#rambling in the tags as I delay hitting the post now button

[ygodmyy20]

"My beautiful star."

[imhereforbvcky]

Vivid - Part 1

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Summary: Have you ever met someone who completely embodies a color? Not an aura, not synesthesia. Just… They walk into the room and when you spot them, you think to yourself, “Wow. That is a walking hurricane.” When Clint Barton serendipitously meets a free-spirited stranger, he sees red.

Warnings: None yet! Just my trash mouth. And my inability to stick to canon.

Word Count: 1285

A/N: I’m not gonna lie, this is practically an OFC. It’s still a reader insert, but... I’ve put more thought into developing the “reader” than the MCU did into developing Clint’s story before End Game. As per my usual, for this one can we all just... pretend AOU didn’t happen? and he doesn’t have a secret family in the country? 👍

Have you ever met someone who completely embodies a color? Not an aura, not synesthesia. Just… They walk into the room and when you spot them, you think to yourself, “Wow. That is a walking hurricane.” Every molecule of air seems to swirl toward them, there’s a smirk or a sideways glance that tells you they’re a little dark, a little dangerous. Trouble in jeans the exact same blue as an angry tide. And then it hits you: they’re a storm. The coolest, murkiest grey you can imagine made flesh. They’re the color of swirling seawater, of darkening storm clouds, of sharp glances and wreckage.

The first time Clint Barton laid eyes on you, he was immediately struck in that way. When he met you? Clint saw red.

For him, it had started off like any other night. He’d filled the coffee maker with water, asking himself if he could still call it insomnia when it was fueled by a deep caffeine addiction as much as the perpetual restlessness. The trouble came when he reached for the aluminum can of grounds and found it practically empty.

That wouldn’t do.

Almost on auto-pilot, he pushed into some worn out tennis shoes that never needed tying and shrugged on a jacket. He was still shoving his wallet in his back pocket while he spun out the door.

“Ow,” he groaned after bashing his elbow against the door jam.

The night air was invigorating. The exact opposite of what an insomniac with a coffee problem should be seeking, but damn, did it feel good. If he couldn’t perch on his rooftop, Clint liked to be moving, to feel the city beat around him. He liked having something to watch, something to pay attention to, something outside himself and the demons in his head. Insomnia loves a distraction.

Ducking into the nearest bodega, he offered a lazy grin and a nod to the man behind the counter. He didn’t waste another second before bee-lining for the same aisle he always started with. Folgers.

“Out of coffee again, Mr. Barton?”

“Always seems to happen in the middle of the night,” he shrugged, waving the can over the aisle. “And I told you, it’s just Clint.”

“Maybe the gods are trying to tell you something.”

“Yeah well, I don’t hear so great.”

But he did hear the humming: sweet and bright, and… loud. People hum to themselves under their breath. It’s a quiet sound, hushed. It’s something people do when they like a song and can’t help it; when they’re self-conscious and don’t want to be heard.

This wasn’t that.

It was brimming, like the sound was barely contained to a hum out of necessity. A distant thought to decorum, maybe. That kind of energy was magnetic, and it immediately drew his gaze.

With a similar need for containment, Clint bit his lip to hold in a deep smile, but it still lit up his eyes and lifted his posture from head to toe as he watched you. Half up, half down, in every sense: sweatpants and a too styled to be accidental t-shirt, a long sleeve button up tied at the waist and sunglasses perched on your nose, despite the darkness outside. One earbud tucked in your ear, the other dangled haphazardly, swaying as you danced your way into the bodega with exaggerated steps and swings.

Decorum be damned when you pointed two finger-guns at the bodega man and playfully shrugged your shoulders to the beat of the music pumping through your ear. The guy was unimpressed, as he seemed to be with everything, including Clint’s support of the coffee shelf.

Clint chuckled to himself as you spun on the ball of your foot and continued dance-walking down the aisle beside his. He decided he needed pizza to go with his coffee. And a better view. So he quietly walked to the end of the aisle with a smirk on his lips and a laugh building in his throat as he watched your spine curl and your hips rock and your head weave followed by your shoulders. It was like your whole body had been ignited by the little white cord in your ear. He was drawn in as much by the silliness as by the sensuality of the movement. Half up, half down.

When you reached for a bottle of coke it hit him: red. You were the living embodiment of the color red: too bright to ignore, too wild to contain, mesmerizing as a red hot fire. He could see it all of a sudden: a red balloon floating through the room, just out of reach.

You held the dark bottle with its bright red label up to your lips, the cap nearly matched the shade you’d painted there. He did laugh now, when you began to sing into it like a microphone.

“If he don’t love you anymore, just walk your fine ass out the dooOOOoor!” you slowly danced your way down the aisle toward him and he froze. It didn’t bother you, not much did, it seemed. “I do my hair toss, check my nails, baby how you feelin’?”

You paused on the line, thrusting your chin toward him as you said it and locking your eyes on his. He seemed frozen, like you’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar, so you fixed him with a smile, warm and bright… red as the flame licking up his spine.

“I… uhm.”

“Feelin’ good as hell,” you whispered the next line to him and raised the loose earbud up, offering it to him: a perfect stranger.

He held it to his ear and listened as you sang along, absently reaching into the warmer for a slice of cheese pizza. He seemed to have relaxed a little, but that dopey grin still lingered. With the pizza extended in his direction, you flicked your eyebrows in question.

“Uh, pepperoni,” he answered and you grabbed a second slice.

When you began swaying toward the register with him still attached to your headphones, you felt the tug at your ear and spun around. You’d forgotten and laughed. Instead of letting him hand the earbud back, you grinned at him, easy and bright, and grabbed his wrists while shimmying backwards.

It didn’t even shock him when you took his hand in yours, urging him to at least move his shoulders along with you. He knew nothing about you, but he knew it seemed very… you.

When you made it to the counter and shoved the pizza and coke up onto it, Clint reached for his slice. You pushed his hand away and made a grab for his coffee, plopping it on the counter and nodding to the owner.

“Least I could do,” you winked at Clint. “Not everybody is as good an impromptu dance partner as you’ve been.”

“I’m not sure I’d call that dancing,” Clint laughed, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck as you handed a twenty over the counter.

“Ouch.”

A mortified blush crept across Clint’s skin and a mischievous smirk lifted your lips.

“No, I – I meant me. Believe it or not, I’m actually pretty coordinated. But I dunno if that even… was dancing,” Clint rambled. “You were… you’re great.

“You were perfect,” you soothed, smoothing a hand down the angular lines of muscle that stretched from his shoulder to hand. Now it was your turn to shy from the heat rising in your cheeks.

Clint truly believed that was the last he’d see of you. A vibrant red balloon, that had drifted into his world long enough to admire, only to be whisked away by the wind with the same haste.

He was wrong.

Part 2 >>

This series is mostly written - yay no delays! I’m going to post new chapters every other Sunday, and try to alternate with another series to get my butt moving on that one. 🙈

Will reblog with tags!