Hey queen can u pls do smth where Bakugo meets reader whoās a bartender at the bar and takes an interest in her from her chill nature then they start talking š¶
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š ą£ŖĖ iām so sorry it took me forever to write this TT
your request never left my mind, until the whole story unfolded. thank you for the idea, and for your patience.
in this quiet little au, bakugo finds himself at a bar on a slow monday nightāno clients, no company, just the hum of neon and the clink of glass. he isnāt expecting to meet someone like her. a bartender who doesnāt fawn, doesnāt flinch, and doesnāt fall for his usual tone. and that? yeah... thatās what gets him hooked.
hope you enjoy the slow burn, the soft tension, and the way they quietly unravel each other
ā³ alt universe | word count: 2.8k
At the end of a hallway bathed in red, where the light didn't so much illuminate as it hinted, an unmarked door marked the entrance.
The front of Red Riot glowed crimsonābold and tempting, like a promise only a few could afford.
His steps were steady, confident. The kind of elegance that only men used to wearing expensive suits without trying too hard could pull off.
He wore a black one. Perfectly tailored. The top button of his shirt undone.
No tie. That said enough.
He wasnāt with anyone, which was unusual. Bakugo always brought a client, a colleague, some idiot he needed to convince or manipulate. But not tonight.
Instead of heading to one of the VIP tables in the back, he dropped into a stool at the barālike he wanted something a bit more... grounded.
Not right away. It was the kind of moment when someone stumbles across something unexpected but doesnāt want to admit theyāre interested.
His gaze skimmed the edge of the bar, casually scanning what he could see: your crisp white shirt tucked beneath a black apron tied tightly around your waist. Your hair pulled into a high ponytail, leaving your neck exposedāunintentionally.
No flashy makeup. No cleavage.
And yet, Bakugo felt a traitorous little pang in his chest.
You hadnāt noticed him at first. You were busy arranging glassware on the back shelf, moving with mechanical precision. But there was a momentābarely noticeableāwhen you knew you were being watched.
It wasnāt just any stare.
It made you look up. Seek it out.
And when your eyes met hisāintense, blood-red, with that tired glint of someone whoās made too many decisionsāthey held the moment still.
You walked over to him slowly, almost bored, like the weight of his stare didnāt faze you at all.
āWhatāll it be?ā you asked. Polite. But not sweet.
Bakugo barely turned his head.
āWhiskey. Neat.ā His voice was low, roughāgravel dragged through smoke.
You were reaching for the bottle when you glanced back at himāmaybe out of reflex.
And in that exact second, his gaze met yours again, only to quickly dart away.
Like heād just gotten burned.
āTchā¦ā he clicked his tongue under his breath.
He pretended to watch two women passing by in tight dresses and hollow eyes. He looked like someone used to that kind of attention. That kind of night.
And when you returned with the glass, he couldnāt help but look again. This time, closer.
His whiskey barely made it to his lips before he turned toward you again. No attempt to hide his curiosity now.
āWhen did you start?ā he asked, blunt and unfiltered.
You werenāt surprised. Of course he was a regularāyou could tell by the way he owned the space.
āJust over a week, sir,ā you replied, steady and sharp. Someone who knows her worth, even if sheās new here.
God. What a delicious level of formality.
He didnāt comment, but he leaned into the bar, like giving you permission to keep going.
āOh yeah? And what happened to that dumbass Kaminari?ā
āNo idea, sir... just told Iād be filling in for now.ā
āSo youāre on trial,ā he saidānot a question, but a statement. Like he was part of the committee deciding your fate.
You werenāt wearing the gold nameplate the permanent staff wore. Heād looked for it the second he spoke to you. Wanted to know your name.
Now he understood why he couldnāt find it.
āThatās right, sir,ā you confirmed.
He rolled his neck slightly, like the words coming up were heavier than he liked admitting.
Not because you didnāt hear him. But because you werenāt sure he meant it.
āThen Bakugo...ā you said softly, like trying the word on your tongue before making it yours. āIām Y/n.ā
His hand was big. Warm. And for just a momentājust oneāhe didnāt let go right away.
Before the silence could stretch, a loud voice cut through it.
Kirishimaās cheerful voice shattered the tension like a rock through glass. The owner of Red Riot walked up to the bar with a wide smile and open arms, like it didnāt matter it was Monday or that the place was half-empty.
The contrast was subtle but obvious: Kirishima dressed like he didnāt give a damn, but perfectly so. Dark linen pants, a silk shirt with soft patterns, unbuttoned just enough to show a slim chain resting on his collarbone. Always carrying that buzzing energy wherever he went.
āDamn, weird seeing you alone. Left the pack of wolves at home tonight?ā
Bakugo scoffed, not even bothering to look at him.
āDidnāt come to babysit idiots.ā
āSo, you needed air,ā Kirishima translated, amused, giving his shoulder a light slap.
Bakugo didnāt deny it, but didnāt answer either.
āI thought Mondays were your save-a-soul day,ā Kirishima added with a half-grin. āAnyone survive this week?ā
āBarely,ā Bakugo muttered, finally sipping his drink. āDidnāt come to talk about that.ā
Kirishima chuckled and shrugged, like he understood completely.
āRightāā he turned toward you with a grin that could light up the whole damn bar. āYou met T/n yet? My newest gem. Just a week in and already fixed the mess Kaminari left behind.ā
Bakugo didnāt say a word. Just looked at you again, as if suddenly remembering you were still there. His gaze scanned you slower this time.
āSheās quick, sharp, and doesnāt miss a thing. She even helped with the orders without me asking.ā Kirishima turned back to you, winking. āYou see why I love her?ā
Your face didnāt change, but your neck warmed.
With a wink your way and a pat to Bakugoās back, Kirishima disappeared down the private hallway. Maybe to check books. Maybe to negotiate with ghosts.
No one asked questions at Red Riot.
And the second he was gone, Bakugo spoke.
āYouāre not good at hiding it.ā
His tone was so casual you couldāve sworn he was talking about the weather. Or how you wiped glasses.
āHiding what?ā you shot back, raising a brow, not bothering to mask the challenge.
āThat you like Kirishima.ā
That made you laugh. Not loud. But real. A short breath of honesty.
Finally, he looked at you. Slowly. Like your answer needed to be measured in heartbeats.
He was searching for something in your eyesāsomething he maybe hoped to find, or hoped not to.
You passed a test you didnāt even know you were taking.
āDo you like being recognized?ā
The question caught you off guardānot sarcastic, not mocking. Just... curious.
āI like feeling like what I do matters,ā you said without looking at him, knowing full well he wouldnāt miss a word.
Then the soft clink of his glass on the bar.
āThatās a good answer,ā he murmured, mostly to himself.
He watched you like someone whoād just found something interesting in the middle of a boring routine.
And that... that made you a little nervous.
But not enough to look away.
āWhat do you do, anyway?ā
Bakugo didnāt seem surprised. Almost like heād been waiting for it. In fact, it amused him.
He gave you a half-smileāthe first one that didnāt look cynical.
āThought you already knew.ā
āNope. But Iāve got a few theories,ā you said, drying a glass with a small, curious smile.
āOh yeah?ā He raised a brow, like you were teasing him without meaning to.
āYou talk like the kind of guy people are forced to listen to. So I figured... politician?ā
Bakugo laughedāshort, rough, but real.
You turned, putting the glass back on the shelf and shaking your head slightly.
āAnd whatās that supposed to mean?ā
āNothing,ā you said innocently. But it wasnāt nothing. And he knew it.
āNot bad,ā he admitted, idly turning his glass. āAnd you?ā
You blinked at the question. You didnāt know if it was curiosity... or if he just wanted to level the field.
āYou donāt have the local accent. You donāt care who the clients are or why theyāre here. Youāre watching. Adjusting.ā
He leaned on the bar, jaw tight. No condescension in his voiceājust truth, handed over to see what youād do with it.
āYouāre not the type who serves drinks for fun. Or passion. Iād say youāre testing something.ā
āAnd if I had to bet, Iād say youāre running from something. Or someone.ā
His thumb stopped spinning his glass for a beat. A flicker of tension. But it was there.
You crossed your arms, not in defenseājust out of habit. But inside, something shifted.
Not because it wasnāt true.
But because he saw it first.
āWhat am I supposed to say to that?ā
āNothing,ā he said calmly. āIf you did, itād be to deny it... and I donāt think you want to lie to me tonight.ā
Silence. Thick. Like cigarette smoke. A kind of tension that doesnāt breakājust changes shape.
āAnd you know what?ā he murmured. āBet you canāt make me more than four decent drinks in a minute.ā
You crossed your arms again, eyebrow raised.
āFour good ones. None of that āthrow ice and juice in a glass and call it a cocktailā bullshit.ā His eyes sparkledānot mocking, but genuinely interested.
āAnd if I win?ā you asked, calmāeven though your heart was thudding in your throat.
A pause. Jaw flexing. Then a slow, sideways smirk, arrogantābut damn sincere.
āI owe you respectā¦ or an invitation,ā he said. His voice dropped a notchājust enough to make you lean in by reflex. āNot to the bar. Something better.ā
It took you a second to process what he meant. Or didnāt say. What he suggested without offering.
āAre you asking me on a date, Mr. Lawyer?ā you said, the āMr.ā dripping with teasing sweetness.
āIām offering you options,ā he said. His tone had edgeābut not anger. It was honest. Serious. Real. āTake āem or leave āem.ā
The silence after that was thick as hell. A kind of tension that didnāt dissolveāit shifted.
He held your gaze like stone.
And you knewāwhatever this was, it wasnāt a game.
āStart the timer, Bakugo,ā you murmured, voice steadier than your own heartbeat.
And for the first time that night, he smiled with something damn near pride.
āThree... two... one.ā
Your hands blurred into motion. Two shakersāone in each handāpacked with ice. Fresh-squeezed lemon juice. Syrup. Bourbon. You moved like time didnāt apply to you; like your body knew what it was doing before your brain even caught up.
Bakugo, still leaning on the bar, said nothing. Didnāt even blink.
The counter shook under the rhythm of your movements. You shook hard, in sync. Two drinks at once. Poured, garnished with surgical precision. A cherry on each rim. A thin slice of orange you cut without even looking. The glasses lined up in front of him like little soldiers.
When the timer hit exactly one minute, you slammed both shakers down with a clean, controlled thud. The last glass perfectly finished. Silence settled.
Six damn whiskey sours. Foam untouched. Presentation flawless.
āSee?ā you said, a hint of pride curling your lips.
Bakugo lowered his phone, stared at the lineup of drinksā¦ and then at you. Slowly. Like he didnāt know what he was more impressed by.
āShitā¦ā he muttered.
It was the closest thing youād get to a standing ovation from him.
Then he turned his head slightly and motioned to the nearest server.
āTake āem. On the house.ā
āHow generous, sir,ā you teased as you wiped the bar with that same damp cloth, unable to hide the grin still tugging at your mouth.
āYou just made me spend more than I planned tonight,ā he muttered. No trace of annoyance. Just that ambiguous tone of hisāhovering somewhere between business and... something personal.
He slid a card across the bar like he was laying a weapon on the table.
You picked it up with mild curiosity, feeling the smooth weight of it between your fingers. Sleek. Classy. No frills. Just like him. Matte black, silver embossed letters catching the low bar light. His name āKatsuki Bakugoā centered in a clean, bold typeface.
Legal Representative ā Bakugo & Associates.
And below that, the detail that made your stomach flutter just a bit:
An invitation without an invitation.
And when you looked up to say somethingāanythingāHe was already gone.
Just his empty glass left behind.
His shadow dissolving into the haze of music and smoke.
But somehowāyou knew. Somewhere between your throat and your pride, you felt it:
This man was going to ruin your life. And you werenāt sure you wanted to stop him.
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