tags + warnings: light angst, insomnia, some fluff
suguru's bare feet pad against the wooden floors. a faint breeze nips itself on his bare skin as he turns the corner, eyes drifting between the crack of satoru's door.
for a moment, he just stands there and observes.
satoru is doing exactly what suguru knew he would be doing. he is pacing the length of his dorm, head tilted down as if the floor would reveal some secret to ease his brain, his mind, his sleep. his hands turn in on themselves in a way that fidgets with nothing, fists clenching and unclenching again as if infinity does not exist within each fingertip. the moonlight sneaks its way in, and angles itself so it catches on strands of satoru's hair, reflecting delicately silver.
from where suguru is standing, he thinks satoru could be an angel. what with the way the light forms a halo on his head.
a divine being both beautiful and tortured.
suguru steps inside before his view turns to intrusion.
he is met with bright blue eyes he doesn't think he could forget if he tried. they are imprinted into his memory the way he knows he must consume curses. a necessity.
"what are you doing here?" satoru asks him.
it is unsure. innocent.
"you haven't been sleeping."
satoru opens his mouth to say something. maybe to defend himself. he stops. then starts again, "how do you know?"
the answer is on the tip of suguru's tongue.
i notice how your punches swing a little slower. i see the bags under your eyes. i hear your pacing from my room. i love you.
"i just do."
suguru takes a step forwards, frowning, "why aren't you sleeping?"
the question hangs in the air.
it does not push the way a stake does into the ground. no, suguru has never been intrusive. instead, the words permeate like the smell of something baking in the kitchen. it is warm and reminds you of home.
satoru looks like he is deciding between being safe and honest. he sighs.
"i'm getting stronger," he says. suguru knows this. in fact, satoru is already the strongest and yet he can still beat himself at this invisible game. "like, i know exactly how far away the moth outside my window is and how i could teleport from here to a million places. it's like the entire world is at my fingertips- it's- it's buzzing and..."
"i don't want it," satoru confesses.
because with all the gusto that comes with being the strongest, there is never escape from the torment of it.
"any of it?" suguru asks.
there is a pause. perhaps satoru's mind slowing down for the first time that night as he attempted to tire himself out enough to fall asleep.
"it shows me when you bury your head under your pillow when i pace," he says. "that's how i know when to stop."
suguru's breath doesn't hitch, but it does falter. he knows what satoru is really saying. i know i have to be the strongest but at least it lets me take care of you. suguru doesn't think he's the one that needed to be taken care of though. he was barely deserving of it.
he takes another step towards satoru so he stands right before him. from here, suguru can see the crease of brows satoru is attempting to fight off. the distress that lines the crevices of his perfect face. the weight that he can't shake.
suguru wants to understand, but he knows he can't. some things are unfairly made to be faced alone.
instead, he gets so close to satoru that their chests brush against each other. he wraps his arms loosely around satoru's waist and walks him backwards towards the bed.
they both fall (and for a brief second they are free).
"it won't work suguru-"
"shhhh. just c'mere," suguru whispers, adjusting himself to sit. allowing satoru to rest his head against his chest.
he runs his fingers through white locks, not believing how something so soft can belong to someone so hardened. suguru presses his lips to satoru's temple. sacred.
"you don't have to sleep," suguru tells him. "just rest with me."
and maybe it is the deep gravel of suguru's voice mixed with the rumble of his lungs. maybe it is the rise and fall of a heartbeat so steady satoru thinks he could march to its beat the rest of his life. maybe it is the fingers in his hair, ones stained by the curses they encounter being purified by an act of such care.
but for the first time in a long time, satoru finds his breathing evened and his eyelids heavy, with no influx of knowledge except for the presence of the boy embracing him.
author's note: hope you enjoyed my satosugu word vomit. i just really love them ok? also working on an actual longer fic with this concept!!
i would just like to share my very cliché thoughts of johnny with an ice powered gf 🥰 i just think it’s cute
and you’re RIGHT!!
cliché or not, this is a very cute opposites attracts trope. i can imagine a side effect of her powers is constantly being cold and not having a way to rid herself of the chill.
but johnny, being the human furnace that he is, is the only one who can offer her reprieve from her powers.
he’ll come up from behind and wrap his hands around her waist, the warmth of his own abilities overpowering the ice that runs through her veins.
he’s the type to pull a blanket over the both of them when it all becomes too much and turn it into an enclosure of relief.
simply put, he’s the embodiment of a comfort she never thought she would get, a type of warmth that used to slip out from between her fingertips, and most of all, a home that will always be there for her.
p.s. this is my first time getting to respond to something from the ask box, so thank you for sending this in :)
i would just like to share my very cliché thoughts of johnny with an ice powered gf 🥰 i just think it’s cute
and you’re RIGHT!!
cliché or not, this is a very cute opposites attracts trope. i can imagine a side effect of her powers is constantly being cold and not having a way to rid herself of the chill.
but johnny, being the human furnace that he is, is the only one who can offer her reprieve from her powers.
he’ll come up from behind and wrap his hands around her waist, the warmth of his own abilities overpowering the ice that runs through her veins.
he’s the type to pull a blanket over the both of them when it all becomes too much and turn it into an enclosure of relief.
simply put, he’s the embodiment of a comfort she never thought she would get, a type of warmth that used to slip out from between her fingertips, and most of all, a home that will always be there for her.
p.s. this is my first time getting to respond to something from the ask box, so thank you for sending this in :)
Some Kind of Congressman - congressman!bucky x fem!reader, 6.8k+ words, in progress
Bucky meets you over a cup of spilled coffee. An idea strikes his campaign manager, and your act as faux lovers might just be what sits between Bucky Barnes and his seat in Congress.
Or: You find yourself in a fake relationship with soon-to-be Congressman Barnes.
↳ chapter 1
↳ chapter 2
୨୧ johnny storm ୨୧
one-shots
baby, i'm yours - johnny storm x fem!reader, fluff!, 3.2k words
When Johnny's flirting finally gets to you, you accuse him of having commitment issues. He bets to prove you wrong. Because if there’s one thing about Johnny Storm, it’s that there’s nothing more serious to him than a wager against his capabilities.
summary: When Johnny's flirting finally gets to you, you accuse him of having commitment issues. He bets to prove you wrong. Because if there’s one thing about Johnny Storm, it’s that there’s nothing more serious to him than a wager against his capabilities.
word count: 3.2k+ tags + warnings: fluff, no y/n, light angst, reader is ben's cousin, reader is babysitting, first kiss
author's note: highly recommend listening to the Baby I'm Yours cover by Arctic Monkeys while reading :)
It all started on a frantic afternoon in which you received a phone call from your cousin, Ben, requesting extra aid for the handful that was Reed and Sue’s child.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Ben says, trying to calm a wailing Franklin bundled in his arms. You smile at the sight of Ben’s broad figure, engulfing the careful swaddle of blankets. His firm hand came up to gently pat Franklin’s back in an attempt to soothe the inhuman tantrum he seemed to be having.
“You sure he likes you?” you ask, amusement dancing across your face.
Ben looks at you with eyebrows raised and the hints of offense.
“He’s not always like this,” he says. And as if to prove a point, Franklin screams even louder, if possible. Ben sighs--the deep, tired sigh of an exhausted mother harnessed into his middle-aged rocky form. You fight the urge to tease him again.
“Johnny and I have been watching him, but Reed and Sue have been gone for so long. They called us in for backup today and- well, you’re the only person I could think of to watch him,” he confesses. You recognize the tone Ben takes on. As if he feels bad for bothering you. Guilty for not finding some way to be in both places at once.
He’s always been like this, you think. Doing all he can for the world around him. You know that’s why he ended up where he is now. Why being part of the Fantastic Four is such a good fit for him.
“I’m happy to watch Franklin,” you say, flashing him a warm smile that you know would ease his worry.
Taking a step forward, you set your bag down and reach your arms out, gracing Franklin with a different embrace. His cries puncture your ears at the proximity, but you rub your hand along his small back regardless, bouncing a little in an attempt to sooth him.
“Hey little guy,” you coo. “Everything’s alright.”
Ben watches as you make a couple rounds around the kitchen island, whispering small greetings and warm comforts to Franklin as you go.
Then, miraculously, on your second and a half round, his cries quiet down. They minimize to a small whine before halting entirely. You grin, proudly.
“What a sweetheart,” you say, walking back towards Ben. He’s looking at you with a mixture of disbelief and relief. “Is he hungry? Diaper full? Nap time?”
Ben sighs again, “No. To all three.”
You laugh and look down at Franklin who hosts a pair of innocent eyes. No one would be able to tell he had been wailing his lungs out just moments ago.
“Maybe he doesn’t like you as much as you think,” you tell Ben. He just grumbles and mutters something about Franklin being biased and you being lucky.
Seconds later, you hear a different voice drift towards the room.
“What’s that noise? Could it be?”
And from the long winded hallway down past the kitchen, you see Johnny Storm walking swiftly, hand cupping his ear as if he’s listening for something. He was already dressed in his suit, the blue and white matching the modern furnishings of the Baxter Building.
You’ve only met Johnny a handful of times. All of them were when you were visiting Ben. And as much as you loved interacting with Ben’s chosen family members, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at nearly all of Johnny’s actions.
Sometimes it was a dumb pet name he came up with to flirt with you. Others it was when he shot winks and smirks from across the dinner table as if you were even paying attention to him. Once, he even almost set his own hair on fire when he lost control of a trick he wanted to show off with.
Johnny was impulsive, friendly, and way too big of a flirt when it came to literally everyone he met. There was a fire inside him that festered long before he ever went to space and transformed into the Human Torch.
It made him endearing, but mostly silly.
Scratch that. Always silly.
“Is that… silence?” he asks, a sarcastic inquisition dripping into his voice.
He steps into the kitchen and catches your eye, observing the newly calmed Franklin between your arms.
“I never thought the day would come,” he says, turning towards Ben. A sly smile makes its way onto his face. “She is so much better than you at this.”
“Well maybe if someone had helped, he wouldn’t be throwing so many tantrums,” Ben said, not once breaking eye contact with Johnny.
“Hey, duty calls,” he says in reply. “Speaking of… why aren’t you in your suit, Ben?”
You think you see Ben’s eye twitch.
“Because I’ve been trying to- nevermind. I’m going to change and then we’re leaving,” he says, casting glares at Johnny. “Do not go anywhere.”
“Aye aye, captain,” Johnny says with a mock salute.
And as Ben stalks away down the hall, you think he leaves three months of life behind in the form of pure stress and agitation. But one look at Johnny tells you it's a feat he’s proud of.
As soon as Ben leaves, Johnny spins around to face you.
“So, you Franklin’s new babysitter?” he asks with a smile that tells you he has some ulterior motive he thinks you aren’t privy to.
“Just for now,” you tell him. “Since you’re all going to be out.”
At this, he steps forward, voice dropping just enough to leave implication to the imagination, “I don’t know, I wouldn’t mind staying here with you.”
You scoff and hold Franklin up higher on your hip, “There are children present, Johnny.”
“Nah,” he says, swatting his hand. “Babies will sleep through anything.”
“Not when it's your big mouth,” you shoot back.
Despite Johnny’s one-sided pursuits every time you crossed paths with him, you must admit that you enjoyed his wit. He would flirt and you would rebuttal, rolling your eyes at whatever contextual pick-up line he had come up with.
What irritated you slightly--though you would sooner attempt to arm wrestle your cousin than admit this to anyone--was that you knew Johnny was like this with everyone. That his smooth jokes and flashy smiles were as natural to him as breathing.
And it wasn’t that you were interested in Johnny or anything, no, that would be absurd, it’s just that- well, a girl could wonder about the guy who always flirted with her whenever he saw her, right? Especially when that guy was funny and not half bad looking.
But that’s besides the point.
“Yeah, but this mouth can do more than flirt,” Johnny says with a wink.
On this rare occasion, his eye contact makes you freeze for a second. It’s just like him to have such a suggestive comeback. To say things like that as if he’s playing a game.
You, and Franklin, turn around in case any heat finds its way to your cheeks.
“Jesus, Johnny. You flirt with every woman you meet like that?”
You know the answer.
“Only the prettiest ones.”
You don’t know what it is about this line that possesses you to say what you say next. Perhaps it’s the insinuation that he is picky about his women. Or the implication that you are just one of many people he could play court with. But something about it irks you, and your voice comes out more accusing than you would ever mean for it to.
“Well I’d bet money you’re completely incapable of commitment.”
As the words come out of your mouth, you try to busy yourself with coddling Franklin. He’s nearly asleep, so there isn’t really much to do, but you try.
This time though, you think you hear Johnny freeze in place.
The silence stretches out. For a moment. Then two.
Then you hear footsteps circle around until they’re in front of you.
“Are you- are you saying I have commitment issues?” he asks. You look up from the loose thread you were observing on Franklin’s blanket.
Painfully slowly, you drag your gaze up to meet Johnny’s eyes.
“Yes. Yes I am.”
He looks at you, shock tracing his features as if this was the last thing he expected you to say. Somewhere between the lines, you think you witness a dash of something else. Hurt? It’s gone before you can put a name to it.
Johnny straightens up.
“Well if you want to bet so badly… I’d bet that I am perfectly capable of committing. For however long. Name a time frame. I’ll do it,” he says.
At first, you think he’s kidding. Deflecting what you said with the quick humor that makes up a lot of his interactions. But one look at the determination in his eyes, and you quickly realize he isn’t. Because if there’s one thing about Johnny Storm, it’s that there’s nothing more serious to him than a wager against his capabilities.
You don’t think there’s any way out of this than to take him up on his offer.
“Okay… what do you want to bet?” you ask, partly out of curiosity, partly out of not knowing what you should say next.
He pauses to think, but very quickly comes up with an answer.
“A date,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“A date,” he repeats. The words are calm. Sure. “Me and you. I want to take you out on a date.”
You blink.
“I don’t see how this helps your case,” you say. You’re sure the crease between your brows demonstrates enough confusion.
“I don’t think you know me well enough,” Johnny tells you. You aren’t sure if he’s referring to what you said or what he wants from the bet. “I want a date to change that.”
And for some reason, a small part of you nudges yourself to agree.
-
Your first time babysitting Franklin is a success. You feed him, help him nap, and play with him according to the schedule Ben left you, and not once did he go full tantrum baby mode on you.
In fact, you found that taking care of Franklin was a lot of fun. The routine came easy to you, the actions natural--as if you handled super babies all the time.
You’re so good that Reed and Sue invite you back whenever the team is busy or going on a mission. You don’t mind because it isn’t a hard job, and you get to see Ben more often.
What you do mind is your conversation with Johnny, and all the gestures he’s been making to prove you wrong.
It starts with small things.
One night, you’re sitting with Franklin on his play mat, helping him sort a pile of wooden shapes into a box when you hear the elevator ding.
A moment later, one of the workers from the front desk steps inside with a bag, and inside it you find food for both you and Franklin.
You don’t have to cook that night.
On another day, you’re enjoying a day off in your apartment when there’s a knock on your door.
When you open it, you find nothing but a glass vase filled to the brim with flowers. They become a blend of fresh scents that invade your kitchen for days.
You guess they’re nice to look at.
Then, the next time you’re back in the Baxter Building, you see a new edition to the living room. It’s a record player with several vinyls tucked underneath its stand.
Ben tells you that Johnny put it there, and that day when you play it for Franklin, he drifts into a calm sleep like never before.
Your job has never been easier.
It’s after this that you decide to track Johnny down yourself.
“So, how long are you going to keep this up?” you ask him, catching him as he slips between the kitchen and the hallway.
All he does is grin at you.
“However long it takes.”
And he walked off like that would give you all the context you needed.
After this, the gestures became more personal.
One day, you mentioned to Sue that you’ve been enjoying some light reading while you babysat.
The next time you were there, several new paperbacks sat atop the coffee table.
Sue swears she didn’t put them there.
One night, you were rocking Franklin to sleep when the smell of your favorite dish drifted from the kitchen.
When you walked in, all that was there was a warm plate and a note.
Warmed just for you - J
You don’t even know how he found out your favorite.
And perhaps the moment that threw you for the biggest loop was when you found a wrapped gift box on the dinner table of your apartment.
When you ripped it open, you found the pair of shoes you’d been eyeing for the longest time. The pair you never pulled the trigger on because they simply cost too much.
You couldn’t believe your eyes, but there they were. Right in front of you.
And there could only be one person behind it.
You find him lounging on the couch of the living room.
“Johnny.”
He looks up from the book he’s reading. You recognize the cover. It’s the book you started last time you babysat Franklin.
“You here to babysit? I could’ve sworn our calendar was free-”
“No,” you say, cutting him off. “I’m here to see you.”
This seems to amuse him. Johnny set the book down.
“Okay…”
“You can’t keep doing these things, Johnny,” you tell him. “I mean, the gestures are sweet- god, they really are, but- but- the food. The shoes. I mean, this is too much. Too expensive.”
He blinks. For a second, you think he might be at a loss for words.
“For the record, I made that food,” he tells you, slightly teasing. “But I’m just trying to win what we betted on.”
You scrunch your face at this.
“That’s exactly my point. You can’t force a date out of a bet. You can’t just buy my affection, Johnny. It’s- it’s wrong,” you say, uncovering some truth you didn’t realize existed.
Because honestly? It was nice that someone cared. That someone noticed and saw enough to personalize something nice for you. But did it really mean anything if it was in pursuit of proving you wrong? You didn’t think so. And you wanted all of it to stop before it disappointed you.
Or worse, it hurts you.
You expected Johnny to say something back. To rebut what you said and defend what are objectively nice things to do. But all he does is nod and say, “I understand. Thank you for letting me know.”
And then he sits back down and opens his book again.
He doesn’t look back up at you, so you quietly make your leave, believing you got through to him.
But it wasn’t quite the way you had planned.
Now, instead of being met with hand-delivered food or gifts, you were simply met with Johnny.
When you arrived early to babysit, Johnny would be the first one to greet you at the door. To ask how your day was and what you planned on doing with Franklin that day.
He told you about their missions and their plans and Reed’s breakthroughs.
When you were both in the building at the same time, he hovered near you when you read until you paid him some attention. In which case, he would make a decently insightful comment about the book you were reading that then led to long conversations about each character’s decisions.
On really off days, Franklin would still throw tantrums in your arms, and you would find Johnny in the living room with you where he would warm his hands and place them against Franklin. It was a method of soothing him that worked like a charm no matter the circumstance.
And sometimes, after you put Franklin to sleep and the team would get back late at night, you found yourself talking to Johnny--the both of you leaning against the kitchen counter with all the time in the world at your fingertips.
He would tell you where they went on a mission and what went down. What things went according to plan and what didn’t. How Reed would get anxious over what Franklin was doing and how Sue would berate him to focus. How Ben spoke fondly of your childhood memories together.
It was like you got to know a whole different part of the team you spent your time with.
But more so? You grew to know Johnny.
It seemed like he had an endless stream of childhood stories. Of adventures he went on with Sue and times he scraped his knees trying to climb too high into the sky.
He talked about how he discovered early on that humor and charisma was like a gateway to opportunities that a shyer version of him would’ve never received.
He shared that no matter how much he deflected, there would always be pressure on him. Because he was the Human Torch, and he had a god-given responsibility to fulfill for the people of earth.
And even though all he was giving you was his time, you began to realize that what Johnny was giving you was priceless. A personal connection that could truly only be forged through the commitment of what the two of you had.
It was on one of these late nights that you finally gave in.
Johnny was rambling about something silly. You weren’t really paying attention, but rather watching the way the dimmed lights from under the counter reflected off his hair. How his features became animated in different ways with every sentence.
You cut him off.
“Johnny.”
He pauses at your interruption, “Is something wrong?”
And the man in front of you is so concerned. Eyes so full of it, that you realize all at once you’ve been misunderstanding him all along. Characterized him as someone careless when really, you just needed to give him the right thing to care about.
It’s all of these things and more that are accountable for what happens next because you lean in and kiss him.
If sparks could fly, you think they did right in this very moment, imploding the oxygen around you until all that was left was the feeling of Johnny’s lips against yours.
You can feel his hesitation, but when he realizes that you--yes, you--really, really want this, he leans into you, warm hands wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.
The two of you stand there merging into one.
And when you finally break away, you meet his eyes and find pupils blown wide. Eyes crazed with a shine and urgency that demands more.
“You win,” you say.
“What?”
“The bet.”
Because in all this time, Johnny has come to show you commitment in more ways than one. It wasn’t just the gestures that every romantic goes through with the flowers and the money. But it was his heart. His being. His soul.
Confessions that let you see every one of his dents and crevices. Spoken poetry that made you believe he always cared for you in a way neither of you could explain. An exchange of persons that allowed you to know more about Johnny Storm than you ever thought you’d bargain for.
And in one kiss, you felt like there were a million more things to discover.
The corner of Johnny’s lips quirks up.
“Guess I owe you a date.”
author's note: thank you for reading! this is a one-shot that took me way too long to write, but I'm really happy with how it turned out (i wrote this instead of working on my bucky series).
work summary: Bucky meets you over a cup of spilled coffee. An idea strikes his campaign manager, and your act as faux lovers might just be what sits between Bucky Barnes and his seat in Congress. Or: You find yourself in a fake relationship with soon-to-be Congressman Barnes. chapter summary: Your bad day gets worse when you bump into a man at the coffee shop.
word count: 1.8k+ chapter tags + warnings: reader pov, no y/n, coffee shop, title from anti-hero by taylor swift
<- previous | next ->
“Of course sir, it’ll be on your desk before you get to the office.”
You hang up and look down at your watch.
8:30
“Damn.”
The streets of D.C. are bustling with the sound of people on their way to work. Heels clack on the pavement. Men wearing dark suits holding equally dark cups of coffee brush by you. Voices drift through the air, some rushed, some angry, some not caffeinated.
You were among the latter, and somehow, also in whichever group of people that was running late--be it a broken alarm clock or a delay on the metro. Quick steps sped you along the sidewalk. You dodged light poles. And people.
Your boss had requested the papers from a case in a set of folders you filed yesterday.
That was a five minute job.
Before reaching the office however, you needed to grab coffee for both you and your boss. Twenty minutes with the rest of your walk.
The commute from café to office. Five minutes.
You had to be in the office by 9:00.
Your boss gets in at 9:05.
Thirty minutes was the perfect amount of time. Too much so when you were typically seated at your desk, coffee in hand by 8:50.
Thank god for your boss’ neglect of punctuality.
Turning the corner, you see your favorite coffee shop in all its glory. It’s distinguishable by a protruding wooden sign currently swinging softly in the wind. Printed on it was a ceramic coffee cup with steam rising from the top and latte art in the shape of a moon. Below it, Midnights Coffee was printed in a pleasing text.
Stepping through the door, you were hit with a familiar whirlwind of sensations--the whirring of blenders, an aroma of fresh coffee beans, and cheerful chatter of folks who, unlike you, were clearly not in any type of rush.
You stood at the end of the line. Why was the line so long today? And glanced down again at your watch.
8:35
Right on time.
Too on time.
You crossed your arms. For each second that passed, your foot tapped itself on the ground. A faint noise fighting against the collective lull of caffeine and conversation. You didn’t even realize you were doing it.
It felt like several minutes too long before you got to the front of the line. You always ordered the same two drinks when you came in on mornings, and the order slips out of your mouth like routine. You swipe a company card without blinking.
Maybe you could make it a few minutes early if they were quick.
You twist around and step away from the cashier, turning your wrist to check the time just to make sure-
“Woah there-”
A deep voice startles you as you backtrack from the person you bumped into. A cup clatters to the floor. You hear him wince before taking in the dark brown liquid that’s now splattered on an expensive looking tie and dress shirt.
“Oh my god- I am so sorry,” you say. You turn, and grab a handful of napkins from the counter. You also spare a quick and hopefully subtle glance down to your own shirt.
Free of stains but not of guilt.
Your neck pricks with the weight of the entire coffee shop turned towards you two. You hand him the napkins, skin brushing skin, ready to tangent on a string of apologies before you meet his eyes.
What you see surprises you.
There isn’t the slightest bit of annoyance. Instead, you’re met with the brilliant blue of his irises, swelling with something akin to kindness. There’s also a spark of light you can’t quite place, like the sun shining over the sea.
You thought he looked familiar.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he looks down at his suit, beginning to pat the coffee off himself. You watch for a few seconds before he continues. “Wouldn’t say the same about my shirt.”
And he chuckles as he says this. Actually chuckles. Which would be totally fine if you had bumped into him on a desolate street with no one to witness the act but the pigeons of DC. Unfortunately, you were in a crowded café that was packed to the rim, all eyes on you, and heat threatening to flame through your cheeks. There was nothing funny about this.
“I’m sorry- I was barely looking and- Can I pay for your dry cleaning?” words spill out of your mouth as you start digging through your purse. You have cash. You can give him cash. You always carry cash. Where is the cash? Is the cash at the bottom? Are people watching you dig for the cash in your purse? You think so.
A hand wraps itself around your wrist, effectively stopping your frantic movements. It shocks you because it’s cold and it’s firm, even with a glove over it. You don’t think you could’ve wiggled out of it if you tried. Looking up, you see the man looking straight at you.
“There’s no need,” he says. His voice is clear. Calm. Confident. The rest of the café falls away and you feel like melting into the ground. Because of embarrassment or the way he stepped closer to hold your arm, you’re not sure.
And he has this presence, looks at you with such a sureness in his eyes that you would think this was about something else entirely and not about how you probably just ruined his entire morning--which would surely suck if he was running late and-
You twist your arm. Hard. Two things happen at once.
First, the man lets go, almost as if he’s flinching away from you. His expression flashes--eyebrows furrowing, lips twitching down, and you think he displays a look of hurt. It disappears just as swiftly when he realizes what you’re doing.
That’s the second thing. You glance down at your watch.
8:54
And you nearly crash into the guy again as you turn towards the pick-up window. You grab your drinks, at least this time careful not to spill. The panic seeps into your voice.
“I’m sorry. Really- but I am running very late-” you hesitate, feeling like you owe him some kind of compensation. “At least let me buy you some coffee.”
8:55
You rush. “I promise I will meet you here tomorrow and buy you coffee from anywhere you want. Same time. Sorry again.”
You don’t wait for a response.
As quick as you can with two coffees in hand, you brush by him and the way too long line and head out the door. Too many pairs of eyes follow you out. Then you speed walk like never before.
-
You collapse into your chair, and bask in the first moment of rest since you arrived at the office.
Miraculously, you stepped foot into the office at 9, and ushered the coffee and files to your boss’ desk right as he arrived on the floor.
You bid him good morning as you passed him before finding yourself in a flurry of meetings regarding cases, public relations, and whatever else the firm was allowed to send an intern into.
It was a hectic day. Well, it usually was, but the events of your morning dimmed your spirits. Like the simple act had betrayed the standard you set for yourself.
Glancing at the small calendar on your desk, you eyed the weeks left until the end of your agreement. The closer that date got, the more your boss would be paying attention to your performance.
If you were to do something stupid--like be late to work--a return offer was basically out of the question. If there was ever a time to not fuck up, it would be now.
It just so happened that the universe’s idea of a joke was to have you spill coffee all over some guy in the café. Your face heated up again just at the thought, almost wanting to laugh at how it was definitely one hundred percent avoidable.
It was strange too. Did you know the guy?
You racked your brain, but frankly, you had been trying not to look at him too hard.
Was he someone who worked at your firm? Is that why he looked familiar? Then you’d really be screwed.
Seeing a few minutes left on your break, you fished your phone from your purse, meaning to do a quick search on who the mystery man could be.
Instead, you’re met with a few messages all from the last hour. One of them reads:
Is this you???
And then a link.
You squint at your screen as if processing the words, wondering what the hell it would lead you to.
You should’ve stayed curious.
Honestly, whoever was filming deserved a round of applause for capturing your humiliation so clearly in 4k.
It was an over minute long video featuring a painfully familiar coffee shop. In what could only be described as pure horror, you watched as the camera--originally taking a video of the person’s drink--shifted upwards, capturing the exact moment you crashed into the man.
You desperately wished your phone could serve as a portal for you to go back in time and stop this all from happening because you didn’t even see the time on your watch when you checked and also, oh yeah, a video of it just had to end up on the internet.
The sound of your apology drifted out of the speaker, and you watched, helplessly, as you rummaged through your own purse. The man shifted so he was closer to you, the camera only capturing his back.
You could still see his hand as it grabbed yours by the wrist. His statement not really picked up by the phone.
From this point of view, it looks tense. Or tender. Maybe neither. Maybe both.
And then you turn and he does his almost flinch away.
The audio recovers itself towards the end when you offer to buy him a cup of coffee the next day. Of course that’s the part that’s clear.
The video ends when you rush out the door, but it captures something you didn’t see when you left.
The man--expression as sure as it was when he spoke to you--clutches the dirtied napkins in one hand and a desperate motion in the other. It’s the hand he grabbed you with. Gloved and reaching outward as if in a vain attempt to grasp an ounce of the presence you left behind.
He looks dazed and stumbles a step towards the door before he snaps out of it.
The screen goes blank.
And slowly, almost fearfully, but definitely reluctantly, you scroll down to read the caption because you think you’ve figured out exactly where you’ve seen this face before.
Except it isn’t the name you saw on the poster.
WINTER SOLDIER GRABS GIRL IN COFFEE SHOP
And you wonder if you can ever show your face at that café again.
work summary: Bucky meets you over a cup of spilled coffee. An idea strikes his campaign manager, and your act as faux lovers might just be what sits between Bucky Barnes and his seat in Congress. Or: You find yourself in a fake relationship with soon-to-be Congressman Barnes. chapter summary: Bucky sees the posters for his campaign.
word count: 1.5k+ chapter tags + warnings: bucky pov, reader pov, bucky and sam, insecure bucky, reader is a law student, no y/n, coffee shop, title from anti-hero by taylor swift
next ->
Bucky fanned out the paper before him with one swift motion, his own poster-proportioned face staring back at him in print. Tactful strokes of red, white, and blue adorned the posters, yet despite many renditions of the American flag, Bucky felt void of the patriotism his campaign advertisements were supposed to inspire.
The man in the photos was a carbon copy of Bucky he was stranger to. Smile so wide it could bridge oceans. Teeth so white they were blinding. An expression that was welcoming yet void of his essence altogether.
The scoff behind him only reinforced these thoughts.
“These are your campaign posters?” Sam asks, picking up the nearest one. It was of Bucky in a military dress uniform--reminiscent of what he had in the 40’s--paired with a determined look on his face. He could see the corners of Sam’s lips twitching upward in a vain attempt not to laugh. Thinking back to the photoshoot where he had to change into a multitude of outfits and pose in each one, he didn’t blame him.
“No, I had them made purely for your entertainment,” Bucky says, snatching the poster out of Sam’s hand. He eyed it as if Sam’s touch revealed something that hadn’t been there before. Something that would reveal the cold feeling that’s been seeping into his chest. Some excuse to cancel the campaign altogether.
“What?” Sam asked. Bucky looked up.
“What?”
“You’re staring at the poster like it committed a felony.”
“That would put a dent in my run,” Bucky mutters. The sigh that followed sounded like something he’d been harboring for weeks.
“Okay, not in a joking mood,” Sam noted, almost to himself. “Out with it, old man.”
Secretly, Bucky was glad he asked.
“What do you think of these posters?” he asks back, jutting his chin at the table.
“What do you mean what do I think?”
Another sigh. “Like- do you think people will… receive them? Well?” Bucky stumbled over each word like he was regretting the question as soon as it left his mouth.
Sam reached over to spread the papers out, taking in each print like he was evaluating art. It was slow, deliberate, eyes grabbing a taste of each one before stacking them back. Bucky couldn’t read his expression.
“I think they’re nice,” Sam says. Bucky waited for more.
“Nice?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. What else do you want me to say?”
Bucky debated smacking Sam upside the head.
“Wanna tell me the sky is blue too?”
“Hey man-”
“I mean, honestly- honestly,” his voice dropped. A low pitch that Sam wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t right next to him. “What do you think of them, honestly?”
It was Sam’s turn to sigh, “I mean it, man. They’re nice. They’re just- well, they’re not you. I mean, you expect me to believe you willingly put on a uniform and let someone snap some pictures of you? Yeah, right.”
At that Bucky chuckled.
“The intentions are there, I just- know you a little too well for this.”
Bucky bit his lip. So Sam was on the same page he was. He was being in-authentic. Photos of Bucky that weren’t really Bucky. And these were just the posters. What does this say about his campaign? About him?
He let out a groan. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone through with this. I told my team I was worried they would look- look off.”
“Okay back up.” Bucky could sense a tone rising from Sam as he met his eyes. Something that squashed his thoughts down. “The suits on the Hill? They all look like this. Your team is doing you right. This will play well with people and match what every other American is used to. You’re just playing the game, man. There are other ways to be yourself when you campaign. When you’re out there. Talking with the people.”
“I guess I used to be good at that,” Bucky laughs. Then he falters. “But what if it doesn’t work… what if- what if all they see is him?”
The question spilled out before he could stop it.
And it was bound to, because in a way, it was the true roadblock Bucky felt would stop him from achieving his goal. Despite his reconciliations, he had his enemies. Political figures who built their campaigns on protecting the public from “people like him.” News outlets that pinned current issues on past wrongdoings. Regular people who still believed he was at fault for all the things he did and didn’t do.
The worst part is that Bucky couldn’t blame them. Maybe once upon a time, he was a kid from Brooklyn who got shipped off to serve his country, but even he knew that wasn’t him anymore. That was what he feared the most. That somewhere, somehow, the Winter Soldier was still inside him like an agent waiting to be woken.
No matter how he tried to spin the story--for his campaign and in his own head--there would always be part of Bucky that believed himself criminal. And that was something he didn’t think he could ever change.
This question shut Sam up for a second. Only one before he made his recovery.
“You’ll just have to show them otherwise.”
-
The sun beat down mischievously, constantly switching between a welcoming warmth and an annoying level of hot. The heat spilled through your shirt, trapped by the white collar that had been pressed to a tee.
Each step brought you closer to the coffee shop you’ve been frequenting. It was a quaint place, tucked between office buildings and expensive restaurants, a reprieve from the fancy signage and high costs that adorned most of the buildings near Capitol Hill.
For most of your final semester of law school, you had been in the midst of a legal internship and managing the course load of several upper division classes. Between the constant rushing from offices to lecture halls, Midnights Coffee was like a safe haven. With unusually late hours fitting to its name, some of your best work happened in this cafe over a fresh cup of coffee.
You swung the door open with a jingle, a single sheet of paper flying out from the folders you were carrying.
As the door swung shut behind you. The paper was balanced between your fingertips. You let out a sigh of relief.
The café buzzed louder than normal. You recited your order to the barista, as the chatter of each Midnights patron swirled together in the air, injecting the room with the very sense of productivity you loved about the place.
Your eyes wandered around the shop in search of any empty seat. You stopped when you found yourself halted by the new edition to the bulletin in the corner.
Since finding the café, the cork board in the corner has served as a sort of community board. You watched its change throughout the months, with colorful flyers being attached and removed like leaves throughout the seasons. It was typically covered with papers advertising local events and missing pets. You had even used it once to search for volunteers to complete a survey for a paper. Surprisingly effective.
Considering its proximity to Capitol Hill, you respected the cafe’s consistency in rejecting political advertisements on the board. You had even watched once as the baristas turned away a campaign volunteer who practically begged them to take a large stack of flyers off their hands.
That’s why you did a double-take seeing a poster that was so clearly out of place. It was the size of a typical piece of printer paper, but the colors were so vibrant you could tell it was from an expensive print. Borders lined the edges, and the background had the faint imaging of an American flag rippling in the wind.
The headshot of a man was plastered in front of it. The text around the photo seemed to be yelling at you: JAMES ‘BUCKY’ BARNES FOR CONGRESS. It was written in big, bright, bold letters, as if the caps lock itself wasn’t enough to get the point across.
Almost unconsciously, you stumbled a step forward, aiming for a better look.
The man on the flyer looked sharp. He wore a crisp black suit paired with a blue tie, complimenting the colors on the rest of the poster. He was a conventional type of handsome that was apparent even through print--sapphire eyes, dark hair, pearly teeth.
James Barnes. You mulled the name over in your head. It was familiar and something you’ve definitely heard before. Was it in one of your case studies? History books?
Most things in your brain were so jumbled it was an awe you could recall parts of the law at all. This was one of the things on the tip of your tongue before-
The barista called your name.
You tore your eyes away from the poster and to the cup at the pick-up window. Picking it up, you turned and settled into one of the seats by the window.
The smell of coffee invaded your senses, and as you opened your folders each thought of Bucky Barnes drifted far and away from your head.
author's note: thanks for reading! this is my first fic and my first time posting work on tumblr. it might take me a bit to figure some things out.
