#kidnapper!bucky

You didn’t have to.

You felt him.

“Thought you were clever,” came a deep voice, low and calm.

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“You’re bleeding,” he added, and it almost sounded like concern. “Could’ve broken your neck falling like that.”

He crouched beside you slowly. Not rushed. Not angry.

Calculated.

“I should break it for you,” he murmured, gloved fingers brushing your hair from your face. “But then you wouldn’t be able to walk. And you’re going to walk, sweetheart. All the way back with me.”

You finally looked at him.

His mask was off. That was new.

So was the expression in his eyes.

Not mechanical. Not cold.

Hungry.

“I’m not going back,” you whispered.

“Oh, you’re not.” He tilted his head. “Not to them.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m not giving you back,” he said simply. “You think I’d let them put their hands on you again after you ran? After I had to track you down like a goddamn animal?”

He lifted you easily into his arms. You kicked, screamed, clawed at his face—but he didn’t flinch.

He smiled.

“Struggle all you want, кукла,” he murmured. “You’re mine now.”

You woke up somewhere new.

Not a cell. Not Hydra.

A cabin.

The scent of cedar, smoke, and blood.

You were on a cot with your ankle wrapped, wrists tied loosely to the headboard with leather belts. Not harsh. Not cutting. Just… unavoidable.

The room was warm. A fire flickered nearby.

He sat in the corner, elbows on his knees, watching.

“You slept twelve hours,” Bucky said softly.

“You kidnapped me.”

“I saved you.”

He stood, slowly. His movements were always deliberate, quiet in a way that felt wrong. Predatory. You weren’t sure if you were the prey or the prize.

“Hydra would've killed you for what you took,” he continued. “You know that, right? That intel you stole? Buried codes, black-site names… you think they’d let that go?”

“I didn’t steal it for them.”

“I know,” he said, and walked toward you. “You stole it for you. And now I have it.”

You stared. “You kept it?”

“I kept you.” His eyes flickered. “That was the deal.”

“There was no deal—”

“There was, sweetheart. You ran, and I chased. You screamed, and I listened. And now you’ll stay.”

He untied your wrists with practiced ease. You didn’t fight. You were too stunned.

Too scared.

Bucky stepped back and dropped a bundle of clothes on the bed.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he said. “But if you run again, I will chain you to the bed.”

And then, just like that, he left.

The days passed strangely.

He cooked for you. Watched you eat. Sat near the fireplace with books in his lap like he wasn’t the same man who used to slit throats in the name of command.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t demand anything—at first.

You learned his patterns. When he would leave. When he would linger.

You counted the knives. Learned the creak in the floorboards. Found the key to the front door tucked in the lining of his coat. Almost.

But he always knew.

“You think I can’t feel when you’re lying?” he said one night, voice barely louder than the wind outside. “I can smell it on you. Like fear. Like heat.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m not lying.”

He smiled.

“Then come here.”

You didn’t move.

His eyes darkened. “I said—”

“I’m not scared of you.”

It was the worst thing you could’ve said.

Because he was on you before you could blink, one hand at your throat—not choking, not hurting—just possessing.

“Then you’re a fool,” he growled.

You didn’t cry.

He respected that.

It changed after that.

He touched you more.

His hand lingered when he passed you tea. His fingers curled around your ankle when he sat near you at night.

“I should’ve never let them use you,” he said one evening, almost to himself. “Should’ve killed them all when they put you in that room.”

You didn’t ask which room.

You didn’t want to remember.

“I remember what they did to you,” he whispered. “I remember watching. Being ordered not to move. I wanted to burn the whole building down.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because they controlled me too.”

His voice cracked, just barely.

And then he kissed you.

You didn’t push him away.

You didn’t pull him closer, either.

That seemed to be enough.

You tried to escape again a week later.

You made it as far as the tree line before the dart hit your neck.

When you woke, you were in a different room. Not the cabin. Not the woods.

Concrete walls.

Chains.

He was there.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Just sat in the chair, watching you breathe through the sedative.

“I told you,” Bucky finally said. “Run again, and you don’t get the bed.”

You were groggy, your tongue thick in your mouth. “What is this?”

“This is where I fix you.”

You laughed—dry and bitter. “You sound like them.”

“No,” he said firmly, leaning forward. “They wanted to break you. I want to rebuild you.”

He stood, metal hand trailing across the chain that held your ankle. “This is the last time I’m giving you a choice, baby.”

“Choice?” you spit. “There’s no choice.”

He nodded.

“Exactly.”

The conditioning was slow.

Not pain. Not torture.

Pleasure.

Warmth. Kindness. Repetition.

He brought you your favorite foods. Let you curl into his chest at night.

He never forced you. Not physically.

But he waited.

Waited until you asked him for something. Anything.

“Can I have a book?”

“You’ll read to me first.”

“Can I shower alone?”

“You’ll kiss me when you’re done.”

It was always give and take.

Always more than it seemed.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t hurt.

He retrained you.

Soft words. Soft hands.

Soft lies.

It didn’t feel like captivity anymore.

That was the worst part.

Your body stopped flinching when he entered the room. You found yourself watching him make breakfast, wondering what name he used before he was a weapon. You started missing him when he left.

And when you touched yourself at night… it was his name on your lips.

Not yours.

The first time he took you, it was snowing again.

You had been curled up near the fireplace, your body in a haze of trust and confusion, your mind weaker than you realized.

Bucky came in from the cold, eyes wild, cheeks flushed.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you.

“You’ve been good,” he said softly.

You didn’t answer.

He pulled you to your feet.

And kissed you like he owned you.

The worst part?

You kissed him back.

You opened for him.

You let him.

He didn’t have to fight.

He knew he’d already won.

You screamed when you came.

He didn’t gag you.

Didn’t stop.

Just held your wrists and whispered in your ear.

“You’re mine now, кукла. Mine forever. That’s non-negotiable.”

You should’ve hated him.

You should’ve fought harder.

But you didn’t.

Because somewhere between the second escape attempt and the firelight kisses, your survival instincts had blurred.

And he’d made you forget how to want anything else.

You wake now with him beside you.

The chains are gone.

There are no locks.

But you don’t leave.

You could. You’ve thought about it.

But your body doesn’t move.

Because when he wraps his arms around you, when his voice murmurs in your ear about how proud he is, how safe you are now… it feels real.

He never gave you a cage.

He gave you a choice.

And made you believe you chose him.

But it was never your choice.

Not really.

Because once the Winter Soldier sets his sights on something…