#not making a habit of this but one palette felt insufficient

[hey-color-palettes]

Might I ask for a color Palette to represent "Pleochronic"? Thank you regardless!

272869 || #7439a4 || #a130a9 || #c63852 || #f5cbd0

514430 || #ae7225 || #ba916d || #dac099 || #f5e1cb

[lumifuer]

Good Luck Charm

Pairings: Dean x Castiel Words: 1169 Warnings: None! A/N: Based on the @angelswatchingover  ‘d fanfiction idea. Thank you for allowing me to borrow it and transfer it to this story! I hope you will like it!  

Summary: What happens when Castiel is nowhere to be found and a black, blue-eyed cat shows up at the bunker’s door?

It was a usual October evening. The air was filled with sharpness typical for this time of year and the heavy drops of autumn rain were pouring on Impala's windshield with a frequency that made the wipers' job insufficient.

Dean swore under his breath, knowing all too well that with the weather like that it wouldn't be possible to reach the house without getting wet. He parked the car just below the entrance and calculated his chances of success. Those few bottles of beer and one apple pie would cost him getting completely soaked. With a long sigh, he was just about to leave his dry shelter but his emerald eyes stopped short at the weird shape right next to the door. At first sight, the object seemed to look like a handle shadow, cast by the dim lamplight, but when Dean pressed his nose to the window, he saw a pair of ears on each side of the tiny visitor's head. With one smooth move, he opened the door, forgetting all about his shopping and within two long steps he managed to reach the entrance.

He was fast enough for the sharp hearing little predator to jump in fear when he bent over and picked its wet body up from the cold ground. He pushed the door open and went inside with the new friend on his hands.

Sam was sitting at the table, sipping on his cocoa and browsing the internet in search of recently unresolved cases that might have had something to do with the supernatural. He heard the sound of the heavy metal door being closed and familiar steps on the staircase. Without looking away from the monitor, he awaited his older brother's appearance, ready to share his findings with him.

Dean stopped in the doorway, tightly pressing the little guest to his chest. They were trembling and the dripping water from them both started forming a small pond underneath the hunter's feet.

"So get this," Sam started and Dean rolled his eyes in irritation.

"I'm sorry to inform you, we have a bigger problem than your "this"," he said.

Sam reluctantly withdrew from his notes and as soon as he laid his eyes on the miserable sight in front of him, his lips parted in shock. But he didn't intend on waiting for any words of clarification.

"Wait here, I'll get the towels," he stood up and rushed towards the bathroom. He returned, carrying a handful of freshly washed, soft towels and to Dean's displeasure, he fondly took away the cat, making sure it's tightly tucked in, "I wouldn't want you to end up sick, little guy. Dean, change, you're ruining the carpet."

"Thanks, Sammy," he hissed in response, treating his little brother to the most sarcastic smile but it seemed to fly under Sam's radar who was too caught up in assuring the cat that it will be loved and cared for from now on.

* * *

"No way, Sammy," Dean desperately shook his head for the hundredth time, "we can't keep him. We're on the road too often."

"Cas can check on him from time to time to make sure he's got food," Sam wouldn't give up so easily, serving his brother a palette of different puppy eyes styles, "and you don't have to worry about the walks with a cat."

Dean didn't answer,  something completely else caught his attention. The remainder of his angel filled him with sudden uneasiness. When was the last time he'd seen Cas? He hadn't shown up in his bedroom the night before and wouldn't give any signs of life the next day. Dean frowned as his heart begun to beat unpleasingly quickly in his chest. The possibility of scratched furniture and broken glasses ceased to be so frightening all of a sudden.

"Okay, he can stay," he replied, regaining control over his own voice and trying to shove the irrational anxiety in the deepest corner of his mind. Castiel was a big boy, a god's messenger none the less, he should have been able to take care of himself. Possibly, the lack of his angel's presence on the other side of the bed was more heartbreaking to Dean? "but it's your responsibility, Sammy."

Sam didn't seem to hear acknowledge the last part of the sentence. With a huge smile on his lips, he jumped from the armchair, leaving the terrified little cat on the pillows. Dean smiled involuntarily as the feeling of nostalgia filled his mind. His brother's happiness was worth a damaged furniture.

"I'll go grab some things for him," he stated, carefully taking the keys to the Impala from the table but Dean didn't look bothered.

"Take my pie and beer on the way!" he shouted just before Sam slammed the door behind him.

When the car drove away, Dean closed his eyes with a deep sigh and leaned on the headboard, feeling exhausted. The familiar fear for the well being of his loved ones slowly crept up to his mind and took advantage of his current state. Had Cas talked to him about some celestial meeting? Why wouldn't he respond to his silent prayers? The older Winchester knew that something had to happen, that's what his brain was telling him but his gut, strangely enough, was constantly assuring him that everything was going to be okay; that Cas was still beside him and what's most important, he was alive.

The sudden sting in the calf had broken his reverie, it felt like someone or something had stabbed him with a pin. Then another came up and Dean immediately opened his eyes, straightening in his chair, trying to find the source of the discomfort. He relaxed, upon discovering that it wasn't, in fact, any bloodthirsty monster, only a little black cat, who was trying to find its way on his knees, possibly starved for touch and warmth.

Dean felt a kind heart involuntarily blossoming on his face. There was something so soothing and loveable about this little creature. He gently grabbed the kitten and lifted it to his face.

"Personal space, buddy," he smiled, pretending to smile the little one for its misbehaviour.

Finally, he had the opportunity to take a closer look at the rescued animal. The kitten was tiny, he must have been orphaned in some tragic circumstances and in search for shelter and help, he found himself at the bunker's door. His short black coat was soft and pleasant to touch but what's most important, dry at last. His eyes were big and blue like the sky on a sunny day, seemingly reaching deep down to Dean's soul.  

Winchester recognized that look and an unpleasant habit of entering his personal space without his consent.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered with a mixture of ease and disbelief.

Thank you for reading! 

[imhereforbvcky]

I’ll Be Good - Part 19

Masterlist -  Series Masterlist  -  Part 18  -  Part 20

Summary: Series - You’re an old colleague of Natasha’s who finds herself face to face with the Winter Soldier on the wrong end of an Avengers’ op. Chapter – You make a decision, refuse to follow anyone’s rules, and learn whether it’s a gamble that will pay off.

Warnings: swearing, violence - I don’t know what’s wrong with me… honestly I worry about my own brain writing parts like this., angsty angst aaagnst

Word Count: 1986 - ok! Back in the 1000 range! Only just… and you might hate me for it.

Author’s Note: Oh gosh you guys. This one’s rough. I feel awful leaving you here before my little hiatus! Oh boy. Don’t hate me. I love you, ok? I do!

Standing at the register, you wiped the sleep from your eyes. This was simple and habitual for you: exit the plane, purchase a new hoodie and hat at the gift shop, catch the train to Dresden in 10. Clockwork. It was all so natural, such a habit that you didn’t think twice about sleeping most of the flight.

You stopped short, though, when your eye caught on the books near the register. Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Without another thought, you dropped it onto the pile of items for purchase and tucked it under your arm before ducking into a bathroom to disappear. You couldn’t be followed through Berlin, not to Dresden, not north of Dresden, not to the Commander’s hold.

After changing into the sweater and pinning your hair beneath the hat, you stood with the book in your hands, looking the role of the tourist. Staring at the cover for what felt like ages, you finally made the decision, quickly seeking through the pages and tearing one out. Just one.

The wind snapped at your coat, pulling the hem taught as you stood in front of the post box, gripping tightly to the envelope you’d prepared just a few hours ago. The envelope you’d agonized over, the envelope you weren’t sure you should send.

The city hummed around you, people brushed past, pieces of your hair whipped across your face, tugged loose by the wind. But you remained perfectly still, clutching the envelope you’d prepared on the train, the envelope you’d turned over in your hands again and again on your way here, to Dresden, your last stop. Finally, here you stood, immobile with indecision.

If you tucked the envelope in your pocket, shredded it, discarded it in the nearest trash bin, Bucky would be safe, and you’d face your fate alone, like you should do. He would assume you’d left after the debriefing, unwilling to work through the complex team dynamics in the wake of your failed mission in Kiev.

He would assume he wasn’t enough to keep you in New York... to keep you with him. That was an unbearably painful thought when he meant so much, was worth so much, was more than enough. It was that very thought that had led you here. Just a few miles from the greatest risk you’d ever take, holding an envelope that could undo everything you were taking that risk for. But you just couldn’t let go of it.

It would be so selfish to send it, because if he knew why you left, there was a chance he’d come for you, and this would all be for naught. Your peace of mind or his life; that’s what was in the balance here, but somehow the difficulty of that decision weighed heavier even than the decision to come here in the first place.

He deserved an explanation, but any you offered only put him at risk.

It’s harder now to turn it off. Why is it harder? you thought. The back of your hand swept over your cheek, taking tears and grime away with it. I’m a trained and hardened assassin. Did it all really come undone in just a few months with them?

Your hand returned to the heel of the gun, steadying your grip.

“I'm sorry,” you whispered to the anonymous form bound and kneeling before you. “They'll kill you either way.”

“Does that make you feel better about being the one to do it?”

Remember Bucky. You’re doing this for him. A sharp roll of your head and a readjustment of your aim were followed by a deep, shaking breath and the loud snap of the gun firing in your hands. Bucky deserves his freedom more than anyone, far more than me.

“It doesn't,” you whispered back to the corpse, lowering the firearm to the table beside you and raising your hands beside your head, as was the necessary routine.

The guards swarmed to either side of you, jerking your arms down and back. Your stiff joints screamed at the hash kick to the back of your knees as you fell to the ground. The skin deeply bruised, blue and purple and yellow, never permitted to fully heal before the next harsh blow. You stared down at the palette of discoloured flesh, at the deep red liquid from the man a few feet away, seeping beneath you through the pattern of the tile floor, easily recognizing it as the narrative of your life.

Silence was your only defense now as your body was once again jerked upward by strong, merciless hands.

When you’d first arrived at the stronghold you weren’t at all surprised to be immediately apprehended, dropped to your knees, patted down for weapons, and restrained. It was standard precaution. You had just spent the last few months betraying this man and his work, selling his secrets, killing his men.

You still weren’t fazed when you were made to wait in a holding cell. It wasn’t until the Commander came to you there in the cell, instead of negotiating with you in his office or a conference room, that the weight of the situation sank in: worst case scenario.

The second the door groaned shut behind him, the tension in the room grew like a heavy shadow. You shifted to lift your chin, defiant and proud, watching him closely for leverage, an opportunity. There wasn’t much point in eyeing him for weapons, you knew he was armed, but he made a show of sliding the long slender knife onto the table in front of you. It screeched across the steel surface.

You remained silent as always; waiting him out. Both of you knew that an interrogation was a careful dance, and whoever took the first step, took the lead, gave away the most information.

“You’ve come alone.”

“You said I owe you, so I’m here,” you fired back, voice strong and defiant.

“Those weren’t the terms!” His fist slammed onto the table making the knife jump, but you remained even, unmoved.

“The terms have changed,” you answered coolly, leaning forward as much as the restraints would allow. You knew you needed to present with absolute confidence. Anything less would be met with a swift power-play and this would be over in moments. It was clear that this was going to hurt… but you might still get what you wanted.

“You can’t get him without me, and I won’t give him to you. So you can accept my offer of a contract with me...” He scoffed at your proposal before you even finished the sentence, “...or have done, and kill me already.”

“Does your soldier like those pretty big eyes of yours?”

That threw you. You managed to keep silent, not spilling your confusion with words, but it was clear in the way your head jerked back, how your eyes narrowed for a split second.

He rounded the table, gripping your face roughly in his hand, his thumb and forefinger digging into the hollows of your cheeks. “Those big pretty eyes that only see what they want to see? Hmm?”

You tore your face away as he reached for the knife. He hummed softly, tapping the tip of the blade gently on your cheekbone. “You want to believe you’re stronger, that you hold all the cards, but you’re weak and inoperative.”

You bit your lip, trying to withhold the eruption of pain as he dipped the blade into your skin. “You’re useless to me on your own, Y/N. You’re not the shadow you were. You’re protecting him.” You forced yourself to focus on the warm tickle of the blood dripping down your neck instead of the slow stroke he was making across your cheek. “And when you have priorities of your own, I can’t trust you to focus on mine and carry out a mission.”

He pulled the blade away and sat on the table in front of you, watching the thick trickle of blood on its stream over your cheek and neck. “When the asset comes – and he will come for you – I’ll activate him.” He tapped your shoulder with the point of the blade. 

“See, you’ll remember him, how he protected you, came to save you, how you made this sacrifice for him. But he won’t remember you at all. He’ll have a directive to keep you in line. And you won’t have the heart to do what it takes to get out… to hurt him.” He ran his thumb over the edge of the blade, testing its edge. “You’ll stay for him and together you’ll be the most effective team of operatives we’ve ever had.” His gaze snapped to you again, locking on you with hard narrowed eyes, “Without him you’re just… collateral.”

“You’re wrong.” You were seething now, reeling. How had you miscalculated so badly? Surely you were more valuable as an agent than a pawn for ransom… But Bucky was their asset. “He won’t come. The others… they won’t let him. Not for me.”

His laugh was sharp in your ears, “If that video from Kiev is any indication, nothing will stop him from running into my hands the moment he sees your sweet face, bleeding and bruised.”

Before you could think to anticipate the pain, the knife flashed in his hand and sank deep into your side. The cry that ripped out of your throat was almost inhuman. Your jaw dropped in shock and pain, gasping for breath as he pulled the blade expertly from between your ribs, coated to the hilt in bright red stain.

“But I suppose you might as well earn your keep while you’re here.”

Dropping your head back, you could hardly focus on his words, concentrating on just breathing. Your gulping, gasping, insufficient breathing. The pain radiated through your chest and shoulder with every breath as your lung threatened to collapse.

He stood, wiping his knife clean before looking to you again. “I’ve done some research, you know, for how to instruct your new handler when he finally gets here and we…. reprogram him. But maybe we can get some of that shadow back in you before he gets here hmm?”

You didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe. “I had one of your old handlers before you killed him. I’m told blind executions are effective in quelling your more sentimental outbursts. Shall we start there?”

“Go to hell.” You spat at him, a pool of blood landing at his feet. Definitely a punctured lung, then.

That did it. He was nothing if not clean and efficient. He pressed the tip of the knife to the juncture of your throat and clavicle. You stared at him, hard and unmoving, clenching your jaw, daring him to sink the point in, to end this now, to free you and hopefully, ultimately, Bucky.

“Y/N, you’re smarter than this,” he sighed, “I will kill you. Slowly.” He wasn’t bluffing, he never did. “For every execution you refuse to carry out, I will gouge you with another gaping wound until you drown in your own blood. I will send your body to your Winter Soldier and he will come to me anyway, and it will be so easy to take him, when he’s blind and reckless with rage.”

The shudder that rippled through your body was insurmountable, your ragged wheezing did nothing for your negotiating stance. “And I promise you, every last one of the people you refused to execute, will have died anyway.”

With a sinking, agonizing dread, you realized he was right. You’d fucked this up in the worst possible way and now your best chance at keeping Bucky away from here, at saving him from this, from everything he had already escaped once in his lifetime was to do this. To do this and pray to whatever monstrous gods were out there that he never received that damn envelope and that he never came for you.

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