#Trauma and Healing

[heldbybarnes]

You Were What They Couldn't Take

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: emotional trauma, memory wiping, brainwashing, PTSD, past captivity, hurt/comfort, soft ending.

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The last time you saw him, he was kissing your fingertips on the steps of your mother’s brownstone, his thumb brushing the tiny diamond he’d saved three paychecks for. You had laughed through your tears, heart hammering behind your ribs as the train's whistle echoed in the distance. He looked like everything you had ever wanted: polished boots, pressed uniform, soft boyish grin full of bravado and promise.

“I’m coming back to you,” he said, voice low, forehead pressed against yours. “You and me—we’re gonna have a life. Just hang on for me.”

You kissed him like you already knew it would be the last.

And when the letters stopped coming, when the reports of missing soldiers were read out in monotone voices on the radio, you didn’t cry. Not at first.

Not until someone returned his dog tags.

Not until someone said “train accident” and “no body recovered” and “we’re sorry.”

You buried a ring in the back of your drawer and called it closure. But some part of you—some tiny, unkillable corner—refused to let go of his voice. His eyes. The way he had once looked at you like you were something holy.

That part would save you in the years to come.

Because as it turned out, Bucky Barnes wasn’t dead.

Not really.

Not yet.

They told him to forget. Every time he remembered something he wasn’t supposed to, they dragged him into that sterile white room and stripped it from him.

But he held onto you like a reflex. Like instinct.

Sometimes your face would come back in the middle of a mission—a flicker in a mirror, the shape of a woman’s silhouette in a doorway, the whisper of a laugh that wasn’t yours but was close enough to punch the air from his lungs.

And each time, he panicked.

Because he knew what came next.

“Don’t take her,” he’d beg, strapped to that chair, heart thundering beneath the weight of everything he didn’t understand. “Please… she was mine.”

No one ever answered.

They just flipped the switch.

Pain bloomed white-hot behind his eyes, and your name dissolved on his tongue like ash.

Until the next time. And the next. And the next.

You didn’t know your name for a long time.

They called you Subject Echo.

You were one of the failed experiments—or so they said. One of the serum trials that shouldn’t have worked, but did.

The pain came first. Then the silence.

Then the dreams.

Always the dreams.

He came to you in broken flashes: a man with storm-colored eyes, a crooked smile, arms that held you like you were fragile. You didn’t know who he was. Not at first. Not until you heard him say your name.

Y/N.

That’s what he called you.

And suddenly, that was the only thing that felt true.

The rest of you had been fractured, burned, rewritten—but the sound of his voice? That lived in your bones.

You clawed your way out of that underground lab with nothing but a memory.

A name.

Bucky.

You whispered it like a spell, over and over again, while the world changed and HYDRA crumbled and the stories of ghosts and metal-armed monsters filled the airwaves.

You followed those stories.

Not because you believed in monsters.

But because you believed in him.

You found the safehouse by memory.

The codes were still the same.

It sat quiet, forgotten near the sea, crumbling at the edges but hidden well enough. You patched what you could, lived on canned food and hope. And every night, you checked the perimeter. Every night, you dreamed of him standing in that doorway.

Sometimes, you thought it would break you.

But then the door opened.

You heard it—hard and fast and unmistakable. Metal against metal. Rain-soaked boots on concrete.

You barely turned before you saw him—taller now, broader, hair longer than you remembered, soaked and curling around his face. A deep scar ran from his temple down to his jaw. He was bleeding, shaking, eyes blown wide like he didn’t know where he was or why.

But he saw you.

And everything in him stopped.

Like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe.

“Y/N?” he rasped, voice hoarse and disbelieving.

Your knees buckled.

You would’ve hit the ground if he hadn’t caught you.

The arm around you was cold, unyielding metal—but his hand on your face was warm. Familiar.

Your hands found his jacket, curled tight.

“Bucky,” you whispered, heart splintering. “Is it you? Is it really—?”

He nodded, fast, like he didn’t trust his voice.

“I thought you were dead,” you choked. “I thought you were gone.”

“I was,” he said, forehead resting against yours. “They killed me, and they brought me back wrong. But you—” his voice cracked, “—you were the only thing they couldn’t erase. I remembered you. I always remembered you.”

Tears ran hot down your face.

His thumb wiped them away.

“I begged them,” he whispered. “Every time they wiped me. I begged them not to take you.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Like your heart was trying to leap out of your chest.

You had waited years for this. Survived hell for this.

And still, it hurt.

He didn’t sleep that first night.

Neither did you.

He sat on the floor, back to the wall, legs stretched out, staring at nothing. You curled up on the cot, blanket pulled over your shoulders like it could protect you from the weight of the past.

“I’m not who I used to be,” he said eventually. “I’ve done things you can’t forgive.”

You sat up.

“I didn’t survive all this just to forgive you,” you said. “I survived to find you.”

He turned to look at you, something broken behind his eyes.

“You should’ve run,” he said.

“I did,” you replied. “Straight to you.”

His throat worked as he tried to swallow the words clawing up.

You moved slowly, crossing the room, lowering yourself into his lap like it was still second nature.

And when he wrapped both arms around you—one flesh, one metal—you felt it.

That he was still in there.

Still yours.

The nightmares were bad.

He woke up screaming sometimes, shaking and soaked in sweat, eyes wild like he was back in the chair, back on the slab, being rewritten from the inside out.

You learned how to hold him without asking questions.

Sometimes he talked.

Most times, he didn’t.

But every now and then, he’d curl into you like a wounded child and say your name like a prayer.

“I thought I lost you,” he’d whisper. “Every time. Every damn time.”

“You didn’t,” you always answered. “I found you. We found each other.”

But sometimes, when he looked in the mirror too long, you worried he didn’t believe it.

Didn’t believe he deserved it.

So you started saying it more.

You mattered.

You’re still him.

You’re still mine.

He never said thank you.

He just looked at you like you’d hung the moon.

You told Steve first.

Bucky stood silent at your side, jaw clenched like he was waiting for rejection.

But Steve just stared.

And then his face cracked—something between awe and heartbreak.

He stepped forward and pulled you both into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You’re home,” he said. “Both of you. Finally.”

You wore the ring on a chain for a long time.

The same one he’d given you on the steps that day.

The gold had dulled over the decades, but the stone still caught the light the same way. You used to touch it when the world felt too loud, thumb rubbing over the curve of the band like it could tether you to something real.

One morning, he came to you in the kitchen, quiet and serious, holding out his hand.

He slid the ring off the chain and back onto your finger.

“I made a promise,” he said softly. “And I still mean it.”

You looked up at him through tears.

“So do I.”

It wasn’t perfect.

There were days when he didn’t speak. Days when the weight of what he’d done, what he’d been turned into, crushed him like a tide.

You stayed through all of it.

Not because it was easy.

But because you remembered the boy who kissed you like you were something worth coming back to.

Because somewhere inside the man with trembling hands and a haunted stare was the same soul who had once promised you a life.

And he was still trying to give it to you.

Every single day.

“I loved you before they broke me,” he told you one night, lying beside you in the half-dark.

“And I’ll love you long after I heal.”

You brushed his hair back from his face, heart full to the brim.

“They’ll never touch us again,” you whispered.

His eyes glistened.

“I won’t let them.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t out of desperation.

It was homecoming.

It was beginning again.

[aventurineswife]

The weight of the sky seemed endless as the two of you sat in silence, the gentle hum of the Astral Express vibrating beneath your feet. Sunday’s gaze was cast toward the swirling cosmos outside the window, his eyes softened by the vastness before him. His wings fluttered ever so slightly, a subtle sign of something unspoken, something held close within his heart. His halo hovered faintly above him, the eyes etched within it flickering in time with the distant stars.

Beside him, you, a fallen angel, watched as the space between the two of you expanded and contracted, as if the universe itself was breathing in sync with your hesitant connection. Once, you had both been celestial beings, bathed in light and purpose. But now, the wings that had once been a symbol of grace hung heavier, tarnished by the fall, by the choices that had been made. Your shared past was no longer a dream of peace, but an echo of something more complicated—something fractured.

It was the stillness between you that felt the loudest. Sunday’s usual calm demeanor, always so composed, now seemed like a fragile facade, as if his very presence was too delicate to bear the weight of both his idealism and his doubts. And you—your once-vibrant wings were now a muted reflection of their former glory, the loss of innocence still fresh on your soul. You had fallen, yes, but in your heart, you both knew it wasn’t just the fall that kept you grounded. It was the constant struggle to rise again, together or apart.

You had loved him once, and perhaps still did, despite the years of separation, despite the wounds that had never fully healed. His soft gaze met yours briefly, and for a moment, the distance between the two of you seemed to vanish. But only for a moment. The coldness of his self-imposed solitude crept back in, shrouding him in the same protective shell that had kept him isolated for so long.

He, the protector of dreams, the idealist who wished to escape suffering, now seemed caught between worlds—the one that was real and the one he so desperately wanted to create. You understood that pain; it resonated within you, reverberating through every fiber of your being. The loss of your wings had not been a simple fall; it had been a choice, a fracture of ideals, a departure from a reality too painful to face.

Yet in that fleeting look, you saw him—the Sunday you had known before everything had fallen apart. The one who still clung to hope, however fragile, despite the weight of his guilt. The one who believed in redemption, in healing, even when the path forward was cloaked in shadows. He was still searching, still yearning for something better, but it was unclear whether he was doing it for the world or for himself.

Your wings, though broken, still yearned to reach him. To soothe the turmoil that clouded his thoughts, to whisper the truth that you both were more than the sum of your pasts. You had fallen, yes, but you had also risen, over and over. And so had he, in his own way, struggling with his own fall.

But it was the fall that had changed you both. The quiet way you drifted into each other's orbit, two souls bound by the same celestial ache, yet bound by the knowledge that redemption wasn’t a place—it was a journey. Together, but apart, your connection remained fragile, and yet undeniable, like the stars that burned dimly yet persistently in the void.

As the train drifted further into the unknown, you sat beside him, not speaking, but knowing. Knowing that no matter how far the distance stretched between your hearts, there would always be something that tethered you both together—a shared past, a shared longing, a shared, quiet hope.

Originally was requested by someone on Wattpad but I wanted to post here too because I can and I will 🧍‍♀️🫶

[venusplutoangels]

I’ve been wanting to paint this in the style of Tracey Emin for years and I finally drew it on my iPad on procreate. I can’t wait until I’m able to paint this on a canvas. This is about how I’ve only ever felt pretty while having my trauma re-enacted through rough and degrading sex with a partner who did not give a fuck about my well-being. I broke my own heart each time that I recreated my sexual abuse but I also laid it out on a silver platter for the predator to devour it as well. This was a partnered effort that made me feel at home during the act and torn with shame and self disgust afterwards. This piece is the visual representation of sex used as self harm. I know that many victims of csa/sa who have acted out in both sexual and self destructive ways because of what we suffered before. I make this art for many survivors who can relate but also for the survivors who have too much shame to speak out about it. The world has shunned us enough for something that was out of our control so please have compassion and grace towards yourself. Love, Grace <3

[yudzukii]

Touch

?'s are bridges

Over rivers of uncertainty

Where pulses encounter

Two hearts leaning towards

Two hearts forming chords

Lost and lonely soloists

play heartstrings monophonic

Desperate instrumentalists

snap the heartstrings in two

The name of this bridge is:

"tell me who are you?"

What's the sound of your heart?

[boybasher]

Trauma Bond

[captaingimpy]

Station Eleven Review – Art After the End

There’s no weak link in Station Eleven. From an acting perspective, every performance hits—so much so that it’s hard to single anyone out. The show takes what could’ve been yet another pandemic collapse narrative and turns it into something far more layered. Instead of leaning into zombies or societal death spirals, it centers artists. Not survivalists, not cops, not politicians. Artists. Most…

[rainbow-rebellion]

Don’t mind me I’m just over here making unintelligible sounds at the season finale of The Way Home…. I’m happy, I’m sad, I’m confused AF and thank the gods they renewed for a season 3 next year, otherwise I might have gone feral after that cliffhanger they left us with

[judeaftersickness]

hii im river this is my a little life sideblog. main is @0kultra!

this blog will most likely be for quotes and art lol but ill update this post as necessary if i start posting more things :-)

tags below <3

characters!!

- jude st francis

- willem ragnarsson

- malcolm irvine

- jb marion

- harold stein

- andy contractor

themes!!

- chronic pain

- forgiveness

- friendship and found family

- identity and self-perception

- isolation and connection

- love and sacrifice

- power and control

- trauma and healing

- trust and betrayal

- vulnerability and intimacy

misc

- language and imagery

- quotes

- mine

- on writing

[carnage-cathedral]

my partner said something that kinda rocked my world

[elegyofdionysus]

On this bench

On this bench

In my favourite place

A place that is supposed to swallow me

I am alone

My favourite food in hand

Bite after bite

Thought after thought

I am still starving

[captaingimpy]

Review: American Primeval (2025)

Starring Taylor Kitsch, Betty Gilpin, and Shawnee Pourier American Primeval is a six-episode Netflix series that strips away the romanticized veneer of the Old West, delivering a raw and unflinching portrayal of frontier life. Set in 1857 during the Utah War, the narrative centers on Sara Rowell (Betty Gilpin) and her son Devin (Preston Mota) as they navigate a treacherous landscape teeming with…

[rantsandeepthoughts]

I had a work meeting today -

And it was with that senior at work that always annoyed me. His incompetence is still there. The work and meeting problems were still there.

But.

I felt a difference during this meeting. In myself.

I have been in a calmer more restful peaceful place in my life, and so my overall mood was calmer.

I didn't feel annoyed, even though he was still the same incompetent guy

I cared less. I didn't feel the pressing need to solve other people's problems. So all his problems, I didn't get stressed over it without the weight of 'I have to fix this'

...so yeah. Even with just these small changes. It feels like. Even just these few things.

These few factors. That are a result of the healing journey I'm on, a healing journey i am still on.

Are eye opening enough on how trauma causes stress, not just directly, but in many indirect ways too.

And yeah. It's eye opening....

[nathan-r-dooley]

The Seed of Today

A Morning Walk This morning, I rose with strange energy—despite just 4 hours and 28 minutes of uninterrupted sleep. No grogginess. No resistance. Just alertness. Purpose. As I geared up to walk our dog, Rocky, my wife Laura blinked in surprise. “Are you going for a walk?”“Are you okay? Why?” “The Lord told me to,” I replied, equally surprised at my own response. We exchanged a few words…

[samw3000]

Sequence

I’m not sure if this technically counts as a concrete poem—but conceptually, our DNA is like concrete. You can imprint all you want while it’s still wet, still forming. But once it sets, the shape holds—sometimes for generations. And yes, sometimes, you have to break it to start over.And that’s okay. © 2025 Samantha Williams. All Rights Reserved. Meet the bar with concrete and shape poetry Thank…

[yudzukii]

Glühwürmchen

Zwischen Blinden und Blendern

Scheinen Glühwürmchen leise

Denn im Krieg mit sich selbst

Wird das Kind des Friedens Waise

Mit abgewandtem Blick in Furcht

Erahnt man Scheusale in Stille

Zarte Blüten verwelken in Dürre

Und verbrennen dort im Wille

[slowtumbling]

Tranquilo, Baby, Tranquilo

Learnings from the Land of Trees I return again to Guatemala, Cuauhtēmallān—“the place of many trees”—with a heart full of memory, anticipation, and quiet trembling. This land has never been a neutral backdrop in my story. It has been teacher, sanctuary, and witness. I first came here in 1989, young and wide-eyed, a college student eager to learn, uncertain of what would be asked of me. I…