As a young daiyōkai, Sesshōmaru had taken for granted that he would enjoy eternal life. It was a frequently-overlooked perk of his esteemed lineage. Caught up in his conquest for power, his immortality was of little concern to him in his youth. Time was of so little importance that at first, he paid no mind as the Sengoku Jidai came to an end. For the next two centuries, Sesshōmaru was content to live the way he always had: finding his place in yōkai society as a feared warlord, he had paid the upheavals in human society no mind until the nineteenth century. Feudalism became a thing of the past as humankind recklessly careened towards what they called “modernity” and things got out of hand.
That had been when Sesshōmaru felt his familiar way of life slipping out of his fingers. Feudalism dissolved in favour of “modern government.” Combat became something frowned upon, as the domain of the uncivilised and deranged. Thus it came to be that the whole of the last century, he hadn’t needed to kill anyone at all. He couldn’t even remember the last time had wielded Bakusaiga against a worthy opponent. Deprived of purpose and pleasure, Sesshōmaru fell into moping, allowing the twentieth century to pass by in a haze. Bored with the lack of battle and bloodshed, his inherited wealth had at least secured him a home on some prime real estate in Tokyo, where he passed his hours in self-pity even as the world was razed and rebuilt around him.
The problem was modern life, he insisted. Sesshōmaru hadn’t bothered to think about life beyond feudal Japan, and so he remained prisoner in his homeland, eking out an existence in one of the world’s busiest cities. The crowded streets reeked of human activity and pollution, and modern men were possibly even more vulgar and uncouth than they had been in his youth. His inheritance ensured that he had no need for a job. Freed from the cares of mere mortals and not wanting to mingle with the modern equivalent of the peasantry, he had been content at first to amuse himself in front of the idiot box, using mokomoko as a cushion while he voraciously consumed reruns of foreign language soap operas like Coronation Street and Guiding Light. Reclining on his leather sofa in sweats and his favourite threadbare robes, he thought for a while that endless television programmes were the best way to fritter away his endless hours.
Eventually, even mindless amusement wore thin, and Sesshōmaru decided that he needed a different avenue for his restless energy. He had spent the last twenty years coming to the conclusion that origami, knitting, flower arrangement, and stamp-collecting didn’t suit him at all. He couldn’t remember when inspiration had struck, but one day, Sesshōmaru woke up from one of his frequent naps and decided to wage a war against baked goods. Crossing the hallway to the hovel that Inuyasha called home, Sesshōmaru finally acknowledged his half-brother’s existence by demanding that he make proper use of his inheritance money: to purchase baking equipment, ingredients, and recipe books. The half-demon had first been annoyed that he was being given orders, but looking down at Sesshōmaru’s distinctly domesticised shopping list, Inuyasha had simply given him a pitying look instead and for once, did as he was told.
The first few years were a blight upon Sesshōmaru’s memory. Not since his childhood had he struggled with anything he turned his attention to. Sesshōmaru’s first project had been an ambitious French dessert called the croquembouche. Nothing seemed to go right. First, the profiteroles had conspired against him by choosing to resemble flat biscuits rather than the perfectly round puffs they should have been. Then, when the stars had aligned and he had baked sixty perfect profiteroles, he had ignored the instructions and substituted caramel for caramelised sugar. He could only gnash his fangs as he watched a whole day’s hard work fall apart and tumble to the floor, leaving him with no dessert but a lot of cleaning to do. Eventually, when he had kicked down Inuyasha’s door to bring him a heaping, quivering mass of spun sugar and pastry, Sesshōmaru was in a towering rage, and his astonished half-brother had taken one bite, turned green, and avoided him for the better part of three months.
As a consequence, Sesshōmaru had to humble himself to rebuild a relationship with his only guinea pig. It had taken him half a year to make what his ignorant half-brother called “acceptable” éclairs, but Sesshōmaru knew better. Those éclairs had been perfect and judging by the way Inuyasha had scarfed them down, the gluttonous half-breed knew it too. Having finally conquered his brother’s taste for the chocolate-topped pastries and reclaimed him as a taste-tester, Sesshōmaru sought a new challenge and had found a worthy opponent in the vexing sweets the French called “macarons.”
War raged on as the rain fell down, and Sesshōmaru was currently locked in a struggle to the death with his latest batch of macarons. The cookbook he’d borrowed from the library had offered a “helpful” tip that one should avoid attempting the recipe in the event of high humidity, but he had scoffed at the idea. As a daiyōkai descended from eighteen generations of formidable warlords, Sesshōmaru knew he would not be bested by something as trivial as humid weather. Brute force and superior skill had served him well before, and he had thought they would not fail him in his latest trial.
Clearly the battle was lost, Sesshōmaru eventually conceded with a scowl as he stared down the tray of shells. The damnable confections had obstinately refused to dry out and lacked the “skin” that the recipe book had insisted was crucial. Sesshōmaru didn’t see what skins had to do with the complicated little cookies, but his pride would not allow him to shove them into the oven regardless. Slamming the tray of worthless failures back down on the counter, Sesshōmaru threw open the fridge door and grabbed three eggs, slicing the shells neatly open with the sharp points of his claws. Dumping the whites into a bowl, he whipped them so furiously that specks of white fluff flew into the air and found a new home in his hair.
One step done, a rare moment of genius occurred to the incensed baker as he grabbed the dehumidifier in the corner of his living room and powered it on in the kitchen. He turned back to the recipe book and stared down the instructions once again, determined to adhere to them with no room for error whatsoever. He would not allow even a single additional gram of almond meal in the mix, nor condone a stray drop of vanilla extract. He banged the tray of new shells down on the counter with more force than necessary, daring any air bubbles to remain within the perfectly-piped circles. “You will submit to me,” he growled, bringing down the tray on the counter two more times for good measure. “I, Sesshōmaru, will not be disobeyed!”
Thankfully, the rest of the recipe proceeded without any more unnecessary snags, and after the macarons had cooled, he proceeded to ice them with vindictive glee. The macarons had ultimately caved to his baking prowess, and now there was only one thing left to do: find his usual guinea pig to taste his latest creations. Sesshōmaru’s mouth settled in a grim line as he marched across the hall to Inuyasha’s apartment and kicked his way through the door.
Inuyasha jumped off the tacky, overstuffed sofa, a game controller falling from his hands with a clatter. “You bastard! What the hell do you think you’re—” The half-demon’s eyes widened as he took in Sesshōmaru’s appearance. White flecks speckled his silver hair, pulled up in a messy half-ponytail. Buttercream crowned the tip of his aristocratic nose. His yellow-striped pajamas were splattered with a random assortment of colorful drips and spots. Inuyasha understood immediately. Even if the sloppy appearance wasn’t clue enough, the thunderous scowl on Sesshōmaru’s face told Inuyasha that his half-brother was in a baking mood.
As Inuyasha expected, the irate demon thrust out a tray of sandwich cookies, commanding him to eat. “You will taste them. You will give me nothing but your honest opinion.” Inuyasha eyed the contents of the tray warily, recalling that he had not enjoyed Sesshōmaru’s last attempt. He grumbled as he reached for a lavender-hued cookie, also remembering the last time he had insulted Sesshōmaru’s baked goods. The latter had flung a tray of éclairs into the living room wall, leaving Inuyasha with an abstract masterpiece of chocolate and custard. Now, he bit tentatively into the delicate treat, expecting nothing but mediocrity and disappointment.
Sesshōmaru gave a triumphant smirk as his half-brother’s eyes widened. He watched as Inuyasha squinted suspiciously at the cookie before cramming the rest of it in his mouth. Chewing rapidly, he reached for another, selecting a pink specimen this time. The cookie disappeared as quickly as its predecessor and he grabbed a third. The half-demon was grudging in his assessment. “These aren’t terrible.”
Satisfied, Sesshōmaru wrenched the tray back from Inuyasha’s grip, slapping aside his half-brother’s claws as he reached for more. Ignoring the shouted protests as he crossed the hallway back into his own apartment, he slammed the door shut behind him. If his antagonistic sibling could not even summon up an insult, then surely his macarons were flawless. I might have lost the battle, but I won the war, he thought with pride, biting carefully into one of the sweet treats. Sugar, one of many human weaknesses, had grown on him over the years, and he gave a deep rumble of satisfaction as the macaron crumbled over his tongue, releasing a burst of exquisite lavender and lemon flavouring into his mouth. Had Sesshōmaru been a lesser being, he would’ve moaned. I have truly outdone myself. Now the world is ready for perfection.
He grabbed his smartphone and fumbled with the camera, snapping a quick picture for the home bakery business he ran only when he felt like it. He frowned at the shot, which had somehow emerged grainy and washed out, but it didn’t matter. Anybody who sneered at his amateur images wouldn’t get to taste his macarons, and it would be their loss. Humans were ignorant and feeble-minded, but perhaps there were still a rare few who would appreciate his unique genius.
Kagome groaned, rolling onto her back and staring with barely-concealed lust at her phone’s screen. She was experiencing the most intense sugar cravings, and she figured that she’d had a miserable enough week to warrant something special for a treat. Hōjō had told her that he’d been trying his hand at baking macarons for the past month, but had met with no success. Kagome hadn’t been convinced that sandwich cookies warranted that sort of fuss when she could just snack on Oreos, but Hōjō had insisted that macarons were something special. Having heard him wax poetic about these macarons, Kagome had started browsing Instagram for examples of the fabled cookies.
“These look so good!” She squealed, admiring a perfectly-arranged flat lay of multicoloured macarons, one for each colour of the rainbow. The caption beneath the picture promised seven individual bites of heaven for— “Three thousand yen?” Kagome screeched. She liked her sweets, but not that much. She’d have to find something else that actually fit the budget of a struggling graduate student. She swiped past the next few pictures, making sounds of disgust as she noted each price tag.
“Oh dear, what are these?” Kagome squinted at a new picture. Though she was certain that the image also contained macarons, the glare of the camera’s flash and the washed-out hues didn’t tell her anything about what colour they were, much less their flavours. She was about to swipe to the next picture when she caught sight of the price. The baker was offering a box of 10 for the low, low cost of ¥1,500. She hesitated, skeptical of the affordable price. Hōjō had assured her that these were luxurious desserts, and the trickiness of making them made them unusually pricey. She pursed her lips and tapped on the few comments that the post had received:
“Horrible attitude but the macarons are to-die-for!”
“Owner is a grouch. Macarons are amazing though. Bring back the earl grey flavour!”
“Macarons are much nicer than the baker. 5/7 stars.”
Kagome’s stomach growled and she felt her inner sugar beast rear its ugly head. It wanted sweets, and it wanted them right now. If she held out any longer she’d be in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Her finger hovered over the “like” button, indecision staying her hand. The caption called out to her, the words of a siren song: ¥1,500 for ten. DM to order. Same-day collection. With a gusty sigh, she tapped out a message to the account with her order, hoping that ten macarons would be enough to satisfy her incorrigible sweet tooth. The owner responded in minutes with a curt message of their own.
"You will collect between 4 PM and 5 PM. Do not be late. This is the address. Change will not be provided."
What a ray of sunshine this person is, she groused, feeling rather put-out. She didn’t expect people to be grovelling at her feet for her patronage, but she had never encountered anyone who seemed quite so unhappy about selling their wares. The address was in an upscale neighbourhood about half an hour away, so Kagome took her time getting dressed. She picked out her favourite blouse, paired it with a green skirt that flared out from her hips, and finished the ensemble with her comfortable, slouchy boots. As she stepped out into the afternoon sunshine, she hummed a jaunty tune, pleased that her sugar cravings would be satiated at long last.
The provided address led to a cluster of luxurious high-rise apartments, all glass, chrome, and black marble. It screamed expense. In her twenty-five years of living in Tokyo, she had never set foot in anything halfway as extravagant. A month’s rent must cost a year’s tuition, she speculated. Not like I’ll ever find out. Stepping dazedly through gilded gates, she spoke to the concierge about the purpose of her visit and waited as the formally-attired woman made a call. Her eyes darted around, taking in unfamiliar surroundings. She marvelled at the high ceilings, covered in a fresco depicting a majestic dog-like beast circling the moon. Artwork that she couldn’t hope to understand hung on the walls, and a fountain sat right in the middle of the lobby. Four snow-white dog statues cavorted beneath fine sprays of water, and Kagome giggled at the playful scene.
“Higurashi-san? Sesshomaru-sama is waiting for you on the nineteenth floor.”
“Oh, right.” Kagome quickly ran her fingers through the tinkling water before she crossed the lobby and was escorted to the nearest elevator, which she took to the nineteenth floor. She made her way down the corridor in search of the correct unit, the heels of her boots clicking against marble tiles so highly polished she could see her own reflection. The apartment she was looking for was situated in a dead end, where two gleaming ebony doors faced each other. Kagome pushed the doorbell, hearing faint sounds of gunfire and explosions from the other apartment behind her as she waited.
She jumped as the door was flung open. “You are late,” the occupant complained, emerging from the dimly-lit apartment with a fierce scowl twisting his face.
So here’s the grouchy baker, she mused, tilting her head back to take in his full height. What a strange man he is! The grouch in question was dressed in distinctly rumpled blue striped pajamas, missing buttons giving her an eyeful of a hard-muscled chest. A threadbare burgundy robe hung at the edge of broad shoulders, its over-long hem extending halfway down toned calves that stretched the fabric of his pants. When her eyes finally travelled up to his face, Kagome gaped openly. Burnished gold eyes glinted with annoyance, a frown pulling fine silver brows into deep furrows. Similarly fine silver hair shone under the hallway lights, multiple strands escaping the haphazard bun piled high on top of his head. Kagome wondered if the splotch of cream on one of the high crests of his cheekbones was intentional.
And then Kagome swallowed as she learned something new about herself: she had a thing for tattooed men. Against his luminous, alabaster skin, a pale blue crescent moon stood out against his high forehead, and two slashes of magenta graced each cheek, extending to the beginnings of his strangely pointed ears. Even his eyelids were marked with the same vibrant colouring, a thick stripe of red adorning the space above thick, long pale eyelashes. The markings blended so well into his flawless skin that Kagome knew they could not be makeup.
Ignoring his rude greeting, Kagome offered a hello in response, her voice coming out breathier than she expected. However, the baker plowed on unceremoniously, ignoring her show of goodwill. “It is currently 5:03 PM, and you were told to collect no later than five.”
His words brought her crashing down from the blissful space in which she’d been discreetly admiring his otherworldly features. She glanced down at her watch, a flare of annoyance rising easily within her. “My watch says it’s 4:58 PM.”
“Then your watch is wrong, and you are late.” He refuted. “Make your payment and do not waste a moment more of my time.”
“You’re just sweet as cinnamon, aren’t you?” grumbled Kagome, fumbling for her wallet and pulling out the exact amount she needed. The lengths that I go to for a sugar fix—never again! she swore, feeling thoroughly irritated by the rude treatment. She dropped the money into his manicured hand. Each of his nails came out into stiletto points, resembling deadly claws. Kagome hadn’t the faintest idea how he baked with those dramatic acrylic accessories.
“Cinnamon is not sweet.” He snapped, giving the money in his palm a cursory glance and shoving a white paper box into her chest. Through the clear plastic window at the top of the box, Kagome glimpsed ten perfectly-crafted macarons and felt her mood plummet even further. This is all your fault! she thought, feeling indignant.
“That’s the point!” Kagome retorted, snatching the goods from him and ripping open the container with more force than necessary. If this man was always this rude to his customers, he deserved even fewer customers than he got. I bet he doesn’t even have that many, she thought, shovelling a whole macaron into her mouth in spite. Even a single customer is one too many—oh.
Sesshōmaru watched, immediately robbed of all speech as her head fell back, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck. Though he knew that there was no way she could be aware of inuyōkai gestures, he felt a tad bewildered at the action, so out of place on a human. Then, the girl moaned, the sound sultry and uninhibited, and Sesshōmaru backed away, feeling his mouth run dry.
“You are so good at this.” The scandalous words escaped her lips in a throaty murmur, her eyes squeezed shut with pleasure. All traces of her early hostility had evaporated as she was consumed by her hunger for the tasty treats. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted!”
Pleased as he was by the very appropriate flattery, it took him precious seconds to recover his bearings as Kagome’s half-lidded gaze swept lazily over him, expecting a response. He cleared his throat. “This is your change,” he muttered, flinging one of her ¥500 coins back at her before slamming the door in her face.
Still riding out her sugar high, it took Kagome the entire elevator ride back down to come out of her dreamy stupor and realise that the unfriendly young man had given her a hefty discount.