You work the night closing shift at quite possibly the shackiest, shadiest coffee establishment in all of Gotham. Okay, maybe it’s closer to the fourth or fifth worst. There are some worse establishments for sure. It makes for fantastic people watching though! You just have to not ask too many questions.
You made the mistake of engaging too deeply in conversation once, and then someone attempted to follow you home. Attempted. One of the city's many vigilantes came to your dainty rescue. Being a damsel in distress was terrible, but they were nice at least (the vigilante of course, not the stalker).
And then it happens, the urge to ask questions rises up like hot bile in your throat when a particularly heavily eye-bagged man comes into your establishment–fifteen minutes before you start closing shop by the way–and flashes you an almost pained smile as he asks for ten shots over ice. He even says please. People don’t say please much.
“Holy cow. What the fuck do you need all that for? What kinda job do you–”
He shrugs, “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”
You can’t tell if he is serious, but you decide to err on the side of caution. Living in Gotham has taught you that. The rent is cheap as hell for good reason.
You let the customer service face slide over your face like hot oil, burning away what shock you had let slip through.
“Okay, ten shots. Try not to get killed out there. Sorry I asked.”
He smiles, and his eyes flicker green in the light. He has such striking eyes. A shame the dating pool is untrustworthy. He could be almost respectable. The fifteen minutes before closing thing is just so fucked up, though.
This becomes a regular occurrence: him coming in for his ten shots, you acting like everything about it is fine and normal, and you walking home, looking over your shoulder.
Fortunately, you don’t live that far from work. It’s like a ten minute walk, which does happen to be one of the perks. Not having a vehicle and avoiding the people on public transportation makes the walk almost bearable. Almost.
He’s late tonight. You’ve already closed, but in your anticipation of him, you made his drink anyway. He runs into you as you are locking the door behind you with a sharp click. You note that the lock seems a tad loose. You should talk to your boss about that.
He sighs, and his chest heaves with the effort. You can’t help but notice the way the shirt he wears squeezes at his muscles. Such defined arms and everything. Wow. You may be ogling him just a little bit. You hold out his pre-made drink to him. “Thought you were coming, so I made it anyway.”
He takes it from you with a grin and reverence in his eyes.
He reaches into the pocket at his waistband, but you flap a hand at him. “On the house. We’re closed. You need it anyway. Have a good night.”
“Uhm, wait.”
Fuck. You really hope he’s not about to follow you home. Can’t you just leave things as they are? This was a nice thing that you two had going on. He takes a step back from you, raising a hand, “Get home safe. Don’t stick around on my part. Thanks for the coffee.” He is walking away from you, and then he turns a corner and vanishes.
God, Gotham is crazy.
You peek into the dark alley he seemingly vanished into, but that is definitely not worth your pay grade, even if he is beautiful.
And you do want to get home safe like he said, so you turn on your heel and make your way out. It’s an unfortunate thing, the walk home, ameliorated somewhat by the company of a sparkly mini spray can of mace attached to your keys and the length of the treacherous journey.
Just another block or so, and you’ll be home, behind a deadbolted flimsy door. Everything will be fine if you can just make it…and click! The door shuts safely behind you, the lock sliding into place. You turn the deadbolt and then reach for the small chain. Safe at last!
As you are unwinding for the evening, lifting heavy feet out of worn shoes and tearing off socks like soiled bandages, you find yourself wandering back to good ol’ ten shots. He seems alright, but then again, so did the last guy. It occurs to you that a place like Gotham has really enabled your tendency to isolate and run from relationships, but can anyone really blame you for having trust issues in a place like this?
There’s a certain feeling building up inside you, layered in a dangerous curiosity and a flutter in your chest. It’s probably best to continue life as things are, but thoughts of those bright eyes bounce around in your skull.
Most days drift by in a cloud of blah, in trying to make enough money to get by and occasionally also have something nice. Sometimes keeping your head down isn’t always easy. You try not to get too far past typical ice breakers and small talk with anyone, especially when you work in customer service, but, ten shots tempts something in you. Itches at the most ticklish corners of you. You know better than to ask (or so you tell yourself, remind yourself even), so when he opens the door, at least you can tell yourself that he is the one who started it.
He chats with you as you are making your drink. “Is that cute but a little trashed Subaru Legacy yours?”
The one without a window? As if!
You chew on your lip as you finish pulling another shot. “Nah, that’s one of the guys at the repair shop.” Ironically enough with his incredibly damaged car, but the idea that someone lacks the ability or motivation to do something is not strange to you at all.
He makes a noise of acknowledgement, a sound that scrapes against the back of his throat. “So you must not have a car then? Oh, man, not to sound like a total creep. It's just there’s no-”
“Yeah, I don't have a car. My old one was a real lemon. It sorta died, and I can't buy a new one.” He nods as you finally pass him his horrible, not at all recommendable beverage.
He taps the counter, sliding a beaten and distressed twenty dollar bill with a dark stain in the corner in your direction. The state of the bill is just another mark against him, but the crooked smile on his face is working really hard to win you over right now. You point to a jar near the register, “Tip jar is right there.”
He shakes his head, a few curls of white hair bouncing with the motion. “But, I want you to just take it,” he says. “Won’t get you a car, but I do want it to all go to you.” It gets harder and harder to fight his gravitational pull between that smile and the insistent tip after having already paid for the beverage.
You stare at the mangled bill, worrying your lower lip, as if to distress it to match its condition. The smile isn’t there anymore, but an earnestness remains, a glint in his eyes that keeps its shape. You finally take the offered bill, the corners of your mouth lifting, “Every penny counts. Thanks, ten shots.”
The Captain comes in when it's slower and a bit more bearable to be around people. He usually gets a black tea or a London Fog. He's dressed in a leather jacket, jeans, and boots (his beanie is included in the rotation).
Price strikes up conversation when it's not busy, the man asking you about your shift and occasionally any hobbies you had told him about previous times he had been in.
Once his order is completed, you slide him his London Fog, only to feel him slip a piece of paper into your hand. You unravel it, seeing the messily scrawled numbers and the smudged smiley face in the corner.
It's cheesy, yet it does bring a blush to your face when you read 'call me when you're out, yeah?' written below his number.
Simon Riley
The first time you met Simon, it was difficult to tell if he didn't like you or wasn't a chatter. After the first two visits, you found out it was the latter. Simon rarely spoke, only saying a gruff 'thanks' or when he told you his order. When he was in the small coffee shop, he sat in a corner by himself, his eyes focused on a book or tablet. Sometimes he would be on his phone talking to 'Johnny' as he waved you down to refill his tea. You never minded since he was polite.
Sometimes though, you'd find him gazing at you from his table, piercing blue eyes taking in every movement and features of yours. The action would make your heart race, and in the end, you caved and wrote your number down on a napkin and gave it to him. It was a bold move yet you didn't expect him to call a few days later asking if you would like to go out for brunch.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz had been a regular since before you started working. When he noticed you, he would chat and occasionally flirt. He would come in with a couple friends—Soap and Ghost, he called them—and you eventually knew them and their orders from memory.
One day when Kyle was chatting with you and getting refills on his coffee (he paid for them), he asked if you wanted to catch a movie.
"i'm free friday?" You rebutted when you noticed his shoulders slouch in defeat. "Dinner then a movie? I can pay for the popcorn?"
"Absolutely not, love. I will be paying for everything."
Gaz was more than ecstatic when you gave him your number and he pretty much skipped out of the shop.
John MacTavish
John usually came into the shop a couple hours before close or he was one of the first in the mornings. Your chirpiness made him smile and he eventually started to talk to you in those early hours. In later hours, he would invite you over on your break to talk with him about art or just to chat.
Your morning or on-break chats became the norm, and when it would be time for you to leave, John would walk you out to your car.
"Get home safe, yeah?" His voice, while rough with his accent, was comforting every time.
"Aye, aye, sergeant," you would salute him jokingly before driving away.
Eventually, you'd find his number scrawled beside a messy drawing of you on a napkin when you cleaned his table when he left.
there’s flour on your nose, and the heat from the oven makes you sweat a bit, but it’s all worth it. worth it to see that crooked grin of accomplishment on spencer’s face, the awe in his eyes when the bread comes out, hot and steaming.
from the day you and spencer had met, he’d known he liked you. with that shy smile on your face, the way a bit of flour was on your cheek—which he hadn’t told you about merely because it was so endearing. you were.. perfect. in every sense in the word.
and most importantly, you made amazing pastries.
spencer wasn’t one to indulge in sugary treats like donuts, and cupcakes. that was penelope and morgan’s thing. or more the entire BAU team’s thing. seeing as the coffee shop you worked at was in the closest perimeter to the BAU, he found himself often going for nightly caffeine runs, and sometimes even buying a pastry at penelope’s request. and when he finally acquiesced and tried one himself? he was a goner.
and to make matters even better, he’d found out you were the baker at the shop. and since then, he’d been begging you to bake something for him, or at least attempt to teach him so he could try baking it himself. not that he’d have any luck.
finally….. tonight was the night. spencer had come back from a late shift, his shoulder blades terse and his brows muscles sore from how many times he’d furrowed them throughout the day. he was sure he’d crash into bed the moment he got back to his apartment, but instead, he found you.
you were in the kitchen—flour everywhere, your hands kneading dough, an apron tied to your torso with a plethora of what he assumed to be ingredient sludge. and he’d insisted to help.
“just keep kneading the dough. don’t stir, knead.”
spencer nodded like an over eager child, his slender fingers carefully kneading the dough, but his hands so large the movement almost looked awkward.
“did you know kneading the dough instead of stirring allows gluten to develop in the dough, laying the foundation for the final product's texture, structure, and elasticity?” spencer spewed out quickly, the fact lingering on his tongue from the moment he’d started helping you.
you smiled, letting out a breathy giggle as you prepped the pan, spraying some non stick oil on the metal carefully.
“look at you,” you mused, giving spencer a nudge on the shoulder with your own. “expert baker knows more than me. shouldn’t you be the one guiding me right now?” you couldn’t help but tease, your tone endearing and your smile so giddy that you attempted to tone down your admiration with a clearing of your throat.
spencer blushed, although a silly smile had already formed on his face, his eyes glued to the dough because he feared if he looked at you, he just might fall more in love.
“i just.. know facts. i don’t actually bake like you. i’d probably screw it all up if you weren’t here.” he reassured, finally lifting his head to give you a careful glance, nudging you back with his hip.
you couldn’t help but let your smile grow, giddiness be damned. it might’ve been too early to say it, but you loved spencer.
without thinking you lifted your hands, grabbing spencer by each cheek and pulling him into a sloppy kiss. the surprised sound that left his mouth was almost enough to make you pull away, but when he started reciprocating, you kissed him harder.
his own hands went to your waist, his calloused fingers pulling you closer to his body, his eyes closed like he was relishing in the moment. which, he was.
the other thing that you both could feel was each other—the slight taste of coffee on spencer’s tongue as you licked into his mouth, the way his lips were a bit chapped. yours were softer, and spencer loved the way they felt.
it finally took the beeping on the oven to part you two, your chest heaving with the breaths stolen from you, your eyes a bit glassy with want. and then you burst out into laughter.
spencer’s own brows furrowed. what was so funny?
he grew a bit nervous under your gaze, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“what—what’s..” he started, voice confused.
there on spencer’s cheeks were two flour filled handprints, evidence of both your baking and the way you’d hastily grabbed him for a kiss.
you gestured to your cheeks between bubbly giggles, unable to convey the answer to his unfinished question. and spencer—with his twisted up features and the blooming confusion in his mind, slowly lifted his hand to his cheek, feeling something fine and powdery on his skin.
when he pulled his fingers to see what had rubbed off from his cheeks, he saw the whiteness of the powder. the flour from your hands.
his eyes widened slightly, and he quickly grabbed a pan, using the reflective surface to see the two handprints on his cheek, unable to stop the smile from forming on his lip.
normally he’d be in shambles—he hated getting any kind of messy. hell, he even kept spare shirts in his desk at the BAU office.
he turned back to you, engulfing you in a hug, heart racing at the laugh you left out.
“you’re such a mess,” he breathed out, resting his cheek on your head, rubbing the flour onto your hair and smirking when you let out an amused gasp of betrayal.
“spencer!” you said with another sharp bout of laughter, giving his chest a gentle shove, your other hand going to dust the flour off your hair. you retaliated by dragging your flour covered hand down his crisp, plaid dress shirt he only wore for the BAU, a dramatized—but very real—shriek coming from spencer.
you weren’t really sure what had happened after you two had started up that flour fight, but you knew one thing.
The quiet military guy who frequents your café asks you out.
The morning drags in that quiet, stretched-thin way that makes minutes feel longer than they are. Outside, rain picks at the glass panes, turning the sidewalk into a dreamy blur where red taillights melt into shadowed coats. Inside, the café breathes with the low murmur of fading conversations and the steady, comforting hum of the coffee machine.
You wipe the counter again, not because it needs it, but because your hands do. The motion is familiar. Safe. Something to anchor the lull.
When the bell above the door jingles, there’s no need to look up. It’s him—Simon, the military guy who arrives at nearly the same minute every day and orders the same drink done one way: black, strong, bitter, nothing added. The door closes with a muted thud, letting in a sliver of cool air and the faint scent of fresh rain. Damp boot prints mark the floor for a moment before fading away.
A flicker of recognition moves between you, quiet and routine, something unspoken that just stays. Not much comes out of him in words, still, you have never asked for more, because there is calm in the way he stands - solid, certain, the type who’d steady aroom without raising his voice.
His coffee is already halfway made before he reaches the counter. A quick grin shows just as you pass it over. After paying, coins clink into the tip jar one by one.
“Thanks,” he says, voice low and warm without trying to be. He always says thanks and always looks directly at you when he does.
Usually, that’s where it ends—coffee in hand, a nod, the door again. Today, though, he lingers. Fingers rest around the cup a second longer than necessary, curling slightly against the heat as if weighing a decision.
“You busy?” He looks toward the vacant tables.
You tilt your head slightly. “Not really.”
A quiet laugh escapes, almost silent. His attention drifts to the rain-streaked window, then returns. “Do you ever go out for coffee when you’re not the one making it?”
A small tilt of your head. “Sometimes.”
Another nod, then eye contact held just a fraction longer than usual. “Would you want to go sometime? With me, I mean.”
The question settles between you—light, unforced, simply present. Rain continues its gentle tapping, the machine hums behind you, and only then do you notice the cloth still frozen in your hand against the counter.
Looking at him properly now, the calm exterior is the same as ever, but there’s the faintest hint of nerves in the way he waits, like he’s trying not to look like he’s waiting at all.
A quiet breath leaves you. “Yeah,” you admit, shy but certain. “I’d like that.”
A flash of surprise shows up fast, then melts into a true grin - nothing like the usual faint lift at the corner of his mouth, instead a warmth spreads across his expression, loosening every line.
“Okay,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, a little firmer, “Good.”
Coffee shifts to one hand while the other pats down pockets in search of a pen, coming up empty. You slide one across the counter without thinking. A quiet laugh follows as he scribbles his number onto a receipt and hands it back with practised nonchalance.
“Here. No pressure or anything.”
You glance at the numbers, then tuck the paper beneath the till. “I’ll text you.”
Could you write a fic of genji x top male reader of them first meeting and slowly falling in love?😋
From: Buglism
To: ANON
OPEN large FILE ?
Genji Shimada (Overwatch) x Top Male Reader ; Meet-cute (Cafe) & Relationship Fic-canons
Fluff, Comfort with hurt sprinkles ; mainly genjis point of view hope thats okay!
part two link!
Fic-canons: A fic or blurb in bulletpoint formatting (the only way Buglims brain knows how to work! apparently..)
A/N: omg my first overwatch request? And it’s while I’m hyperfixated? Yes yes yes!! I got working on this instantly omg :3
Thank you so much for the ask I hope you enjoy Anon!!! o7 I haven't writen in so long sorry if it's ass but ofc it's a genji fic that gets me back, i hope i wrote him well enough; he still has some human parts like his hands/palm area, etc. Lmk if you guys want another part, might do nsfw if someone reqs it also trying out a new format with some dividers i found plz lemme know if this is a mistake or not cuz i kinda dig it
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions/implications of prior altercations, genji has PTSD; nightmares, routines to avoid conflict/self-soothe, fight or flight, doesn't take care of himself, Touchstarved!Genji Comfort/Hurt Sprinkles, Service Top reader bullet points, nothing explicitly stated or described in this part but its mentioned and implied), Artsy Barista Reader, this is a long post! let me know if i missed anything!
#not beta read we die like doomfist
You meet present day, he's a little older but no colder and still that lazy smiled jokester 'cyborg ninja' for Halloween Every. Single. Year dork that everyone knows and loves.
He is however not unscathed from his life both in and out of his line of work, or clan.
But he goes into public a lot more than he would at the start of his career, metal glinting beneath fabric catches a lot of uneasy eyes during the most tense years in recent history between metal and flesh, but he'd grown used to it.
He found solace in a warm mug, near but distant conversations and new specials to try and keep some part of his life simple, calm; nonviolent. And yet, getting approached at a coffee shop just after everyone stopped staring was... a daunting feeling regardless.
But when he wasn't recognized as his Overwatch agent self; for an autograph or picture, and no slew of anger and rage at Overwatches command; for answers or to spark combat came his way he paused.
You slid into the seat in front of him, hands wrapped and laced comfortably around a warm to-go cup and the corner of your eyes wrinkle as you greet him
"Hey" your voice carried over the crowded morning rush of conversation and orders, his eyes dart from your face to his cup to your cup back to your face again "I've seen you here a few times-" if he had back muscles he's sure he'd feel the tension between his shoulders, metal tightening instead beneath his hoodie
"and I wanted to get your number.. If that's okay I mean." you flush with your quickly ended question, heat melting into the skin of your face like sunrays
His eyes zero in on yours as a slow warm flushes his own face, that wasn't anywhere near what he had prepared for, or experienced. That's not to say he hasn't been approached, nor had crushes and relationships; but your tone and the way your tone seeps with nerves and the jitters of your leg beneath the table make the corner of his mouth quirk as he realizes he needs to respond, recover.
"you've seen me here before?" Genji asks, shoulder's slowly beginning to relax at your quick reply and darting gaze "I work here actually and uhm-" while he mentally curses himself for not noticing you sooner, watching eyes that went unnoticed- being too relaxed out in the open, you rummage for only a moment
"I've been meaning to give you this," pulled from your jacket pocket is a perfectly folded napkin. The cafes logo sits plainly next to a sketch in pen of him, looking out the front of the cafe's main window with his side and back towards the counters point of view.
In black ink the metal of his chin, throat and part of his shoulder are rendered.. amazingly against the crisp white napkin. The folds of his hoodie sketched with quick strokes and latter lacing lines for texture and depth. His face is obscured from view but his hand holds the same white cafe mug he's always gotten as if lost in thought, because he's never one to rush and leave unless HQ needed him and couldn't wait.
It feels strangely intimate despite his faces obscured turn, he flushes at being caught for long enough in such an unaware state he can't help but notice his hair pluming in tufts drawn in smooth strokes- he feels his face deepen, and his stomach comes to life at the smile it brings you. He almost misses it as his eyes stare wide and adoringly at the drawing.
He was used to being drawn, in fanart or posing to be photographed with his fans or videoed near constantly on missions and TV. His family fame mixing with his Overwatch agent work it's an inescapable part of his life, as much as he manages to avoid it. But for it to be so casual, detailed and attentive in a way that felt like his fame was striped like old varnish to show just... him.
it almost made him forget to reply.
"Wow, I mean, thank you uh.." his hand reaches, warm from the mug and softly takes the sketched paper as if it would crumble if handled too roughly. "I don't know what else to say" you rub the nape of your neck at his response with a shy gaze and handsome smile that sends a wave of chills down genjis back
"Your number?" you hopfully reply with a smile genji can't help but note, and as soon as his brain catches up your name is entered in his phone, your number right after with nervous thumbs over his screen before passing it back to him with shy chuckles between you
He wasn't even sure why he did it, giving out your number to random civilians was way against Overwatches guidelines. Who knows how many numbers Reaper, Ash and multiple others got whenever they all had a night out, or rarely a vacation. It's a breach of every safety they have in place; you never know who they work for or who they really are.
It wasn't like it would ever go anywhere regardless, One) his job was very hush-hush, long hours in places his location has to be off for- just to name a few that tended to be a downer and drain on those he tended to date. And Two) Genji had.. undeniable issues after everything he's been through. Waking up screaming next to a one-night stand, or a budding romance at an ungodly hour.. it tended to make goodbyes awkward and deleting numbers hard.
But the cat gif with pink text saying 'get home safe!' popped on his screen under your name, his thumb hovering the delete button, makes him gnaw at his lower lip anxiously as he made his way back home.
He replies back with a green heart emoji promising he will, a puff of air releasing his tension as he pocketed his personal phone and from there things went as smooth as it could go. Which was to say better than every other attempt genji has had at a relationship
When you first brought up wanting to stay the night, after weeks of casual dates around the city and even sneaking into the cafe after hours to attempt (and fail) at drawing him with late art (ending up with more of it smeared around the counter and down the drain as you tried to get it just right) and quickly realizing it was getting serious, you had no intent of hurting him or even showing betrayal when his hesitance made him cancel, unsure or anxious he was filled with what felt like endless dread.
He worried that once you realized who he was or what being with him meant that you'd leave. Laying in bed with his phone to his metal chest that hummed with his electric pulse as he contemplated another excuse beside admission, but another buzz against roughed hands made him look down and squint at the bright screen in darkness.
"It's okay if it's too much too soon" a heart emoji makes his chest light "I don't mean to push you into any discomfort if I have, I'd love to get takeout and we can simply watch a movie on the same couch" his chest tightens and tears well in the corners of his eyes, a feeling of mixed emotion building with every word, the desire for closeness; a next step in the right direction over a known hurdle he can almost see over- or isolate so the anxiety goes away in the moment.
"Don't even feel pressured to be near me if that's what might be too much, I can just spread out on your huge ass couch and enjoy time with you and some snacks." he wanted to punch you, to melt against you he wanted to scream so loud you'd probably hear him from your own apartment across the city.
He didn't understand why you hadn't left already, when the long missions meant low contact and vague responses on his location, when he shied away from your nuzzles into his face or could only handle hand holding if you didn't touch the metal meeting his mangled arms and wrists.
He once again didn't seem to know why he agreed, his usually calm demeanor he carefully built for years himself was cracking so easily without a second thought.. a quick response of "i'd love that" before he sighed and tried to focus, meditate and ease his worries; will it away and store it for later, or never if he had his way.
"The etching of water and wear against a stone does not erode the fact it is still a stone" was all Zenyatta had told him when he sought insight, the only member he felt safe enough to confide in. He expected at least some sort of reprimand or call into an office about his breach of safety, his nerves overriding his trust of Zenyatta; But none came.
The entire week and day-of he couldn't help but endlessly clean or anxiously stare into the space of his empty and dark apartment, old food containers junk wrappers moving from one hand into a trashbag held by the other and A Playlist blaring from his TV speakers as the hours pass and time came when you'd be arriving.
A quick shower, a longing stare in the mirror and mental prep; he was ready. Or so he thought, the moment you walked in and drank in his apartment he felt like he was hit with a wave of nerves.
His mind seemed keenly aware of how you cradled him in greeting, hands resting gently on his biceps; his on your waist keeping the same distance you didn't seem to mind as his thumb rubbed over the fabric of your jacket covered flesh in his palms.
You nuzzled into his forehead with yours, a soft sound of contentment as your eyes closed as you soak up his presence in silence. No words yet his heart still hammers in his robotic chest, pumping against its metal cage like bees in a tin can; he decides if tonight he screams, if tonight you leave he should at least get one thing.
He allows himself to melt against you and wrap his arms around your waist, in swift movements pushing them up and under the fabric of your jacket; resting above your shirt and molding into the shape of your back as his head pressed into the apex of your shoulder and neck. You stand still, either unsure of yourself and what to do or waiting for his approval, your hands hover in the air where he once was arms length away before settling loosely around his shoulders.
It's only a moment but Genji feels something shift in himself, acceptance that if things ended he'd be okay and yet a blooming warmth of hope that things could be different, he wouldn't have a nightmare or you'd... it was hard for himself to imagine an alternative, couldn't visualize someone staying after his cries awaken them from after-fun slumber.
You order snacks and a hot meal from a local place, praising 24 hour service under your breath as your phone lights up your face. Genji stares with a soft expression one couch cushion away from you, blanket wrapped around his body as the faux-fireplace crackles in LEDs.
The both of you retire with soft guiding of your hands on his hips from behind, arms length away and humming in agreement as he tiredly rambled about the movie you watched and walked towards his bedroom. He doesn't notice your absence until his shirt is already halfway off, in his tired haze and routine he moved to discard it before his insecurity could spike his joy
But he found the sound of his bathroom doors distant click shut a comfort, for a moment he sat in the full silence of his apartment, the lighting felt a little warmer; air a little calmer as genji quickly changed into a long sleeved shirt and sweatpants, tucking himself into bed and awaiting your arrival only to drift asleep in his short wait.
He misses the distant sound of the fireplace remote clicking as it's turned off, trash lid popping open then shut with only minutes between soft returning footsteps and light switch flips, the bed dips as you ease onto the far side of the bed, admiring his soft features with tired eyes as you pull the blanket up further.
The only thoughts left are of his gentle features softened in moon and streetlights through the nearby window, silted and wrapping him in a gentle hue that made a sigh and sleep ease into your body as it claimed you too.
Despite his hopes and despite his eased nerves it happens, shouts of past arguments, ghosts of those slain by the Shimada clan come back with torment and tempers- flames and dragons, the smell of singed flesh and sweltering pain.
He's suddenly aware of being awake and crying when your voice seeps through the panic and panting of his body, an acute awareness of his face cradled into your neck and pillow that soaks with his tears- arm beneath it having scooped him up to thread fingers into his tussled bedhead as he breathes your scent with sweltering sobs.
A gentle low hum comforts his panic, your leg draped between his to pull him closer with his arm draped over your side; his sobs hiccup as he tries to pull away, cover his panic and shame but this time you don't relent as he struggles to stop his sobs and pull from your embrace.
You don't talk about it for what seems like hours, long after his tears have tried on his pillow and your humming stopped to gentle breathes. You ask him if this happens a lot, he replies with a tired hum and begins prepping for your departure.
But you stay, you make a breathy noise of understanding into his hair and kiss his temple with an apology that threatens to burst tears from his thought-to-be dry eyes. He doesn't recoil, he melts.
He knows he's in love when he wakes up, sluggish but warm his blanket feels heavier against his body only for him to realize hes not alone. Without panic he breathes deeply, letting the morning light meet fluttering eyes as he adjusts, a familiar smell greets him. Peaking open an eye he's greeted with your sleeping face next to his, his heart flutters and a smile seeps onto his face as he thinks to himself in a boyish tired haze
summary : when dropping by for his usual morning coffee, bucky meets an interesting barista
song : sparks - coldplay
a/n : ive had the idea for this series for like 4eva and so when I hit 100 followers I thought I would finally do it!
series masterlist
w/c : 1.1k
The electric whir of the espresso machine steps you out of your daze, moving your gaze that was previously fixated on the hypnotic man who had just entered the door - because holy shit. There was something special about the way he carried himself, hair tucked into the hood of his jumper, a few loose tendrils escaping the confinement of the fabric. His head is bent down, as if trying to hide himself in the hulk of his figure, and the twitch of his fingers sends jitters to your body. For a moment, a flash of light reflects off something metal, but disappears within a millisecond. You shake your head. You must be seeing things. As you pour the steamed milk into the shot of espresso, he approaches the counter. You look up, a soft smile on your face, breath catching in your throat as your eyes meet his. Your gazes clash, and the only thing you can think of is how prettily blue they are. They’re not your stereotypical blue, they’re rich and deep, and dark and it takes everything within you to not lean forward to look closer. Something swirls in them, interest maybe, or suspicion, you don’t know. He gives nothing away with his face, stubble grazing his chin and white peppers the hair that pokes out. He looks around the age of 32, though the bulk of muscle that strains through his shirt does nothing to hide the fact of how utterly ripped this guy is.
“I, uh, hi.” You smile, hoping that your cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.
“Hi,” He grumbles, his voice gravelly and low. Lord help me. You were definitely swooning now, and his lips dip into a twitch of a smirk as if he senses your reaction.
“What can I get for you today?” You squeak, hands poised above the keyboard.
“One large black coffee.” You hum softly.
“Anything else?”
He scans the menu that stand above your head, revealing his sharp jawline, before shaking his head, the hood flying back uselessly, revealing his long black hair that looks soft. If only you could run your fingers through it-
“No.” He murmurs, turning back towards you, and you flick your eyes away, hoping he hadn’t noticed your stare.
“Name for the order?” He pauses, as if contemplating the words. After a beat of silence, he breathes out softly.
“James.” You hum in response, typing the name into the computer.
“We’ll have it out shortly.” As you move back to the coffee machine, you’re stopped by your manager. Violet was a bratty girl of 19, fresh out of high school, and daughter of one of the owner’s friends, and addicted to her phone which left you to do all the work while she scrolled on instagram.
”What are you doing?” She hisses, gum crackling in your face as she chews, leaning in as if to intimidate you.
“Um, working? Making a customer his coffee, which I know is a foreign concept to you since all you do is text your boyfriend.” Violet turns a light shade of red.
“Listen here you little brat.” She scoffs, shoving her manicured nail into your face, narrowly missing your eye.
“You won’t serve him. Understood?” You fill the cup, placing the lid on top.
“Why?”
”Do you know who that is?” She snaps her fingers in your face, snatching the cup from your grasp.
“That’s the winter soldier. HYDRA. Murderer.” She searches your face for any sign of recognition.
“And from what I remember, he was mind washed. And that was years ago.”
”That doesn’t make him any less of what he is. Scum.” Spit flies into your face, and you realise just how silent the place is. James stands, slowly from where he sat, metal arm revealed as he slinks out from the cafe. Your heart sinks in your chest, as you realise he heard everything. Violet smirks, dropping the cup into the bin, which hits the bottom with a small thump.
“You’re cruel.” You scoff, untying your apron. Violet shrugs seemingly uncaring, however her face turns a shade of purple as she notices you hanging it up on the rack.
“What are you-IF YOU WALK OUT THAT DOOR YOU’RE FIRED-” You can’t hear the end of the sentence as the door slams shut behind you. The sharp clang is swallowed instantly by the rain—a steady, cold curtain pouring down from a slate-grey sky. It drums against the pavement and bounces off your shoulders, soaking through your jacket within seconds. The city is blurred at the edges, neon signs bleeding into the street, umbrellas bobbing like dark mushrooms in the crowd. The chill of the storm greets you, and the bustle of the city seems to carve a path toward him. His hood is pulled up again, droplets sliding off the edges, and he moves with a quiet sort of urgency, slipping through the crowd like water through cracks, molding into the motion of traffic.
“James!” you call, your voice ragged over the sound of rainfall. For a moment, he pauses, eyes flicking back to you through the downpour. And then he’s gone, swept back into the sea of bodies and umbrellas.
“James!” you try again, pushing forward, shuffling past people, bumping shoulders and muttering apologies over your own.
“I’m sorry!” you squeak as you collide with a solid body, slipping slightly on the wet pavement. An arm reaches out to steady you, muscle shielding the worst of the fall. As you look up, water clinging to your lashes, you’re met with the same piercing blue eyes—still amused, still concerned, rain beading on his lashes.
“You alright there?” he murmurs, still holding you upright. You can only let out a pitiful sound in response. You clear your throat, standing up straighter.
“Fine. Yeah. I’m fine. You uh, didn’t get your coffee.”
He nods, hair damp beneath his hood.
“Yeah…”
“Oh yeah, sorry, I don’t have it. My manager—my ex-manager now, I guess—I, uh, got fired.” You grimace, the sting of it sharper in the cold. His expression softens, rain streaking down the side of his jaw.
“Sorry. But uh… thanks for sticking up for me.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He ducks his head to check it, droplets falling from the tip of his nose as he groans.
“Meeting.” He fishes into his wallet with a sigh and pulls out a card. You blink as he hands it to you. His business card.
“A secretary position just opened up. At the, uh… place I work.” You stare down at it, rain already speckling the surface.
“I don’t need your charity,” you say quickly, shaking your head, but he thrusts it toward you with more insistence.
“Consider it.”
His phone buzzes again.
“I’ve got to go—but email me?”
You nod before you can stop yourself, lips parting to speak, to ask something, but he’s already turning away, weaving through the crowd again, hood low, hands in pockets, disappearing into the grey. That cheeky smirk he gave you lingers behind, like a lyric stuck in your head.
The city moves around you—cabs blaring their horns, someone yelling across the street, the scent of roasted peanuts mingling with the wet pavement—but for a second, everything feels suspended. Quiet.
You blink, like maybe he wasn’t real. Just some strange, fleeting moment carved into a rain-drenched New York afternoon.
But the card is still warm in your palm, pressed tight between your fingers. And maybe—for just a second—everything might turn out alright.
Warnings/tags: It’s just some fluff, male reader, reader is a Barista, you work at a small cafe in New York.
Yelena was tired….and annoyed….but mostly just done with all the bullshit. Being an Avenger is Not something she’d recommend. Honestly she sometimes think that bitch Valentine had a point on whether she was ready for the public side of things….oh well.
She needed a coffee…and maybe a donut or two.
Unfortunately most of the coffee shops, Cafes, and Starbucks she’s gone to are filled with too many people.
Some who thank her for saving them months ago and most just judging her because she’s not “avengers material” ugh whatever….
But she was determined for a cup of coffee with some milk.
So she got all set up in her “disguise” and went looking which took a Long time but eventually she found a Cafe she hadn’t tried yet, it was cute, small, and tucked away in an area near a Starbucks which was fucking Perfect! Less people the better in her honest to god opinion.
She just wanted a cup of coffee and two donuts in Peace! She entered the Cafe and it was quiet, calm, barely anyone besides a few customers who were minding their own business and two employees working the counter.
She walked up towards the counter and….holy shit….
“Hello what can I get you?” Oh no….the Barista is Cute…..Yelena was Not expecting to meet a cute, (h/c), handsome, (e/c) Barista today!
“Ummm…..*ahem* c-can I get ummmm….” Yelena tried to appear calm and get her order but she was…distracted by the unfairly cute barista right in front of her.
“Can I get a cup of coffee with a shot of milk and u-umm two donuts….” She asked trying not to embarrass herself and kinda actually succeeded yet failing if that’s possible.
“Of course and for who?” He asked as he looked up at her with a warm and friendly smile that reminded her of those cute big gold dogs.
Damn it all why is this Barista so cute?!?! And Handsome?!?!
“Ummm…Anya….” She randomly blurted out the first fake name that came to mind, she wanted to slap herself or pinch herself to make sure she isn’t either dreaming or making a complete fool of herself, She’s usually more confident and calm than This!
The Barista simply gave her a smile and a friendly wink and got her order ready, she quickly found a seat to go and calm her jets down, thank fucking god her father or any of her teammates weren’t here….well except for Bob, She wouldn’t have minded……
Honestly she doesn’t know Why she’s acting like this! She’s seen her fair share of cute boys and cute girls (hehehe~) but like seriously! What is up with her?!?
Her mind was plagued with confusion on why she was acting so flustered, perhaps it’s just all the stress…..or maybe she’s lost it or maybe cause that Barista is pretty fucking cute….oh well.
“One medium coffee with a shot milk and two donuts for Ms. Yelena of the Avengers” wait what?-
Quickly Yelena whipped her head back towards the cute barista is shock as she got to grab her order.
“H-how did you?-“
“I recognize your voice and hair on TV….” The Barista said calmly still a friendly smile on his face.
“Huh…..that’s….a little impressive cause I thought nobody would recognize me” she admitted as she nodded her head a little.
“Well honestly it’s not all that impressive as you and your teammates are” The Barista’s words genuinely made Yelena happy a little.
“Oh well thank you?….ummm?” She tilted her head wanting to know his name.
“Y/N”…….cute.
“Well Y/N thank you for the compliment” she said genuinely appreciative of it.
“Well I mean it’s nice to know there’s a new team of heroes around to help protect people. You’re welcome here anytime” Y/N said with honesty and genuine respect for her and her team of dysfunctional misfits.
“Well…..guess I’ll be coming back here more often then~” Yelena winked as she grabbed her order and walked towards the door.
“I can’t believe I just did that….” Yelena said as he exited the Small cafe.
“I cannot believe I just did that!….” Y/N said as he couldn’t believe he just attempted to badly flirt with The Yelena! A fucking avenger!
Oh well….safe to say Yelena finally found her go-to-Cafe……and perhaps a Little more~
