#and it's only Really Cringe because he's been fervently denying feeling a thing about anyone ever.

[starflungwaddledee]

👀 and 💭 for Coostruck ^^

>>> kirby ship ask game here જ⁀➴ ♡!

9. 👀 What do other characters think of their relationship? Do they approve or disapprove? and 11. 💭 Do they have a favorite memory involving their partner? + an anonymous ask for 18. 💓 How did they tell their friends that they were together, or is their relationship a secret?

well, i wouldn't say it's his favourite memory, but...

he won't be forgetting it anytime soon. kind of a continuation of this and this!

for an avian this is tantamount to your boys finding that super secret book of terribly cringe poetry and song lyrics you've been writing about one specific person. nuclear event for coo "i'll just keep it all bottled up right here and then one day i'll die" the owl.

*✩˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ valentines shipaganza masterpost ✩˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ⋆˙⟡

[val-aquenta]

1,4, and 22 for the salty asks?

Hoo boy, this is just enabling me to rant lmao. But thank you so much for the ask. <333

1. What OTP's in your fandom(s) do you just not get?

Gotta say Obitine. Uhh... I didn't get it when I first watched the cartoon, and I hated the implication that they gave Obi-Wan a romance to make Obi-Wan more 'human' (something I've heard other people push on the narrative.) I do like that it kind of showed the choice between being a Jedi and being in a commited relationship, but beyond that nothing. I also don't really like how most of Satine's whole story is determined by her romance to Obi-Wan. She's killed because of their relationship, most of the arcs with her surround the 'are they still in love and going to get with each other' narrative, and frankly it bores me. I am personally not into shipping in general, and I prefer more platonic and familial relationships like the Jedi-Clone and inter-Jedi relationships, so ships are kind of meh in general to me. I also didn't even see the appeal of their 'romance' tbh. They just seemed to argue a lot, and their confessions kind of came out of nowhere to me. If they did love each other, it really must have been a long time ago. I don't see it working?

Uhmmm off the top of my head are a few that I don't get, but I don't feel as strongly about. Qui-Gon x Shmi (never really understood why?), Rey x literally anyone lol (especially not our genocidal buddy kyle), Rose x Finn (not developed enough and then completely forgotten lmao, Ahsoka x Lux (ok this one is basically a notp tbh. Just... ew), and basically every Obi-Wan ship that I know (look he doesn't need fucing romance ok.) I didn't really want to go in depth with these because if we did heh yikes, we'd be here forever.

4. Do you have a NoTP in your fandom? Are they a popular OTP?

Hah. Anidala lol. From the top of my head, I think it's a very selfish relationship. I mean Anakin cares more about his feelings to Padmè than Padmè herself, and I feel like Padmè wants the clandestine romance vibes that come with being married to a person who is meant to be a neutral party. Especially during a war. Anakin's willingness to commit genocide for his 'love' for Padmè isn't a large sweeping romantic thing. The idea that he'd do anything for his love is pretty scary and I'm pretty sure Padmè, to some degree, knew of it. The fact that she continued to stay with him and live this double life means that she doesn't care about the consequences really. Idk I just feel like this relationship brings out the worst in both parties. The fact that Padmè is willing to deny that Anakin's fallen even when Obi-Wan comes to her door and tells her that Anakin killed Jedi could be that Padmè doesn't think Anakin capable of doing such a thing, but due to the fact that she was with him for the Tusken massacre and the whole Rush Clovis shit (and probably other tcw I don't remember) makes me think otherwise. Imo, I think that had the war ended and Palps been aprehended and everything gone well, their relationship would not have worked, because a large part of it was the fact that it was a secret thing, and that Anakin was not with Padmè that much. I don't see it working without outside factors imo, but whatever.

And, similar to many things, a lot of anidala fans are not willing to confront this truth that their relationship is built on lies and deceit and therefore will not continue to hold strong. So many of them ignore how Anakin broke his oaths as a Jedi to be impartial and place others over single people, and we all know that he did not do that when it came to Padmè. I know a lot of anidala fans aren't like this, and I'm not particularly vehement about this. This notp is more me not wanting to read anidala fics or see anidala art, and I've filtered it out. But yeah, some fan's vehemence that this was the one true thing and that if Anakin had been able to love openly (like he could... he just didn't have to be a Jedi to. Dang he really wants to eat his cak and have it too) and whatever he wouldn't have fallen just makes me... cringe a lot. Also I can't really separate what their relationship caused with the relationship itself.

22. Popular characters you hate?

Oh... uhh... this one makes me nervous ahhh. Well there are a few that I don't like as much as most people do and only a couple I hate hate. I really hate our lovely boy kyle. Uhh... mass murdering manipulator who tortures Rey and co, dude who stands by as entire planets are destroyed, and a genocidal maniac overall. I'm scared of some of his fans because yikes they're really fervent and trying to make kyle a morally grey character because of his 'redemption' during tros. Like... I don't care. You can say the same about Anakin/Vader tbh, but I think a lot of my hate for our buddy kyle comes from his fans and r*ylo stans who are very... intent on excusing Kyle's shitty actions. At least most Anakin/Vader fans know he's a shitty person and don't try and morally grey-ify him if you get what I'm saying.

Jango Fett too. I mean, I haven't read any of the books featuring him, but I'm gonna say it. Jango decided to enter that contract to create the army of clones. Essentially, he signed them up for the army in that contract with Dooku, so idc about your 'but he'd be such a good mand'alor and dad to the clones' bs, because he really wouldn't. He's incredibly selfish, and idk a lot of people seem to think he's the next best thing since sliced bread. I guess I should add Bo-Katan as well, because she's very hypocritical. the whole 'shouldn't you care about my sister' thing was not a good look because Bo-Katan, who helped bring the group of people there to destabalise her reign and kill her? Did you think deathwatch would just let her go freely? lmao with these two it's more I just don't like them that much. It's not like I hate them a whole bunch.

[turnipotentiary]

febuwhump day 3- imprisonment (whamilton)

this is really late, I know! I did a fuckton of research that ended up being obsolete :/ anyways have this! it’s nearly 2000 words and I’m proud of myself!

cw for depictions of getting beaten up

When Alexander begins to regain consciousness, the first thing he notices is that he can’t see- a black cloth is wrapped around his head, covering his eyes. Certain that this is not some sort of prank, especially not something his friends would pull in the middle of a war, he gets up slowly, feeling the wall he’d been propped up against. It’s plaster,  the kind of wall that you’d find in a permanent home. Odd.

He parses his memory. All he comes up with is getting into his cot and actually trying to sleep for once instead of working some more. And look where it got me, he thinks dryly. I’m never sleeping again.

A door creaks open and then slams shut. “Well, well, well,” a man’s voice says. It’s somehow oily, if a voice could be oily, and Alexander cringes away from the source. “Look what we have here,” he continues. “Washington’s little pet.” Alex’s first, panicked thought is how does he know?, and then he realizes this man cannot possibly know just how deep his affection for his commander runs. Besides (and much to his chagrin), it’s not like Washington’s ever done anything about it, no matter how certain Alexander is that his feelings are reciprocated. He’s too virtuous, Alex often thinks. But then again, he’d never have him any other way.

“Stop smiling,” the man snaps. Alexander instinctively smiles harder, grinning and exposing his teeth in a mocking Cheshire-cat-like expression. That was a mistake, he notes as the stranger slaps him hard, expression scrunching up as the stinging pain spreads across his cheek. It’s not so much a sudden, sharp pricking of pain as it is a million little needles poking at him at the point of contact, almost tingling. He observes this all with an odd sort of detachment, absentmindedly rubbing at his cheek as the person withdraws. 

“Are you done messing around?” the man growls, and suddenly it all comes back into focus and Alexander is very, very aware that he’s likely not in friendly hands. Which means he’s a hostage. He supposes it could have been worse- he’s not on one of those prison ships, which would practically guarantee his slow, inglorious, practically unnoticed death by sickness or suffocation- but even so, this is a situation in which he should tread carefully.

So he tilts his chin up and nods, not saying a word. “Good boy,” the man sneers, and Alexander has to physically bite his tongue to stop himself from saying something. “Now. What is your army’s next move?”

This time Alexander can’t help himself, snorting, “you really aren’t a subtle one, are you?” 

His cheek is still smarting from the first hit, and it hurts even more when the man backhands him across the face, bony knuckles knocking into soft flesh. 

“None of that. Tell me, now.” Alexander gives him the best incredulous look he can manage from behind a blindfold.

“Bitch, I’m not telling you,” he says. The next thing he knows there’s a fist connecting with his stinging cheek, adding to the pain. He groans as his head jerks sideways and knuckles connect with his jaw, knocking his teeth together. He can feel it practically in his bones, dull throbs reverberating through his skull, and it hurts. Still, he clamps his mouth shut.

“So that’s how you’re playing it,” the man says. “Well. I can’t say I expected less.” A punch to his stomach, knocking the breath out of him as he leans forward, doubling over and wrapping his arms around himself. The man laughs. Shoves him onto the ground. He manages to catch himself, but the floor is hard, and he can almost feel the bruises forming on his palms. A foot comes down harsh on his back, slamming his stomach onto the ground. He thinks he might be screaming. Another kick to the face. If there wasn’t blood before, now it comes streaming out of his nose and he isn’t sure why he isn’t feeling any pain there until it comes rushing in, sharp and insistent and oh god it hurts. So bad. 

“I could do this for hours,” the man says nonchalantly. Kicks him again. “Exactly six hours, in fact. If you don’t crack by then, well, bye-bye to you, we’ll just drag John Laurens in here and do the exact same thing. How’s that sound? Hm? You gonna die for nothing and let your buddy die too?” Alex gasps, trying to breathe through the fog of pain. No. No. Not John. Anyone but John. Anyone but John and- “Or maybe that dear Marquis,” the man continues, light and cheerful as he shoves his boot into Alex’s stomach. “Do you think he’d talk? I would hate to ruin that pretty face, of course, but you know, we all make sacrifices in war.” Alexander wants to scream. Familiar rage comes rushing in. This stupid Loyalist knows nothing of sacrifice. Nothing. 

“Fuck- you,” he manages to get out through gritted teeth. Instead of snarling at him, the man just chuckles, and somehow that’s worse, the icy edge of the sound digging into him. 

“Oh my, oh my. I was expecting Washington’s right-hand man would be smarter. But then again, perhaps it wasn’t exactly your wits that got you to where you are,” he says. Another harsh kick accompanies the blow to his pride. “Not denying it? Hm. What a whore,” he continues, tone as light as if he were carrying a nice conversation with a casual acquaintance. Alexander writhes on the floor. 

“You’re actually quite lucky, you know,” the man says. “I wanted to bring out the knives. Arnold wouldn’t have that, though, says it’ll be better to have some physical proof that you’ve been in pain.” Alex inhales sharply. What? Arnold as in Benedict Arnold? “Ah yes, that’s right! How delightful. You still don’t know about dear Benedict!” the man says cheerfully. “Well, he’s ours. I’m surprised you hadn’t figured that out by now. But then again, of course, you know nothing about us. Yet we-” his tone drops significantly, and he leans down to Alex’s ear- “know everything.”

He’s rescued, of course. He holds a high position and someone was bound to notice his absence fairly quickly, and put the pieces together. But it’s not quick enough to stop him from accumulating bruises all over his body, purpling up around the edges and reminding him of his pain with even the slightest pressure. His nose is broken, and there’s blood all over his face, and he’s spent the last five hours taunted and tortured. He thinks he might have a broken arm, but he’s not sure. They put him on Washington’s bed, presumably because it’s one of the only ones that actually have a mattress and it’s isolated, and he drifts off, glad for the escape from his own hurting body.

~~

They bring Alexander in. Washington is immensely worried, and clearly not in any state to make any sort of decisions, and Lafayette, seeing this, immediately takes charge (bless him). He’s very capable, and Washington trusts him. He sighs. He should have seen this coming. No matter how much they put on an air of bravado and condescension towards the revolution, the British know they’re in a bad place. They’re getting desperate. He should have anticipated they’d make a move like this. 

He looks at Alexander again from his seat at his desk. He would look almost peaceful, if it weren’t for the smattering of purpling bruises across his face. Washington shakes his head, trying to quell the surge of protectiveness he feels at the sight of his boy so hurt. He still hasn’t woken up.

It gets late, but Washington stays up, kept company by his own persistent thoughts. He should have done something. There must have been some way to prevent this, some sign that he’d missed. 

“George,” he hears. He whirls around. Alexander is smiling at him, more pained grimace than happy expression. He’s never called him that before. Washington decides he likes it. “George. I need to-” he breaks into a round of coughing. 

Washington is at his side instantly. “What is it?” 

“Arnold,” he manages to get out in between coughs. “Be- Benedict Arnold- traitor-” 

Washington is more worried about Alexander. “Okay,” he says, because Alexander is trying to emphasize his point and it’s worsening his coughing. “Okay. I believe you.” If Arnold is a traitor- and he surely is, because his Alexander would not lie about these things- he must be dealt with. He writes a quick letter and gives it to Lafayette, who is just downstairs. He will handle it. 

“Alex. Alexander. It’s okay,” he says. Alexander is still trying to speak. “It’s alright.” He shakes his head fervently. 

“No-” he manages, although his voice is hoarse and rough- “no- one more- one more thing- I-” He stops. “M’- gonna- sleep- but-”

“Alexander. Just sleep. It’s okay.”

“I- I love you,” he blurts. Washington answers without hesitation, almost on impulse.

“I love you too.” 

Alexander seems to deflate, as if that was the only thing keeping him hanging on. “M’ sorry,” he mutters. 

What are you sorry for?  “Don’t be sorry.”

~~

Alexander recovers fairly quickly. Lafayette is grateful, although he cannot help but note that he still limps, and winces if someone bumps into him too hard. He worries, of course, but nothing in the world could separate Alexander Hamilton from his work except physical restraints, no matter how much his friends might try to dissuade him. 

There’s other changes, too. He seems much more protective of Lafayette and John, taking to following them and always inquiring as to where they are, and panicking when he doesn’t receive a definitive answer. John jokes that it’s like having a guard chihuahua, but both of them make sure to stay within Alexander’s sight whenever possible.

The biggest change, however, lies in Alexander’s relationship with their general. John is not particularly perceptive, and thus continues unaware, but Lafayette has spent his whole life observing and taking invisible cues in order to insert himself in the right places and charm the right people, and he sees it almost as clear as if it were written in bold for him to read, so glaringly obvious in the way Washington pulls him closer when they’re not in public, the way Alexander leans into him, the glances they share from across the room, heavy with intimacy and care. 

Even so, even with it laid out in front of him, he turns away, covers his eyes. Maintains plausible deniability. What those two have is fragile, new, and he won’t ruin the new happy spark in his friend’s eyes when his general is mentioned. 

So when a month goes by, when Alexander is healed enough for more exerting physical activities, when he passes Washington’s door late at night and hears them whispering together, tender and affectionate in the privacy of Washington’s office, he blocks it out, walks right on by, hopes Alexander knows what he’s doing.

i really just went “mmm ✨commas✨” didn’t I

comments are very very very very much appreciated, as are reblogs! 

[kazimakuwabara]

Memory Seed 2

A direct sequel to this. I got a surprising amount of people wanting more, So here we are!

Summary: Kuwabara thinks that if he’d been in a group of four, he’d remember that. Boy, is that little weirdo angry. (2300+ words)

***

“About half of his victims have already reverted to normal-”

“...But then only half of those people recovered their memories.”

“Why hasn’t Kuwabara remembered?”

“Yusuke, it’s been an hour! He was the last victim, we have to wait a full twenty-four hours.”

“Some people didn’t remember!”

“Kuwabara... Kuwabara will remember!”

“He has to...”

“What if he doesn’t remember?”

“...Can you guys stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Kuwabara asked uncomfortably. He flinched as Koenma, Yusuke, Kurama, and Botan all looked at them, their eyes wide and unbelieving. He cringed at their bewildered expressions, and really wished they’d just take him home.

The shorter figure, Hame? Hino? No, no... it was Hiei. Hiei, stood away from the group, away from Kuwabara, his arms crossed and his red eyes glaring in the far corner of the room. He radiated with a dark aura, that warned for everyone to keep away.

Kuwabara was happy to oblige.

Koenma ran his hands down his front, drying and ridding them of the nervous sweat that he’d broken out into. Bending slightly towards Kuwabara, as if he was speaking to a child, Koenma asked, “Do you remember the mission you all agreed to help on before you left here?”

Kuwabara stood up. One, because of course he remembered, and two, because why was Koenma bent over treating him like he was the child! Koenma was the one who still wore diapers--probably! 

“Yes, I remember! This asshole was using these seeds to take memories, and turn people into his warrior zombies. So we, as usual, went out and took care of it.”

“And you got hit!” Yusuke snapped, less angry, and more... frantic.

“Do you remember what the first memory is that you lose?” Koenma asked, standing straight, his brows knitted together with that anxious concern everyone wore on their faces.

“Yes... I do...” Kuwabara muttered awkwardly. He remembered the assignment. He remembered which particular memory he “supposedly,” lost. He just... couldn’t really believe it.

“You forgot me,” Hiei spoke up from the corner, his voice bitter and deep.

The room was silent.

Kuwabara awkwardly rubbed the toe of his shoe against the back of his leg. He wanted to deny that he knew Hiei again, but he’d been dragged to Spirit World and shown some video evidence that they had all once been a team of four. Not three, like Kuwabara’s memories, told him. It was hard to deny what he was shown. There was even footage of Kurama and this Hiei, training him before the dark tournament.

Kuwabara could even think of a few sword moves that he knew, that he saw Hiei use, with admittedly far better skill.

“And so I loved you?” Kuwabara asked, jumping as he felt the whole room flinch. Botan had sucked in such a sharp breath, she started to choke and cough.

“I don’t know. You tell me,” Hiei bit out, finally turning to glare at Kuwabara, “You never told me!” The way Hiei said that, sounded strange to Kuwabara. Hiei’s voice was angry and bitter, but it wasn’t just the feelings behind the words. It was the words themselves that was also strange. It was like he had heard it before, somewhere. It made his head hurt.

“You never told anyone!” Yusuke added suddenly, “You always said you loved Yukina!”

“That’s odd,” Kuwabara admitted, “I really don’t.” That was another thing that bothered him. He liked Yukina, loved her in a way, but she was not... he wasn’t in love with her. He knew this to be true as certain as he was sure of his own name. It seemed strange to him, his friends didn’t know that.

Again, the room stared at him.

“He...he admitted it so easily,” Kurama muttered.

“Hold on a second! You only gush every other day, that you love her!” Yusuke snapped, pointing at Kuwabara with accusation.

Kuwabara opened his mouth to protest. He squinted and narrowed his eyes a bit. Yusuke was right. He did do that. He did have memories of fervently declaring his love for Yukina. All the time. Around his friends.

Why?

“Why?” Kuwabara asked aloud, a hand coming to his chin. He tapped a finger on his mouth and muttered, “Why do I do that?”

“Because you love her! Or you said you did! Why didn’t you tell me you were in love with Hiei?! I don’t care! Did you think I would care?!” Yusuke pulled his hair as he shouted out the thoughts that had been haunting him since this all started.

Kuwabara titled his chin, disregarding Yusuke’s panic, “...I was saying I loved Yukina because... I told her I would.” Kuwabara narrowed his eyes as he struggled to remember. Did it involve this Hiei guy somehow?

“What do you mean Kuwabara?” Kurama asked.

“Because I did love her at first I thought,” Kuwabara continued to mutter, “But then we talked, and were looking for...” Kuwabara’s mutterings ended and his hand went to his head. He closed his eyes wincing against a sudden headache. He heard Kurama gasp, and felt blood drip from his nose, pouring out suddenly as if he’s sprung a leak.

“Kuwabara stop trying to remember whatever you’re trying to remember,” Koenma ordered, voice firm but tinged with fear, “That’s the memory seed still at work. You can hurt yourself if you push too hard.”

Kuwabara wiped his nose, sniffing as his head throbbed dully.

He felt Hiei’s eyes on him, glancing at him.

“It’s fine,” Kuwabara muttered, sniffling as he blinked rapidly until the pain was gone.

“It’s not fine Kuwabara! if you push too hard... well I don’t want to find out what that could do to you!” Koenma insisted.

Kuwabara wanted to roll his eyes. He had taken a lot more beatings than whatever this little plant was doing to him. He sighed and finished off his initial thoughts about Yukina, “I made some sort of deal with Yukina, and that’s why I was saying it all the time. We made this deal around the time Kurama and Yusuke went to the Makai for the first time. I can’t remember the ‘why,’ fully, or I could if I pushed a little more... but you’re all worried about a little headache-”

“Kazuma, don’t push your luck!” Kurama scolded, green eyes alight with concern. “Just... drop it. It... it doesn’t matter that none of us knew about your feelings, what matters now is just... taking you home, and hoping that by tomorrow afternoon you remember everything.”

“He’ll remember!” Yusuke insisted, looking at Kuwabara, and then looking at Hiei, “Kuwabara’s the strongest psychic around or whatever! That’s gotta count for something! He’ll remember!”

“I mean does it matter?” Kuwabara asked with a shrug. He pointed at Hiei, “This little guy clearly doesn’t like me, in the romantic sense or any other. If I don’t get my memories back then... whatever right? We’ll just start fresh, get to know each other now.”

The room went into an uproar all at once.

“How could... you are all friends!” Botan sniffled, eyes watery.

“Kuwabara...” Yusuke tried to speak, his brown eyes full of concerns he didn’t quite know how to express.

“Kazuma... please don’t say that. I know the tapes made it seem like you and Hiei had a... strange relationship...”

“But you two are really friends! It’s just-” Koenma’s babbling was cut off by the sound of a loud crack.

Hiei had punched one of the ostentatious decorative pillars in Koenma’s office, into dust. His eyes were glowing red, and his teeth gnashing as he took on an ashen shade. Kuwabara clamped his mouth shut, and his head retreated into his shoulders.

That little guy seemed pretty tough... it sent an excited little thrill through Kuwabara’s body.

“Out,” Hiei spit.

“Hi-” Kurama tried to talk, one hand reaching out for his friend.

“Everyone but Kuwabara-OUT!” Hiei snarled stomping towards the group that sputtered at him.

A strange look passed through Kurama’s eyes, but he was soon ushering everyone out, Yusuke and Botan protesting loudly, and with different reasons.

“I don’t think leaving them alone is a good idea!”

“Hiei! If you hurt Kuwabara you’re dead!”

Koenma didn’t argue. He didn’t even care that he was being chased from his own office, or if Hiei partially destroyed it! Without looking back he fled the room, Kurama pushing Botan and Yusuke after him. Kurama spared the anxious Kuwabara a soft look, “Kuwabara, you’ll be fine. Hiei’s not going to kill you.”

And then Kuwabara was alone with the angry little demon-man, that Kuwabara very much thought would kill him.

Kuwabara took a step back.

“Does it matter to remember me?” Hiei repeated bitterly after a long stretch of silence. He turned to glare at Kuwabara, the latter startled to see guilt underneath the layers of rage in those red eyes. Hiei stalked towards Kuwabara, Kuwabara walking back until he was pressed against a wall.

“It matters. It fucking matters, because you need to remember me. You need to remember so you can recall all those countless times I saved your pathetic life,” Hiei snarled, “All those hours wasted, teaching you to use a sword with some skill, rather than waving it around like a fucking flyswatter! You need to remember so you can tell me what deal you made ith Yukina, and so you can FUCKING tell me...”

Hiei pursed his lips tight, eyes narrowed as he stared at Kuwabara’s frightened face.

“You... you need to tell me why you loved me. I... I don’t believe you,” Hiei grumbled, his lie obvious. There was a different reason he wanted to know, but Kuwabara didn’t dare ask for it.

“I mean... I don’t believe, can’t believe I loved you either!” Kuwabara muttered, trying to force some bravery in his shaking words. Crossing his arms, and sliding along the wall away from the raging demon, Kuwabara continued, “From the twenty minutes of footage I saw, you seem pretty aggressive towards me all the time. And if you’re not aggressive, you looked hell bent on ignoring me.”

“How dare you accuse... you think you would understand our relationship? One that you don’t remember!?” Hiei snapped, cheeks mottled red.

“What are you mad about!?” Kuwabara wheezed desperately confused, “Are you mad that I don’t remember you, or that I’m supposedly in love with you? Because, I dunno, you seem the type to be mad about the second-”

“The type? The type?” Hiei snarled stalking towards Kuwabara, who yelped and fled to the other side of the room.

Hiei was now half chasing Kuwabara as he walked in a large circle around Koenma’s office, desperate to keep some distance between himself and Hiei.

“What do you mean, Kuwabara?” Hiei growled throwing Koenma’s office chair aside. It shattered against the wall as if it was made out of brittle match sticks.

“Look! You just... you’ve clearly got some anger issues-” Kuwabara tried, backing quickly away from the exploding man.

“ANGER ISSUES?!”

“Some anger issues! And you don’t look like you’d like a big guy like myself being interested in you-”

“Who are  you to decide what I might like?!”

“Well, it’s clearly not me!”

Kuwabara didn’t even have time to scream. 

Hiei, who had been at least four feet away, disappeared in less than half a blink of an eye, and reappeared, his hands on Kuwabara’s shirt, and weight pushing him down. Kuwabara slammed hard against the wall, sliding down to the floor as Hiei’s weight forced him down-something that impressed Kuwabara, as well as terrified him.

It was amazing to see such a little guy with such amazing force and strength.

That excited little thrill was back.

“You don’t remember anything,” Hiei muttered darkly, his voice filled with anger, longing, and bitterness. All somber feelings that surprised Kuwabara with their intensity. Hiei’s hand hooked around Kuwabara’s jaw, and he shifted Kuwabara’s face, tilting him at an odd angle.

‘He’s not going to-’ Kuwabara didn’t have time to complete the thought as Hiei kissed him, hard and desperate-and far too intimate and intrusive for it to be a first kiss.

Hiei knew Kuwabara’s mouth. 

He knew where to slant his lips against Kuwabara’s mouth, knew to bite the bottom of his lip, and then swipe a tongue over the top lip. Kuwabara’s body responded a fact that shocked the man, even as he moaned. Hiei invaded Kuwabara’s mouth immediately, his tongue abnormally warm, and seeking. He stroked the inside of Kuwabara’s mouth with demanding passion, pressing and tilting himself against Kuwabara so that he could suck against Kuwabara’s mouth as if he could draw water from him.

Hiei drank greedily from Kuwabara, until, Kuwabara was pushing at Hiei, eyes watering from the air he needed. Hiei pulled away, Kuwabara gasping for a painful breath, his hands gripped knuckle white against Hiei’s shoulders. 

Kuwabara took in several gasping breaths, fingers flexing nervously against Hiei. He stared down at Hiei’s waist, suddenly too scared to look him in the eyes.

That had been good.

Really, really, really fucking good.

Hiei was breathing hard, and after another few seconds of silence swore under his breath. He seemed disappointed in something that did or didn’t happen. Hiei reached into his cloak and pulled out a small silver object, which he revealed in the flat of his hand to Kuwabara.

Kuwabara looked up, Hiei waiting for his gaze.

“That’s... that’s the key to my apartment,” Kuwabara muttered. His lips felt pleasantly heavy, and he resisted the urge to swipe his tongue over them. He was scared what type of reaction that would cause if he did that now.

“...It’s my copy...” Hiei amended softly, the heat in his voice gone, and left hollow with longing and sadness.

“...Your copy...?” Kuwabara muttered blinking rapidly.

Kuwabara looked back to the door his friends had fled from, and then back to the little demon straddling him. He looked back at the key, and then back into Hiei’s sullen expression.

“Were... Were we in a secret relationship!?” Kuwabara choked, suddenly realizing that this missing memory thing might be a little more complicated than he first thought.

Hiei looked at Kuwabara, answering with his eyes, rather than his words.

“What the heck is going on here!?” Kuwabara fumed.

[irish-nlessing]

Making the Grade - Ch. 1

The only sound Poppy Miller could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears.  The words were swimming in front of her eyes.  “Clerical error...unable to complete graduation application...missing credits.”  Reaching up with a trembling hand, she pulled her laptop closed with a quiet click.  “No no no no no.  This is not how this is supposed to go.  This is not how this is supposed to happen.”   Her voice was thick, the words tinged with panic.  She rolled away from the small desk in her cramped office and dropped her head between her knees and started counting.  “100...99...98...97…”  The numbers had always soothed Poppy, even when she was a small girl.  They never changed, there was always order, and they never faltered.  Saying them out loud made her feel like she was in control and centered, even when things in her world were spinning into chaos.

“25...24...23...22...21...20.”  Poppy took a deep breath, feeling her heart rate slowly return to normal.  Her ears were no longer ringing and making her feel as though she was listening to the sounds of the bustling newspaper office from under water.  Sitting up, she smoothed her hair and opened her laptop back up with a purposeful flick of her wrist.  She grabbed the phone from it’s cradle on her desk and punched in the direct extension to her academic advisor’s office.  For the past three years Poppy had spent countless hours in Professor Williams’ office, pouring over class schedules and timelines.  He’d always been supportive, if not a little bemused, by Poppy’s fervent need to graduate early.  Early on he’d tried to figure out why she was so focused on it, but he’d given up quickly after realizing that once Poppy had made a decision, it was done - never to be altered.  Her drive and stubbornness had helped propel her to the top of the Dean’s List and had made her the youngest Editor in Chief of The Monitor, the weekly newspaper of her small liberal arts college.  On the third ring, Professor Williams finally picked up.  “Ms. Miller.  To what do I owe the pleasure?”  Poppy scowled - she forgot about the caller ID function.  She hated not getting to lead conversations.  “Professor Williams.  I’m currently looking at very disturbing email which seems to indicate that my application for graduation confirmation has been denied due to an unfulfilled credit requirement.”  She heard a sigh through the receiver and then Professor Williams’ deep timbred voice speak soothingly into the phone.  “Poppy, this is not a crisis.  I promise.  There is time to fix it.”  

“This semester?”  Poppy demanded.  She could hear her advisor carefully mulling over his words.  Her belly filled with dread as she waited for him to respond.

“Poppy, I’m so sorry.  But, barring some extraordinary solution, I just don’t see how we can fix it this semester.”

“No.”  Poppy said, simply.

“Poppy, I’m not sur-” Professor Williams was mid sentence before he was cut off, unceremoniously.

“No.  There has to be a way.  The email said I was short four credit hours in a political science elective.  There has to be a class you can get me into.”  Her voice had lost some of it’s authoritative edge.  Fear and desperation were starting to creep in, softening her plea into a whimper.

After an agonizing silence, Professor Williams finally spoke.  “We’re two weeks into the semester.  But, let me see what I can come up with.  I’ll call you as soon as I have some answers.  Ok?”

Poppy let out the breath she’d been holding.  Her lungs burned with relief as she blew the air out across her lips.  “Thank you.  I’ll speak with you soon.”

Across campus, Niall Horan sat in the tiny graduate student office he shared with two other graduate student assistants.  It was little more than a glorified closet with harsh overhead lighting, a tiny desk and two old tattered chairs.  The walls were littered with schedules, post it notes, and memos from the university.  Niall knew each crack in the wall, every pin hole and knick in the heavy wooden door.  This tiny place had become his home, almost more familiar than the narrow streets that wound through the tiny hamlet in Ireland where he grew up.

Niall sighed and slumped back in his desk chair, rubbing his huge hands across the two day stubble on his jaw.   The past two years of his Ph.D. program had been a whirlwind and he had jumped in head first to his studies, almost to the complete detriment of his personal life.  Only his flatmate, Harry, had managed to pull him from the brink of complete social suicide by insisting Niall join him once a week for pints at the dodgy bar just off campus. But even Harry, with all his charm and joie de vivre, couldn’t help Niall land a date.  In fact, in the two years Niall had been working on his Ph.D. he'd been on exactly one date.  It was such an epic disaster that it had almost become Niall’s claim to fame among the other doctoral candidates, who had gone so far as to affectionately refer to it as “the negative date”.  Every time Niall brought it up, Harry couldn't stop himself from cringing at the secondhand embarrassment.  Looking back, Niall realized that maybe taking a girl he met in a bar to a student documentary screening wasn’t the best idea.  It also may have been a bad move since the documentary was an expose about the recent plight of a newly-discovered South American tribe and their disastrous exposure to twentieth century technology.  Turns out, watching a native healer try to treat a snake bite with a makeshift surgical kit wasn't really a turn on for most people.  The girl had fled ten minutes in, muttering “you’re hot, but you’re not that hot”, leaving Niall perplexed.  All in all, it wasn’t a total loss.  Niall thought the film was a fascinating anthropological look at indigenous politics.

Niall shook his head at the memory and pushed back the fringe of his bleached blond hair.  It was starting to grow out a bit and he'd been toying with the idea of just letting it go.  His older brother, Greg, had insisted it would help him with girls back home.  It didn’t work when he was fifteen and it was not helping now almost a decade later.  Now it’s mostly out of habit.  He tugged on the ends and wondered if anyone would notice if he showed up to class one day a brunette.  He was startled out of his day dreaming by a sharp rap on the door.  “Oi! Professor Horan, hard at work I see!”  Niall snorted and rolled his chair back further into the office so Harry could come in and sit.  Harry always seemed to take up as much available space as possible - and not because he was a few inches taller than Niall.  Niall envied the way he seems to effortlessly occupy any space he’s in, spreading his calming aura to everyone around him.  Niall had never been able to command space like that, always preferring to stay at the peripheral and ease his way into situations.  Niall motioned for Harry to sit and leaned back with his long fingers laced behind his head.  “Mr. Styles, slummin’ it in the political science wing today?”

Harry picked up a stack of papers and plopped them on his lap as he made himself comfortable.  “Well, there’s only so many freshman papers on Phoenician pottery I can read before my eyes start bleeding.  Thought I’d pop over and see what you’re up to.”  Niall shrugged and sucked a breath in over his teeth.  “Not much, I’m afraid.  I’ve only got the two sections of senior political theory and my dissertation meetings.  M’actually not sure what I’m gonna do with all the spare time.”  Harry was only half listening, he was flipping through the stack of papers on his lap.  They were quizzes from Niall’s classes and he was perplexed at what he saw.

“Niall?”

Niall hummed in response, but didn't look up from where he was absentmindedly scrolling through emails on his laptop.

“Why are there phone numbers on these quizzes?”  Harry’s shuffled through most of the pages to make sure he was seeing correctly.  Sure enough, on more than a handful of pages there were phone numbers inked neatly underneath names.  Some had a smiley face doodled next to them, some had tiny hearts.  “Looks like they’re all next to girls...wait, nope here’s a couple guys too.”

Niall spun in his chair and glanced at what Harry had in his hands.  “What d’ya mean?  I always get phone numbers on papers.  Have since I started teachin’.  Do ya not get those as well?”

Harry huffed out a laugh and raised his eyebrows.  “Only from the students I end up shagging.”

Niall missed the last part of Harry’s response when his office phone rang.   “Niall Horan here.  Professor Williams, how are ya sir?” He tucked the receiver into the crook of his shoulder and motioned to Harry that he needed to take the call.  Harry nodded and dropped the stack of quizzes back on the seat.  Before turning to leave he tapped at his watch and stage whispered, “Eight o’clock, Griffin’s Lair, don’t forget!”  Niall nodded and shooed him off, a silent promise to meet up at their usual spot.

Poppy’s phone blared from her desk, drowning out the chatter in the small office.  She and her assistant editor, Sabrina were in the middle of a layout meeting for next week’s issue.  There were mock ups and articles strewn everywhere, with clippings and glue sticks littering every surface.  Poppy groaned and shuffled papers around finally grabbing it panting out a greeting.  “Poppy.  Glad I caught you!  I have good news.”  Professor Williams filled her in on how he’d been able to pull some strings for her.  He’d managed to get her into a senior seminar political theory class.  Poppy collapsed into her desk chair with relief as he told her.  But before she could launch into thanking him a hundred times, he gently stopped her. “Poppy, listen.  This isn’t going to be a walk in the park.  This is a senior seminar.  Technically it’s for political theory majors only, but I happen to know one of the graduate assistants that’s teaching it this semester.  He’s agreed to override your enrollment status and let you in.  It’s the only way you can earn the credits you need this semester.  It’s going to be tough.  I’m just warning you.”  Poppy waved off his cautious tone and tried to reassure him.  “I’m sure I’m up to the challenge.  I’ll just have to put in some extra work at first to get caught up.  I’m just so relieved, honestly.  Thank you so much!”  Poppy scribbled down the class information on a scrap of paper, silently cursing that she was going to have to cut the layout meeting short if she was going to make it to this new class on time.  Sabrina stood and peeked over her shoulder, plucking the paper off the desk to read it.  Poppy dropped the phone back in its cradle and spun to face Sabrina.  “It’s a goddamn miracle!  I’m going to graduate this semester if it kills me Sabrina.”  Poppy started shoving notebooks, pencils, and her laptop in her messenger bag, while Sabrina’s eyes darted back and forth from the scrap of paper to her phone.  “What?  Why’re you staring at your phone?  Did you hear me?  Williams got me into another class - I’m going to get my credits!”

A smirk spread across Sabrina’s face and she turned the phone to face Poppy.  “Poppy Miller, you lucky son of a bitch.”  Poppy was wrestling with her jacket and threw a glance at Sabrina’s phone.  “What am I looking at?”  She was struggling to get the zipper to catch and was only halfway listening.  

Sabrina groaned and pushed the phone closer to Poppy’s face.  “How dense are you?  Niall Horan.  You ended up in Niall Horan’s class, Poppy!  Look at him!  Every undergrad who’s even thought of taking a poli sci class has tried to get him as their teacher.  He’s fucking gorgeous, and he has an accent.  AN IRISH ACCENT!”  Poppy was staring at her friend in sheer bewilderment.  Sabrina’s face was flushed and her chest is heaving with each breath she took.

Poppy took the scrap of paper out of Sabrina’s clutches and squinted at her carefully.  “Are you gonna be ok?”  Sabrina growled and threw her hands up.  “You’re hopeless, Miller!  You’re graduating this semester, you need to live a little!  And here’s the perfect chance!  Dazzle him with your wit and intellect!”  Poppy laughed and shook her head at her friend’s desperate pleas.  “He’s hot, I’ll give you that. But I hate to break it to you, I’m not using this class as some sort of twisted speed date.  I just need the A.”  Sabrina dropped back down to the floor to finish the layout, waving Poppy off without another glance.  Before the door clicked shut, Poppy heard her friend sigh heavily and mutter, “She’s a lost cause.”

Sweat prickled the back of Poppy’s neck as she trudged across campus.  It was only the second week of the term and the weather hadn’t yet cooled down from the summer doldrums.  Despite Poppy’s tendency to be pulled together and in control with almost every aspect of her life, her appearance was usually the first thing to go to pot.  It wasn’t as if she was slovenly by any means, and she cleaned up when the occasion called for it.  She actually had a whole closet filled with beautiful suits, flowing summer dresses, and piles of expensive shoes her mother insisted she needed, and refused to stop sending to her.  But for days filled with classes, and nights filled with her duties at the paper and studying, Poppy was most often found in flip flops, old chuck taylors, running shorts and whatever college t-shirt or hoodie that happened to be clean.  She kept her long, wavy hair meticulously washed, deep conditioned, and trimmed, but you’d never know it since she almost always had it thrown up into a messy knot on her head.  Sabrina often referred to Poppy’s outfits as “athletic hobo chic”, which Poppy insisted was a compliment since it contained the word “chic”.  

Weaving through the late afternoon throngs of students, Poppy passed through the center of campus.  There were groups of students huddled on the steps of the library, talking and sipping on coffee.  A few guys that looked a little younger were tossing a frisbee back and forth across a grassy lawn while a few girls sprawled out on a blanket to watch.  Dodging a couple walking hand in hand, Poppy stopped to hoist her bag back onto her shoulder.  She tucked a few loose pieces of hair back into her hair tie and sighed.  For all of her success, Poppy had never quite mastered the art of “college life”.  She’d gone to one or two parties freshman year (waste of time really), had a few sour dates and hookups (not all it’s cracked up to be, if she’s honest), and a few close friends (better than a lot of fair weather acquaintances, she’d told herself).  It wasn’t exactly that she harbored any regrets really, but on sunny afternoons surrounded by carefree laughter and people actually living in the moment, she couldn’t help but feel like she’d missed out.  She shook her head and glanced at her watch, silently cursing herself for getting distracted.  “Nice, now you’re gonna be late because of a stupid frisbee.  Way to go, Poppy.”  She muttered to herself tersely while she jogged down the path to the small brick building tucked behind the graduate library wing.  Taking the stairs two at a time, she slid into the classroom with the last few stragglers.  Since this was technically a senior seminar, there were only about twenty students milling about.  Poppy spied an empty desk in the front row, but off to the side of the room.  She hoped it would give her a good view of the board, without drawing too much attention to herself.  

Busying herself with pulling out her laptop and getting ready to take notes, Poppy noticed about four or five girls huddled around a desk at the front of the room.  Each girl had a reverent sort of look on their faces, and Poppy snorted and rolled her eyes.  Looking more closely, Poppy could just make out a pair of long, lanky legs poking out from the desk clad in skinny jeans and trendy hipster chukka boots.  One of the girls turned to head back to her her desk and Poppy was suddenly staring into the clearest blue eyes she’d ever seen.  Poppy felt the air sucked from her lungs and every cell of her body burned as if they were on fire.  His bleached blonde fringe fell flat against his brow, with his thin pink lips parted just enough for Poppy to get a peek at a row of perfectly straight, immaculately white teeth.  The moment was shattered seconds late when another student cleared her throat loudly, finally prompting Niall to look away.  “Sorry, wha?” Poppy could hear the timbre of his accent carry over the chatter of the the other students.  He pulled the pair of round framed glasses from the collar of his shirt and slid them on, trying to see what the other student was showing him in her textbook.  Poppy let out the breath she’d been holding and tried to get a hold of herself.  She wasn’t here to ogle at the TA, she was here to pass this class and graduate early.  Silently chastising herself for letting her hormones get the best of her, she refocused and pulled up a fresh word doc to start taking notes.  

Niall cleared his throat and shuffled some papers around on his desk.  His throat felt dry and constricted, like he was starving for a full breath of oxygen.  He tried swilling water from his green Nalgene bottle and focused on the peeling sticker of the Irish flag plastered to the side.  This girl had completely captivated him and he had absolutely no idea why.  He assumed she was the last minute addition Professor Williams had phoned him about, but she hadn’t said a word to him yet.  For all he knew, she could just be in the wrong room.  He became conscious of the room falling silent, signaling the actual start of class.  Running his long fingers through his hair he passed out the sign in sheet and went up to the board to start his lesson.  “Ok, so last week we talked a bit about how politics interacts with economics.  Today we’re going to start our discussion on how that interaction affects relations between industrialized nations in the West.”  Niall continued through his bullet points, citing examples from the assigned readings and asking for the students to contribute their own thoughts.  For the first time since he started teaching, he found himself drawn to one student.  And, as luck would have it, he was drawn to the one student who hadn’t said a word the entire hour.  He desperately wanted to hear her voice, but she could hardly be expected to contribute on her first day after the rest of the students had over a week’s worth of lectures.  Every few minutes he would allow himself a quick glance to her desk, watching her delicate hands fly across the keyboard of her laptop.  She seemed completely focused on the task at hand, looking back and forth from the board to her screen.  Niall realized that she seemed hell bent on not making eye contact with him.

With ten minutes left in the class, Niall announced a pop quiz.  He was met with a few scattered groans, which made him laugh.  He saw the girl’s head pop up over her screen at the sound of his throaty chuckle flowing into the room.  She looked a little dazed, like she couldn’t reconcile the sound he was making with his physical appearance.  Harry had once told him something similar, that his laugh “sounds like a bunch of angels havin’ a group orgy”.  Niall had curled his lip at his friend’s crass description, hoping the mental image it gave him would fade quickly after a few more pints.  Niall passed out the quizzes, going over last minute instructions.  “Ya got ten minutes to finish this up, you’re free to head out when you’re done.”  As he passed Poppy’s desk he placed the paper in front of her carefully, holding his breath so he could hear her whisper a tiny “thank you”.  He sat back down and chewed on his nail thoughtfully, watching the her hem and haw over the questions.  He silently cursed at himself for giving it to her, it covered material they had discussed last week and he should’ve made an exception for her.  “Stupid Niall.” His eyes widened as he looked over and saw her tip her head to the side at him.  He thought he’d muttered that under his breath, but apparently he was a little louder than he wanted.  He felt his cheeks go hot in embarrassment and stared back down at his hands.

Students started filing out of the class, dropping their quiz on Niall’s desk.  Poppy was feeling hot and her palms were damp.  She knew exactly three of the questions on this quiz.  For the first time she was unprepared for something and she hated the feeling.  She closed her eyes and quietly started to count.  “10...9...8...7…”  When she got down to “1” she took a breath and filled in the rest of her answers.  She stood up and gathered her things, suddenly noticing she was the only student left in the room.  “Oh.  Oh, um, sorry….I’m probably over the time, but I um, didn’t know some of the - well anyway.  Here.”  She slung her bag over her shoulder and thrust the paper towards Niall.  His mouth was open, and he was searching her face, seemingly struck speechless.  She tipped the paper a little closer to him and that seemed to shake him out of his silence.  

“Oh, right, sorry.  Yeah, don’t worry about this one, I’ll give you the points for it.  Shoulda told ya that earlier ‘cause ya know, you’re new and I’m sure ya haven’t gotten the text yet.”  He swallowed heavily, his eyes never leaving hers.  Poppy picked at her cuticle, not sure what to do.  The silence was awkward but she didn’t want to look away.  He seemed genuinely kind and sweet and a little naïve.  He smiled at her and nodded, and she ducked her head and turned to walk out.

“Oh! Poppy, wait!”  Poppy spun and walked the few steps back over to Niall.  He pushed her quiz back towards her and handed her a pen.  “You forgot to leave your phone number at the top.”  Poppy’s smile faded and her stomach suddenly turned sour.  Of course.  He’s trying to hit on her.  She glared at him, her eyes trailing from his clear blue eyes down to his thick fingers gingerly offering her the pen.  She leaned back and jutted out her hip, crossing her arms in defiance.  The placid expression on Niall’s face started to falter and he limply dropped his hand away from her.  Confusion was written across his features, and his brows began to pull in slightly.  “What’s the mat-.”

“You know, everyone said you were hot.  But nobody said you’d be sleazy.  If you wanted to ask me out, you could’ve been a gentleman about it.”  Without another word, she spun on her heel and stalked out of the room, leaving Niall a little red in the face and a lot confused.

He slunk down into his seat and stared after her.  Running his hand through his hair he breathed out, “What the fuck just happened?”

A/N: This would not be possible without the help, support, and encouragement of my dear friends and betas, @dibsonthat1d / @lucyvanpelt78 / @squirrely83. Massive thanks to you!