#barista reader

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

He could get used to this.

Of course, there’s a reason nice people are rare. Because apparently the world does all it can to try and force them to become as bitter as everyone else. It isonly a matter of time, really.

The wind has been freezing all morning, as heavy clouds have promised rain for later in the day. Simon is ready for his daily tradition of warming up with a cup of coffee and watching you work. He goes to open the door to the coffeeshop but finds it closed. He pauses and checks his watch: 6.54am. Usually the shop is open at 6 on the dot.

Before he can spend too much time wondering, a wheezing, “Sorry!” reaches him. You sweep past him and unlock the door quickly.

You’re a mess of being half dressed and already pulling your jacket off, tossing it aside as switches are flicked and the shop slowly comes to life. Only now he sees your face. You’re flushed and your eyes are faintly red. Did you oversleep? He has to swallow a smirk. That’s almost cute.

“Sorry, Simon!” you repeat as the coffee machine turns on. “Just give me a moment, I just…”

Simon sits at the bar and gives a tiny nod. “Try not to get a heartattack,” he comments. “I got time.”

He watches you try to prepare all stations at the same time. Your coworkers won’t be in until 7.30am for the morning rush, so you’re on your own for now.

When you finally turn, placing his coffee order before him, he already knows what is about to happen but can’t stop it, as you come in with way too much speed. Scalding coffee spills onto your hand.

In a heartbeat you’re several steps away, clutching your hand, eyes wide before squeezing shut, biting your lip to swallow either a scream or a string of curses. Simon stands and rounds the counter quickly.

“Let me see.” You don’t move and he carefully grabs your wrist. It’s bad, though not as bad as it could have been. It all went on the back of your hand. Still bad, but not as nasty as the palm.

He makes quick work of the rings on your fingers before your hand can swell as he guides you to the sink. “That’s gonna hurt,” he mutters. “Sorry.”

The water is cool, slightly below room temperature. When he holds your hand under it, your legs nearly give out. His grip on your wrist tightens and he moves behind you, gently pinning you to the counter with his own body so you’ll stop pulling and aggravating your hand.

“Ssh…”

Tears drop from your eyes and like a dam that broke, you lean forward, bury your face in the crook of your elbow and cry. Such a shitty day.

Simon stays behind you. When other customers try to enter, he glares until they leave, guving you the privacy you need to break down. He keeps your hand under the water for 20 minutes, longer than you needed to calm yourself. About 15 minutes in, your coworkers had come and ushered you and Simon to the breakroom, promising to handle things alone today.

Now, Simon is examining your hand, which is slightly numb but still at the same time hurting like hell. He is telling you how to take care of the burn, but your eyes are far away, until Simon says your name, snapping you out of it.

“What?”

Simon stares, then slowly lays your hand on the table. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Just a shitty continuation to an already shitty morning.”

“Mhm. I can imagine.” He watches you for a moment longer. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

Your eyes widen dramatically and you straighten up. Gaze flickering over his form, you nod slowly before shaking out of it. “Iced?”

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.