#i shudder to think of attempting to fix it only to find out 200 hours later that its nigh unplayable

[nighttimepixels]

Alright, this is possibly the biggest bummer of a thing I’ve had to admit to myself, but...

You Might Have a Type, the dating sim, is no longer in development. As in, further development is cancelled.

For those of you new here, a while back (almost two years, yikes!) I started playing around with developing a Dating Sim- in the end (via polls) it was decided the dateable options would be UT Sans, UF Sans, US Sans, and SF Sans.

tl;dr: I have to stop working on YMHaT due to technical, revision, and time struggles. BUT, there’s a browser-playable build of the intro up on Gamejolt! You can’t progress the game, but once the interactive intro is done, you can explore the game area (Grillby’s), talk to at least a few NPCs, and observe the back areas for multiple observation texts.

There’s no ending set, however, so just stop playing when you’re done looking around, and have a bit of patience as occasionally new talksprites take a moment to load.

More info about why I’ve had to let this project go below the cut:

I reworked the project from the ground up no less than three times (even switched entire game engines once) - and finished what should have been 95% of the art. However, I hit more and more problems in development - which I was doing alone. From realizing the ‘story’ wasn’t working, to needing to create much more art to ‘fix’ it (a year after I’d finished the majority of the art, creating style problems to say the least), to realizing the game was lagging upon export no matter what I tried to do to fix it... well, that is what I get for trying to manhandle RPGMaker MV into a different shape. The elements (used a bunch of plugins, along with other tactics) worked independently, and even running in my own environment, but they suffered as soon as I took that away.

In the end, I’ve been doing a lot of introspection and have to admit that having this unfinished project hanging over my head has been severely messing with my creative output. Guilt and worry, personal pressure (the longer I let it sit, the harder it’ll be to fix/copy the previous art style/etc), and just the mental real estate even a semi active project takes had a huge toll. This was supposed to be a fun, free fanproject, but my income is solely commission/art/freelance based- time spent desperately rehashing and working on a free fanproject is a worrying amount of time spent not making money to help make ends meet.

So, though it’s hard to accept I failed on this... I’ve got to throw in the towel. If I want to move forward and make new, cooler things, things that I’ve now got a lot more experience through the struggle of this game to make even better, I have to let this go. It’s obscenely sad, and don’t mind me I’m crying a bit, but! I want to continue having some time for other fanworks - fanart, fanfiction... and YMHaT was just the ball and chain I was only adding more weight onto this whole time.

That said, though I obviously was unable to release a finished version of the game- I have a workable intro, and have put up a browser-playable build! Like I mentioned above, there are those caveats - and seriously, once you’re done exploring, just exit out of the game tab. Nothing more will happen :C

I put a lot of work into this game (hundreds of hours...) so, upon the encouragement of the few friends I opened up to about this, I’m sharing at least this much. That way at the very least, some of the assets can be enjoyed, however briefly, and won’t go to absolute waste. TvT

I’ve certainly learned my lesson, and any future gamework I’ll probably stop trying to bend RPG Maker MV (a perfectly good game engine!) so out of shape to make it do things I should just suck it up and learn how to program in Unity, for example. But yeah, time is unfortunately money, especially for a freelancer, and we’ve all got to hustle, sigh. I just can’t justify sinking another hundred - or likely, two hundred plus - hours into a fanproject that’s already struggling and I can’t make any money off of. I know it sounds cynical, but y’know, thanks capitalism TvT

So, onwards, to new and better projects - I hope to still make a dating sim someday, but I’m afraid that unless I can find some crazy loopholes (or someone wants to drop several, several, several thousands of dollars on me) it probably won’t be a Sans-centric dating sim.

Hope you enjoy the unfinished demo - if you like anything, a comment left there or here would mean the world, so I’m not just chucking all that work completely down the drain ╥﹏╥ cheers to you all (esp those who read all this, wow!) and thanks for the support and interest you had in the project at all. I’m so sorry to let you guys down, but I thank you for the opportunity and damn if I didn’t learn a lot that’ll make me a better creator for the future.

[candy-and-writing]

Not About Angels

Summary: while on a mission to take out a HYDRA base, the Avengers find someone they never expected to. She's scared, traumatized, and helping her seems almost hopeless. But two certain supersoldiers won't give up on her

Not About Angels by Birdy

Series Warnings (more to be added): PTSD, non-con, torture, rape, past rape, smut, Steve x Reader x Bucky, stucky x reader

Chapter Warnings: allusions to rape, allusions to and mentions of PTSD, allusions to and mention of torture, abuse, sex slavery, soft! Bucky, hurt reader, emotional abuse, fingering

This is for @crushedbyhyperbole 's 200 follower challenge! I picked the prompt "darker than the devil himself." The prompt is in bold

I am NOT responsible for your media content consumption. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and/or dark themes. By reading this work you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work posted on any third party app or website; if you are seeing this work anywhere other than tumblr and archiveofourown, it has been reposted without my permission.

You wake to the sound of an explosion. It rattles the solid concrete walls, causing the old metal bed frame you're laying on jostle. You can hear gunshots, people yelling in both Russian and English. You go to move off the bed, but are stopped by the chain around your wrist.

Shit.

The shouting gets louder and louder until a gun goes off in front of your room, the bullet breaking the lock off the door. The metal door is pushed open and a man marches in, gun in hand and a stern look on his face. You've seen him before, you realize, a long time ago. With his long dark hair and striking blue eyes. The soldier with the metal arm.

His shoulders relax as he lowers the gun, his gaze fixed on you as his eyes soften in confusion. You stay rooted on the bed, your knees drawn up and your hands at your sides.

"You aren't a soldier, are you," he says like he already knew the answer to the question. You shake your head carefully, your eyes wide as you watch him approach you. You're tempted to move back, but you don't. Something—against your better judgement—keeps you rooted in place. You watch him grip the chain connecting you to the bed and snap it, letting you free. "C'mon, we don't got a lot of time. You got a coat?"

You shake your head again and he sighs, grabbing the thin blanket off your bed and wrapping it around your shoulders. He takes your hand, pulling you out of the room.

There are bodies everywhere. Blood everywhere else. You step in it, your bare feet trailing sticky red footprints in your wake.

You had never been to this part of the base before, so close to the entrance. Your room was far below ground and you only left to take a shower. It was cold up here.

You stop at the threshold of the base, watching the man with the metal arm step out into the snow. He stopped when he realized you weren't following him.

"What's wrong?" You looked uncertainly down at your feet, then at the snow before you met his eyes. "Oh."

He started marching back towards you and your heart skipped a beat, knowing you had done something wrong. You took a quick step into the snow, the cold biting at your bare toes.

"Hey!" The soldier scooped you up into his arms. "You're not wearing any shoes, doll. You're gonna give yourself frostbite."

The soldier was warm, unnaturally so, in the cold weather and thick tactical gear. You hugged the blanket tighter over yourself, trying to make yourself smaller in the larger man's arms.

He carried you to a large jet and marched up the steps. You felt eyes on you once you entered the ship and you curled into the crook of the soldiers arm, attempting to hide yourself.

"Oh, look," a voice scoffed. "Barnes found a pet."

"Clint," a woman hissed.

"Buck, what's going on? Who is she?"

"I don't know," the soldier said. "I found her locked up in the lower part of the base. I think she—" he paused, looking down at you. "She's scared."

"Set her down," another man said.

You were shaking as the soldier carefully put you down on the ground. You took a quick look around the ship and saw that you were surrounded by people. A man in a metal suit stood out the most.

You clutched to the soldier's arm as he crouched down next to you, trying to hide yourself behind him.

"Where did you say she was?" a woman asked, her hair a fiery red.

"Behind a locked room in the lower part of the base," the soldier said, looking behind him at the woman. She watched you as you kept your eyes on the floor, not daring to look at them.

"The poor thing looks like she hasn't eaten in days," another woman noted, her accent thick.

You almost looked up at her, the soft tone of her voice surprising you. You don't remember the last time someone had spoken so softly to you like that.

"Her blood pressure is dangerously high," a man said, stepping closer to you. Your breath caught in your throat as he reached out for your arm. You knew the drill better by instinct than by actual will—don't move until you're told to, don't speak unless permitted, don't make eye contact unless they want you to.

A whimper escapes your lips as the strange man grabs your arm. "Soldat," the broken cry slips passed your lips before you could stop it.

That caught the soldier's attention. He held his flesh hand out, his brows furrowed, stopping the man. The man let go of your arm, stepping away from you as he apologized. "Do you know me?"

He stood in front of you, trying to coax you to look at him. You refused, locking your gaze on your bare feet.

"It's okay," the soldier said gently. "We're not gonna hurt ya, okay? You're safe, I promise. I just need you to talk to me."

"Я не разрешаено," you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"What'd she say?" someone asked.

"She said she's not allowed," the redhead translated.

"You're allowed," Bucky assured you, "I promise you. You can talk to us, we won't hurt you."

You swallowed thickly, your hands shaking as you clenched them tightly into fists. They didn't like it when you were scared.

'Don't talk to him,' a voice in your head rang.

'He won't hurt you, he hadn't before,' another reasoned.

"Do you know English?" You nodded. "Can you speak in English? So the others can understand you?"

"They told me not to," you rasped. Your accent was think, you wondered if they could even understand you.

"Who?" the woman asked. Her arms were crossed, as though she were disappointed.

'You said the wrong thing. She's mad at you.'

You shrunk in on yourself, hugging yourself as you stared at a line in the flooring.

"Hey, don't close up, doll," the soldier said. "Talk to us. What's the matter?"

You stole a quick glance at him before answering. "Она рассердилась на меня."

"Who? Natasha?" He looked over his shoulder at the redhead before looking back at you. You nodded.

"I'm not angry with you," the redhead—Natasha—said, stepping closer to you. "I'm just. . . trying to figure you out."

You frowned, swallowing a shuddering breath. "You are Natasha Romanova, the Black Widow?"

"You know me?"

You shrugged. "The men talk about you. You are the Avengers?"

The soldier nodded. "We are."

"What men?" Natasha asked.

"T-The men that came into my room. Sometimes, if there were more than one of them, they would discuss things. Their work."

"Do you know who they are?" the man with a shield asked. You swallowed thickly, nodding.

"One of the men was on the floor." You dared to look at the soldier. "You killed him. . . didn't you."

"What's your name, doll?" the soldier asked you, changing the subject. Though the guilt in his eyes gave you the answer you needed to know.

You frowned at that, unsure. No one had called you by name in. . . since HYDRA had taken you. What was your name?

It was on the tip of your tongue, so close yet so far away.

You were hesitant when you told him, still so unsure.

He repeated your name, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue. "That's a pretty name. I'm Bucky."

Bucky. That's a funny name.

Your eyelids started to feel heavy. You blinked furiously, trying to fight the sleepy feeling taking over.

"We should let her rest," Natasha said. You nodded, hugging the blanket tighter to your body as you laid on the floor, curling your knees to your chest. You jolted when you felt fingers brush against your wrist.

"Relax, doll," Bucky said, "I'm just gonna look."

You let him take your wrist in his hand. His fingers gently brushed over dark purple bruises that encircled your wrist. You winced, trying to pull away from him.

"It's okay, doll, it's okay. I'm gonna put some salve on it and it'll help it heal, okay?"

You nodded, watched him as he squeezed a little dollop of gel on his fingertips, rubbing it into your skin. It was cold, freezing your skin so much you shivered.

"How long were you tied up like that?" Bucky asked.

You shrugged simply, not actually knowing the answer. It could've been a few hours, or it could've been days. You never could tell.

You let yourself relax. You closed your eyes, exhaustion crashing over you and it wasn't long until sleep took over.

--

You had been prepped beforehand. Given a cold shower and a brush run through your hair. The simple cotton nightgown was thin and barely reached the middle of your thigh. The artificial slick the man had spread in between your legs was cold, as it always was. You think you would get used to it by now. You sat obediently on the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap.

When the door opened, you perked up, but didn't dare look. You heard footsteps, then the door closed.

"Your reward, Soldat," a man spoke, his English almost foreign to your ears.

A reward. . . . Is that what you were? You didn't feel like much of anything.

The handler left, leaving you and the soldier alone. He stalked toward you; you kept your eyes downcast as he stood in front of you, thumb and forefinger cupping your jaw with a surprising amount of gentleness.

"Посмотрите на меня," he said. Look at me. You obeyed, your eyes meeting his carefully. He was large, his shoulders wide as he stared you down, his features expressionless—all but his eyes. His eyes were dark. Demented.

Haunted.

"Улечься," he instructed. Lie down.

Your back hit the mattress before you finished contemplating his words. You bent your knees together at an angle, hands resting at either side of your head. You watched him, not daring to blink.

His flesh fingers grazed up your legs, pulling your knees apart. The chill of the air brushed against your bare center, a shiver dancing down your spine.

The soldier's gaze darkened in the shadows of your quarters. In the shadows, his eyes seemed darker than the devil himself. He hiked your gown up past your hips, his flesh fingers delicate as he inserted two fingers into your cunt. He spread the slick around your lips, glancing up at you when you let out a whimper.

He seemed to hesitate when his hand reached for his belt. He saw the fear in your eyes, the way your hands shook. He blinked—once, twice—like he woke from a trance.

"Вы боитесь," he muttered. You are afraid. What could you say to that? The men never liked it when you were afraid.

When you didn't respond, guilt seeped into his eyes.

"Вы боитесь меня." You're afraid of me.

You shook your head. "Нет, Солдат." No, Soldat.

He got up then, crawling off the bed. You sat up, worry alive in your veins. You had to fix this. If he left without having you—oh, God, you could only imagine what would happen to you.

"Подождать—" You tried to get up, to reach out to him, but he stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. Wait—

"Спать," he said. Sleep. You frowned. You didn't want to sleep, you wanted to do your duty.

"Вы не хотите. . . ?" your timid voice was barely above a whisper. Doesn't he want—?

"Спать," he repeated.

You gave up, laying back down as the soldier pulled the blanket up to your chest. You let out a sigh, closing your eyes as the soldier sat at your feet, his shoulders rigid. You turned on your side, letting yourself relax in the soldier's presence.

"Спать. Я не буду вам больно." I will not  hurt you.

His presence was eerily calming. You were able to fall asleep quickly despite the anxiety biting at your nerves. When you awoke, the soldier was gone.

[mylovelymarvel]

Paint My Sins Away (Part 2)

Pairing: au!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: She continues to paint, but what happens when she says Hello? Soulmate au

Warnings: brief mentions of sex (it’s like barely there and not at all explicit in any way), more angst, and swearing

WC: 2.4k

Part 1 Current Part Part 3

   Six silent days pass before Bucky feels like he can breathe again. Recovery comes slow. He mopes around the tower, though he’d never admit he “mopes”, and there are bruise like bags under his eyes. The long sleeves have made a comeback and he tries his best to avoid everyone.

    Steve doesn’t allow him to be alone for too long though. He quietly brings him food throughout the days and the occasional new book. He doesn’t pester him to talk or to explain his sudden regression, and for that, Bucky is grateful. The blonde super soldier is persistent though. He finds him no matter what inconspicuous room Bucky has tucked himself into into for the day.

    Bucky has a hunch that FRIDAY has been tattling on him.

    After a long day of training and therapy, Bucky finds himself nestled into bed, burrowed under a mountain of blankets with a novel in his hand. It’s nearly nine and the sun has long since set.

    A thick book with a bright red cover sits in his hand. Outlander, it’s called. He’s only about 300 pages in, but he’s already enthralled by it. It whisks him away to another time, to a fantastical universe where he can lose himself. There are whisps of his own time sewn into the story, remnants of the 1940’s before the main character, Mrs. Claire Beaumont, is thrown 200 years into the past. The story is still violent, and he has to skip those parts, but he still loves it.

    Reading has become another way to cope, though he won’t admit it. He has his own bookshelves set up in his room with hundreds of novels sitting on them. I’m trying to catch up on the modern world, he says. Everyone knows it’s bullshit, but they smile and nod and continue to find books they think he’d enjoy.

    It’s sweet and he appreciates it.

    He’s turning to page 332 when he notices the paint appearing again. It’s a sliver of green that tangles around his fingers and clenches painfully around his heart. He chokes out a strangled gasp and closes his eyes. He lowers his hands to his lap and it’s a few moments before he can open his eyes again. When he does, he tucks a Lord of the Rings bookmark between the pages of his book and sets it on his bedside table. With shaking breaths, he rips the blankets from his body and staggers into the bathroom to wash the paint away. Air can scarcely make its way through his constricted throat to his burning lungs.

    His metal shoulder clips the doorway as he stumbles forward and a dull thunk echoes through the cold bathroom. He can barely breathe, but he is trying so, so hard to stay calm. He switches on the hot tap and holds his hand under the running water. He scrubs at his skin, scrapes at the paint, before returning to bed. He sits on the covers and reaches a quivering hand to his book.

                                                  ***

    His book sits abandoned on the comforter next to him. He has his arm laid out in front of him and his gaze is fastened to the scene being created on his skin. He tries to keep his mind empty, to focus on the art. He cannot think about the person poised behind the brush. He tries so desperately to forget about her, to keep his mind from the implications of what this means.

    Instead, he focuses on the way she layers the paint on his palm, hues of blues and purples settling in the creases of his hand. Quiet breaths slip from his lips and there is a steady beat drumming inside his chest. It’s extraordinarily fascinating to watch, relaxing even. His eyelids are droopy and he’s yawned more times than he can count, but he doesn’t quite want to fall asleep yet. She continues the repetitive, calming brush strokes and he doesn’t remember when his eyes close, but suddenly he’s asleep.

                                                   ***

    The paint has disappeared when he wakes up.

    The next couple of weeks follow the same pattern of training, therapy, and painting. He’s not quite sure when he becomes used to her painting. It slips into his schedule, quiet and relaxing, and suddenly he knows what to expect every night before bed. He is curled up in bed by the time she starts and she lulls him to sleep every night. The nightmares are still ever present, but for once, he wakes up well rested. He’s thankful she washes off the paint before he wakes. The long sleeves are still the only shirts he’s willing to wear, but he no longer needs the gloves. It’s progress.

    He still forces himself not to think of her, to think of her as someone who actually exists somewhere out in the world. It is painful, but if he falters, it never fails to send him into an all consuming panic, a pathetic fit of weeping and shaking. He hates how weak he is. A fleeting thought of a girl and suddenly he’s crying. Pathetic. So he ignores it, forgets about her as best as he can.

                                                  ***

    He can tell she’s getting impatient. Nearly a month and a half has passed since she first felt him, but it still hasn’t gone further. He makes no attempt to contact her.

    She usually sets aside a couple of hours every day before bed and paints for him, but today is different. Today she starts much earlier than usual, but balanced between her fingers is a pen rather than a brush. Today she writes on her arm, a simple hello in a pretty blue color. And then she waits.

                                                  ***

    Panic ensues when he notices the blue greeting inscribed on his wrist. Bile rises in his throat and it’s all he can do to keep from vomiting. There’s a gratuitous amount of unwarranted anger that flashes in his eyes as he stares. It was comfortable. It was peaceful. Why did you have to ruin it? Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?

    He licks his thumb and rubs it away, smudging the ink until he’s left with a blue smear on his skin. He yanks his sleeve down and tries to continue with his day.

                                                  ***

    There’s no paint that night and Bucky can’t find it in himself to blame her. It’s well into the early morning when he finally falls into a restless sleep. When he wakes, he wants nothing more than a steaming cup of coffee. It’s six in the morning when he wanders to the kitchen, stretching and rubbing his eyes as he goes. He’s clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a soft sweater that’s much too big for him.

    Steve’s gloves are strewn onto the counter and one of Sam’s jackets are slung over one of the chairs, and it feels just a little more like home.

    It takes a bit to work to fire up the coffee machine and although it can be frustrating, he finds it interesting. He adores these “high-tech gadgets”, as he calls them, and although Sam teases him over and over about that, he enjoys that too.

    He’s leaning against the counter, a warm mug cupped between his hands when she writes again.

    “Hello,” she writes in blocky script. His face crumples into a grimace as he wipes this greeting away too. He’s quiet the rest of the day.

                                                  ***

    For the first time in a long time, Bucky leaves the compound on his own. Within minutes, he’s walking into a building where the air is heavy with sweat and alcohol. He heads straight to the bar.

    He drowns himself in a pretty brunette with green eyes that night. It’s the only way he knows to distract himself, and so it follows. She writes to him, every day now, about anything and everything, and every night he’s in a different girl’s apartment. The writing comes at all times of day. Sometimes she writes when he’s around others and he hurries to stuff his hands into the gloves he always has sitting in his pocket. Other times he’s buried in another pretty girl from the bar.

    Sometimes the girls notice. Often times, they’re surprised or outraged at the ink that dances across his skin and they push him away. He leaves when this happens. On hard nights that he can’t get her out of his mind, he stops. He stutters to a halt and he can’t help the shudders that slide down his spine. On these nights, he apologizes, kisses the girls goodnight, and leaves. When he gets home, he curls into bed, clutching the blanket around him in hopes that the shaking will stop.

                                                  ***

    It’s 3 am and Bucky is in the kitchen. He’s shrugging off his jacket, tugging off his gloves, and his movements are choppy. He’s tired from his walk home after another rejection. She’s getting more persistent and frequent with her writing, and tonight she covered his arm in ink. He tosses his jacket onto the counter and stuffs his gloves into hi pocket. All he wants is his comfy pajamas and something warm.

    He’s reaching up to grab something from the cupboard, and his sleeve is slipping down his arm when he feels a presence behind him. Bucky whirls around, a box of hot chocolate clutched to his chest with his metal hand already placed delicately on the knife strapped to his waist. He breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes it’s only Steve.

    There’s a calm, calculating look plastered on Steve’s face that makes him uneasy. It’s only when he takes his hand off his knife that he realizes Steve’s gaze is fixed on his exposed arm. There’s a sharp inhalation, but Bucky pretends he’s fine as he tosses the box onto the counter behind him and yanks down his sleeve.

    Steve is quiet. He’s leaning back on the kitchen island, arms crossed and he’s still staring. He waits, waits for Steve to yell or get upset, or really, to say anything at this point. But he stays in the same position, watching the way Bucky shifts uncomfortably. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Were you going to tell me?”

Bucky flinches at the sound of the blonde’s voice, too quiet and level. There is a small edge to it, a hint of anger and hurt. Buck averts his eyes, instead choosing to look at the floor as he shifts his weight.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, shrugging. “Probably not.”

    “You have a soulmate, out of nowhere,” he replies, struggling to keep the quiver out of his voice, “and you weren’t going to tell me.”

    Bucky gives a one shouldered shrug.

    “Yeah, I guess.” His voice is low and there’s a note of uncertainty in it.

    “What do you mean “Yeah, I guess”,” Steve bristles, pushing off the counter. Bucky’s eyes harden and he straightens up.

    “What do you want me to say, Steve? ‘Hey, by the way, I suddenly have a soulmate after over 70 fucking years. I don’t know what the fuck to do and I don’t know why she appeared all of a sudden and I’m terrified and I don’t know what this means.’”-He takes a step closer to Steve- “Is that what you want to hear?”

    “Jesus, Buck, no, that’s not what I want and you know it. You finally have a chance at your happy ending, at love, and you weren’t going to tell me? We’re best friends, man.” He stands his ground, unphased by the challenge in Bucky’s voice. He runs a tired hand through his hair.

    “Come on, Steve,” he sighs, casting his gaze down with a flat chuckle. “You really think that’s how this works out? I get some “fairytale ending” with this girl who doesn’t know who I am or what I am? That’s not how this works, okay? I don’t get the happy ending, Steve. I shouldn’t.”

    “Buck, stop it,” he demands in a hard voice as he steps forward. He’s met with a derisive laugh.

    “You stop it. I don’t deserve a soulmate, Steve, it’s not that hard of a concept,” he taunts, a sneer in his words and on his lips. “But you wouldn’t understand that.”

    Steve cocks his heads and narrows his eyes at the accusation that layers the brunette’s words.

    “What is that supposed to mean?”

    “Oh, absolutely nothing.” His tone is mocking as he turns away and runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t think you would understand, you know, with you being Mr. Perfect. You’ve got the perfect life and the perfect soulmate, right? I mean, Sharon’s just great, isn’t she?”

    Steve knows, he fucking knows that Bucky’s just trying to get a rise out of him, but he can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes. It takes a few moments of silence and all his self control to keep from decking Bucky. There’s a deep sigh as he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and biting the inside of his cheek.

    “Okay asshat,” Steve starts, his voice low. “I don’t know how you get off on being a dick and acting like a selfish asshole, but what about your soulmate? I’m not saying you don’t deserve one, because you do, but let’s say you don’t. Even if you don’t, what about her? Doesn’t she get a chance at a soulmate?”

    Steve opens his eyes and blows out a frustrated breath before walking to Bucky, putting his hand on the his shoulder. He ignores the way he tenses up and yanks, pulling Buck to face him. He tugs at his arm, pulling harder when he’s met with resistance, and rips his sleeve down.

    Please just talk to me, is written in small print along his forearm, and Steve scoffs, tossing his arm back at him.

    “Does she deserve to be alone?” He continues, pressing a finger into Bucky’s chest. “Doesn’t she deserve a choice in this? Because all you’re doing right now is taking that choice away from her, and I really thought you’d be the last person to take someone’s decision away from them.”

    To this, Bucky has no reply.

    “When you get your head out of your ass, Buck, you know where to find me,” he mutters, shaking his head as he stalks past the silent, long haired brunette. “In the meantime, just fucking talk to her, man.”

    He leaves the kitchen and once again, Bucky is alone.

@itsholyholland @hootyhoobuckaroo @lunafandomhitwoman @chloe-skywalker @mydragulesebastian @lordemjay @tannyator @nerdydragonwarrior @i-honestly-dont-care-anymore @rebelmosh @peter-parkerman

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Stories From The Road: My Strange Experiences As A Long Distance Trucker by Nickbotic

I know there’s a lot of stories from truck drivers floating around the internet. I also know that a lot of these stories feature similar elements to each other, and some of those elements I’ve experienced myself. What I’m here to share, though, are some things that I’ve gone through on the road that I haven’t seen regaled elsewhere.

I’ve been driving for the last nine years, and I’ve loved it since the moment I started my first job. I work independently, meaning that I bid for delivery contracts against other driving services, be they independent or companies. I’m not married and I have no kids, so driving around the country is ideal for me. Doing so independently allows me to pick and choose where I go, and when.

Driving alone at night on an empty road can get a bit unsettling, despite listening to movies, tv shows, and music all the while. It’s the solidarity of driving for hours without seeing another living soul, that fact that if something were to happen, no one would be around to hear you scream that make the prospect a bit offputting. The rules of NoSleep state that only one story is allowed per post, so I will do my best to provide as much detail in each of my tales to make it worth your while.

Back in 2011, I was tasked with hauling a load from the distributer in Detroit, MI, to Seattle, WA, and due to overnight construction on the interstate, I needed to take a road called ��Montana Highway 200”. That road is the epitome of what I described earlier: hours of driving without seeing another living soul. Due to my schedule, I found myself traversing this stretch of road around 11pm. I was wide awake, though, so I decided to push on.

I was about 130 miles east of the city of Great Falls, MT, and I was watching one show or another, just kinda spacing out as I drove through the dark. All the electronics of the rig suddenly flickered. The laptop screen went black for a few quick moments, as did the headlights and the lights on the sides of the truck. After a few seconds, all was fine, though I was a bit perturbed, because the lights on the truck were the only lights around me; without them, I couldn’t see more than 20 feet in any direction.

I continued driving for another few miles, and everything flickered a few more times. I came up over a hill and the headlights dimmed severely, to the point I could only see a few feet past the front of the truck. As I reached the bottom of the hill, the lights suddenly surged. The brights were brighter than they’d ever been, the interior lights of the truck were on at 110% power, the orange lights on the side of the truck glowed brightly into the darkness that surrounded me. And with that, the truck shut off.

I came rolling to a stop at the bottom of the hill and spent some time trying to fix the issue, ultimately finding myself unable to get the truck started back up. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and of course, I had no signal. With nothing in front of or behind me for 50 miles, and the fact that I hadn’t seen another vehicle on this road since I got on it, I decided the only thing I could really do is try to get a signal on my phone to call AAA. I grabbed a flashlight, got out of the truck and began doing the ever-popular “hold your phone up in the air” move while I walked aimlessly in the dark.

I think it was because I was so focused on the truck and my phone that I didn’t realize how...terrifying it was out there. The stars weren’t very bright, and the moon was resting comfortably behind trees in the distance; being at the bottom of a hill didn’t help. I stayed close to the truck but wandered around a bit looking for any semblance of a signal. When I still couldn’t get any, I shined my flashlight around a bit and saw a hill on the opposite side of the road.

Just as I was going to go to the hill, I saw a light in the distance, the unmistakable glow of headlights. I breathed a sigh of relief, then looked down at my phone, then back up, and the lights were substantially closer than they just had been, much too close for a car to be driving. Then I blinked, and once again they were gone, but at that same moment, it was like the sounds of the world stopped. Cicadas in the distance ceased, crickets went silent, and the sound of blowing wind evaporated, and with that, it was completely, deafeningly, ear-shatteringly silent.

It was so quiet that it was disorienting. I leaned against the truck while I got my bearings, and then once again tried to find the lights that had been driving toward me, but I couldn't see them. I shined my flashlight around me, out into the distance, trying to find the hill I had wanted to climb to try to get signal on my phone, but I was taken aback when something else caught my eye. A door.

Off the side of the road, mabe 10-15 yards out, there was a door. It was a door like any one you’d find in a house. Intrigued, I walked over to it, with a cautious reserve. It was in a frame, and had a doorknob and everything. As I got closer, I felt an overwhelming wave of anxiety come over me. I wasn’t scared, necessarily, but rather, nervous. I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t hear anything, a car may or may not have been heading in my direction, and there was a door standing in what was quite literally the middle of nowhere. It was just an overload of things I didn’t understand.

I reached the door and walked around it, and it was just that, a door, standing free in the middle of a huge open field. Now that I was closer, I could see that there was a design in the door, flowers to be precise, painted in very light pastel colors, so light that even if it was the middle of the day I wouldn’t have been able to see them from where I’d first noticed the door.

As I was inspecting it, my sense of hearing returned, and I was hit with a flood of noise. Like the lights that amplified a short time prior, the sounds blared like my head was inside a speaker. The sounds of crickets and cicadas nearly brought me to my knees before they returned to normal levels. I had barely had a chance to collect myself when I saw movement near the front of the truck. I shined my light light towards it and for a split second I saw a glimpse of what looked like a person moving from my line of vision to behind the truck.

I yelled out to whoever it was with a generic “hey!” and abandoned my interest in the door. I lightly jogged over to the truck and with the same cautious reserve, I turned the corner to see who was by the truck. The same thing happened, though, and as I turned the corner, so did whoever it was that was there, only at the other end of the truck, and I saw the same glimpse of a possible person now moving behind the trailer.

Instead of chasing them the way they were going, I moved in the opposite direction, and tried to meet them around the other side of the truck, but when I did, I saw no one. I couldn’t hear any footsteps or anything; it was like I’d imagined someone there, only I knew I hadn’t. I decided to look under the truck, to see if I could see the feet of whoever it was. I crouched down got as low as I needed to to see underneath the trailer and shined my flashlight. Of course, I saw no one. But at that moment, I felt eyes on me.

The feeling was unmistakable, I’m sure you know the one I’m talking about. I slowly stood back up, and shuddered when I was finally upright. I then felt a warm breath on my neck, and quickly spun around, only to find myself face to face with...someone. I still don’t know what I was looking at. Their face was a blur, like it was vibrating almost, but not. I know that’s a terrible description, but it’s the only way I can think of to put it. If you’ve ever seen the show The Flash, think of Reverse Flash, but only their face. The only feature I could make out was actually a lack of a feature; where eyes would have been, though I wouldn’t have been able to really see them properly, there was just solid black, like the sockets were hollow.

They were wearing a suit, but, it was like an amalgam of other suits. A patchwork array of different fabrics and monochromatic colors all sewn together, though it was all done very precisely, like you could actually go into a store and buy it; it wasn’t sloppy in the least. Finally, on their head was a top hat, though a subtle one. It was a dark gray, almost gun metal, and somehow it, as well as the rest of their body, was still; only their face seemed to be out of focus.

I was frozen in fear, once again consumed by the anxiety caused by the unknown and unfamiliar. I simply stood there, face to face with this person, for what seemed like an eternity, though in reality it couldn’t have been more than two, maybe three seconds. I then felt another warm breath on the back of my neck, which made me instinctively shudder and spin around, only there was no one behind me. Upon seeing this, I turned around once again to keep my eyes on...whoever I had just been been face to face with, only they were gone.

I was alone once again. The feeling of being watched was gone. I was standing next to the truck by myself, the normal sounds of the night surrounding me, and the crippling feeling of anxiety had dissipated. The orange lights on the side of the truck then flickered back on, as did the headlights. I cautiously walked around to the driver’s side of the truck and climbed in, finding that when I’d gotten out of the truck, I had left the keys in the ignition, turned to the point that the electrics in the vehicle would be on. I closed the door and attempted to start the truck, and was relieved when there was a rumbling, then the roar of the engine. I didn’t think twice before putting it into gear and continuing down Montana Highway 200.

There were so many aspects of that night that I didn’t understand. I finished the job and all the while I was trying to rationalize what had happened, and why. It was all so confusing, but it would not be the last time I encountered the same aspects of what happened that night. The person with the vibrating face, the sound and light surges, and that door. That flowery, pastel, freestanding door. I would see them again about eight months later.