Steve Rogers And Bucky Barnes Images

Warnings - Blood, abuse, heavy abuse, PTSD, injuries, containment, no use of Y/N, reader is kinda crazy/insane, talks of human expirements, trauma, heavily implied trust issues

Reader kinda goes through it

*LONG CHAPTER*

Bucky felt a heavy weight on his entire body. Along with the painful headache. His eyes struggle to even open, and once the blinding light finally comes to just a fading brightness, he finally notices the blood across Steve's head as he lays motionless on top of him.

Nothing could remind him at the moment on what the hell happened. There's weight in his body that he's not used to, and with Steve's on top of that, he can barely move without feeling some sort of ache as he tries to get feeling back in his hands again.

"Steve," he mutters, already dropping his head on the concrete ground beneath him as his ribs start to announce their pain. "Steve, come on, man." Finally shoving him off, Bucky is able to breathe. The pain is tolerable now, already feeling most of the injuries start to fade.

Steve groans just a little, and Bucky snaps his head in his direction. The gash on his head is deep, blood trailing down his face and covering his hands. Bucky hadn't been hit that hard, but knowing his best friend, he can take hits that even he has problems taking.

"Buck?" Steve finally gains most of his senses as he tries to push himself up, failing and falling right back on his chest. "What the-"

"What do you want from me?" Both soldiers freeze. The third voice hadn't been one they recognized at all, and when they turn around, they finally see where it came from. "Please, I can't take anymore today." Tears make a stream down your face, an odd limp in your body as you push yourself in the corner. "Just-please-"

"Woah," Bucky mumbles, standing as best as he can. It's obvious you're in distress. You're shaking and pushing yourself against the wall, blood covered all over your clothes that seem just a little too big for you. "Hey, it's alright. We're not going to hurt you." He looks over at Steve, who is still trying to push himself up from the floor. "Just-trust me, can you do that?"

Moving to his friend, he slides an arm under his to pull him up, looking your direction to really get a view of you. Bruises litter your body, and if he didn't recognize the layout as some old basement, he would've guess you just came back from war. Your clothes are shredded as much as they're covered in blood, and just from one listen, a few bones are broken and have most likely healed improperly.

You don't respond to him, only watch as he pulls Steve closer to your side of the room. He stops almost immediately when you flinch back, holding out your hand with a shout of "stop". Your eyes show every ounce of fear you could hold, tears swelling and other hand struggling to support you.

"Okay, okay," Bucky mumbles, setting Steve on the floor with a grunt. His own body rejects any movement, but he watches you carefully. Your eyes cast over his body, not missing anything as he sits on the floor. "Like I said, we're not going to hurt you. From the looks of it, we're in the same boat."

"This isn't a boat."

Steve chuckles from his spot on the floor, laughing just a little before he coughs. "She sounds like us," he mumbles, eyes fighting sleep before Bucky slaps his arm. "What?"

"How hard 'd they hit ya'?" Unrelenting, Bucky sits him up, not quite caring that two hundred pounds of muscle is sagging in his arms. He just seems concerned. "How old are you, kid?" He asks you, giving you the softest look you've ever been given.

And Bucky is met with a look of terror. You still stand in the corner, pushing yourself as if the wall was going to move if you applied anymore pressure. Your eyebrows furrow gently, and you finally meet his gaze, shoulders barely shrugging before you wince in pain. "The last time I was outside, I was eleven. I was born in 1991, that's as far as I remember."