Hey queen can u pls do smth where Bakugo meets reader who’s a bartender at the bar and takes an interest in her from her chill nature then they start talking 😶
𓂃 ࣪˖ i’m 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 night—no clients, no company, just the hum of neon and the clink of glass. he isn’t expecting to meet someone like her. a bartender who doesn’t fawn, doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t fall for his usual tone. and that? yeah... that’s what gets him hooked.
hope you enjoy the slow burn, the soft tension, and the way they quietly unravel each other
↳ 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 crimson—bold 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 wasn’t 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 bar—like he wanted something a bit more... grounded.
Not right away. It was the kind of moment when someone stumbles across something unexpected but doesn’t want to admit they’re 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 exposed—unintentionally.
No flashy makeup. No cleavage.
And yet, Bakugo felt a traitorous little pang in his chest.
You hadn’t noticed him at first. You were busy arranging glassware on the back shelf, moving with mechanical precision. But there was a moment—barely noticeable—when you knew you were being watched.
It wasn’t just any stare.
It made you look up. Seek it out.
And when your eyes met his—intense, blood-red, with that tired glint of someone who’s made too many decisions—they held the moment still.
You walked over to him slowly, almost bored, like the weight of his stare didn’t faze you at all.
“What’ll it be?” you asked. Polite. But not sweet.
Bakugo barely turned his head.
“Whiskey. Neat.” His voice was low, rough—gravel dragged through smoke.
You were reaching for the bottle when you glanced back at him—maybe out of reflex.
And in that exact second, his gaze met yours again, only to quickly dart away.
Like he’d just gotten burned.
“Tch…” 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 couldn’t 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.
“When did you start?” he asked, blunt and unfiltered.
You weren’t surprised. Of course he was a regular—you could tell by the way he owned the space.
“Just over a week, sir,” you replied, steady and sharp. Someone who knows her worth, even if she’s new here.
God. What a delicious level of formality.
He didn’t comment, but he leaned into the bar, like giving you permission to keep going.
“Oh yeah? And what happened to that dumbass Kaminari?”
“No idea, sir... just told I’d be filling in for now.”
“So you’re on trial,” he said—not a question, but a statement. Like he was part of the committee deciding your fate.
You weren’t wearing the gold nameplate the permanent staff wore. He’d looked for it the second he spoke to you. Wanted to know your name.
Now he understood why he couldn’t find it.
“That’s right, sir,” you confirmed.
He rolled his neck slightly, like the words coming up were heavier than he liked admitting.
Not because you didn’t hear him. But because you weren’t sure he meant it.
“Then Bakugo...” you said softly, like trying the word on your tongue before making it yours. “I’m Y/n.”
His hand was big. Warm. And for just a moment—just one—he didn’t let go right away.
Before the silence could stretch, a loud voice cut through it.
Kirishima’s 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 didn’t matter it was Monday or that the place was half-empty.
The contrast was subtle but obvious: Kirishima dressed like he didn’t 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.
“Damn, weird seeing you alone. Left the pack of wolves at home tonight?”
Bakugo scoffed, not even bothering to look at him.
“Didn’t come to babysit idiots.”
“So, you needed air,” Kirishima translated, amused, giving his shoulder a light slap.
Bakugo didn’t deny it, but didn’t answer either.
“I thought Mondays were your save-a-soul day,” Kirishima added with a half-grin. “Anyone survive this week?”
“Barely,” Bakugo muttered, finally sipping his drink. “Didn’t come to talk about that.”
Kirishima chuckled and shrugged, like he understood completely.
“Right—” he turned toward you with a grin that could light up the whole damn bar. “You met T/n yet? My newest gem. Just a week in and already fixed the mess Kaminari left behind.”
Bakugo didn’t say a word. Just looked at you again, as if suddenly remembering you were still there. His gaze scanned you slower this time.
“She’s quick, sharp, and doesn’t miss a thing. She even helped with the orders without me asking.” Kirishima turned back to you, winking. “You see why I love her?”
Your face didn’t change, but your neck warmed.
With a wink your way and a pat to Bakugo’s 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.
“You’re not good at hiding it.”
His tone was so casual you could’ve sworn he was talking about the weather. Or how you wiped glasses.
“Hiding what?” you shot back, raising a brow, not bothering to mask the challenge.
“That you like Kirishima.”
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 eyes—something he maybe hoped to find, or hoped not to.
You passed a test you didn’t even know you were taking.
“Do you like being recognized?”
The question caught you off guard—not sarcastic, not mocking. Just... curious.
“I like feeling like what I do matters,” you said without looking at him, knowing full well he wouldn’t miss a word.
Then the soft clink of his glass on the bar.
“That’s a good answer,” he murmured, mostly to himself.
He watched you like someone who’d 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.
“What do you do, anyway?”
Bakugo didn’t seem surprised. Almost like he’d been waiting for it. In fact, it amused him.
He gave you a half-smile—the first one that didn’t look cynical.
“Thought you already knew.”
“Nope. But I’ve got a few theories,” you said, drying a glass with a small, curious smile.
“Oh yeah?” He raised a brow, like you were teasing him without meaning to.
“You talk like the kind of guy people are forced to listen to. So I figured... politician?”
Bakugo laughed—short, rough, but real.
You turned, putting the glass back on the shelf and shaking your head slightly.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” you said innocently. But it wasn’t nothing. And he knew it.
“Not bad,” he admitted, idly turning his glass. “And you?”
You blinked at the question. You didn’t know if it was curiosity... or if he just wanted to level the field.
“You don’t have the local accent. You don’t care who the clients are or why they’re here. You’re watching. Adjusting.”
He leaned on the bar, jaw tight. No condescension in his voice—just truth, handed over to see what you’d do with it.
“You’re not the type who serves drinks for fun. Or passion. I’d say you’re testing something.”
“And if I had to bet, I’d say you’re running from something. Or someone.”
His thumb stopped spinning his glass for a beat. A flicker of tension. But it was there.
You crossed your arms, not in defense—just out of habit. But inside, something shifted.
Not because it wasn’t true.
But because he saw it first.
“What am I supposed to say to that?”
“Nothing,” he said calmly. “If you did, it’d be to deny it... and I don’t think you want to lie to me tonight.”
Silence. Thick. Like cigarette smoke. A kind of tension that doesn’t break—just changes shape.
“And you know what?” he murmured. “Bet you can’t make me more than four decent drinks in a minute.”
You crossed your arms again, eyebrow raised.
“Four good ones. None of that ‘throw ice and juice in a glass and call it a cocktail’ bullshit.” His eyes sparkled—not mocking, but genuinely interested.
“And if I win?” you asked, calm—even though your heart was thudding in your throat.
A pause. Jaw flexing. Then a slow, sideways smirk, arrogant—but damn sincere.
“I owe you respect… or an invitation,” he said. His voice dropped a notch—just enough to make you lean in by reflex. “Not to the bar. Something better.”
It took you a second to process what he meant. Or didn’t say. What he suggested without offering.
“Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Lawyer?” you said, the “Mr.” dripping with teasing sweetness.
“I’m offering you options,” he said. His tone had edge—but not anger. It was honest. Serious. Real. “Take ’em or leave ’em.”
The silence after that was thick as hell. A kind of tension that didn’t dissolve—it shifted.
He held your gaze like stone.
And you knew—whatever this was, it wasn’t a game.
“Start the timer, Bakugo,” you murmured, voice steadier than your own heartbeat.
And for the first time that night, he smiled with something damn near pride.
Your hands blurred into motion. Two shakers—one in each hand—packed with ice. Fresh-squeezed lemon juice. Syrup. Bourbon. You moved like time didn’t 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. Didn’t 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.
“See?” you said, a hint of pride curling your lips.
Bakugo lowered his phone, stared at the lineup of drinks… and then at you. Slowly. Like he didn’t know what he was more impressed by.
It was the closest thing you’d get to a standing ovation from him.
Then he turned his head slightly and motioned to the nearest server.
“Take ‘em. On the house.”
“How generous, sir,” you teased as you wiped the bar with that same damp cloth, unable to hide the grin still tugging at your mouth.
“You just made me spend more than I planned tonight,” he muttered. No trace of annoyance. Just that ambiguous tone of his—hovering 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 —Katsuki Bakugo— centered in a clean, bold typeface.
Legal Representative – 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 something—anything—He was already gone.
Just his empty glass left behind.
His shadow dissolving into the haze of music and smoke.
But somehow—you knew. Somewhere between your throat and your pride, you felt it:
This man was going to ruin your life. And you weren’t sure you wanted to stop him.
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