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

[ygodmyy20]

"My beautiful star."

[imhereforbvcky]

Vivid - Part 1

Masterlist  -  Series Masterpage 

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!

[elizaviento]

Protect & Serve

Okay.  @lolliequinn gave me the inspiration for this Cop Rick x Reader fic that’s been brewing in my head for the last few days.  This first chapter contains a good bit of the Reader’s back story and, yes, this will be another multi-chapter affair.  (Although, it won’t be nearly as long as Assimilation.  You’re welcome, lol.)  Anyway, without further delay-- 

Protect & Serve (part 1)

(Cop Rick x Reader)

SFW (for now, but not for long)

(FYI:  Additional chapters of Protect & Serve can be found in the Rick Fic Masterpost link in my blog description.  Or, you can click the #protect & serve tag in this post, within my blog, to access additional chapters.)

*****

I met my first Morty a year and a half ago.  I had been brought in to assist with an initial evaluation at the group home he was assigned to three weeks after his entire family had disappeared.  The exact circumstances that led to the disappearance were hazy at best and all anyone could seem to get from the poor boy is that his grandfather was the ultimate culprit.  Every other detail Morty begrudgingly divulged seemed ripped from a fever dream; talk of portals, interdimensional travel, alien worlds, alternate realities, infinite versions of not only himself but of nearly every person in existence.  Yeah, I had seen more than my share of cheesy science fiction films, but none were ever as descriptive or – dare I say – believable as what poured from Morty Smith’s mouth.

Eventually, he was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic and was put on so many medications that he soon became just a shell of a boy.  I continued to see him on a regular schedule; no less than once a week.  When he wasn’t drugged up into a near catatonic state, he seemed happy to see me.  I would try my best to get to the truth of what happened to him and his family, but he would either constantly change the subject or tell the same story he’d asserted time and time again.  After several months of this, I changed my tactic and just tried to be a friend to him.  I would show up to our weekly appointments with games, candy and junk food and spend our allotted hour trying my best to go over his personal goals which consisted of relaxation techniques, educational milestones and socialization.  He was a sweet boy and I felt him growing on me as the months passed.  And, even though his trauma was severe, I could see the curious, fun loving side of him hiding just underneath.  

Then, one day, he was gone.   

I’d arrived to the group home at the same day and time as I usually did, expecting to see him either in his room or in the common area playing video games. But, when I checked in with the receptionist, she told me to take a seat and the director of the home would be by to fetch me shortly. 

“I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but Morty Smith was claimed by a relative last week, right after your last visit,” the director said when we were securely behind the closed door of his office. 

“How is that possible?  It says in his chart that he has no other family.  He’s essentially an orphan.”  I opened his chart and began scanning through the information for what felt like the millionth time since he’d been assigned to me just shy of 6 months earlier. 

“A man showed up claiming to be his grandfather’s twin brother.  After searching through family records, we confirmed his story.”

“Okay,” I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose.  “But that still doesn’t explain how this man was able to just take Morty and stroll away with him. Morty was court ordered to this home.  There would have to be another court hearing to determine if that man was even fit to care for Morty, given his serious diagnosis!”  I was beginning to raise my voice in ire as I continued to explain my position.  There was no way any of this could be possible just from a legal standpoint alone, not to mention an ethical standpoint. 

The director just blinked at me and gave the same speech he’d given seconds earlier. It was like he was in some type of trance and any countering argument or insistence of further information was swiftly knocked down. 

“Fine.” I conceded, standing from my chair to prepare to leave.  “Then I have no choice but to report this to the state’s child protective services.  I have a duty to Morty as his case worker to make sure he is cared for and safe and I have not been given the proper assurances or required documentation.  I’m also going to note in my report that you, personally, have neglected your professional duties as the director of this facility.”  And, with that, I left. 

When I made it to the sanctuary of my car, I couldn’t stop the tears that stung my eyes and leaked down my cheeks.  It was a blessing but also a curse that I had a personal conviction to care for children such as Morty. I didn’t know if I would ever find out what happened to him, but I swore to myself – and to him – that I would try my best.

However, when I finally got home that evening, I was shocked to find him sitting on my living room couch.   

“Morty!  What the hell?!” I screamed, startled.  I dropped my bags on the floor to quickly closed the distance between us, kneeling directly in front of him.  How did he get in here?  How did he even know where I lived?

The first thing that struck me is that he looked… different.  He had put on weight – no longer the bone thin boy who hardly ate during meal times – and was dressed in a suit and tie.  His hair was slicked back and he no longer sported dark circles under his eyes.  He looked like a normal teenage boy dressed up for a junior high school dance. 

He didn’t speak. At least, not at first.  He only placed a hand on my shoulder with a calm smile and turned his head in the direction of my dining room where a man sat in one of the chairs.  He was dressed in some type of guard uniform and looked eerily familiar.

“What’s going on here, Morty?  I was at the group home today and they said you were released to your grandfather’s twin brother.”  And, that’s when it hit me.  The man sitting in my dining room looked identical to the photos I’d seen in Morty’s file of his grandfather, Rick Sanchez. “Is that him?” I asked.  Then, leaning closer and lowering my voice - “Or is that Rick?”

Regardless of how discrete I had tried to be, the man had obviously heard me as he quickly rose from his seat and began to approach Morty and I. Instinctively, I shifted my crouched position so that my body was completely in front of Morty, attempting to shield him from any harm the man may try to inflict. 

“It’s okay,” I heard Morty say from behind me, placing his hand on my shoulder once again.  He sounded calm and lucid which immediately took me aback. “I’m not the Morty you think I am.  But, I’ve been watching you and I’m very impressed with the dedication you’ve shown to the Morty of this dimension.  We could really use someone with your type of character on the Citadel to help other wayward Mortys.”

At this point, I was completely speechless and felt my stomach drop to my toes.  Morty – my Morty – had spoken of the Citadel many times during his, what I assumed to be, psychotic ramblings.  Could it have all been true? No, it couldn’t be…

The man dressed in the guard uniform was now standing directly in front of me and was offering his leather gloved hand.  Seemingly running on autopilot, I took it and allowed him to pull me to my feet and slightly away from Morty.  Then, I heard the flush of a toilet and whipped my head toward my bathroom as it opened to reveal Morty – another Morty. This one was dressed in a white button down oxford shirt and black slacks and was carrying a briefcase.  Around his neck, there was an ID badge that read –

Morty Smith N-1519 – Personal Assistant to the President

“Mr. President –” the other Morty began, glancing at his watch, “– we need to get back soon. You have a speech in two hours and you must prepare.”

Morty – President Morty? – nodded and turned his attention back to me.  “The Morty from this dimension is fine, by the way.  We took him to the Citadel last week.  You’re more than welcome to see him, if you decide to join us.  So, what do you say?”

--------------------

A year later, I found myself standing outside of a run down, abandoned building in the middle of what the locals called ‘Morty Town’, waiting for my mandated and mandatory Citadel Police Department escort.  As I flipped through the files of each Morty suspected to be squatting in the building, my mind began to wonder back to that night, when my life was flipped upside down.  As I stood here now, I didn’t regret my decision to move to the Citadel.  It was actually very easy to leave my old life behind considering most of my family lived on the other side of the country and I didn’t have many friends to speak of since I was a self proclaimed workaholic.  Once I had agreed, President Morty gave me two weeks to settle things in my home dimension before sending his assistant and the guard back to fetch me.  He then gave me an additional two weeks to acclimate myself to Citadel life, which was decidedly more difficult. 

Mortys and Ricks. Ricks and Mortys.  Everywhere.   

I’d never met a Rick before that night in my apartment.  But, being thrown into an entire space station full of them was very unsettling.  Mostly because they were all exactly alike but incredibly different.  It was an oxymoron of there ever was one and I fumbled through the nuances of daily life among them.   

Getting used to the throngs of Mortys was just as difficult, which is something I should have expected.  Thousand and thousands of 14 year old boys stuck in the middle of space with almost no females – of course it was an adjustment, to say least.  Despite the constant giggling, red faces and awkward flirting, most of them were joys to work with – except for the ones that weren’t.  But, those were different stories in and of themselves and the main reason I was recruited and voluntarily gave up my life on earth to come here. 

I was suddenly pulled from my thoughts when I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel covered asphalt and turned my body to face the police cruiser as it approached and parked just behind my car.   

“Hello, Officer Sanchez,” I greeted with a smile as he stepped out of the cruiser and adjusted his utility belt.  He gave me a small smile in return as he strolled toward me with his hands in his pockets.   

“Just call me –”

“Just call you Rick,” I cut in, smiling wider.  We played this game almost every time he was required to meet me for what was mandated as a ‘risky’ assignment and somehow, it hadn’t gotten old.  At least, not for me.

“One cream, no sugar,” I said, plucking a cup of coffee from the drink holder on the roof of my car to hand to him.   

“Uh, thanks.  You didn’t have to –”

“I know,” I acknowledged, cutting him off again.  I seemed to do that an awful lot and it sent a frustrated blush to my cheeks every time.  “Just consider it a ‘thank you’, okay?  I know it’s your job to come assist me with these visits but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

He only nodded in response as he took the cup from my outstretched hand, his fingers lightly brushing mine in the process.  Immediately, my neck and cheeks flushed anew. 

Damn it. 

As much as I hated to admit it, I had been harboring a crush on Officer Sanchez for most of the year I’d been here.  The first time I found out that I was required to take a police escort on ‘risky’ visits, I had been offended.  I was a seasoned professional at that point and knew how to take care of myself in iffy situations.  I had even taken self defense classes and carried mace on me at all times.  I tried arguing this point with my boss - another Rick - and even went to President Morty myself, but it was hopeless.   

“You’re the best we’ve got.  Most of the Mortys trust you but you know first hand that some of them have been traumatized well beyond trusting anyone.  This is for your own safety.”  He then left me standing in the waiting room outside his office, frustrated and determined to make miserable any officer who was unlucky enough to be stuck with me.  What an absolute brat I had been. 

“What – what do we got?” Rick asked me, taking a sip of his coffee and leaning casually against the side of my car. 

“Um – looks like four Mortys are squatting in this building.  All of them are presumed to have been caught up in the unsanctioned Pocket Mortys ring and are most likely still chipped,” I replied, flipping through the files to try to familiarize myself with each Morty’s individual look.   

“Yep,” he agreed, placing the coffee back on the hood of my car to check his utility belt.  He pulled out a taser and handed it to me.  “Take this.”

“Rick, you know I can’t –”

“Just – just take it,” he interrupted, grabbing my hand and thrusting the weapon into my open palm.   

I relented with a sigh and shoved it in the back pocket of my jeans before pulling an elastic band from the opposite pocket.  I then proceeded to tie my hair up into a tight bun, remove my earrings and other jewelry, and pull the belt from the loops of my jeans.  I’d worked with troubled kids long enough to know that the first rule of thumb is to never give them something to grab on to.   

After throwing the jewelry and belt into my car, I took a huge gulp from my coffee and dumped the remainder on the asphalt.   

“Ready?” he asked, removing his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket so I could finally see his breathtaking brown eyes.

“Yeah.  Let’s get this over with.”

To be continued...

P.S.  Thanks for reading!  I think this will be a fun journey.  :)