#one of the bands was for the tomb right next to his for some fairly young guy

[edwardshundredyearoldspunk]

went to mexico yesterday to visit my grandpa's tomb for day of the dead. only the second time I've visited him since he died in may. not really used to having a dead™ to visit but now I'm home and I got mexican hot chocolate and I'm cuddled up with a mug and life is good. for now life is good 🥹

[izukuwus]

Almost Wet (NSFW)

Masterlist (EA) - Masterlist (General)

A/N: no mom I’m not shopping for lingerie don’t worry I’m writing porn

Summary: Izuku doesn’t sleep often, but when he does, it’s not uncommon for him to dream, and dream vividly.

Warnings/notes: smut. it’s smut. fairly vanilla, mild praise kink (reader receiving), biting. reader has tiddies and a vagina. This is a spinoff to Edible Arrangements and takes place after EA 15, but reading EA is not necessarily required to understand this fic.

Word count: 3100+

It isn’t often that Izuku dreams.

Not that he doesn’t dream nearly every time he sleeps—it’s just rare for him to find either the ability or the willingness to sleep most nights. Whatever he’s doing that night consumes his attention so wholly that he’ll look up to the sound of you moving around the house to get ready for class and realize it’s well past morning and he’s read an entire book in a single sitting.

If asked, he blames his vampire physiology, blames the virus holding his death hostage for his near-nocturnal habits.

Of course, it’s not all his vampirism calling the shots on when he sleeps—if you pried, really pried, he might eventually tell you about the kinds of dreams he has.

He dreams of memories. Typically, not pleasant ones—the rare times he’s sleeping, he finds himself dreaming of mundane airports, of the hours leading up to the worst experience of his life, always knowing exactly what’s coming but with no power to change his course, as though he’s been attached to a rail that will only ever lead him to one destination. He dreams of police stations, of paparazzi, of accusations regarding the deaths of nearly a hundred passengers and flight crew members.

The dreams morph, but the memories are raw and ever-recognizable, twisting only in such ways to remind him: he has no power. He can’t protect anyone. He’d only have to do everything differently for even a chance to save a single person.

So maybe the truth he won’t admit to is not that being a vampire makes it hard for him to keep a “normal” sleep schedule, but that his own memories destroy him, come for assault the moment he lets his guard down. And who could blame him, really, with memories like these?

But then there’s you. Your presence fills a previously too-big house, forces out the loneliness so thoroughly Izuku’s wont to forget that this house used to feel like a tomb. Sometimes now he dreams of good memories, of you cuddled up on the couch with him in an attempt to soothe both your hearts, of you giggling in the kitchen and eating ice cream while he cooks dinner, always of you, any good memories he’d had before his worst day tainted with the knowledge of what’s to come.

Nightmares remain the most frequent. Nowadays, you feature in those, too—the most prominent divergence from reality he sees when he closes his eyes. He dreams of you leaving, never to return. He dreams of waking up and knowing you’re gone, that you haven’t been here in some time, and finding one of your jackets tucked away in the laundry room. But now, he can even dream of all the nice things, a horror-free rest that finds him pushing through days with renewed energy.

Tonight, his eyes drift shut against his will, no longer able to fight the pull of sleep another day, and tonight, he hopes that if he’s to dream, it’s a sweet dream, of closeness to you.

~

He wakes to the familiar feeling of your hands in his hair. Your gentle fingers massage his scalp deliciously, pulling a pleased purr from his chest. His face is enveloped completely in whatever he’d been using as a pillow, something like cotton or lace (maybe both?) scratching against one cheek amid velvet-smooth surface area—his hand rests beside him, little but that same velvet-smoothness greeting his palm and fingertips. He runs his hand over the surface experimentally, attempting to feel out what, exactly, his current pillow is before he opens his eyes—the pillow easily gives way and moves with his hand, a soft gasp entering his ears and shooting straight to his crotch when he realizes it sounds distinctly like you.

He lifts his head, meets your wide eyes with a sense of dread in his heart that almost stops his purring. (Almost.)

It takes him a moment to realize what’s going on, and every part of him (every part of him) stiffens.

His eyes roam the sight in front of (or rather, below) him ravenously. Your jaw slack, pupils blown, hair still sleep-mussed. Bite marks of varying levels of freshness littering both sides of your neck, announcing to the world that you are under the protection of a vampire, that you’re his—

He shudders, eyes moving further down. You’re wearing a tank top that’s maybe a size too small for you—one strap has fallen off your shoulder, and as his eyes trail downward, it doesn’t take a genius to see why.

He’d been laying his head on your chest, and during the night, your tank top and the bra beneath somehow ended up pulled down, exposing most of one breast and all of the other.

Oh god. He must have been moving his hands during the night—there’s no other explanation for how you ended up half exposed, his hand groping you shamelessly in his sleep—you’re going to hate him, you’ll call the cops, you’ll find a group of vampire hunters and—

He's rattling out apologies nonstop, desperately looking for some way to make you forgive him (nevermind that he can’t seem to look away or remove his hand from your chest), when you simply laugh that wonderful laugh and place a hand against his cheek. “Izuku, sweetheart, I’m not mad,” you say sweetly.

His brain makes an audible click in response. “You… don’t hate me for…?”

“No, ‘Zuku,” you reply with an almost coquettish grin gracing your lips. “I-I’ve been waiting for you to make a move, y’know?”

His heart skyrockets into his throat. “T-then… there’s no reason not to keep going, is there?” he murmurs. This feels too good to be real, but if this is what’s going to happen, then so be it, he’ll take it any day.

You shake your head and reach up to remove his hand from your chest—much to his disappointment. You giggle at the pout that unintentionally forms on his lips, fix your bra, and then sit up just enough to pull your tank top over your head, leaving you in nothing up top but a familiar lacy bra that makes his mouth dry.

Recently, Izuku had gotten a… surprise… when he'd seen you struggling to carry your laundry basket and offered his assistance. He hadn't meant to look or anything, really! You'd agreed and passed the basket over, and he turned to carry it down the stairs and found that he was looking directly at your… lacy unmentionables... Emerald lace cups and black straps, sitting innocently in front of his face like they weren’t out to kill him. At the time, he’d gone red, set his jaw, and tried not to acknowledge it, and to his knowledge, you hadn't known what caused it. At the very least, you were kind enough not to bring it up.

Today, you’re wearing that same bra, and it’s even prettier on you—the extra straps above the cup accentuate the curve of your breasts, making them look only bigger in the gentle light of the morning. He thumbs the band idly, jaw slack as he looks you over.

“D-do you like it better on me?” you ask meekly, crossing your arms self-consciously. “I caught you looking at it the other day. You seemed to like it then.”

Gods, he’s sure his blush has spread down his shoulders and to his chest, his eyes still firmly locked on you. “Yeah,” he breathes. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I’m glad,” you smile bashfully, avoiding his near-predatory gaze with a squirm. “I picked the set out ‘cus the colors reminded me of you, after all.”

He inhales sharply at the admission, smooths his hand over the side of your bare stomach. Your skin is so soft. So soft.

“S-set?” he echoes, voice pitched.

You nod, reaching down and pulling at the waistband of your shorts—unfairly short—just enough for him to see another black strap peek out from beneath the stretchy fabric. “Set.”

He’s silent for a long moment, eyes roaming your form in disbelief. “…can I please kiss you?”

“Wherever you want, Izu.”

His lips find yours in the next moment, a hungry growl leaving him as you eagerly kiss him back. You shudder beneath him, tug at his hair just enough to make him weak in the knees. In response, he slides his hands beneath the small of your back and pulls you to move with him until he’s no longer pinning you down, but holding you in his lap, hands resting just above the waistband of your shorts as he greedily kisses you. It’s the first kiss you’ve shared and the first kiss he’s had in countless years, but it feels right, the natural continuation of your joint living situation.

When you break away from him, panting softly, you’re quick to reposition yourself, straddling him just as close as you can get, which happens to place your crotch right over the growing bulge in his shorts. He busies himself by kissing along your jaw, trailing down to place sloppy kisses on your neck and revel in your gasps each time. He finds every bite mark and kisses them slowly enough to drive you crazy, a hand sliding from your hip to cup your breast as he does.

“H-hey,” you gasp out when his hand slips beneath the cup of your bra. “D-don’t you think this is a little—” –he finds your nipple and rolls it between his fingers— “—ah—a little unfair?”

He’s not sure what you mean. He keeps his focus on your neck, fangs grazing teasingly and causing you to shiver. His free arm slides around to wrap around your waist properly and steady you, hardly even recognizing the question.

You yank his hair to get his attention.

He pulls away from your neck with a moan, rolling his hips up against you instinctively. “Wh—”

“C’mon, I wanna see you, too,” you whine, smoothing a hand over his chest and gripping his shirt in your fist. You grind back down against him, letting out the tiniest noise of pleasure as you do. “Can I get you out of your shirt, too, ‘Zuku?”

He nods, letting go of you just long enough to whip it off and away. The moment his arms are freed, he returns them, groping you shamelessly. His lips lower to plant kisses atop your breasts, pausing to suck a mark in the soft skin there. You moan in his ear, giving his ego a booster shot as your hands roam over his exposed torso.

From there, details are a little foggy—at some point, your bra gets pulled down and out of the way, giving Izuku full access to close his mouth over each of your nipples in turn and appreciate the sight of you, topless, debauched in his lap. Every now and then, when he grazes his teeth against your skin just right or moves just the right way, you’ll roll your hips and grind down on his cock.

He'd be content, any other day, to spend hours like this, until he’s marked your tits to hell and back and kissed every square inch of exposed skin, including your thighs spilling out of your short shorts, but the knowledge that whatever panties are hiding beneath your shorts match the absolutely salacious bra you’d so willingly showed off to him drives him forward.

The world blurs as he locks lips with you once again, this time swiping his tongue across your lower lip and eagerly slipping into your mouth when your lips part. His hand winds into your hair, hips grinding desperately against you, and then you’re laid back down on the couch, him hovering above you and breaking away from you to watch as he pulls your shorts off with a sharp yank. You reciprocate by coming for his own shorts, leaving him naked except for his boxers.

You bite your lip as your eyes dart to the sight of his cock straining against his boxer shorts, eyes half-lidded as you look him over appreciatively and bring a hand up to palm against his bulge. He moans aloud at the sensation, and before long you’re pulling him out of his boxers and slowly stroking his shaft as though you’re in a trance.

“How much farther do you want to…” you trail off, eyes never leaving his thick cock.

He pants, bucking his hips into your hand. “As far as you wanna go, [n-name].”

“Then…” Your legs part slightly, and he finally takes the chance to appreciate the bottom part of your little ensemble. Emerald lace and a series of black straps match your bra, hugging at your hips and barely covering anything of importance—

No, scratch that.

You drift a hand downwards and run your index and middle finger up your slit, and it quickly becomes apparent that your panties don’t even cover the important part.

There’s a slit carefully positioned right between your legs. They’re crotchless.

“These only have to come off if you want them to.”

“No,” he murmurs, replacing your fingers with his own and stroking your heat. You’re soaking beneath his fingertips. “I’d rather they didn’t.”

“Then what are you waiting for, ‘Zuku?” You wrap your arms around his neck. “I need you inside me.”

He doesn’t require any further prompting. Immediately, he lowers his hips, guides his cock to rub between your folds, to really appreciate just how wet you are for him. “God,” he moans when he finds your entrance and easily slips the head in. “Y-you’re so—tight—”

You hiss beneath him when he tries to press further in. “Fuck, Izuku, you’re so thick!”

“I know, baby, I’m so sorry.” He presses a kiss against your temple. “You're doing so well. I'll wait for you to adjust, okay?"

“Y-you can move, just, go slow, alright? I don’t think either of us want you to rip me in half, here.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind destroying you,” he jokes. “But I’d rather you be nice and comfortable first.”

From there, sinking into your heat is easy—you take him so well, and he’s quick to murmur as much in your ear once he’s in to the hilt.

It’s almost too much. Your walls squeeze him tightly, flutter every time he breathes against your neck or murmurs in your ear, and for a moment he’s scared he won’t even get to actually fuck you before he cums. He has to take a few deep breaths, face turned away from your neck even if he desperately wants to bury his face there in case another outbreath causes you to flutter around him, before he can move.

“Izuku, please,” you whimper after a long moment of controlled breathing.

You don’t have to say another word. He rocks his hips against yours slowly, pulling out nearly all the way before slowly sliding back inside. Part of him wants to sit back and watch as he begins slow, measured thrusts into your cunt, watch the way you flutter around him and appreciate how well the lace suits you and your beautiful skin. The part of him that’s in control, however, buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent and panting into the skin there.

“Fuck,” he whines when you thread fingers into his hair and give him a sharp tug. The tug translates directly to his hips snapping to meet yours, tearing a choked moan from your throat.

“God, fuck, Izuku,” you whimper as he begins to slam into you, lost in your heat. He’s hardly coherent, babbling swears into your neck as he begins to pound into you, all restraint lost. Your legs wrap around his waist, shaking as he pistons forward, all manner of whimpers and moans leaving your lips.

“Izuku, Izuku, Izuku,” you babble into his ear. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“M-me too,” he grunts. “It’s okay, go ahead.”

You cum around him with a cry. He’s so close, so close, your release is so desperately close to pushing him over the edge with you, he just needs a little more, just a little push—

He thrusts into you through your orgasm, his release is so close he can almost taste it, and he growls into your neck, instinctively clamps down on your shoulder with his teeth, and as the sweet flavor of your blood blooms on his tongue, until finally, finally—

Izuku wakes up at his desk, the Word doc he’d left open having remarkably more pages than he remembers being there. (The letter ‘f’ is repeated an uncountable amount on his screen, still more coming before he lifts his hand off the keyboard.) He’s unbearably hard, a strangled whine leaving his throat when he realizes that his own precum is staining through the front of his sweats.

Without really thinking, he takes his hand off the keyboard and slips it into his pants, frantically chasing the release he’d been so close to. He jacks himself off at record speed, shutting his eyes to better recall the image of you dressed up all pretty beneath him in your emerald green lingerie, whining his name almost like a prayer. He barely has the foresight to pull his shirt up and out of the way with his teeth before he cums. The actual release is momentarily blinding—he’s vaguely aware that he slaps his free hand over his mouth to muffle the embarrassing whine that escapes, and he ends up biting down on his fingers to keep from being too loud and alerting you.

For a few moments after, he lays back in his desk chair and pants in the direction of the ceiling, hot ropes of cum cooling against his stomach. He lets his shirt fall down over the mess, investigating his ceiling with great interest as he takes in what just happened.

He just had an almost-wet dream. About you.

You’re his roommate, his… his… you’re you. What the hell is his brain doing, giving him dreams like that about you? How’s he supposed to look you in the eye after this?

But then, that was… much nicer than any other dream he’s had, all things considered.

He'd been way too pent-up. Surely, that must be the cause—now that he's gotten off for the first time in admittedly a very long time, his dreams will go back to normal. For better or for worse. It probably doesn't mean anything that his dream was about you. He knows firsthand that these things aren't always sensical, that there's almost no way that you being the subject of his dream means anything. Right?

But he just… got off. To you.

“Ffffffuck,” he whispers to his empty office, dragging a hand down his face.

Fuck, his thoughts echo.

Fuck.

No tags, I forgot to confirm who wants to be on NSFW and SFW taglists and will be doing so in a separate post.

[chierafied]

Challenge Accepted! (SKW2020D7)

For SessKag Week 2020 Day 7, I tried my luck with the SessKag Trope Generator and got "Sesshoumaru mistakes Kagome's Sass for Flirting" & "Sesshoumaru's mobile day care". This bit of silliness ensued.

Also posted on AO3, Dokuga & FFnet!

When, in the final year of high school, Kagome had needed to fill out forms for career counselling and to start seriously planning her future… This hadn’t made the list.

For one, she had not been sure back then if she ever could return back to the Feudal era. 

But even when she had been considering that unlikely (or so she had thought) scenario, she had pictured it all very differently.

She’d had daydreams of her and Inuyasha. Of a peaceful life in the village together with Miroku and Sango. Or maybe one of adventure, back on the road and roaming across the Sengoku era Japan.

Being covered in someone else’s bodily fluids and wrangling a hanyou toddler gearing himself up to a full-blown temper tantrum hadn’t featured into her expectations. 

Not even in those rosy imaginations of her and Inuyasha’s possible future children.

She really hadn’t had a clue back then, huh?

To begin with, the well had reopened, and Kagome had abandoned all the plans she had made for the future in a split-second decision to return to the past.

Secondly, she and Inuyasha, well… It turned out they were the best of friends, but any romantic notions Kagome had once harboured had died a fairly quick death when expectations and reality did not quite manage to meet.

And finally, somehow, she had ended up running an unofficial orphanage in Edo.

It had probably begun because Kagome had been giving lessons to Shippou and Rin, as well as Miroku’s and Sango’s children. 

She’d wanted to fill her days with something productive, but it turned out that growing up in the 20th century didn’t really give you all the skills and knowledge needed to fit into the life in the 16th century.

But the one thing that she did have that most people around her in the village lacked, was comprehensive education.

In hindsight, deciding to put her knowledge into a good use might have been a mistake, Kagome reflected, struggling to tie the obi around the screaming toddler. 

Another young hanyou, twin sister of the charming boy currently preoccupied with throwing his tantrum, tottered in on unsteady feet, then latched onto Kagome’s leg.

Literally.

Kagome winced.

“Momo-chan, sweetheart, please remember to be mindful of your claws,” she told the hanyou girl clinging to her leg.

The girl solemnly looked at where her tiny hands were resting on Kagome’s bare shin, and then carefully eased her hold.

Kagome let out a breath, and as little Mr Cranky Pants was all changed up, set the snarling and shrieking child down.

He kicked his tiny clawed feet against the floor in utter fury, and Kagome had a snapshot of understanding what Inuyasha might have been like as a child. 

She'd probably dodged a bullet there. Imagine her and Inuyasha's offspring, inheriting their temper from both parents!

Not a rosy picture at all, that.

In fact, it suddenly made Shinji-kun seem a veritable little angel.

Or perhaps that title should go to Momo-chan, Kagome amended, as the girl knelt down by her brother and stroked his hair.

Awwww!

Moments like these, Kagome thought, warmth swelling in her chest, were what made it all worthwhile.

But first things first, she really needed to change into a clean kosode herself and wash the baby puke out of her hair.

“Rin?” she called out, hoping the young woman would be free to look after the twins while Kagome made herself presentable again.

All right, so she might have exaggerated a little, earlier. It wasn’t really an unofficial orphanage, and Kagome wasn’t quite running it either.

They had six orphans altogether, and although Kaede, Rin and Kagome were the main caretakers for the children, the whole village pitched in to help where they could.

Even Shippou, who was always a very sought-after playmate whenever he came back to Edo.

Most of the children were human, only the young twins were hanyou. 

The three oldest children, each old enough to look after themselves, for the most part, lived with Kaede and Rin. The arrangement suited all of them, actually, because Kaede was not getting any younger, and the additional help around the house was a huge weight off of her and Rin’s shoulders.

Kagome, meanwhile, had had the dubious honour of looking after the hanyou twins.

The logic there had been that, as a miko, she was the best suited for the task, as most villagers would not be a match for a pair of half-demons, toddlers or not. And unlike Kaede, she was young enough to keep up with the pair.

Kagome, technically, was also taking care of the youngest child, hence the baby puke in her hair.

In practice, though, the infant boy spent a lot of time over at Sango’s and Miroku’s, as Sango had very kindly volunteered to be the little baby boy’s wet nurse.

Rin still had not showed up, but all of a sudden, Shinji-kun’s temper tantrum ended, and the snarling and shrieking stopped.

Ahh, blessed silence, was all that Kagome had time to think before a flare of youki from the edge of the village raised her hackles.

Oh no.

He was back.

And he only ever did that stupid flare thing when he wanted her attention.

And he only ever wanted her attention when…

“Oh god, not another one!” Kagome groaned out lout, exasperation seeping into her very bones.

It was all the miko’s fault.

Sesshoumaru did not know how, but it was the only logical conclusion he could draw.

For years, decades, well over a century, he had wandered far and wide, in perfect solitude. (Jaken didn’t count.) 

But somehow, right after his paths had first crossed with the miko, he had met Rin. 

Eventually, they’d been joined by Kohaku.

After their victory over Naraku, he had parted ways with the both of them and resumed his peaceful lone existence.

And alone he had remained (Jaken still didn’t count), for a blissful three years.

Then the miko had returned.

And once again, inexplicably, he had come across a human child who had insisted on following him.

Then there had been two others, banded together until they stumbled on Sesshoumaru.

Then a pair of young neglected hanyou.

Then he had come across a raided village and had heard the wail of a human infant from among the ruins, tucked away into a safe corner, probably by its now-deceased mother.

Since it was all miko’s fault, Sesshoumaru had decided the children should be her responsibility, not his.

It was a stroke of genius, even if he said it himself.

Like killing two birds with one claw.

From the very start, the miko had been a complete mystery to him.

Not the least because of the mixed signals she was always sending.

It had always been obvious there was some sort of… involvement between the miko and his younger half-brother. Sesshoumaru hadn’t known or hadn’t cared to know the exact nature of it.

Yet, throughout their very loose acquaintance, the miko had been challenging him.

Even upon their first meeting, when she had watched from the side lines while he and Inuyasha had battled over the mastery of Tessaiga in their father’s tomb, the miko had still managed to stand up to him, by yelling advice to Inuyasha.

Then, adding insult to injury, she had been the one to pull their father’s fang out.

At every turn, she had defied him and stood her ground, talked back to him, demanded explanations of him, called him names, never shown fear... Always ready to pitch her will against his.

The miko had shattered his armour with her arrow early on in their acquaintance, and if that hadn’t been a challenge, Sesshoumaru didn’t know what was! Especially when she had promptly fired another arrow at him afterwards! 

So now, at last – and once it had become clear whatever there was between Inuyasha and the miko did not exceed the bounds of friendship – Sesshoumaru had started to challenge her back.

Currently, his preferred method of doing so was depositing the orphans he collected at her doorstep.

And to the miko’s credit, she had risen to the challenge marvellously.

Speaking of…

Sesshoumaru slanted a glance over his shoulder, and at the human boy following after him beside Jaken.

“We are almost there,” he informed them, his voice even.

Soon enough, they could see Edo in the distance.

A small smile rose to Sesshoumaru’s lips.

He was looking forward to the next encounter, eager to see how the miko would respond this time.

Sesshoumaru gathered his youki around himself and then let it flare up, sending a signal to his miko.

He was coming to give her her next challenge.

After finally getting Rin to look after the twins, Kagome marched to the edge of the village, where she immediately assumed a confrontational pose – hands on her hips, blue eyes glaring at Sesshoumaru.

Her gaze flicked to the young boy nervously fidgeting next to Jaken. He was human and looked to be around ten years old.

Kagome swallowed a sigh and turned to the boy.

“Hello, sweetheart. Welcome to Edo, my name is Kagome. I’ll talk to you a little later; for now you’d probably like something to eat, right? Jaken, please take him to Kaede’s.”

The kappa sputtered, but despite the grumbling under his breath, obeyed, telling the boy to follow along as he tottered away.

As soon as the two had left, Kagome whirled back to Sesshoumaru.

“How does this keep happening?” she demanded to know. “Where do you find these children? Why do you keep on bringing them here? I can’t do this anymore Sesshoumaru, I swear! This has gone on long enough!” 

She was pushing into his personal space now, all but wagging her finger at his face in righteous fury.

“I agree,” Sesshoumaru intoned smoothly.

“I’m telling you,” Kagome growled. “...Wait, what?”

“You are correct, miko, that is time to bring this charade to an end. Entertaining though it has been, I suggest it is beyond time for us to formalise our relationship.”

And just like that, Kagome’s anger was gone. Vanished, together with any sense she’d previously had of this entire conversation.

What was the infuriating daiyoukai on about?

“What relationship?” Kagome asked, suddenly apprehensive.

“Do not act coy with me, miko,” Sesshoumaru said, his eyes hooded. “We have been going around these circles for years now.”

“What circles?” Kagome was growing both more alarmed and confused by the second.

“I have presented you with multiple challenges,” Sesshoumaru told her patiently, nodding towards Kaede’s hut. “You have risen to each one and proven yourself brilliantly.”

“Challenges?” Kagome glanced at Kaede’s hut, then her own, then at Sesshoumaru. “You’ve been bringing me children because you’ve wanted to challenge me? What the hell?!”

“In part. Mostly I brought them because of the inconvenience. Nevertheless, I figured you would not be averse to a challenge, now that you and Inuyasha are no longer… involved.”

Flabbergasted. That was the word. That was what Kagome was feeling. Her mind simply wasn’t keeping up with the complete lack of logic of Sesshoumaru’s conversation.

“What does Inuyasha have to do with this?” 

“You have been challenging me since the beginning of our acquaintance,” Sesshoumaru began.

I have? Kagome wondered, trying to think back to see what on Earth Sesshoumaru could be referring to.

Maybe the time she’d had an arrow ready and aimed at him and had shouted the next one would be for his heart?

She grimaced.

“But for the longest time I was not certain if I should respond in kind, especially as Inuyasha had a prior claim,” he continued.

What claim? No. Kagome shook her head. No matter how much the daiyoukai tried to explain, none of this was making any sense.

“However I have now responded to you in kind. And you have proven yourself to me, and I assume likewise my performance whenever you have challenged me has met your approval as well. Thus, I think it is time to stop playing these games and make it official.”

“Make what official, Sesshoumaru?” Kagome snapped losing patience. 

Feeling stupid also didn’t help her temper.

Sesshoumaru blinked, slowly.

“Our mating, of course.”

Kagome’s mouth fell open. No words came out.

She was pretty sure that hell had just frozen over.

Unless…! Maybe?

She pinched herself and hissed in pain.

Nope, still in the middle of this absurd conversation.

She probably should say something.

Ask Sesshoumaru if he had completely lost his damn mind, maybe.

Be firm.

“M-mating?” Kagome squeaked.

Way uncool, Kagome, she chided herself.

Her mind was furiously trying backtrack. Trying to find a previous save point from a time when the world had still made sense.

“Yes,” Sesshoumaru said, unhelpfully, plunging Kagome further into chaos.

“So what you mean by challenging is…?” Kagome asked, in a vain attempt to recover some sanity.

“A typical behaviour of a suitor. How do you know if the object of your interest is truly worthy of your affections if you do not challenge them to prove themselves to you?” Sesshoumaru said, finally sounding unsure of himself

Oh.

The light bulb finally clicked on.

Oh no.

Was Sesshoumaru telling her… That basically the entire time they had known one another… he had thought she’d been flirting with him?

Kagome stared at him in mute horror.

He’d been bringing her orphan children in some convoluted and misguided effort to flirt back?!

Oh god.

“I sense some reluctance from you.” Sesshoumaru frowned.

No shit!

Kagome tried to gather her brain from the floor and scramble it for some sort of sensible words she might offer to Sesshoumaru, but before she could find any, he continued.

“Perhaps I have not proven myself to you yet? Do you wish to issue one last challenge?”

“I… Umm…” were all that Kagome’s poor brain had left to offer.

Sesshoumaru nodded gravely. “Very well. I accept.”

With three quick steps, Sesshoumaru had closed their distance.

All of a sudden, Kagome had to crane her neck in order to meet his eyes.

There was a look there, glimmering in those golden depths, that unnerved her more than this entire disaster of an encounter had.

As he leaned forward, Kagome’s eyes widened, her heart jumped, her stomach plummeted, her breath caught.

And then he was kissing her and… wow.

Wow. 

Okay, maybe this crazy notion of his did have some merit if this was what he had to offer.

His hand had come up to cradle her head. His fingers tangled in her hair, his claws lightly scraped against her scalp.

Whoo, talk about toe-curling.

One eternity later, Sesshoumaru pulled away.

Kagome drew in a quivering breath, her heart beating a mad, giddy rhythm. 

Had he proven himself?

You bet.

Still dazed, she looked into his eyes, the slow beginning of a smile blooming on her lips.

And then Sesshoumaru spoke.

“Are you aware that someone appears to have vomited milk in your hair?”

Ahh, yes.

That.

That they would probably still need to work on.

“Yes, I am,” Kagome retorted. “That tends to happen around babies.”

“Noted,” Sesshoumaru replied, deadpan. “So, have I proven myself sufficiently?”

Kagome bit her lip and took a moment to consider.

“You have proven yourself,” she said slowly. “But I am not ready yet to make our mating official. I think it would be fair if we tried some human courting, first.”

Sesshoumaru tilted his head.

“I suppose that your customs should require equal opportunity,” he admitted, his voice considering. “I must confess, however, that I am woefully ignorant of the ways of human courting practices.”

Kagome gave him a rueful smile.

Just as ignorant as she’d been about youkai flirting, she’d bet. But still, going forward, it would be best to avoid any further confusion and miscommunication.

“Don’t worry,” Kagome told him, reaching to take his hand in hers. “I’ll tell you all about it.” 

[doomedandstoned]

OLDD WVRMS REVEAL ALL

~By Billy Goate~

OLDD WVRMS. It feels like they've been eating away at my flesh and swimming in my bloodstream for a very long time, so much so that I forget to talk about how they've infected me. I was halfway through a review of their last effort when life swept me away to other places, then it was already time for a new release from the Belgian band. No, scratch that -- two new releases!

This month, the doomed instrumentalists revealed a split with Liège devotional math-prog threesome Ilydaen, just months after the release of the February five-tracker 'Codex Tenebris' (2019 - Cursed Monk Records). That's now two long-plays, two extended-plays, a compilation album, and the aforementioned split to the band's name.

The Wave & The Swell ( Split LP ) by Ilydaen & Oldd Wvrms

OLDD WVRMS is a band that seems continually tinkering and experimenting. I mean, you really have to if you're going to cross the coveted five-year mark as a band, a milestone that seems to be key long-term viability. "There is the beautiful, spacious atmosphere of Agalloch," I wrote of their last record 'Ignobilis' (2016). "All this is good news if you long for the cold, crisp air of winter, forests filled with unspeakable darkness, whispering tales of bravery, misunderstanding, and tragedy. The emotion is especially palpable and will haunt my memory for quite some time."

Ignobilis by OLDD WVRMS

I also noted at the time that Ignobilis represented "a massive turn to clean singing over previous releases." In contrast, Codex Tenebris is a reconnects with works like 'Mater Serpentium' (2015) and NØT (2015), which are also sans voix. Stylistically, you’ll find OLDD WVRMS painting from a similar tonal palate as Enslaved, even dabbling in the technical terrain of Psycroptic, though in much slower compositions.

Codex Tenebris by OLDD WVRMS

OLDD WVRMS occupies the space between shadows, where slow, patient, penetrating riffs dwell and dark words are uttered. "La vallée des tombes" is one of the gems of the record, striking a strange balance between meditative bleakness and pounding discord. I’ve long been a fan of dissonant harmonies since I realized it was “okay” to play them as a pianist delving into the oeuvre of Franz Liszt and Alexander Scriabin. Like those composers, OLDD WVRMS utilizes dissonance no merely to jar the listener, but as a critical tactic for establishing bleak moods and a sense of the sinister. Codex Tenebris is available on Cursed Monk Records right here.

On the eve of their music video, "A l'or, aux ombres et aux abîmes," Doomed & Stoned visited with ØW guitarist and OLDD WVRMS founder Ben in hopes of getting to know this fairly low-key and mysterious doom metal trio -- rounded out by Oli and Cho on bass and drums -- just a hair or two better.

What is the meaning of the band’s name OLDD WVRMS? Is their significance to the unique spelling of your name?

It’s old Germanic to "Old Worms." There’s no particular meaning, although I’m a fan of the Dark Souls saga and it could be a reference to the primordial snakes.

I'm curious how your individual paths through life brought you three together?

We’re all from the French side of Belgium, down south. Cho and Oli have known each other for almost two decades. I was searching for bandmates to put up this new project and they were the perfect match. We all played in many bands before ØW, nothing worth naming.

There’re no guidelines. The music serves your imagination.

Why does instrumental doom appeal to you guys so much?

We tried several singers, with expectations they couldn’t achieve. It wasn’t bad, but we felt locked in restricted areas -- musically speaking, I mean. I took the mic on our previous release Ignobilis, singing just a bit, and even at that point we had the feeling that it wasn’t necessary at all, so we started writing the new album with a fully instrumental approach.

Rare is the band that can make instrumental metal stand convincingly on its own “two feet,” but OLDD WVRMS has done it. What would you say is the secret to pulling this style off successfully?

Thank you. Honestly, it’s hard to say. I guess it’s because we don’t hesitate too long on what’s good or not during the creation process. This and the fact that we blend a lot of influences from various horizons, seems to create something spontaneous. I think that’s what people like about ØW.

What instruments, amps, and gear do you find most useful in bringing your vision to life?

Cho’s setup is pretty straightforward: his beautiful DW kit with aggressive and shining cymbals -- and a ferocious need to beat the shit out of it!

Oli is using an Ampeg SVT 3 pro, SWR Goliath and Megoliath cabs with a Fender Aerodyne, plugged into a pedalboard loaded with many effects, drives, octaver, delays, reverbs, etcetera, to achieve the drones parts.

I use a Marshall JCM 800 over modified by Ruthenberg, Marshall and Orange cabs, custom guitars by Denzo Custom Guitars, and a pedalboard loaded with overdrives, delays, and reverbs.

We record in my own studio, The Pale Flame, using the exact same rig live and studio.

I don’t read French, but I’m guessing the song titles are quite important in this selection of five tracks. Can you translate them to English and tell us what you intended to express with each song? Are they meant to stand independently or are they united by a concept?

Basically, all the songs originally had lyrics -- and yes, they’re all linked, almost as a soundtrack. The atmosphere we wanted to translate through the songs titles were way more powerful in French, with a little something more poetic and dramatic.

The only concept about Codex Tenebris is the presence and absence of light and obscurity. The idea that the audience is not guided by lyrics and can travel between the songs with their own imagination and create their own stories while listening to our music is extremely satisfying. There’re no guidelines. The music serves your imagination.

So, the first track "Ténèbres" means "Darkness." It starts the record in a cold, dark place, and song expresses loneliness and fear.

Second track, "A l’or, aux ombres et aux abîmes," means "To gold, to shades, and to the abysses." It’s my personal favorite, all about deception, anger, and melancholy.

The third one is "misère & Corde," literally "Misery & Rope" -- a song about grief and loss.

Next one, "La vallée des tombes" or "The valley of tombs," is a psychoactive and hypnotic song about terror and despair.

"Fléau est son âme" is hard to translate, but it would be something like "scourged is his soul." It is about letting things go, acceptance, and abnegation.

We briefly corresponded about your EP a few years ago, when I emailed you about a sample you’d selected for the final track. I heard another sample in the final track of the latest LP that intrigued me.

It’s an Egyptian monologue taken from the movie Angel of Mossad, and it’s in correlation with "Fléau est son âme." It’s the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. The narration is beautiful.

What's the area of Belgium like where you OLDD WVRMS calls home?

We all live in villages -- small villages. Everything is very quiet and calm. Nothing ever happens. (laughs) Sorry, there’s just nothing much to say about it.

No worries! I've lived in my share of small towns, too, so I get it. What are some of the bands that you play with in your heavy music scene?

We shared the stage with badass bands like Hangman’s Chair, Primitive Man, -16-, Jucifer, the body, Grime, Ortega, and more -- hopefully many more to come.

When you look into your crystal ball, do you envision yourself touring?

Yeah, we’d love to. Like everyone else, we have jobs and families, but touring once or twice a year during a few choice weeks would be awesome. Only time will tell if this will happens.

Finally, what would your ideal live performance look like, if you could spare no expense?

Small venues, crowed, with our light man Chouffe and a good sound engineer. You know, keep things simple.

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[renegadesepiida]

How many cultures around the world celebrate with sheep decoration and alcohol? No, seriously, I’m asking. It would seem that the festival of Sant Joan de Ciutadella on the island of Menorca is not a singular event in the world, especially because it came from Pagan festivals and then incorporated Medieval traditions and Christianity, but they sure do make it all their own. For all the background information you can visit menorca-live.com/festes-de-sant-joan-de-ciutadella-menorca/.

For a bit over a week (9 days) the entire city of Ciutadella celebrates. The origin story, as it was told to me was, this annual festival is to celebrate the medieval knights who went to fight a war with the rest of Spain and the sheep was brought to all the knights’ homes as payment and to symbolize the call to arms. As the knights rode out to battle the celebration ensued. Fast-forwarding to the present, over the next several days the roads are covered in sawdust and broken nuts and knights on horseback riding through the streets. But I’m getting ahead of myself. It all starts with a sheep.

Night 1:

Beginning on Saturday, June 20 (at least in 2015) crowds all gather at a particular person’s home (I think it changes each year) where a male sheep is being kept in a pen about five feet above the ground. It is the tradition for people to visit the sheep and yell at it to keep it awake all night. As there are hundreds of people passing by, taking pictures, and talking to each other it is easy to believe that sound of the street quickly becomes a dull roar. Visitors come and go in shifts; some families come together before dinner, after dinner (which is when we were there), or later and later throughout the night. One can also imagine that as the night goes on a number of drunken people rises rapidly and some craziness can occur, but we left before that.

Day 2 – July 21:

After being kept up all night the sheep is pampered with a wash, a brush and is adorned with ribbons. This day is known as Diumenge des Be or the Sunday of the Lamb. All day long the Homo des Be (man of the sheep) carries the relaxed sheep on his shoulders circling around the city to the different knight’s homes while barefoot and wearing sheepskin. This man is accompanied by a small traveling band made up of a flutist and a drummer whom all met in the early morning at the balcony of the Caiser Senyor where the drummer is given the red and white cross flag of Sant Joan.

While walking through the city, mobs follow the procession through both wide-open squares and thin alleyways. This is not only to listen to the music that is continuously played nor to get a decent photograph or video, which is really difficult because of the sheer number of people (trust me, I was there) but also because petting the sheep’s wool is supposedly good luck. Maybe it’s just luck enough to make it out of the crowd alive, but in whatever way good luck presents itself I’m just happy that I can say I got a pet in while a was taking a video… which is probably why the video itself sucks.

And, of course, no festival would be complete without the traditional booze. In Menorca’s case, the special drink is called pomada, a mix of the island’s gin and lemonade. Even though we, along with the locals, drank this every night it will make a nasty and more entertaining appearance on a later date.

Day 3 – July 22:

As everyone knows vacations are hard, just kidding. With the week off from the field school, the instructors took us to various areas of the island that relate to what each course was more or less focused on. My group, of five, was the scuba divers and so we went straight to the ocean side. Up to the stone ruins of an ancient town high up on a cliff side. From this point, the citizens living there could have seen everything around, the perfect defensible position. We then drove a bit further northwest to caves that were used as homes and temples in an earlier era. What was incredible about that site was that while the outside rock was slightly carved to decorate ‘doorways’, the enormous inside was only a bit natural. While the caves themselves had mostly formed naturally the people who lived there carved most of the separate rooms with all of the special benches, fire pits, and columns.

After we all met together again at the oldest structure on the island (most likely a tomb) we visited a site with Roman and older pottery that was scattered across the ground like bubble gum wrappers or cigarettes in New York City. While a lot of history is known about that specific site it’s the time of Roman occupation not much is known from before, theories fly around that there could be buildings and temples built by the Minoans. Large stones stacked like capital T’s are thought, by some, to be reminiscent of the Minoan bullheads, though there is no official proof of this (for more info: https://www.historicmysteries.com/taulas-menorca/).

Continuing on with the day we all take the time to stop running around and eat a simple lunch at a beach, specifically Cala Pilar. I brought my white bikini, which may have not been the best idea looking back, and I was fairly uncovered. The water was warm and relaxed, not much in the way of waves and so clear we could easily see the bottom. Sand led, on the right side, to large basalt and sandstone rocks growing into a cliff face. In this area, there is another tradition that was shared with us, mud therapy. The red mud at the base of the cliff has been used for a type of lotion for centuries. All the coolest people of our group, at least the ones who didn’t care about getting dirty, climbed over the rocks and reached the mud. We covered our legs, stomachs, backs, and arms. I even painted my own to be more like war paint, putting a few lines on my face as well. Over a short period of time I could feel the mud drying and tighten on top of my skin and in several more minutes, I jumped back into the water to wash it off.

My skin was so soft and smooth, the best ‘lotion’ I had ever used. I know they pack and sell it to different countries, but I would rather spend the time and money to just go back and get it for free. Would be worth it for another vacation. The slight downside is that the mud stained my bikini, but there is an upside to that too; whenever I see that suit with its red stains I always remember that wonderful experience.

Day 4 – July 23:

According to my photo history, since looking back the days all seem to bleed together, the next day was the ‘horse party’, the main event. The main square by the waterfront was where the knights displayed their prowess and control over the huge Menorcan horses they rode. With a growing crowd comes an aspect of danger. While the knights ride directly through the crowds they also rear the horses. Just like the sheep a few days previous it is supposedly good luck to touch horses as they are being ridden, even more so if you touch them while rearing. With a crowd of hundreds attempting to touch the same horse, at the same time, accidents happen. Just one year before we arrived a man died after being kicked in the head as the horse came back down. Whether he was just being an idiot, running up to a rearing horse and not getting out of the way in time or if he got pushed up to the rearing horse and couldn’t move out of the way because of the crowd, it is still a tragic occurrence. And one that I was not anxious to duplicate.

All day and into the night the horses ran through the crowds all around the city. I was able to touch and even pet a few of them (while stationary) over that time and even for the next few days, but I was always weary about where the crowds were because I had a couple close calls early in the day. With the enormous crowds pushing you closer and closer to the action, there are times when you just might have to duck.

Day 5 – July 24:

Over the off week, nights were spent out at bars or clubs almost every night. There was one wide alleyway where the water for the harbor ended and the occasional bridges became shorter and shorter until streets on either side came together in a triangle shape; that was where the clubs were. Where most of the young people spent their time. But this particular night didn’t take place at a club at night, oh no, this started in the early evening and ran throughout the entire city.

Almost nearing the end of the week there were more and more traditions that continued to reveal themselves. One of them was the throwing of hollowed out hazelnuts at each other. During the late morning, before the mandated siesta (break time after lunch), we were out walking as a group and saw heaps of people, both young and old, throwing nuts at each other and laughing. We all decided to join in, throwing at the other people we knew in the group rather than total strangers. It was really fun! Since the nuts weren’t very heavy it didn’t hurt when you got hit either. While we were having our ‘battle’ a film crew made their way over and started to record us. I don’t know whatever became of that taping, but it makes me laugh when I think of a bunch of archaeology students from abroad being featured on Spanish TV at a Spanish festival.

Continuing on with the day another student, Teddy, and I took a break from everyone and went to write in our journals at a café across town. (And yes, I’m being completely literal and serious right now.) For at least an hour we sat outside and didn’t speak while writing. As the sun began to set more and more people were coming outside for another night of celebration. This time I really wanted in on the fun, so after my journal entry was completed I slipped the book and pen back into my purse and together with my friend set off to find the best pomada.

It seemed like every single café and bar had its own pomada recipe, but they all tasted pretty much the same, but also different. At each place, one cup would cost 2€ so Teddy and I took even turns paying for the drinks. Of course, every place gave us cups that we could take away and toss in the garbage, making it easier and faster to walk to each different shop. Personally, my favorite variation was the slushy version that we found at one café, but sadly, we would never find it again.

Eventually, we found ourselves nearby the club alleyway and the harbor. There Teddy saw a sailboat that he thought was too beautiful to ignore, I don’t know much if anything about boats so I wouldn’t be a great judge. The owner was a young man hanging out with his friends who had all come from mainland Spain to celebrate for a few days. While talking, mostly to Teddy, I was kind of listening, in and out, and refocused when they invited us aboard. I was ‘on-board’ (see what I did there??) for this plan cause, hey, free booze and hot guys. This backfired on me a bit because what I didn’t know at the time is that they asked Teddy if he was my boyfriend. Since he wasn’t he told them no (duh), and that, to them meant that it was open season on me, for anything and everything. We chatted a little (and when I say little I mean 5-10 minutes) bit before they started pouring pomada down my throat. Sure I was saying yes at the time and actively participating, but at that point, I was already inebriated, already at the point when I could have easily been taken advantage of. Luckily, Teddy noticed this and asked me if I wanted to go, in one of those silent, mind reading ways, and we politely departed from the men on the boat.

In the square, on the way back to the apartment, we ran into another group from the field school. They brought their own bottle of pomada and were heading to the small inlet beach a couple blocks from our building to drink and chill out. I was definitely drunk at this point, but wanting do as much fun stuff as possible joined them. Here is where my memory gets a bit hazy. I don’t particularly remember walking to the beach, but I remember walking onto the rocks and sitting down and drinking more. We all joked around, though I don’t remember the jokes that were made. And the last thing that I actually remember from that night was joining people in their leap into the water. The funny thing was that I wasn’t wearing my swimming suit, so in true, drunk, 23-year-old fashion, I went skinny-dipping instead.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I was told what happened after that and got those slight recollections in third-person. When you don’t know if it actually happened or if it was just a vivid dream. When I woke up I felt sick, but not an actual hangover, and when I moved the sheets to get out of bed there was a medium sized stain of blood by my feet and my left foot felt stiff and sore. Apparently while climbing out of the water I gashed my foot on a rock, this is when I am glad that I was so drunk that I didn’t feel it, or just didn’t remember the pain. Also because I was so drunk I couldn’t put all my clothes back on so another student lent me a towel to tie around my waist and I put back on my cardigan. Because I just got a gash on the ball of my foot and couldn’t walk Teddy gave me a piggyback ride back to the apartment building where I proceeded to puke my guts out after slipping on my sweats, without underwear, and a spaghetti strap shirt.

Naturally, while listening to this, I was mortified and profusely apologized to everyone who had to see me like that. It was the worst night in terms of my drinking and I scaled WAY BACK afterward, even to the point of not drinking at all. So over the next few days, I went out with people, but I didn’t really party too much and I was even a bit apprehensive about going back to the dock area because I was nervous that those guys would still be there. They weren’t, and the rest of the weekend was enjoyable and ended without any more incidents. After hearing more stories from our group I do wish I had stayed out later on other night, more soberly though, so I could’ve watched the sunrise. Sadly, after that week no one wanted to stay out all night again.

When Monday came everyone had to get back to his or her normal lives and all the evidence of the weeklong party was gone. The roads were suddenly spotless overnight. With not even a speck of shattered nut or speck of sawdust was left on any road. I couldn’t help but marvel at all the work that goes into this festival every year, and how they’ve already been doing it for centuries. The end of it reminds me of a reset button, or a ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ type of a thing. It doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you learn from it, because everything can be washed clean.

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The Knights of the Pomada and Sheep How many cultures around the world celebrate with sheep decoration and alcohol? No, seriously, I’m asking. It would seem that the festival of Sant Joan de Ciutadella on the island of Menorca is not a singular event in the world, especially because it came from Pagan festivals and then incorporated Medieval traditions and Christianity, but they sure do make it all their own.