#“at least you could wake up early” BITCH. waking up early is hardly a flex when I wake up at fucking five am and study from day to night

[kavehater]

Wow that was a very good session of haterism this is why I love this account 😻🤞✨

^^ also me cause I’d go right back to her wahoo

[redhawtriot]

Baby Boom (Bakugou x Reader)

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

If you’re interested in the secret life of models or baby momma drama, you’re well fed tonight. 

This story actually means a lot to me bc it deals with a lot of issues that I hold very dear (I stayed up last night and wrote like three chapters lol). That being said, the content may be a little triggering to some people: (eating disorders, slight alcoholism, pregnancy, discrimination, overall angst) 

There is also a slight mention of nsfw (she’s gotta get pregnant somehow) to begin with but besides that, it should be pretty safe

Reader discretion is advised.

HnM 💕

Month 2, Month 3

--MONTH 1--

“Mmmm…” 

The dazed hum of your own low voice peeled back a layer of sleep from your mind.

The cloud of blankets underneath you swallowed your body, tempting your stirring form to stay asleep for just a little longer. As your mind teetered upon the steep edge of unconsciousness, a flurry of scenes played in your head.

You let yourself fall into the random, vivid dreams as you finally gave up in your struggle against the warm embrace of the bed. The film that performed in your mind was a choppy one at best; however, you still caught glimpses of the action:

The dark room... The dancing city lights outside of the window… the low screeching of the rocking mattress underneath you… the breathless moans… looking down to see the mingling of scorching sweat, illuminated by the red light peeking through the window… looking up to see the flash of his even redder, vermilion eyes for just a split second before your lips were captured… the lewd mewls that you didn’t even notice until they were gone, caught in his warm mouth.

The quick, dreamy waves of erotica left just as soon as they came, their sudden disappearance sending a jolt of consciousness your direction.

What. A fucking. Wakeup call.

The bed once again flutily attempted to grab you and hold you back in your sleeping state, but you forced yourself to roll over into awareness. As your body turned, your eyes finally painfully pried themselves open. Once the brief sting of light passed, you found yourself smirking at what you saw,

Holy shit. Dreams do come true after all.

The man in bed with you—you finally realized that it was indeed his bed—was turned over on his side facing away from you, but that didn’t stop you from admiring the view.

His arms, godsent and chiseled by Michelangelo himself, extended from under the blanket-- one used as an extra pillow under his head, and the other laid peacefully on his side. As peaceful as the display was, you could still see the rippling muscles layered underneath his airbrushed skin. You could only begin to imagine what they looked like when he was flexing.

Suddenly images from last night of his strong arms pressing your legs up toward the headboard infiltrated your mind, and you didn’t have to imagine anything anymore. You bit the bottom of your lip to keep from giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Virtually immediately, your smile melted from your face and the sound of tires screeching blared within your head. What the fuck were you doing staring at this dude like some damn creep? What? Were you gonna wait for him to wake up to invite you to breakfast? Were you gonna go on a lunch date with some no-named dude you met at the “booty room.” As if.

God, ew.

You tried to ignore the fact that you had just been reduced to a soppy 16 year old all over again.

You gave one more passing glance over the top of his ash-blond hair before straightening your face with a with a quirk of an eyebrow and slowly pushing yourself out of his bed. You glanced out of the window and noticed only a thin stream of light peeking through the glass. Good. It was still early morning. Plenty of time to make it to work.

You would like to avoid Ainu’s bitching mouth today.

You fluffed your hair up, deciding to adopt the “after-sex hair” and make it your own as you scoured the bedroom floor for your dress from last night. You spotted it just a foot away from the door. Damn you really didn’t waste time, huh?

You fought the urge to laugh at yourself as you walked over and shimmied yourself back into the dress, some of the sparkles flying off as you shook your hips. You had found your panties just right next to the bed and your bra hanging off the lamp on the nightstand. You stifled a laugh at yourself as you slid the items on underneath your dress. What a fucking night.

Mostly everything at that point had been accounted for, but there was still one thing on your mental checklist that you couldn’t find—well, two things to be exact.

Okay…

Shoes... shoes… Where the fuck are your shoes?

As you continued searching for the shimmery heels, a sudden deep groan from the bed startled you a bit, causing you to freeze as you watched ‘good ol’ no-name’ stir in his sleep. You paused for a few long moments while he, thankfully, settled back into his slumber.

You let out a quiet breath of air that you hadn’t even known that you were holding and decided then and there that you could do without those shoes. If Cinderella could do it, why couldn’t you?

You quickly grabbed your handbag and phone from his nightstand and commenced your getaway.

I mean, you were obviously no virtuous princess and he was hardly prince charming from the foul mouth that you could remember from last night—insert blush here-- but still…

You turned the handle behind you as you softly shut the door so that it wouldn’t make much noise, only to turn around toward the hallway and be met with a pair of bright, crimson eyes. Caught red handed, You faltered a little bit as the built man in front of you became practically as scarlet as his hair,

“U-Uh-- Good morning!” Kirishima forced out as he obviously struggled to keep his eyes on your face. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering down the chains of silver that barely held your dress on your shoulders.

Or the open slits on your upper thighs that let your shapely hips spill out from underneath your shimmering dress.

Or your obviously messed up hair that had probably spent much of the night between Bakugou’s fingers. He felt his face become unbearably hot at the intrusive thought.

His eyes flickered back up to yours, but not before you could notice the way that they seemed to trail down your body.

You relaxed into your chest a bit, Okay, just a roommate. He seemed fairly harmless and ‘SIMP’ enough not to raise many red flags or dangerous pervert alerts. You breathed into something resembling a laugh as you smirked up at him, “G’ Morning.”

Kirishima’s breath was caught in his lungs at the song of your voice, “M-morning…” Shit, did he already say that? The man suddenly became very aware of what he was wearing. Or rather, what he wasn’t wearing as a draft flew in from the pants leg of his boxers.

His blush almost instantly intensified—and he thanked every lucky star that he didn’t have the hormonal “tell-all” body of a teenager anymore.

You only smiled, brushing past the red-head, toward the front door. As you made your way past the kitchen you noticed a bowl of fruit displayed on the bar. Your mind quickly fleeted to thoughts of ‘what a weird fucking thing to see in what was obviously a man cave—o-or a bachelor pad. Man pad? Bachelor Cave???’ Did you accidentally wonder into a Martha Stewart catalog without realizing it?

As you eyed the odd arrangement of fruit, you didn’t even notice the other two roommates already situated in the open living room—their eyes wide as they trailed your form.

“Are these real?” you spoke up suddenly, startling Kirishima who was at this point deciding whether or not to go back into his room and pretend he hadn’t seen you and lost half of his brain, or to go to the kitchen for breakfast as he had planned. “Can I have one?” you shamelessly asked.

“Yeah! Sure!” Kirishima answered maybe a bit too strongly. The poor man just wanted to compensate for his totally unmanly display earlier. He just… he’d never seen anyone like you before. Especially not in his ‘humble’ (that was being generous) apartment.

That’s when one of the men from the living room decided to speak up, “You can have all of them, sweetheart,” his voice immediately snapped your attention toward the rather spacious (empty--except for a couch, a TV and a... bench press?) living room, where you came into contact with the speaker’s golden eyes, “Go on. Take as much as you want,” the kind smile he wore contained just the slightest hint of ulterior motives, you noticed. You take back what you said earlier. The real SIMP was right here.

You furrowed your eyebrows at him, “Just one will do, thanks.” Your flat tone did nothing to disinterest Kaminari as he ogled at you grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and shoving it in your mouth when you noticed a pair of heels haphazardly tossed by the front door. Aha! There are your fucking shoes!

The electric blond watched in utter fascination as you held the fruit between your teeth and began slipping your heels back on. Holy shit. He was glad he woke up early for once.

Kirishima approached two of his roommates, shaking his head at the giddy one currently drooling over Bakugou’s overnight visitor,

“Get a grip, dude. It’s not manly to stare like that,” he lowly warned so you couldn’t hear. He felt like a bit of a hypocrite, but at least he was trying to maintain some decency. It seemed like Kaminari had simply thrown all of his fucks to give out of the window as he shamelessly eyed you like an Englishman on safari. Come on, bro!

“Yeah. Didn’t you hear her with Bakugou last night?!”

“How could I not, Sero? I’m pretty sure the entire complex heard!” Kaminari resentfully whispered to his two roommates before sweeping a hand through his blond locks and snaking his way towards you, “So… what’s your name, gorgeous?”

You could hardly hold back the look of disgust that fell upon your expression as you looked up at this man. Read the fucking room, dude. You couldn’t make this situation more obvious if you were wearing a damn sign on your head that said “One Night Stand: Hit It and Quit It,” and sprinted out of the apartment.

You didn’t want to make friends.

You didn’t want to introduce yourself to someone’s roommates when you didn’t even know their damn name.

And you sure as hell didn’t want to be passed around to said stranger’s roommates like a fucking bottle of wine at communion, “First name: Not, last name: Interested,” you deadpanned.

A series of “OHHHH’s” and “She got you, Bro! She got you good!” sounded throughout the apartment. As you swung the front door open, looking back one final time to see the look of absolute disheartenment spread across the blonds face, “Ba-bye~ Oh! and Thanks for the fruit, Red,” you winked before shutting the door behind you, unknowingly causing Kirishima to dissolve into a blushing mess.

You heard a bit of commotion come from the other side of the door when you left but didn’t pay it much mind as you began your walk to the nearest train station—taking another bite from your bachelor pad apple.

Bakugou, however, couldn’t ignore the commotion you had left behind as his scowling form emerged from his bedroom, “Could you idiots be any fucking louder!?” The blond was already in a terrible mood. He had woken up to fucking ketchup, mustard, and mayo’s shouting only to realize that his bed was suddenly much colder than he remembered it had been when he fell sleep.

The frustrated man was instantly met with his other blond counterpart throwing himself at his knees, “Bakugou, buddy!” he cried out, clutching the fabric of the other man’s sleepers, “You’ve gotta teach me your ways!” he groveled at his feet as if Bakugou was the lord and savior of in-cels everywhere.

“The hell are you talking about?” his hands crackled furiously as he seriously prepared to blast the dunce-face off of him, “get the fuck off’a me!” he roared.

Kirishima reluctantly spoke up, gaining the two blond’s attention and probably saving Kaminari’s life, “Honestly… I gotta say even I’m surprised. She was… unreal,” Kirishima’s cheeks dusted over in a light shade of pink just at the memory of you.

Even Bakugou had to mask the sudden warmness that fled to his own face as your image suddenly popped into his mind. He shoved the butterflies down into his stomach so that he could shit them out later, “What’s that supposed to mean, shitty hair?!”

Sero, who had previously just been silently enjoying the wild spectacle before him, had finally decided to give his input on the situation, “What Kirishima is trying to say is ‘how the hell did a sack of anger issues wrapped in a mean mug like yours score a chick like that?’”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY, HORSE TEETH?!”

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” Kirishima whined before Kaminari finally asked the question that had been lingering in all of their minds,

“Did you get at least get her number?” The matter gave birth to a few beats of silence between all the roommates. Bakugou visibly stiffened at this question as his face shriveled up.

“I don’t know… She seemed to get out of here in quite a hurry,” Sero contemplated aloud, effectively breaking the silence.

A tinge of pain shot straight through Bakugou’s pride at his words. You had practically run out of there—away from him. Was last night really that bad? He seemed to have a much different memory than you of the event.

Tch. Whatever. It doesn’t fucking matter.

Shoving these thoughts out of his head, he scoffed, “Good. The hell do I need her number for?”

Silence once again befell the four—this time being disrupted by Kaminari, “You don’t know how good you have it,” he shook his head, “You don’t deserve half the things you get, man…”

Of course, this only caused the apartment to erupt into another fit of commotion—death threats and cheap insults being thrown in every space of the testosterone-filled home.

Meanwhile.

You tried to ignore the multitude of awkward stares you garnered as you made your way through the train station. They were probably—well, more than likely-- because of your racy evening wear, but shit. You didn’t exactly plan on getting dicked down last night. At least, maybe not on a conscious level.

You sighed before boarding the train and looking down to view the notifications on your phone. Oh crap, it was later in the day than you had originally thought.

Boss lady:

[7:42am]

Someone told me that you went to Club 52 last night.

You better not be hungover or wasted when you get here, Y/N

Inches! Y/N! I need you at your inches!

Ahhh. the old 35, 25, 35. The perfect body shape. Well, she can take all 85 of those inches and shove them up her ass for all you cared.

Boss Lady:

[8:03am]

I am serious.

Sick of  cleaning up your messes.

Don’t ever pull this shit again when we have such a big brand deal!

Remember. I have eyes everywhere, missy!

As the messages went on you only scanned them,

How could you do this to me Blah. Blah. Blah. I stuck my neck out for you Blah. Blah. Blah. Where else could someone like you find work as good as this Blah. Blah. Blah. Etcetera, etcetera.

Damn boss Lady was like a fucking broken record.

You closed your eyes on the train and tried to astral project your spirit to a better place. Somewhere where you didn’t have to take a shitty modeling job to pay your damn rent. Somewhere where you had an obtainable passion. Somewhere where you could do something meaningful with your life.

Somewhere where you weren’t just some damn pathetic quirkless girl whose only talent was looking good in front of a camera and taking bullshit.

“You’re late!” The bodies of women lit up by the hard lights on set seemed to all turn in your direction at your boss’s loud announcement. The aggressive clacking of her heels sounded in the air like gunshots as she stormed over to you, but you couldn’t be less impressed by her repetitive intimidation tactics,

“What are you talking about? It’s 9:00!”

“9:04! The shoot started at 9 and you don’t even have makeup on!” her nose crinkled in disgust as she neared you. The way that she dramatically gagged at your scent had your eyes rolling, “And you fucking smell like sex. Jesus fucking Christ Y/N! You. Intern! Get over here! Go hose her down!” she called your friend, Kimi, over, “You’re lucky I don’t ring your neck! The marketing agent will be here in less than an hour and he wants to see progress!” by this point Kimi had rushed over and began herding you away from the multitude of disapproving stares you had gathered from the other models.

But not before you heard whispers of your unprofessionalism.

“Now, go get your pretty ass presentable looking!” Boss lady shooed you off.

As your friend literally hosed you down in the bathroom with her hydropump quirk, she already had a bottle of body wash on hand-- completely desensitized to your naked body by this point. Neither of you said a word for a while, but you could tell that she was itching to speak up, “So…” a grin spread across her face as she rinsed the suds out of your hair, “Was he at least cute?”

“Super fucking attractive,” you gave a short laugh, “At least. I think so. I don’t really remember his face…”

Her loud laugh sounded through the bathroom before the space was once again covered within a thick sheet of silence. When the two of you were close to finished, she sighed at your idle, far off gaze before attempting to strike up a bit of conversation, “I really should be thanking you. You keep my job security, after all,” she joked.

She wasn’t exactly wrong.

She was pretty much hired to be your babysitter under the guise of “stylist intern” in Ainu’s modeling agency; however, when she was hired for this gig ‘frequently bathing a hungover, grown mess of a thot’ and ‘constant ginger ale, and Pepto Bismol runs’ were probably not in the job description.

“I keep my life a mess just for you,” you lazily smirked up at her.

“Your life is hardly a mess. You’re living the dream, supermodel girl.”

Your mind flashed back to girls around you eating cotton balls to satiate their hunger, to women working 10 hour long photo shoots in 6-inch heels, to being urged to give brand promoters “special attention” to secure the agency’s profits, to runway events that left you sleepless for days at a time, to your own fingers plunging down the back of your throat so that you could fit into the impossible dress sizes fitted by your designers, “Yeah...” you quietly trailed off.  

The shoot went fairly well, after your late start.

It was actually different than most others that you have participated in since the main focus was upon the red shoes that they wanted to promote. The photographer had decided—much to the dismay of the other models on set—that you would be a focal point in his artwork. Claiming that you had such a “sexy, sexy look” and were going to be huge one day.

Thanks creepy, middle-aged, French photographer. Now half of these girls are gonna cry themselves to sleep tonight and the other half are gonna create voodoo dolls of you to stick needles in.

Fairly well, or not, you couldn’t fight the urge to click your red sneaker soles together three times every now and then—internally chanting “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”

Needless to say, it didn’t work.

It was about three weeks later when you found yourself at the official branding event of those stupid red sneakers. It was some kind of charity event/campaign/branding bullshit hybrid—or whatever.

Most of the models that were there the day of the original photo shoot weren’t even requested to go. Since you had been a focal point in that shoot, you were invited (forced) to attend by the brand marketer. Your uninvited colleagues of course, hated you even more after that, but you would trade places with any one of them in a heartbeat.

Your stomach bubbled a little bit—‘need vodka’ it cried.

You patted the poor organ in solidarity. You like to think that you are very in tune with your needs. You’d much rather be boozing it up in some sweaty booty club than be at… whatever the fuck this was.  

Everyone there was dressed up like it was some cocktail party or some christening or something. The large room was filled to the brim with tables with neatly folded napkins and different red and green finger foods on the centerpieces. There was a clearing in the middle, under the chandelier, for “dancing” but was really for people to socialize and network.

Hmmm. Not a red sneaker in sight except for the banners of photos from your shoot hanging from the ceiling, you noticed.

“Could you at least pretend to act interested?” boss lady whispered, “Smile a little, yeah?” Ainu completely rolled her eyes at the strained grimace of a smile you threw her—the glare she threw back saying ‘you little shit!’.

You couldn’t help but laugh as the two of you began to drift away from one another—with her sending you one more lingering glance that said ‘stay away from the alcohol and don’t do anything stupid!’

Of course, you nodded like the obedient little clothing rack you were, but as soon as her back was turned you found yourself snatching a glass or two of chardonnay from one of the passing waiter’s trays. As you took a long sip from the glass—careful not to smudge your lipstick—you found your eyes wondering across the unimpressive room.

They ended up settling in the corner of the place, on a man standing alone, nervously fidgeting with his suit cuffs.

Ah. Quality entertainment! You took another sip from one of your glasses.

You nonchalantly strolled toward the man before twisting yourself around next to him so that you were both facing the growing crowd of the room, “All this for some red sneakers?” you spoke up with a slight grin.

His eyes immediately shot up to one of the banners hanging above you before settling back to your smirk, “Y-Y-your one of the models form the poster!” his face darkened into a deep blush and you slightly lifted one of your drinks into the air with a quirk of your eyebrow as if to say, ‘guilty as charged.’

He seemed to get over his shocked state quickly, “Well… uh-- I guess it does seem a little silly when you put it that way, huh?”

“Is there really any other way to put it?”

He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment—his eyes trailing toward the ground in front of him, but you were patient. You took the time to take in his wild, green hair—it was dark, kinda like the seaweed that you wrap around sushi. Your mind flickered to what you remembered sushi tasting like, but it had been such a long time.  He finally spoke up “Well, they are giving half of the profits made to start a campaign to end the bullying of quirkless children,”

“Really?” your eyebrows shot up as the man looked back up to you. Your chest abruptly rose up as you gave a half chuckle, “That’s… well, that’s something. Apparently, this brand is being started by some up and coming hero. Deku? I haven’t really heard much about him, but he’s probably just using us quirkless folk as a stepping stool to celebrity,” he seemed to visibly stiffen at your words but it wasn’t every day that you got to talk about civil rights concerning the quirkless. You passionately continued, “It’s like saving kittens or walking an old lady across the street. I mean, what’s a big shot hero like that know about being quirkless? Tell me,” you leaned in close to him and nodded into the sea of people filing into the room, “Do you see a quirkless kid in sight, right now?”

You left him silent as he began pondering your statement. Hm! Good.

Satisfied with yourself, you took in the final sip from your remaining glass—tilting the curvy cup up into the sky to get every drop.

A tall man with glasses shuffled through the dense crowd to make his way towards the two of you “Midoriya, there he is! Excuse me, Miss,” he stiffly bowed to you at an awkwardly low angle before turning back toward the green haired man, “Come this way. Quickly. I would like to introduce you to…”

As he was pulled into the crowd by the weird tall man you found yourself curiously staring at where he had disappeared.

“Mmm. Isn’t he just as yummy as you thought he’d be?” the familiar voice snapped you straight out of your thoughts, startling you into a slight jump. You whipped your head behind you to see Kimi’s giggling face, “C’mon!! Ainu wants you to get some photos in at that set over there.”

“Ughhh, you know how I feel about red-carpet shoots, Kimi.” It was just a bunch of amateur photographers barking orders and questions at you like some glorified paparazzi. She ignored your whining as she dragged you to the literal red carpet in the far wall of the room, blocked off by a velvet rope and surrounded by a buzzing infestation of flashing cameras. You suddenly became very aware of the very chemical scent of her perfume—and the growing nausea twisting within your stomach.

“You can go find your hero boyfriend, later! I promise!” she practically shoved you onto the carpet, but you could only throw her a confused glance. Who was she talking about?

“Huh?”

“Don’t tell me you seriously didn’t know who that was! We are literally in a room of heroes right now!! That guy that you were with? He’s the entire reason we are here right now, Y/N!” you could hardly fight off the look of confusion that befell your face as you began posing for the flashes of photos being taken of you. Whatever. You probably just looked like the confused bimbo that they all thought you were anyway.

Kimi smacked her hand on her forehead—tossing you an exasperated glance, “Hello!? Red sneakers—the Deku! I can’t believe you. He’s projected to be the number one hero in a few years—that Deku!”

You felt your blood immediately run cold.

The Deku you had put on blast directly to his face. The one who was endorsing this entire brand that your agency had a deal with—that Deku, “Oh. Shit.”

You suddenly felt very sick.

Meanwhile, the three stooges had finally dragged their grouchy roommate out of the apartment and had made their way into the Red Sneakers Event, much to the dismay of said grouchy roommate. He would quite literally prefer to be anywhere else but here. Hell, he would rather stick his head in a vat of acid than be at some dumbass “quirkless sneaker” party for that shitty Deku. There couldn’t possibly be any good reason for him to be here right now.

“Oh, shit!” Kaminari’s grating voice snapped Bakugou out of his thoughts. He looked up to where the blond was pointing, and his heart skipped a beat.

The banners adorning the ceiling of the space sported a very familiar face.

“Isn’t that your hottie from last month, Bakugou?” the electric man practically giggled with amusement, “Over there, too! She’s at the red carpet!” Bakugou’s red eyes danced over to the succession of flashing lights on the far side of the room. Somehow, even with the herd of photographers clumped behind the red rope, he could still make out your gleaming form. It was as if you radiated light, blinding him to anyone else between you and him.

What the fuck? Where did those thoughts come from?

With a click of his tongue the blond instantly spat these feelings out of his head.

“Huh!” Kirishima tilted his head and gave a short, amazed laugh as well, “Look at that-- it totally is!”

Sero decided to chime in as well, completing the unholy trinity of pains on Bakugou’s ass, “Of course she’s a model. Dude, how did you trick that poor girl into your bed?” It took every ounce of willpower that the ash blond could muster not to blow ‘Elbow’s’ face off right then and there as he ground his teeth together.

Kirishima bravely leaned over to the seething man, “You should go say something to her.”

“Why the hell would I do that!?”

“Because if you don’t, I will,” Kaminari straightened his tie like he was grooming himself to approach you. Fucking as if!

“Like she’d be interested in your dumb ass!” Bakugou loudly snapped.

“That sounds pretty possessive Baku-bro,” Sero hardly ever called him this unless he wanted to get under the time-bomb of a man’s skin, “Almost like you have feelings~,” him and Kaminari began snickering to themselves as Bakugou neared the maximum capacity of his internal ‘pissed off-o-meter.’

The two men laid off of him a bit—knowing very well by this point what buttons to push and when to stop pushing them when it came to their feral friend.

“Looks like you’re missing your chance,” Kirishima spoke up—nodding his head to your fleeing figure. “I think she’s leaving.” Bakugou looked up to see your desperate form dash for the coat racks in the corner of the room.

As you made your way to the coat racks, you were completely oblivious to the lingering eyes that followed you—only focused on the furious ones that approached you and the rising, gurgling feeling in your stomach.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” your pissed off boss halted you right by the coat rack—Kimi, trailing not to behind you, was halted as well, “The event has hardly even started!”

“I don’t…” the bubbling in your stomach shot up your throat and was hardly caught in time as you slightly gagged, “I don’t feel too good, Ainu…”

She could only groan into her palm as she threw her head up toward the ceiling, “I told your ass not to—Ughhhh! Can’t you go one night without getting utterly shitfaced, Y/N!?”

Kimi reluctantly spoke up, “She hardly drank tonight. I think she really is sick,” her voice was very soft in the air as she defended you, and you realized that this is the first time you’d ever heard her talk to your boss directly.

Ainu’s eyes seemed to dance across yours and Kimi’s for a few beats—probably to gauge whether there was truth to Kimi’s words-- before she finally made up her mind, “Fine. Go on,”’ she tilted her head toward the direction of the exit with an irritated wave of her hand, “Take her home.”

“No,” you moved past Ainu toward the coat rack, “I think I can make it on my own,” you argued before shimming your fur on. After a mini dispute, your friend reluctantly agreed to let you make your way home alone.

Bakugou watched on as you gave the women that were with you tiny half-assed hugs before making your way toward the room’s exit—towards him. For the first time in practically forever, the man felt his heart drop down into his toes.

The four roommates all paused as you approached them. You were for sure going to see Bakugou and say something to him, right?

Wrong.

All three friends noticeably winced as you nonchalantly brushed pasted the four of him, not even sparing a passing glance at their shocked, blond comrade. “Oof. That’s gotta hurt,” Kaminari grimaced.

Sero’s lips stretched into an uncomfortable frown, “I don’t even think she recognized you, man.”

Kirishima could only remain silent as he watched a flurry of unfamiliar emotions flicker across his best friend’s face. Even if his buddy wasn’t clearly and uncharacteristically upset, he would still probably be at a loss of words from the secondhand embarrassment that was flooding into his cheeks.

“SHUT UP!” Bakugou snapped, pulling his face back into his trademark scowl, “What the hell do I care? I already slept with her. What else is there to do?” I don’t fucking care, I don’t fucking care. The man chanted to himself as he shoved his body into the crowd—anything to get away from those shitty dumbasses.

Sero gave a low whistle, “Wounded words, from a wounded man.”

When you made it back home that night, you spent the better part of the evening with your head glued to the toilet, and you really fucking didn’t understand why.

Two glasses were practically a baby bottle to you at this point. There is no way that you got sick off just that. So… food poisoning then? You fought a laugh at the amusing thought. You have to actually eat for that to happen.

Shit. And you were cramping like a mother fucker.

You instinctively opened you phone brushing past the ‘Are you okay?’ text from Kimi to make your way to your period tracker app. Maybe it was almost ‘that time of the month.’

A lot of girls that you knew had lost their periods from the severe “weight training” that they endured, but you had actually been regular with yours despite your everyday living.

The app opened—revealing a visually loud, bouncing notification that prompted a different breed of nausea to spin within your gut.

You were about two weeks late.

[khaleesi-in-the-north]

In the Crosshairs (28/?)

@theluthor

When she wakes the next morning, their hands were still laced together. Margaery flexes her hand and watches Alayne’s twitch beneath it. She sits up slowly to not wake the woman beside her. She grabs her phone off the nightstand and quietly leaves, closing the door behind her.

                    She’s only going to check the news, but a text message caught her eye. Other than her grandmother, she hadn’t used the phone to contact anyone. It was supposed to be untraceable.

                    She opens the text downstairs. “Little Rose, I was overjoyed to hear you had found safety amongst the sands of Dorne and have now returned to the flower bed. As promised, I have kept my nose to the ground on learning what I can of our Queen Bee. My little birds have told me that she shall be making a surprise visit to High Garden by the end of the week on her return from Sunspear. Your Grandmother has this message awaiting her as well. – The Spider.”

                    She shakes her head as she opens the backdoor and stepped outside. The man was a wonder. All of Westeros probably thought she was dead by now, and he’s figured out her phone number.

                    Before she can dwell on the thought too long, Lady jumps on her. Margaery manages to hold on to her phone, but barely.

                    “Down girl,” she commands.

                    Lady sits, panting and wagging her tail. Her back has dried flower pedals all over it. Margaery turns to her grandmother’s flower bed. The flowers are flat and crushed. “You have a death wish.”

                    Margaery gets down to the ground. Lady takes it as permission to lick her face all over. In a way it was. She pushed the dog down, but scratched behind her ears. Lady’s tail wagged faster. Margaery scratched down to her back and Lady laid down at her side, thrilled to have her attention once more.

                    “That’s a good girl,” Margaery murmurs. Lady settles down. She rolls on to her back, massive hindlegs dangling in the air. Again, Margaery pets her. “I’ve missed you too.”

                    The morning is bright and the birds tweet high form their perches. It’s the right place to think.

                    Obara’s words replay in her mind. “Don’t fall for her lies again.” What were the lies? After last night she could no longer tell herself Sansa didn’t care. Her confession felt like a load off her chest. She didn’t have to keep it to herself anymore. Still, after all the bullshit she put Margaery through for her job and keeping secrets, only to be keeping the world’s biggest secret for a year was something she couldn’t bring herself to forgive. She didn’t want to forgive. The wall was crumbling though. She could feel it.

                    There was no rectifying it, but perhaps she could make herself a bunker. Let Sansa in without letting her have the capacity to hurt her again. She would never let herself love anyone the way she loved Alayne. That only led heartbreak. She couldn’t put herself through that again.

                    “Beauty tamed the beast,” Obara smirks and sits down beside her.

                    Margaery moves her hand over so Obara can pet Lady as well. “She’s not so bad when she’s in a good mood.”

                    “Are you talking about Stark or her bitch?” Obara asks.

                    “Both,” Margaery pats Lady’s stomach. She looks at Obara. She’s wearing a sports bra and shorts, with a water bottle in hand and a mat by her side. “Early morning workout?”

                    “Yes. If you still wanted to go on a run we could. I just wanted to do some core training this morning. Rid myself of some frustration.” Obara gulps down some water.

                    “No thanks. Today is my off day,” Margaery says.

                    “How did things go with Stark last night?”

                    Margaery shrugs. “We talked.”

                    “About?”

                    “The mafia. Renly.”

                    “You didn’t trust her did you?” Obara brushes a strand of blonde hair from Margaery’s eyes, though Margaery looks at the ground.  

                    Margaery doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know what she trusts.

                    “Oh, Margaery,” Obara sighs. “The Starks are cold and rigid. No passion. For all their talk of honor, would an honorable woman lie to you about who she was and what she wanted for so long? Look into those lifeless eyes and you can’t tell the lie because she’s so used to lying.”

                    Margaery cocks her head. “And you are passionate and honest and forward?”

                    Obara laughs. “You said it. I assume you know the rescue mission will be going soon? I have some packing to do then.” She kisses Margaery’s cheek and draws a little spear on the side of her neck with her finger nail. “Whenever you’re ready, Tyrell, just say the word.”

                    She pushes herself up and flashes Margaery a smile. Margaery looks back to see her go and Ygritte come out. Ygritte looks at Obara as she walks past. She makes her way to Margaery and sits. Lady licks her hand before nuzzling her head into Margaery’s lap.

                    “You think those are real abs? Is it possible to get an ab implant?” Ygritte asks.

                    “Have you seen her running with us the last week. Those are real.”

                    “They’re better than Jon’s. Do you know how defined that boy’s abs are?”

                    “Yes. I’ve seen them on multiple occasions because you don’t take “get a room” literally.”

                    “Gosh, Marge, that’s only happened like five times,” Ygritte exaggerates her voice to sound like a preppy teen. They giggle at the ridiculousness of it.

                    They get up and go back to the house. “Jon said he and Obara are leaving today,” Ygritte mentions.

                    “Obara just told me. Loras is coming home.”

                    Ygritte opens the back door. Margaery shuts it behind her. She feels bad for leaving Lady, but the dog is muddy and bringing her inside will mean not only the dog’s death, but quite possibly hers as well. Lady puts up a good fight, deflating her ears and whimpering in an attempt to guilt Margaery into letting her in. Not this time.

                    “Jon knows nothing. I’m glad he’s going with someone who at least has a brain,” Ygritte mutters.

                    “He figured out your disguise,” They go to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee.

                    “Took him an hour of staring at me to figure it out. I’m glad Quentyn’s not going though. That could have been awkward,” Ygritte leans against the counter. Her shoulders are tense and not relaxed like they used to be. She’s worried.

                    “He’ll be safe. According to him, he’s done a lot more dangerous things than this,” Margaery offers her comfort.

                    Ygritte half-heartedly shrugs. “Yeah. We just figured things out and he’s running off again. I should be with him, not stuck here.”

                    Margaery rests her palms against the edge and decides to divert the conversation. “How are you guys getting along?”

                    “Better. Old gods help me, but I love the bastard. We’ve been talking.”

                    “You’ve been talking? That must be a first,” Margaery huffs a laugh. “Before or after he ate you out.”

                    “After. It was glorious. Still bristles me that he had to fucking lie about it all. Even more so that he cut his damn hair. But I forgive him. I can’t hate him for circumstances beyond his control.” Ygritte pours her coffee and adds a shot of espresso. “Bastard lies to me again though, I’m wearing his cock as a necklace.”

                    “I’ll be there to hold him down for you,” Margaery poured her own cup. They toast and drink.

                    “So you and Alayne…”

                    The coffee mug covers Ygritte’s face as she gulps it down, hiding her from Margaery’s glare.

                    “It’s complicated,” Margaery says.

                    As if she was a genie summoned by her mistress, Alayne enters the kitchen. In one hand she carries a fabric of some sort with pins and needles sticking out of it. Margaery can hardly remember the last time she saw Alayne sew. A warm smile crosses Alayne’s face. “There you are.” She sits down beside Margaery. She sets aside her sewing materials and covers Margaery’s hands with her own. “I was hoping we could talk a bit more. There are some things I want to tell you. Maybe go on a walk through the gardens or take a ride to some overlook. I bet it the view would be gorgeous.”

                    Ygritte quietly excuses herself, giving Margaery as much privacy as she’s likely to get in this house.

                    “Yeah we should,” Margaery says brightly, but curtly.

                    Sansa sits down across the table from Margaery, directly in her line of sight. She smiles softly.

                    Margaery looks at her coffee mug, then back to Sansa. All the hope in her eyes almost breaks her heart, but she won’t let this woman break her heart again. It’s not fair for either of them. “We promised each other honesty right? So here’s me being honest. Sansa, last night was… it doesn’t change things between us.”

                    Sansa refuses to break her smile. “It did. You opened to me. I’m not going to pretend things are the way they are before, but things are changing, progressing. I still love you. That won’t change. I’m going to earn your love back.”

                    “What if you can’t?” Margaery finishes her coffee and gets up.

                    Sansa goes around the table to Margaery. She’s intrusively close. “You loved me. You still do, even if you’re too angry to realize it right now. Which you have every right to be angry, but��Margaery. I don’t know what else I can do. I have nothing left to apologize for.”

                    “I loved Alayne. Sansa Stark…” terrifies me, she’s about to say, but doesn’t. Even honesty has its limits, so she thinks of an alternative truth. Her feelings and what others know of them are some of the few things she still has control over in her life. “Sansa Stark isn’t Alayne.”

                    Not wanting to acknowledge the desperation on Sansa’s face, Margaery drops off her mug in the sink and mutters and apology to Oberyn when he says good morning as she brushes past him.

                    In the shower, her thoughts flow. Renly, Cersei, Alayne, Obara, Sansa, the article, Loras, her grandmother, Garlan. They all run together. It’s on her to keep it in order and sort it out. It’s her mess and she has to fix it.

                    She’s always been a creature of order. So she puts them in order. What can be solved now, what can wait. By the time she gets out of the shower, she has a plan. It begins with finishing her article. It’s nearly done as is, but it’s missing that spark that will turn it from an intrigue piece to breaking news that will find its way to every major news outlet from the bloody Red Watch to Westeros Daily to the Westerosi News Newtwork. Hours spent going over her notes and interviews turn up nothing of value.

                    As she works on her article, the others came in and out. Ygritte mentions that Jon and Obara have been locked in meetings with Sansa, Oberyn and Olenna all day, likely finalizing plans for saving rescuing Loras. Let out of the primary scheme, the rest of the Viper’s clan, Karstark, and Ygritte are left with little to do other than find ways to entertain themselves. Karstark, for his part, retells valiant tales of working in the Stark Mafia. His near death experiences and glories of climbing through the mafia ranks impress no one. Eventually, they all scatter, letting Margaery finish her work in peace.

                    As Margaery packs away her things, Quentyn comes in. “We are saying our goodbyes now, if you would like to join us.”

                    “I’ll be there momentarily.” She follows after him.

                    They’re all gathered around the front door as if wishing farewell to beloved cousings rather than strangers forced together in a bizarre scheme of events. Sansa hugs Jon as Ygritte bickers by his side. Obara is talking with her sisters. She’s not much of a hugger. The most affection Margaery observes is a pat on the shoulder. Olenna interrupts them and whispers something to Obara, who nods in acknowledgement.

                    Margaery isn’t sure whom to go to first, so she stands back in between the two. She nearly jumps when she feels a furry head nuzzle against her hand. She hadn’t expected her grandmother to ever let Lady back in the house after this morning. Apparently she was more forgiving than usual. Or she didn’t know about her crushed daffodils.

                    Jon approaches to scratch Lady’s head. “You be a good girl and watch over Sansa.” He smiles at Margaery. “Both of you.”

                    “She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself,” Margaery mutters.

                    Jon awkwardly pulls her into a hug and grumbles, “Doesn’t mean an extra pair of eyes will hurt. She’s got a lot stressing her out with the mafia right now and could use a shoulder to lean on.”

                    Ice melts under heat and pressure. Perhaps someone forgot to mention that to “Ms. Stone-Cold.”

                    “Get my brother back. Be safe,” is all she says.

                    Ygritte grabs his arm and wraps her arms around his neck. “Don’t do anything stupid, Snow. I don’t want to have to hunt down some prick cause you can’t take care of yourself.”

                    “I’ll let Obara do the thinking for both of us, okay?” he grins.

                    Ygritte pulls his head down and presses her forehead against his. “Being with you has made me soft.”

                    “That’s just what love does, I suppose,” Jon kisses her. Ygritte holds him tight. Her emotions are raw and vulnerable, on display for everyone to scrutinize rather than hidden under a mask of sarcasm and defiance.

                    Margaery is so caught up in the spectacle of her friend that she doesn’t notice Obara at her side. “Any words of advice?”

                    In her brown jacket, low boots and pulled up hair, Obara looks less like she’s going on a mission to break a man out of jail and more like she’s on a night out with friends.

                    “Invest in a winter jacket. Dorne makes King’s Landing look like Winterfell.”

                    “And what does it make Winterfell look like?”

                    “A glacier of eternal snow,” Margaery quips.

                    Obara laughs and steps closer. “Good to know. Don’t worry about Loras. He’ll be back without a hair harmed. I can’t say that’ll be true for anyone who gets in our way.”

                    “Thank you,” Margaery says. “Truly, thank you. I don’t know if I can ever repay you.”

                    “I don’t require repayment,” Obara murmurs.

                    Suddenly she’s closer than Margaery realized. She cradles Margaery’s cheeks and pulls her forward for a kiss. It’s short and rough, but leaves Margaery’s head spinning from the shock. The salty sweetness of her lips lingers on Margaery’s mouth as she tries to map out what had just happened.

                    “One for the road,” Obara winks. She gives Margaery one last hug, mutters a half-hearted good bye to Alayne, who looks as though she’s using all of her self-control to not punch a hole into Obara’s chest, and she follows Jon out the door.

                    As everyone is about to depart in their own directions, Olenna snaps her fingers. “While I’ve got you all here, I have some news. My Spider appears to have caught a few flies in your water gardens Oberyn. Cersei Lannister is on her way here.”

                    “Is that not important information for them to hear? I’m pretty sure both Jon and Obara would be pretty interested to know that the whole reason for this crap will be sitting in you living room in two days,” Ygritte gestures toward the door.

                    “And have them distracted? This far south, the bitch is clawless. Their concern is Loras.” Olenna iterates.

                    “Spider? As in the Spider? Varys?” Sansa tilts her head.

                    “No, dear girl, I meant my pet spider Octavius who lives in Dorne. For such an intelligent girl, you can be quite stupid.” Olenna rolls her eyes.

                    “Ain’t that the guy Baelish loathes?” Karstark asks.

                    “He can’t be trusted,” Sansa hardens her glare. “He’s a liar.”

                    “Excuse me, girl. I don’t care for the man much myself. He has his secrets as we all have ours. But he has never lied to me in decades of work together. Nor has he lied to Margaery in the course of her work, as far as I’ve been told. Tell me, what did he lie to you about?”

                    It was true. Of all her sources, even documents, there was nothing she trusted more than the words of Varys. He had a heart for fairness and justice. He was almost completely objective in his pursuits to help the country.

                    Sansa shuffles. “Well, I’ve never spoken with him, but-”

                    “A mafia leader whom has never spoken with Varys. Poor girl, you don’t know the fun you’ve missed. When you learn the things he’s learned…” Oberyn sighs. “Why do you not trust a man you’ve never met? It’s almost as dangerous as trusting a man you have met.”

                    “Petyr has delt with him before,” Sansa held, chin high.

                    Olenna laughs. “Should Petyr be here then, making decisions for you? Regardless we are not in a state to reject notice that the woman we are trying to take down will soon presume herself a guest in my home.”

                    “Grandmother, let her be. She’s wise to listen to council of others where she has no experience herself. A mark of leadership,” Margaery finds herself defending Sansa.

                    Sansa’s eyes snap to her, confused yet pleased to have Margaery’s support. Tyene and Oberyn nod in agreement.

                    “Wise words of your own, Ms. Tyrell. Please make yourself available next time our little parties have a meeting. Nevertheless, Varys is a man worthy of trust. So we must prepare for Cersei.”

                    “In the morning. It will be at least two days. That was all. You may all get back to your drinking games or whatever it is the youth does these days. And if anyone touches my last bottle of Arbor Gold, there will be hell to pay.” Olenna excuses herself as briskly as she can nowadays.

                    “That old woman is my hero,” Ygritte whispers.

                    “Mine as well,” Tyene agrees.

                    She’d always been Margaery’s. Mothers tended to be young girls’s heroines, but Margaery had always been drawn to her grandmother. The preference never seemed to both her mother.

                    Rather than focus on her grandmother, Margaery goes after Alayne, who had scattered as soon as Olenna had excused them.

                    She’d expected Obara make her move. But not in front of Alayne.

                    The kiss itself had been what Margaery expected from the woman. Passionate, confident, rough on the edges, but leaving her wanting more.

                    The message behind it was clear. The kiss was less for her and more for Sansa, to show that Obara was staking her claim before leaving. She had no right to any claims. Because the first thought through Margaery’s head wasn’t “that was a great kiss” but “where is Alayne?”.    

                    She checks room after room before coming across her in Jon’s room with a needle and thread and some sort of cloth in hand. Lady lays by her side and perks up when Margaery enters the room. Sansa doesn’t look up as Margaery slides down to the floor next to her.

                    “How is your sister?”

                     “Fine,” Sansa says without looking up.

                    “And your adviser? Did Petyr say how they are doing?”

                    “Brienne is doing better,” she says curtly.

                    They sit together in silence. She’s not sure what how to seg into it. Eventually Margaery utters, “I didn’t kiss her back.”

                    She continues sewing. “I know.”

                    “She was trying to provoke you.”

                    “I know.” She stops sewing. There’s an edge of frustration in her voice. “Is it because of her? Is she why you won’t give me a chance?”

                    Margaery drops her head down. “No. “

                    “Then why? Why can’t you let me in?”

                    This close, Margaery can see the spots of red bleeding through the black dye in her, despite the braid. The tattoo under her shirt peaks out from the collar. Sansa scoots closer, invading Margaery’s space.

                    She could run, but she doesn’t. She told her she’d have honesty.

                    “You terrify me,” she whispers.

                    “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m the same woman you’ve always known,” Sansa assures her, exasperated. She takes her hands and rub circles over her knuckles.

                    “I knew Alayne Stone. Sansa Stark took her from me. She was everything to me. Do you realize how cruel that is?” Margaery asks, close to tears. “You’re asking me to set that all aside and pretend that this was what I wanted all along. I’m not made of rubber. I can’t bend and twist to all your revelations.”

                    “Let me explain, Margaery. I know it hurts. I never wanted to hurt you. We’re the same though. I am still Alayne.” She pleads. “Every day I wanted to tell you. Watching you dance around Cersei’s grasp nearly killed me. After everything she did to me, I couldn’t let her-”

Margaery stops her. “Not now. We’ll talk under my terms when I’m ready,” she swears. She pulls her hand away from Sansa’s grasp.