#and he's a lawyer

[guinevereslancelot]

why do i have an almost date tomorrow 😬

[jealousmartini]

That shit was too good what

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 😶

𝑩𝒂𝒌𝒖𝒈𝒐: 𝑹𝒆𝒅 𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔

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.

Tonight, he sat alone.

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.

And then he saw you.

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.

Almost magical.

Almost annoying.

You didn’t smile.

Neither did he.

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.

He didn’t say a word.

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.

He raised a brow.

Silent amusement.

“Sir.”

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.

A beat passed.

He rolled his neck slightly, like the words coming up were heavier than he liked admitting.

“Call me Bakugo.”

It took you a second.

Not because you didn’t hear him. But because you weren’t sure he meant it.

Still, you took 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.

“Bro!”

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.

Then he noticed you.

“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.

Just a bit.

Bakugo noticed.

Of course he did.

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.

“The boss? Hell no.”

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.

He didn’t find it.

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.

Silence.

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.

“Close. Lawyer.”

You turned, putting the glass back on the shelf and shaking your head slightly.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

“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.”

A short pause.

“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?”

“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.

Bakugo didn’t laugh.

Didn’t flinch.

“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.

Not for him.

Not for you.

“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.

“Three... two... one.”

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.

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.

“Shit…” he muttered.

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.

Beneath it:

Legal Representative – Bakugo & Associates.

And below that, the detail that made your stomach flutter just a bit:

His personal number.

Plain. Direct.

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.

No warning.

No second glance.

Just that.

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.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[sleepy-bebby]

[duckysprouts]

if you were at your worst, if you’re a villain or a screwup or whatever, there is a goth man dressed as a giant bat who keeps coming after you, bothering you. he sabotages your journey of self destruction over and over. ur ready to give up but he won’t let you. you think, today he won’t come. today he will give up on me too. he never does.

[djo]

DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN 1.03: The Hollow of His Hand

[degenerateshinji]

free my boy he did it all but i forgive him

[ro-bee]

part one of a little thing i was doing like idk 2 months ago? i forgot... anyway

Jovan first bishop kill aftermath was a bit complicated to deal with

maybe i'll finish this one day but i have so much stuff in my head is hard to think

[shittalkerxox]

I like to think that even though people don’t know that Matt is Daredevil, there’s still a general consensus among anyone who knows him, (and a fair few people who just recognise him from when he put Fisk in prison those two times and from Frank’s trial,) that he HATES Fisk. New York found out Fisk was Mayor and the first thought was; “Damn, if Daredevil was still around, he’d probably go insane.” And then it’s “Shit, someone should go remind that lawyer that murder is illegal.”

[laurellala-comics]

Listened to I'm Your Man by Wham! and went "these lyrics would be SO funny on a cheesy lawyer billboard"

[nebinarnagovnara]

Two snakes, whispering in my ears

[demonic0angel]

Court Story Idea

TW: the Joker

Where the Joker is being prosecuted for his crimes within the Ghost Zone and each side (defendant and plaintiff) is able to choose the lawyer for the other side. So that means that the Joker is able to choose an attorney for the plaintiffs AKA Jason, along with other victims, both alive and dead. (For drama’s sake, let’s say that the Justice League is there too, along with the younger generation of heroes.)

When everyone hears this, they’re like ??? Because isn’t that just going to help the Joker??

And the Joker, realizing this, is looking for the most weakest, most vulnerable person to exploit within this ghostly court room and he looks at the back of the room…

And finds Jazz, who’s sitting in a corner behind King Phantom, head down, trying her best to be unnoticed, nose in her papers as she’s writing down what’s said as the court reporter.

And the Joker picks her.

Nobody understands why everyone from the Ghost Zone is suddenly either 1) flabbergasted, 2) completely delighted, or 3) laughing so hard that it’s like they’re about to die a 2nd time.

Because the Joker chose the only person in the room with an actual law degree who is not only the big sister of the literal Ghost King, but also loves children, is fiercely protective of them, and most importantly, has never gotten the opportunity to show off her hard earned degrees in criminology, psychiatry, or law until now.

(Inspired by this post where someone says that Jazz would be the court reporter)

[beaft]

thinking about bg3 astarion introduction. something very funny about meeting a weird guy on the road and he's like "hey, sorry for trying to stab you. i'm a lawyer btw" and you're like well that seems true. and you click on his picture and see that his character class is just Professional Liar

[seamistgale]

Of @ghostreblogging, Where Danny has the same tax evasion skills as his parents. Kind of a coffee shop AU, but well, its gotham.

[ghostreblogging]

Ok ok so hear me out Twins au. Danny and Damian are twins. And you know the whole story. Danny gets "killed " moves in with the Fenton's and becomes phantom. Ad Damian doesn't know that. Well the magician summoning Damian's dead brother to enact his revenge on him has a very bad timing

"Oh robin. Dont you know the dead can have fangs. I've heard of a little tale. Of how you killed your own brother. Your twin in a quite a cruel and merciless way don't you think?" The magician drawls on over the horribly over used repetitive lines.

But it still stops Damian in his tracks. He can see as his family stop and look at him. With the look of horror and well concern. And he hates it. He can feel their gazes on him and it burns his skin.

He stops and tries to yell at them. To do something. To stop dawdling around.

Until a right flash of green stopped him. The circle lit up as a clawed hand grasped the edge from inside.

Unfortunately the magician wasn't a phony.

The being slowly crawls itself out. It's wearing striped prison clothes with conically oversized shackles? Huh.

Damian muses to himself as he prepares for battle . Must represent his or rather their lives in the league of assassin's.

The being finally looks up and shouts

"HAHA YOU CAN SUC MY DIC WALKER. I MAY BE OUT NOT ON MY OWN VOLITION BUT IM GONNA DO GHOST CRIMES AGAIN . And there's nothing you can do about it. "

"Ghost crimes exist? What even are ghost crimes???" Dick whispered to Jason

"I don't know but I am so angry at the implications of ghost cops. " Jason replies

[princema-k]

arent u tired of being of being nice..... dont u wanna go Apeshitt

(quote in no.3 courtesy of tearay1073's comment on this vid)

[peascribbles]

sylus x gn!reader, menstruating reader, domestic fluff, sfw

Operation: defend your ice cream stash from Sylus begins today.

You've had enough of finding a barren desert in the freezer, devoid of sweet treats. He always leaves the evidence of his crimes for you to uncover. Bowl and spoon in the sink, slick with the melting remnants. Discarded tub peeking out the trash bin. The occasional note with a devilish winky face on the countertop. Each a cruel twist of the knife.

Your grief is doubly felt when he deprives you of life's one joy during your period. No, it doesn't matter that he always restocks the freezer til it struggles to close right after. It's the principle of the robbery in the first place that incenses you.

Luke and Kieran sneak in a clandestine package under the cover of morning, while he's still asleep. Inside is a world class, custom built, state-of-the-art safe you've commissioned for this express purpose; constructed using antimatter coated steel to dissuade him from blasting it open with his Evol.

You have no doubts about his ability to break into things the normal way, so you've designed the safe to have multiple doors which protect its contents.

For appearances only, the outer door is a mundane dial lock. He'll crack it in maybe two seconds flat. What it should do is ping your phone and alert you to the imminent break in attempt. Behind it are a series of increasingly difficult cryptographic puzzles that must be solved within a minute to proceed.

The safe's final bulwark is a stroke of genius, if you say so yourself; a singing test with an inbuilt microphone where he must stay reasonably in pitch. An assuredly insurmountable trial for him, and therefore, an impenetrable defense for your precious desserts from his bottomless gluttony.

With the twins' help, you manoeuvre the safe into the freezer. You place your last tub of ice cream into it and perform the necessary double- and triple checks. Bolts are secured. Puzzles are set and ready to go. Microphone tested to ensure it's functional.

You leave for work daring to hope for the best.

—

Hours teetering on the edge of your seat. Paranoia mounting with the radio silence. You should be happy. It could be he's decided to leave your treat alone, but it can't be that easy. You're well aware of just how tenacious and greedy he can be.

Your phone pings during your lunch break.

Determined to catch Sylus red handed, you leap into action, pulling it out of your pocket. Your finger is a millimetre away from pressing the speed dial when you notice that the notification isn't from the safe's alarm system.

It's a message from him.

The food you just ate lurches in your stomach. That can't be good. You tap to view it, the stirrings of trepidation and resignation joining your barely-digested meal.

He's sent an image of the safe. The dial lock is busted open, all the cryptographic puzzles solved. Both outcomes within the realm of possibilities you considered. Your piece de resistance, the singing challenge, is still intact, so why..?

Ah. A perfect circle has been cut into the side of the safe. Its contents empty. You spot the tub in the foreground, also empty.

Cut off in the corner of the picture is a perplexing device you don't quite recognise. From what you can tell, it looks like a gun without a barrel or a trigger.

His accompanying voice message plays.

Nice try, sweetie. He sounds breathless, as if he's been laughing too hard. The mirth that brightens his voice is infectious, and though you want to be mad right now, a pleasant warmth and the beginnings of a smile tugs at your cheeks. I do wonder where you found a manufacturer willing to do antimatter coating for a... personal project such as this. Flipping through his business contacts while he was away, of course. That thing is a gold mine.

Ringing sharp through your speaker, two solid objects clink together. Teeth against a spoon. However, the microphone you installed must not be working. No matter how well I performed, it never let me in. A pleased noise from the back of his throat. This flavour's delicious, by the way.

How shameless of him to eat your ice cream while he recorded this—this declaration of victory, you realise. He's gloating. Feasting on his bounty. Oh, when you get home, you're going to—

Before you plan your revenge, let me propose a moratorium, his voice message continues, reading your mind. Why does he always do that? I've seen your sincere efforts to protect what's valuable to you. So, I won't touch your ice cream for a month. Use it to refine your defenses.

I'll give you a few hints to start: find better quality antimatter next time. And you did forget about the extensive tools in the workshop.

You finally recognise the object on the counter.

The freezer's already been refilled. See you at home, sweetie. The message ends with an indulgent chuckle.

His words don't register for a solid minute. You're reeling from this latest revelation. Just to steal your ice cream—

He used a fucking laser gun to cut a hole in the safe?

If a puny laser was able to penetrate the coating, then his Evol would have torn it like paper. Which means he went out of his way to go to the basement workshop, retrieve the laser gun, and cut a hole in it, because he could.

You're doing two things when you get home.

One, send a complaint to the manufacturer for a shoddy product.

And two, have some of that ice cream when he's not looking.

This operation has been a failure of unimaginable proportion, but no matter; you have a month to plot and plan. You'll come back stronger than ever.

go read @blessdunrest's continuation here!