Chapter Text
The bar smelled like cheap perfume, strong cologne, and spilled liquor, the usual cocktail of sweat and desperation. Neon lights pulsed lazily overhead, throwing red and violet shadows across the dark interior. Music throbbed in the background, too loud for conversation but perfect for the women swaying on stage and the men who came here to forget they had lives outside the place.
Katsuki Bakugou didn’t belong here—and he fucking knew it. He wasn’t here because he wanted company or because he needed to blow off steam. He wasn’t like the other wolves drooling at the half-naked dancers or flashing bills just to get a glance at cleavage. No, he’d come here because sometimes being stupidly filthy rich meant people expected you to be seen. At least if he was here, in public, people would gossip less about what he did behind the closed glass walls of his empire.
He dropped down onto the stool at the bar, huge sandy-blonde tail swishing lazily behind him. His wolf ears twitched at the sticky sound of someone wiping down glasses. Nitroglycerin—his own scent—cut sharply through the stale alcohol stench, and heads turned his way like always. His Crimson red eyes didn’t bother meeting theirs. He leaned against the polished counter, sandy-blonde hair spiking wildly, fluffy ears twitching in irritation as the bartender finally appeared.
And fuck.
Bakugou sat up straighter without even realizing it.
The bartender was… not what he’d expected. The person was small—short, at least compared to him—5’2” maybe, pear-shaped body framed by black fitted clothes that clung enough to show off his slim build and soft curve of hips. Ink-black hair, so fluffy it almost looked like smoke, spilled down to his chest, the top pulled back into a ponytail. But it was the bangs that caught him. Pale beige strands covered most of his face, nearly swallowing him whole, though one maroon eye glinted through when he shifted. The other was hidden under a sleek black eyepatch, the faintest scars crawling up the skin beneath. His ears—five times fluffier than normal—twitched like restless clouds, and his massive tail behind him looked heavy with fluff.
They smelled like rain hitting hot concrete. Cold. Sharp. Beautiful.
Bakugou let out a low whistle, leaning his chin on his palm as the bartender slid a menu toward him without a word. The movement was efficient, practiced, like he’d done it ten thousand times.
“You look like you could use a fuckin’ drink,” Bakugou muttered, his mouth curling in a half-smirk as he flipped open the menu. “Or maybe just someone who ain’t gonna treat you like shit.”
The bartender didn’t even blink. “Menu’s got specials highlighted. Pick one.” His voice carried an accent, heavy and rough, Irish curling around every syllable. It was hot as hell, but flat, detached. Like he was used to brushing off idiots hitting on him.
“Tch.” Bakugou barked a laugh. “Damn. Cold, huh? I like that.”
The bartender—Tokoyami, if Bakugou caught the faint name tag right—didn’t bite. He simply waited, patient in a way that pissed Bakugou off more than if he’d snapped back.
“Alright, rain cloud. Surprise me.” Bakugou shoved the menu back toward him, leaning back with arms crossed over his chest, the fabric of his tailored shirt stretching across his solid frame.
Tokoyami’s bangs shifted as he tilted his head slightly, then he set to work. His hands moved quick, precise—bottles pulled, shakers rattled, liquids poured with an elegance that didn’t match this dump. Bakugou found himself staring, studying the way his pale fingers flexed, the way his fluffy black tail flicked back and forth as he worked. He was good. Too good for this place.
And everyone knew it.
Bakugou’s sharp eyes caught the way patrons leaned too close to him, how they let their hands brush his as he served, how they whispered garbage into his ears only for him to shrug it off, face blank. More than once, a splash of alcohol was tossed at him—whether out of rejection or amusement, Bakugou couldn’t tell—but Tokoyami never flinched. Just cleaned up and moved on like it didn’t matter.
“Fuckin’ waste,” Bakugou muttered under his breath as the drink slid toward him.
Before he could say more, movement beside him caught his attention. A waitress—if you could even call her that—dropped onto the stool next to him. The dress she wore barely qualified as clothing, more like painted-on fabric that clung to her body, cut high on her thighs and low enough to show nearly everything else. She giggled, leaning forward so her chest nearly brushed his arm, eyes fluttering up at him.
“Well, well,” she purred, “you’re new here, aren’t you? Don’t see wolves like you sitting alone too often.”
Bakugou didn’t even bother turning his head. “Not interested.”
She pouted, though the act looked fake as hell. “Oh, come on. You’re not here just for a drink. Nobody comes here just for that.” Her eyes flicked to Tokoyami, who kept wiping down the counter, his fluffy tail curling tight. She smirked. “Curious about the bartender, hm?”
Bakugou’s glare snapped to her. “Tch. Maybe I am. What the fuck do you care?”
The waitress giggled again, clearly delighted by his irritation. “Well, if you want to know… he works practically every hour this place is open. Twenty-four-seven, give or take. Poor thing doesn’t even get his paycheck half the time.” She leaned in closer, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Supposed to make twelve an hour. Barely gets scraps. Doesn’t even have a real place—just some crummy apartment he’s about to get kicked out of. Honestly, I don’t know why he sticks around. Guess some people just don’t have options.”
Bakugou’s jaw flexed, a growl rumbling low in his chest. His massive tail lashed behind him.
Tokoyami didn’t say a word. He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t argue. He just kept cleaning a glass, bangs hiding his face as if he hadn’t heard a thing.
The waitress smirked, reaching for a bottle on the counter. “See? He doesn’t even care. Watch this—”
Her hand slipped. A bottle of vodka tumbled, smashing right against Tokoyami’s chest and splattering down his black shirt. The liquid dripped across the counter, soaking the rag in his hand. She laughed.
Tokoyami didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just grabbed another rag and started cleaning.
Bakugou’s claws dug into the bar top.
Tokoyami kept moving like nothing happened. His cold, rain-scented aura never broke, even with vodka soaking his shirt and tail. He wrung out the rag, pushed fresh glasses forward, and slid a tray of drinks toward the very waitress who’d “accidentally” hit him. She only smirked, hips swaying as she strutted off, heels clicking like the clack of dice across a table.
Bakugou’s jaw worked, sharp teeth grinding as he watched. The restraint was killing him. He could’ve bought and burned this entire bar fifty times over, but something told him Tokoyami wouldn’t appreciate his knight-in-shining-armor bullshit. At least not yet.
A few stools down, some drunk prick leaned too close, breath reeking of stale beer and bad decisions. “Oi, bartender,” he slurred, voice loud enough to catch Bakugou’s ear. “You know, you’d do better shaking that ass on stage instead of pouring drinks. Bet you could rake in cash as a stripper—fuck, I’d pay double just to see you bend over.”
The table erupted in laughter. “Yeah! Bet that little tight ass would be a dream in bed.”
Bakugou’s ears pinned back, tail flicking once like a whip. His crimson red eyes cut toward them, and the furnace in his chest threatened to ignite. But Tokoyami? Nothing. He calmly placed the tray down in front of the guy, crimson eye dead and cold, before moving on.
Bakugou slammed his glass down. “Oi.”
The drunks shut up for a second, staring. Bakugou’s smirk was sharp enough to draw blood. “Bet you losers couldn’t afford five fuckin’ minutes of his time, so shut the hell up.”
Tokoyami’s bangs twitched, and though his face stayed hidden, Bakugou caught the subtle tilt of his head—listening.
Bakugou leaned forward on the counter, addressing Tokoyami directly. “So, what’s it gonna take to get you outta this shithole? I got openings everywhere. Assistant. Manager. Model. Security. You name it.”
Tokoyami’s hands never stopped moving—glass, rag, bottle, pour. But his ears twitched with each suggestion.
Bakugou kept going, voice low enough to cut through the chaos around them. “You’ve got the build. The presence. Could be a model easy. Or hell—work my restaurants. You’d pull tips just for standin’ there with that face. Personal bartender? That one I could see. You’d be mine, then—work for me, not this dump. Pay’s good. Real good. Way better than scraps.”
For the first time, Tokoyami hesitated. Just a second. His maroon eye flicked toward Bakugou through the pale curtain of bangs, unreadable but not uninterested.
Bakugou grinned, sharp and dangerous. “Or fuck it—I could be your sugar daddy. You’d never work another day. You’d get paid more in a week than this place makes in a year. Clothes. Food. House. You name it.”
The room clattered behind them—dice rolling, cards shuffling. Tokoyami slid a chip across the felt of a side game someone had going and—just like that—won. Again. Cheers erupted. Nobody seemed surprised. The hundredth time, by the sound of it. The guy was untouchable when it came to gambling, luck clinging to him like the rain he smelled of.
Bakugou was about to push harder when the air shifted. Heavy. Oily.
The boss walked in.
He was a big bastard, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, his wolf ears ragged and tail scraggly. He dropped into the seat right next to Bakugou like he owned the air around him. Bakugou’s nose wrinkled at the sour stench of greed that clung to him.
“Ah,” the boss grinned, signaling for a drink. “New face. Don’t see rich pups like you down here often. Hope my boys are treating you right.”
Bakugou’s smile was thin, polite—fake. “Fine. For now.” He could sue this fucker into the dirt with a single phone call, but he played it cool.
The boss’s drink was delivered. He raised it, swirling it lazily. “And if you don’t like your drink, well, no problem. Just throw it at the bartender. Everyone else does.”
Bakugou’s fingers tightened around his glass. “The fuck did you just say?”
As if on cue, another patron flung a half-empty glass. It shattered against Tokoyami’s back, splashing liquid all over his massive, fluffy tail.
Tokoyami stopped mid-step. His shoulders rose. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest, rolling out like thunder. It was sharp, primal—sexy in its danger.
Bakugou’s lips curled into a grin. “Now that’s fuckin’ hot.”
But the boss didn’t share his enthusiasm. His face twisted. He slammed his glass down and stood. “You dare growl at my clients?”
Tokoyami’s ears folded back. His maroon eye flickered. Fear.
Bakugou’s smirk vanished.
The boss grabbed him by the collar and dragged him toward the back. Tokoyami didn’t resist. Didn’t look back. But his face—Bakugou caught a glimpse through the beige bangs—said everything. He was terrified.
Minutes dragged. Muffled sounds carried from the back room—shouts, crashes, dull thuds of fists against flesh. Then silence.
When the door opened again, Tokoyami was barely conscious. Blood streaked his face, rum soaking his clothes, dripping down his body. The boss dragged him like garbage and tossed him to the floor near Bakugou’s feet.
“Pathetic,” the boss sneered. “Tell you what. He’s for sale. A hundred yen or less. Cheap trash, but maybe you’ll get your kicks. Interested?”
Bakugou stared down at Tokoyami. The guy was light as a feather when Bakugou bent down and scooped him into his arms. Too light. Malnourished. Fragile. Like he hadn’t had a proper meal in years. The faint scent of rain still clung to him, even through the blood and rum.
Bakugou’s smirk returned, sharp and dangerous as hell.
“You’re fuckin’ lucky I don’t tear this whole place apart myself.” His Crimson red eyes snapped to the boss. “But don’t worry. I’ll handle it my way.”
He strode out of the bar, Tokoyami limp against his chest, sandy-blonde tail flicking like a whip. Outside, his phone was already in his hand. One call.
“Burn it,” he ordered.
And when the fire roared to life behind him, swallowing the place whole, Bakugou didn’t look back. He tightened his hold on Tokoyami, ears twitching at the faint, shallow breaths against his chest.
A grin cut across his face, sharp and full of promise.
“Time to upgrade your life.”