-year-old accessory-obsessed god of pettiness—

Had posted a picture of himself with a jeweler, examining diamond-cut options like they were battle plans.

She picked the phone back up with trembling hands.

The comments? Worse. 

 • @auraoverload: SIR????
 • @moonsl*t420: THIS WAS A JOKE AND HE RESPONDED WITH A FINANCIAL DECISION
 • @kagomesburnthering: RING???? RING. HE’S BUYING THE RING???
 • @thisneckblessedme: THE AURA IS ABOUT TO BE TETHERED 🔥

She had started this. She had summoned this energy. She had built the shrine of consequence and now the daiyōkai was moving in with a Pinterest board and stone samples.

Kagome lay back on the floor and stared at the ceiling like it had answers.

“I made it worse,” she whispered.

She felt spiritually concussed. Romantically hexed. Horny-adjacent and repentance-bound.

Her phone buzzed again. A direct message. From Sesshōmaru.

“Do you prefer oval or marquise cut?”

She screamed. Then threw the phone. Then picked it up again and typed:

“YOU ARE INSANE.”

Three dots appeared. Then stopped. Then started again. And finally:

“That’s not an answer.”

She didn’t answer him. Of course she didn’t answer him. Because what do you say to a man who replies to a neck thirst trap with a ring budget and stone clarity comparisons?

You don’t answer. You back away slowly. You pretend to be offline. You pretend your aura is in airplane mode. You delete your shrine. You move to the mountains. You become a reclusive holy cryptid with no forwarding address.

So Kagome said nothing. Absolutely nothing. She tossed her phone across the bed. Sat down. Breathed.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself. “Okay. That’s fine. This is fine. He’s probably just being dramatic. This is all for Twitter. Performance. Political stunt.”

She nodded to herself.

Yes. Yes, that was it. This was a bit. Sesshōmaru didn’t mean it. He wasn’t seriously planning to escalate. He was just matching her energy. A weird little social media feedback loop. Courtship cosplay. Nothing more.

Her phone buzzed.

She stared at it. Did not move. It buzzed again. She lunged for it.

Text from: Moon Menace 🌙

“I’ve narrowed down to five strong ring contenders.
Prepare. I’ll be there in an hour.”

She blacked out for two seconds. An hour?? She threw the phone on the floor, got up, immediately stepped on it, screamed, then limped in circles.

“No,” she hissed at the air. “Absolutely not. You are not doing this.”

She paced her room like a war general about to throw holy water on her own relationship. She snatched up her hairbrush. Pointed it at the window like it owed her answers.

“He thinks he can just arrive?! With options??”

She checked the time. Fifty-four minutes left. She screamed again. Because what did one even wear to an unsolicited ring presentation? Was there a dress code for chaos? A color for I didn’t say yes but I also didn’t say no and now I’m being emotionally bulldozed by commitment energy??

She ran to her closet.

Nothing helped.

She looked like a hostage in every outfit.

No top screamed “you’re moving too fast” without also whispering “but I might let you.”

Her phone buzzed again. She screamed louder.

Moon Menace 🌙:

“Should I bring tea?”

NO, she typed. Then deleted it. Then typed:

“Don’t come.”

Three dots appeared. 

Then:

“Too late. En route.”

She dropped the phone and began reciting purification chants.

Fifty-two minutes later:

She heard the car. She heard the doorbell. She heard her own soul leave her body. And when she opened the front door?

There he was.

Sesshōmaru Taishō.

In a three-piece suit. With a leather case in one hand. And a bag of her favorite tea in the other. Like this was a scheduled engagement consultation and not the result of online thirst gone spiritually sideways.

She gawked.

He nodded politely. “May I come in?”

She stood there. Mouth open. Hair chaos. Aura feral.

“No,” she whispered.

He stepped inside anyway.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Five: The Proposal That Was Not a Proposal (But Absolutely Was)

Sesshōmaru POV

She said “no.”

Naturally, he interpreted that as a soft yes.

Because one did not brew imported tea, press their suit jacket, select ring options, and brave Tokyo traffic only to be stopped by a flustered “don’t come in.”

No.

This was happening.

This was strategy.

He stepped inside her shrine with the polite confidence of a demon lord trespassing with legal intent. Set the tea on the table. Took off his coat. Rolled up his sleeves just enough to display forearms shaped by centuries of combat and shrine construction labor.

Then he looked at her.

Standing there in the entryway.

Wearing the cutest, and most unfortunately disarming, summer dress known to fashion or holy warfare. Soft fabric. Bare shoulders. Wild hair. She looked like a deity of resistance wrapped in denial and floral cotton.

He gestured to the table.

“Sit,” he said smoothly. “We have important documents to review.”

“In my own shrine?” she managed to sputter.

He poured the water.

“Soon ours.”

Kagome made a choking sound. Which was fine. He was used to her dramatics.

She stomped across the room like she wasn’t about to be spiritually demolished by three velvet ring boxes and centuries of unwavering commitment.

He waited until she sat. Then he took a breath, placed the teacups down. And opened the case.

Three rings.

Each resting on black silk like they belonged in a museum, or a courtroom, or a heavily guarded love vault.

One was slim, minimalist—platinum band with inlaid black jade. Elegant. Strategic. Perfect for press events.

The second: gold. A vintage heirloom with claw-like prongs and a subtle bloodstone center. War wife aesthetic. For photos where she needed to look like she had earned her husband’s kingdom through combat and attitude alone.

And the third?

The biggest. A bold, clean solitaire diamond, perched beside a half halo of moonstone, simple, stark, and completely unreasonable. The kind of ring that didn’t need approval because it commanded silence.

He placed them before her. Sipped his tea. Cleared his throat. And said—deadpan—

“I would appreciate your feedback on which of these you prefer for our legally-binding, spiritually-devastating, emotionally-terrifying lifelong bond.”

Kagome stared at him like he’d just offered to laminate her soul.

“Sesshōmaru,” she whispered. “Please don’t do this.”

He nodded solemnly.

Then immediately continued doing it.

“Each ring comes with strategic benefits,” he said. “This one matches your current aura saturation. This one intimidates other council wives. This one is optimized for flash photography and moon-phase rituals.”

She made a noise that might have been a scream. Or a suppressed vow of holy vengeance. And then, because she was Kagome, she reached out. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. But her hand went for it.

The third box.

The diamond. The moonstone.

The crown jewel of daiyōkai declaration.

She touched it. Lifted it slightly. Tilted it toward the light. Her mouth opened. Closed.

And that? That was when he very calmly picked up his phone and took a photo.

No flash. No sound. Just immortalized evidence of “Miko Touches Symbol of Eternal Bond (Exclusive)” before she could come to her senses.

She didn’t notice. Too busy whispering “I hate you” under her breath while carefully not putting the ring down.

He set the phone down like it wasn’t a weapon. And continued speaking.

“You may, of course, take time to consider,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just launched an emotional missile directly at her commitment trauma. “But know this is not pressure.”

She snorted.

“This is merely…preparation,” he added.

“For what?” she snapped.

He looked at her. Dead in the eye.

“Inevitable surrender.”

She screamed into a pillow. He sipped his tea. The ring stayed in her hand. And Sesshōmaru, Lord of the West, CEO of Emotional Aggression and Jewelry Presentation—

Was winning.

She was still holding it.

Five minutes.

Three hundred full seconds.

The velvet box hadn’t moved. Her fingers hadn’t twitched. Her soul hadn’t escaped. She sat, quiet, still, suspiciously reverent, like a priestess trying not to commit blasphemy while actively ogling the emotional equivalent of a flaming engagement grenade.

Sesshōmaru sipped his tea. And watched. Because she wasn’t just holding the box anymore. No. She was tipping it. Twisting it. Letting the light catch the diamond like a woman pretending she wasn’t imagining which Instagram filter would make the moonstone pop under sakura blossoms.

She hesitated. Fingers brushed the band. And then—

She took it out.

Lifted it from the box like a relic. Like a cursed artifact she was absolutely going to put on “just to see how it looked” before sprinting into denial and aggressive tea consumption.

Sesshōmaru said nothing. Because this was a sacred moment. A turning point. A legally binding omen.

She turned the ring in her palm. Watched the light bounce off the stone. Whispered something ancient and forbidden under her breath, which sounded suspiciously like, “I’m going to kill him.”

He let her admire it. Let her fight herself. Let her lose. And when she finally, finally, raised it toward her hand, eyes distant, brain offline, mouth parted in breathless horror…

He exhaled softly.

“It was bought to be admired on your finger,” he said.

Her head jerked up. She glared. Then, traitorously, treacherously, damningly, she whispered:

“I just want to see how it looks.”

He nodded. Gravely.

As if that wasn’t the exact sentence his ancestors had once etched into stone as the harbinger of mating season.

And then, like it was the most casual thing in the world—

She slid it on. Third finger. Left hand. The band slid perfectly. Settled. Sparkled. 

And everything inside him went quiet. The youki that had been coiled in his chest for days…stilled. The world muted. Time slowed. For one singular, shining moment, everything made perfect sense:

She wore it.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t breathe. He just watched as she turned her hand slowly, watching the stone catch light like it had personally offended her by being this perfect.

She twirled her wrist. Held it up against her dress. Pressed her fingers together like she was not actively checking what angles made her look the most legally married.

And then, slowly…sanity returned.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Okay. Okay, this—this was stupid. That was just—stupid curiosity. A temporary lapse in cognitive—”

She started tugging at it.

The ring didn’t budge.

She frowned. Tried again. Still nothing. Tried once more, with the growing panic of a woman who had accidentally married herself on a spiritual technicality.

Still. Nothing.

Her eyes went wide. Sesshōmaru blinked once. Slowly. Regally. And smiled.

“Stuck?”

She didn’t answer. Just tugged again. And again. And then, in one low, horrified gasp:

“NO.”

He leaned back, lifted his tea, and exhaled with the calm satisfaction of a man finally receiving divine compensation for surviving her mid-tier spiritual threats and shrine-induced trauma.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice velvety, deep, smug enough to get smited.

“The gods remain loyal.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Six: The Gods Are Traitors and So Is This Ring

Kagome POV

The gods had betrayed her.

There was no other explanation. No excuse. No rationale. No celestial loophole she could crawl into and scream.

Because the ring? The ring was still on her finger. 

Unbothered. Unmoving. Unrepentant. It had fused itself with her destiny like a cursed DLC expansion pack. No matter how much she twisted, yanked, or emotionally threatened it, the thing refused to budge.

And across the table, sipping his tea like this was a quiet Saturday in Matrimonyville—

Sesshōmaru. Smug. Silent. Absolutely going to hell.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped, trying to wiggle the band loose with her thumb. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s not,” he said smoothly. “It’s divine.”

“I’m going to smite you.”

“You’d be smiting your fiancé.”

“YOU ARE NOT MY—” she choked, full-body vibrating like a toaster in a tsunami. “We are NOT doing this!”

He didn’t answer. Just reached for his phone. And with the kind of bone-deep evil only achievable by centuries of practice, began typing.

“What are you doing,” she hissed.

“Nothing.”

“Sesshōmaru.”

He didn’t look up. “Wondering which ring emoji the council prefers.”

Her eye twitched so hard her vision pixelated.

“You’re texting the council?!”

“They like updates.”

“You didn’t update them when I accidentally set your coat on fire!”

“That wasn’t romantic.”

“This isn’t either!”

“You’re wearing the ring.”

Kagome stared at him. Then down at her hand. Then back at him. Then back at the ring, which glittered with the smugness of a thousand ancestors watching from above like “get married, you stubborn rat.”

“This is a betrayal,” she muttered.

“I agree,” Sesshōmaru said dryly. “A betrayal of your previous spiritual boundaries.”

“No! Of the gods!”

He raised a brow. “What gods?”

“The ones I SERVE.”

“I thought they served you.”

“I—” she blinked. “They’re not your gods!”

“They are now.”

“You’re a demon!”

He nodded. “They adapt.”

She gaped at him. “Are you implying my ancestral gods have converted?”

“To convenience, it seems.”

She stood. Spun. Paced. Held her hand up to the light like the ring might politely detach itself if exposed to enough fluorescent guilt.

Nothing. Still sparkly. Still stuck. Still a living, breathing celestial betrayal.

Kagome groaned. Loud. Full-bodied. The kind of groan that came from a woman trying very hard not to throttle a centuries-old daiyōkai who had just declared a shared religion without her consent.

Sesshōmaru set his tea down with the patience of a man who’d waited eight centuries to emotionally corner a shrine girl in her own territory.

“Kagome,” he said, gently—too gently. “You chose the ring.”

“I picked it up.”

“You admired it.”

“I was curious.”

“You put it on.”

“It was for visual comprehension!”

“You’re still wearing it.”

“It’s STUCK.”

He nodded.

“Which,” he said mildly, “is what we call a divine endorsement.”

She staggered back like the very air had betrayed her.

“My aura is being held hostage,” she whispered. “This ring is a spiritual trap. I’m being emotionally hexed into a legally binding union against my will by ancient moonstones and demon pettiness.”

Sesshōmaru just folded his arms.

“Or,” he said dryly, “you have small knuckles, selected a custom band, and the gods are simply tired of waiting for you to accept your fate.”

Her mouth dropped open.

The betrayal? Immense.

Because these were her gods. She’d been working this shrine since she was fifteen. She’d exorcised things. Cleansed things. Donated to things. She had filled every offertory box in the region. She was the chosen one.

And now? Now the gods had handed her soul over to a six-foot-tall yōkai with cheekbones and an entire folder titled “Shrine Wife Incentive Plan.”

“I hate this,” she whispered.

Sesshōmaru inclined his head. “Yet, you are sparkling.”

She looked down.

The ring was sparkling. In a very rude, very smug way.

She held her hand up. Turned it. Twisted it. The diamond caught the light like it knew. Like it had secrets. Like it was saying: Congratulations on your unwanted marriage. Here’s eternal devotion and municipal protection.

“I didn’t agree to this,” she muttered.

“You didn’t say no,” he said smoothly. “You said ‘I just want to see how it looks.’ That is legally equivalent to engagement.”

Her eye twitched. “In what court?”

“Mine.”

She collapsed onto the floor. Cross-legged. Ring hand held up like it was about to start glowing and whispering wedding vows in Latin.

“I’m going to sue the gods.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“This is the worst way to get engaged.”

He stood. Walked over. Kneeling down in front of her like a saint of bad decisions and unsolicited affection, he reached for her hand.

Held it. Gently. Looked up at her like she was the center of every universe he’d ever considered aligning with.

“It is,” he said softly, “only the beginning.”

She stared at him. Ring glinting. Hand warm. Gods laughing. And thought:

I’m going to marry this idiot, aren’t I.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Seven: Spiritually Forced. Digitally Engaged. Emotionally Defeated.

There were exactly seven ways Kagome could fix this.

She had counted.

Three of them involved spiritual purification. Two required traveling to an isolated mountain shrine with spotty Wi-Fi and a monk who didn’t know what Twitter was. One required a time machine.

And the last? Required giving up. And marrying the demon.

She sat on her living room floor, still dressed in her stupidly adorable summer dress, still engaged, still spiritually betrayed by gods who were supposed to be her gods, and stared at her hand.

The ring sparkled. Like it was proud of itself. Like it knew it had won.

And honestly? She was tired. She was so, so tired. Emotionally. Cosmically. Digitally.

There were shrine donations in her inbox, three more requests for interviews, an artist who had already painted a wedding portrait based on her cursed “just trying it on” selfie, and Sesshōmaru was in the kitchen humming.

HUMMING. Like he hadn’t psychologically cornered her into eternal devotion with jewelry and tea service.

She stared at the wall. Contemplated rage. Then sighed. Pulled out her phone. And with all the holy exhaustion of a priestess who had just lost a custody battle with fate, she opened Twitter.

Her finger hovered. Over her profile. Then, slowly, carefully, she edited it.

🕊️ Future Lady Taishō.
💍 Sometimes the gods make the choice for you.
#Blessed #MoonstoneMenace

There.

Fine.

FINE.

Let the world know.

Let the gods have their laugh. Let the fan accounts scream. Let Sesshōmaru’s council throw wedding confetti in emoji form. If this was the way things were going to go, she might as well spare herself a stroke and make it official on her terms.

…Sort of.

And of course—

He saw it immediately.

The sound he made from the kitchen was obscene. A cross between an amused exhale, a satisfied sigh, and the sound of a man updating his legacy bloodline registry.

Then—

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Because he was reaching for his phone. And then? The notifications began.

🔁 @SesshomaruOfficial:
She chose wisely.
💍💫

🔁 @SesshomaruOfficial:
#Engaged #SpirituallySanctioned #EmotionallyEndorsed #MatePending #KissAndTellSeasonFinale

🔁 @SesshomaruOfficial:
LinkedIn updated.
“Life Partner to the Miko of Mayhem. Moonstone acquired. Contract blessed.”
Now accepting shrine sponsorship inquiries.

🔁 @SesshomaruOfficial (Instagram story):
[📸: her hand with the ring]
Caption: Divine compliance achieved.
Music: Beyoncé - “Upgrade U”

Kagome threw her phone onto the couch.

“I hate this,” she muttered into her hands.

“Do you?” came his obnoxiously calm voice from the doorway.

She looked up. He was holding his phone now, casually scrolling. Eyes smug. Smugger than usual. Smug with legal bonding and online approval ratings.

“LinkedIn?” she snapped.

“I’m a professional,” he replied.

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m also a husband-to-be.”

He walked over. Sat beside her. Offered her tea.

“Let them talk,” he said mildly. “It’s only official if we both accept.”

She looked at him. Looked at the ring. Looked at her own goddamn profile now being retweeted by demon diplomats and shrine grandmothers.

“…And if I take it off?” she challenged.

He raised a brow.

“Try.”

She yanked. Nothing. She twisted. Still nothing. The ring didn’t budge. If anything, it tightened. Her soul deflated. And he? He just sipped his tea. Like a man who had been cosmically endorsed.

It had been exactly two hours since she publicly, grudgingly, cosmically, emotionally, and digitally accepted her fate.

Two hours since the ring refused to budge. Two hours since Sesshōmaru updated LinkedIn with a romantic bullet-point manifesto and tagged her as his “spiritually subsidized life partner.”

She had made peace with it. Sort of. By “peace” she meant “dramatic resignation while drinking three matcha sodas and rage-scrolling through comments.”

She had seen everything. Fan edits. Engagement art.

A tweet that read: “Kagome fr got forced into marriage by divine UX design.”

But it wasn’t until the jeweler commented that she truly lost her mind.

💎 @CelestialWedsandWards
So thrilled the soulbound enchantment worked as intended 💫✨
May the clarity of your union match the clarity of that diamond!
#MoonstoneMatch #TrueMateVerified #BlessedByDesign

Kagome’s eye twitched.

She blinked. Read it again. And then once more.

“The what?” she whispered.

Sesshōmaru, seated across from her like a man on vacation from emotional consequences, calmly sipped his tea.

Kagome turned her phone around slowly. Showed him the comment. Pointed at it.

“THE. WHAT?”

He glanced. Nodded. Then took another sip.

“Oh,” he said mildly. “Yes. All three rings were enchanted. Soul recognition magic. Fairly standard.”

Kagome’s jaw unhinged like a particularly upset cartoon character.

“Fairly—FAIRLY STANDARD?!”

He adjusted the sleeve of his jacket like they weren’t talking about unauthorized soul-binding jewelry purchased on a Tuesday.

“It’s the most reliable test,” he said simply. “You pick a ring. It seals itself. Boom. Soulmate verified.”

Her voice climbed four octaves.

“Boom?! That’s your summary?!”

He sipped again. Like a traitor.

“You chose the ring, Kagome.”

“I was TRYING IT ON!”

Kagome stood up. Paced the room. Waved her hands like she was conducting an exorcism on her own soul.

“There should’ve been a warning,” she snapped. “A sign. A spark. A tiny demonic PowerPoint.”

“There was a tag.”

“WHAT TAG?!”

He reached into his inner sleeve. Pulled out the velvet ring box. And inside, so help her, there was in fact a tiny paper tag folded neatly in the corner.

In cursive.

It read:

“💍 Soulbound Option: If chosen by fated match, ring will lock. Returns void. Congratulations. 💕”

She stared. Then looked at him.

He blinked. “It was very clear.”

“It was LITERALLY FOLDED UNDER THE CUSHION.”

He gave a mild shrug. Then placed his cup down, stood slowly, and walked to her side. Sat beside her. Looked down at the ring now permanently welded to her spiritual life path.

“It suits you,” he said, voice soft. Dangerous. Faintly victorious.

She groaned into her hands.

“The gods are traitors,” she mumbled.

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m glowing with rage.”

“You’re glowing with divine affection.”

“I’m going to glow you into another timeline.”

He leaned back, smug and satisfied.

“Try it,” he murmured. “If you succeed, the ring comes too.”

She groaned again.

Because he was right. Because the gods had abandoned her. Because she was soulbound.

Because Sesshōmaru was now tweeting with the hashtag #TrueMateConfirmed.

And because deep down, under all the chaos, she knew the worst part of all—

She kinda, maybe, slightly didn’t hate it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Texts of Doom

It took exactly three days.

Three days of dodging fan mail, shrine aunties showing up with “congrats” cookies, and Sesshōmaru tweeting cryptic nonsense like:

“Legacy is not planned—it is inevitable. #TrueMateConfirmed.”

Three days of pretending the ring didn’t weigh five metric tons on her finger.

And then it happened.

Her phone buzzed. She froze. Because it was that text.

From her mother.

Mom:
Anything you want to tell me? 💕

Kagome groaned so loudly the neighborhood cat bolted off the steps.

Yep. She knew.
Of course she knew. The internet knew. The council knew. Random demon aunties in Osaka probably knew. And her mom, her sweet, terrifying, shrine-gossip-harboring mom, definitely knew.

Kagome typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted. Threw her phone across the couch. Picked it back up.

Another buzz.

Mom:
Is there a date set?
Probably knowing him.

“Oh my god,” Kagome whispered to the ceiling, like maybe the gods would suddenly remember they were HER gods and not Sesshōmaru’s infernal hype team.

Her mother was already asking about a DATE.
Of course she was. She probably had the registry bookmarked. Kagome buried her face in a cushion. Contemplated suffocating herself. Decided against it because she had shrine duties at 3 p.m.

Her phone buzzed again. She peeked. Not her mother this time.

Nope. Worse.

Kohaku:
Moving kinda fast, huh?

Kagome’s soul left her body.

She sat straight up, hair sticking out like she’d just wrestled a thunder god.

“Oh no. Oh no no no no.”

Because that was not a “casual check-in” text.
That was an ex-with-abs-and-nostalgia-receipts text.
That was a “so I see you soul-bound yourself while I was still unpacking my Henleys” text.

Her phone buzzed again.

Kohaku:
I mean…three months ago you were shrine single.
Now you’re shrine…married? Engaged? Moon-tied?

She screamed into the pillow. Loud. Long. The kind of scream that shook the ancestral dust from the beams.

Because of course.
Of course the ex she all but ghosted was now watching her engagement unfold on Twitter like it was a K-drama live premiere. And she could already imagine Sesshōmaru’s response if he saw this text.

Cold. Dry. Murderous.
Something like: “Exes are invalid once the gods intervene. Delete your number.”

Kagome flopped back on the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might swallow her whole.

Her mom was planning a wedding. Her ex was texting like he’d been ghosted by destiny. Her fiancé was tweeting inspirational murder quotes. And her? She was praying for a meteor.

Kagome sat there, phone clutched in both hands, debating whether she should:
 1. Respond to Kohaku and risk her entire sanity.
 2. Respond to her mother and risk accidentally agreeing to something insane like a Taishō-funded shrine wedding with a guest list of three hundred demons and a kagura troupe.
 3. Throw the phone in the koi pond and fake her death.

Option three was looking really good.

She decided, begrudgingly, to start with her mother. Her thumbs hovered. But before she could type a single carefully neutral “Haha, very funny, nothing’s official yet lol,” another bubble popped up.

Mom:
What about a shrine wedding? 🕊️✨
It would be so beautiful! Very traditional. Very us.

Kagome’s soul short-circuited.

A shrine wedding. At her shrine. The one Sesshōmaru had essentially co-signed into existence with zoning clauses and moonstone blood money.

“Oh no,” she muttered. “Oh no no no.”

Because her mom wasn’t just spitballing. Her mom was already probably Pinterest-boarding. Before Kagome could even type “Please stop,” another buzz.

Not from Mom.

From Kohaku.

Kohaku:
Would it be inappropriate for us to talk about this?

Kagome dropped the phone like it burned.

Talk about this? What even was “this” in Kohaku-speak? The five years of history? The smoothies? The shrine steps hug that Twitter turned into a meme?

Or—oh gods—did he mean “this” as in her engagement ring currently locked to her soul by divine binding magic?

She picked the phone back up, palms sweaty, regretting every single life decision that led her here.

Three dots blinked. Kohaku was still typing. She wanted to scream.

Because in the span of thirty seconds, she was now juggling:
 • A mother planning her shrine wedding without consent.
 • An ex-boyfriend gently probing for “closure” like they were in a therapy drama.
 • A daiyōkai fiancé who would absolutely nuke Japan off the map if he saw either of these text threads.

Her eye twitched.

“I need a nap,” she whispered. “Or a time machine.”

Her phone buzzed again.

Mom:
White kimono? Yes? I’ll call your grandfather.

Kagome did the only thing she could think of.

She threw the phone under the couch cushions, rolled onto the floor, and screamed into the tatami like a woman possessed.

Because she knew, she knew, it was only a matter of time before Sesshōmaru came home, poured himself a cup of tea, and asked calmly why her spiritual aura smelled like guilt.

And that? That would be the end of her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-Nine: Finders Keepers, Fiancées Included

Sesshōmaru POV

She was cooking.
And he was immediately suspicious.

Kagome cooking meant one of three things:
 1. She was emotionally stable.
 2. She was emotionally unstable.
 3. She was trying to appear emotionally stable while internally plotting a domestic coup.

The scent of soy glaze and self-delusion floated in the air.

He stepped inside, toeing off his shoes, loosened the top of his shirt collar, and glanced toward the kitchen where she hummed, hummed, like a woman not currently wearing a cursed engagement ring she allegedly didn’t agree to.

Suspicious.
Deeply suspicious.

He moved to the living room, set his suitcase beside the couch, and began to sit—

Bzzzt.

He froze.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

His gaze dropped. One elegant silver brow twitched.

The couch was vibrating.

Sesshōmaru tilted his head, the way a wild predator might upon finding something interesting in the tall grass. Slowly, casually, he reached beneath the cushion and withdrew the offending item.

Kagome’s phone.

Lit up like a traitor.

He unlocked it, because of course he knew the code. He’d watched her enter it three times, once while upside down trying to retrieve delivery ramen. He was daiyōkai. Not blind.

Several texts awaited him. He scrolled once. And paused.

Mom:
White kimono? Yes? I’ll call your grandfather.

Kohaku:
I just…think we should at least talk.

Sesshōmaru stared. For a long, dangerous moment, he did not move. Behind him, the sound of sizzling stir fry hissed like a battle hymn.

Then, calmly, he sat down. Crossed one leg over the other. Tapped the phone screen once. And replied.

To Kohaku:
No. She has already spoken. In ring size.

He pressed send.

Then switched threads.

To Mom:
The wedding will be held in the spring. She already has selected the ring. I trust your taste in floral arrangements. 

He set the phone down on the table. Exhaled. Sipped his tea. And looked out the window like a man planning a coronation.

Because, truly, what was left? The gods had spoken. The ring had bonded. Twitter had accepted their engagement faster than a council vote.

And now? Now her mother and ex were informed. As they should be.

He heard her humming still, oblivious. Her aura bright with spice and denial. Her hair pinned up, the back of her neck soft and exposed.

He stood. Moved toward her. And when she turned with a plate full of food and blinked in surprise, he kissed her forehead like a man already living in the shrine they would co-own by December.

“Dinner smells lovely,” he murmured.

Kagome flushed. “I…uh. Thanks.”

“Good day?” he asked casually, glancing at her fingers, where the ring still sat—glittering, glued by fate.

She shifted. “Nothing unusual.”

He smiled. Slight. Deadly.

“Indeed,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

Because in the end, her mistake was trusting the couch with secrets.

And his victory? Was inevitable. One way or another—

He was going to marry his soulmate. Even if he had to RSVP to his own wedding on her behalf.

They ate in near-silence. Not the awkward kind. No, this was the silence of a relationship mid-gas leak, not explosive yet, but certainly one match away from destruction.

Kagome sat across from him, stabbing her tofu with the quiet, concentrated rage of a woman pretending everything was fine.

It wasn’t.

She had cooked him dinner. Voluntarily. Which, historically, meant either she was feeling guilty or she was trying to lull him into a false sense of security before spiritual homicide.

Either way, he was pleased.

He sipped his tea. She sipped hers. And just as she was lifting her chopsticks again, he decided to drop a gentle nuke into the conversation.

“I responded to the messages,” he said casually.

She froze mid-bite.

“…What messages?” she asked, carefully neutral. Dangerous. Like a shrine priestess trying to confirm whether the haunted doll just moved or she imagined it.

“The ones you were avoiding.” He chewed, then added, “Your mother and…the other one.”

Her eye twitched. “Define ‘responded.’”

He blinked slowly. “I replied. Politely.”

“Polite for a demon warlord or polite for a human mother?”

“I made no threats.”

“Okay but did you imply any?”

“I gave no ultimatums.”

She dropped her chopsticks.

“WHAT did you SAY?”

Sesshōmaru wiped his mouth with serene grace, folded his napkin, and then, very calmly, as if reading from a grocery list, replied:

“To your mother, I confirmed the wedding will be held in spring, I acknowledged the ring was accepted, and I expressed full confidence in her floral aesthetic.”

Kagome slapped a hand over her face.

“You RSVP’d to my wedding,” she whispered. “That hasn’t been planned. Or agreed upon. Or even HAPPENING—”

He nodded. “Correct. I streamlined the process.”

She was silent. Processing. And then—

“Wait—what about Kohaku?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

He sipped his tea.

“I let him know that no further conversation was required, as you had already spoken through the ring.”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“That’s not a metaphor,” she said slowly. “That’s something a cult leader says before burning a rival’s crops.”

“He’ll understand.”

“Oh my god.”

“He’s practical.”

“He’s going to die.”

“He was warned,” Sesshōmaru said flatly.

Kagome inhaled like she was preparing to exorcise him. Possibly through screaming. Possibly through fire. She stood up. Pushed her chair back. Paced once.

“You do you realize what you’ve done?”

“Yes.”

“You intercepted two life-defining conversations.”

“I answered them efficiently.”

“You are not customer support, Sesshōmaru!”

“I am the fiancé,” he said calmly. “There is overlap.”

She pressed both hands into her hair.

“I was going to handle it!”

“Were you?” he asked. “You shoved your phone under the couch like a squirrel hiding debt.”

“I NEEDED TIME.”

“You had three days.”

“I WAS PROCESSING.”

He paused.

Tilted his head.

“You cooked,” he said simply. “That was your process. My process involved typing.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. And then sat back down. Because damn it, he wasn’t wrong. He was, however, impossibly smug.

Kagome groaned.

He lifted his cup in a gentle toast.

“To spring.”

She threw a napkin at him. 

He caught it. Like a bouquet. And smiled. Because she hadn’t denied the wedding. And in daiyōkai logic? That was practically consent.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifty: Hypothetically My Ass

Sesshōmaru POV

It had taken her two days to stop glaring at him for responding to her mother and Kohaku.

It had taken her four days to ask, eyes narrowed, voice dangerously sweet, if he was joking about a spring wedding.

When he said “No,” she had only nodded. Slowly. Suspiciously. Like someone processing a prophecy she wanted to argue with but couldn’t.

By day seven, she asked again. This time, she prefaced it with “Hypothetically—” which fooled no one. Not him. Not the gods. Not even the cursed ring still welded to her finger.

“Hypothetically, which month?” she’d asked, stirring her tea as if it could erase the word fiancée from every trending tag on Twitter.

He’d chosen one. Calmly. Deliberately. No hesitation.

Two weeks later, she added him to a group chat with his mother.

He’d muted it immediately. Not because he didn’t care. He did. Unfortunately. But because the two women were capable of writing essays on flower symbolism at two in the morning.

By week four, she sat across from him at dinner with a face so serious he half-expected her to declare war.

Instead, she squinted at him.

“So…like. This is for real?” she asked, her voice a blend of holy suspicion and repressed shrieking.

He wanted to sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Preferably into a wine glass. Instead, he asked dryly, “Will you still be asking me this years into our marriage?”

She froze. Blinked. Didn’t answer.

Which was, frankly, an answer.

So he pulled out his phone. Flipped open a calendar app. Tapped twice. Circled a weekend. Rotated the screen toward her and tapped his claw against the date.

“Will this work for your family?” he asked calmly. “It will work for mine.”

She stared.

At him.
At the circled date.
At her ring.

Her throat worked. Her aura fluttered. Her eyes narrowed.

And then, finally, she nodded.

“…Hypothetically,” she whispered.

Sesshōmaru sat back. Smirked. Lifted his tea.

“Then hypothetically,” he murmured, “you’ve just set the date.”

Her chopsticks clattered to the table.

He was pleased.

Because the priestess had learned an important lesson tonight—

There was no such thing as hypothetical when a daiyōkai was involved. Especially not when he’d already RSVP’d for both of them.

The invitations had been sent.

Twitter was in flames.
Council was in panic.
Fan accounts were circulating hashtags that could topple governments.

Thirty days before the wedding, Kagome sat at the table, poking at her pasta like it had personally wronged her.

She sighed once.
Then again.
Then a third time, the kind of sigh that carried paperwork, politics, and impending ultimatums.

He glanced up from his tea.
Narrowed his eyes.

Because sighing three times before dinner meant one thing.
A demand.

And the ring on her finger had already chosen her. He had already chosen her. She had already chosen him—hypothetically, literally, spiritually, divinely.

But if she wanted to play a game, he would play.

“Yes?” he said evenly, as though indulging a child who had just announced they were running away to join the circus.

She sighed again. Didn’t speak. Instead, she slid a stack of papers toward him across the table.

On top of them?
A name.

An orphanage.

The same one housing two small beings he remembered quite clearly, wild-haired, sharp-eyed, with more spirit than sense.

He didn’t need to ask. He looked at the papers. Then at her. Then back at the papers. And he nodded. Slowly.

“Our children,” he said, hypnotic and sure, “should be invited to their parents’ wedding.”

The air stilled. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. She froze. Quiet stretched between them, and then, very softly, almost too quietly to catch—

“…I’m sorry for burning your scarf.”

He smirked. Sharp. Pleased.

“Don’t be,” he replied.

Because truthfully? He wasn’t sorry at all.  

That scarf had been expensive, yes. Immaculate. Imported silk, tailored and scented.

But it had also been the first thing of his she ever touched.

The first thing of his she ever ruined.

The first proof that Kagome Higurashi would always, always set him on fire before she ever let him get comfortable.

He’d kept it to highlight their beginning. Not as a wound. But as a reminder.

And now, she was across the table, in his ring, planning their wedding, inviting their children, apologizing not because she regretted it…but because somewhere, somehow, she’d realized he had never needed the scarf in the first place.

Sesshōmaru leaned back. Took in her red cheeks, her pasta, her stubborn eyes.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, sipping his tea. “That scarf was the beginning.”

Kagome blinked. And when she opened her mouth to argue, he cut her off—

“Besides,” he added smoothly, “it was hideous.”

Her gasp was audible.

He smirked into his cup.

Because if she thought burning a scarf was the worst thing she’d ever do to him…

She hadn’t yet seen what marriage to a daiyōkai looked like.