you most likely should have been listening to the announcers while waiting for your placement, but you were too distracted to think. your head rested in your hands as you stared out toward the rink, where you'd just preformed your free skate to "edge of seventeen" by stevie nicks. your costume was incredible, feathered and something akin to angelic (a nod to the lyric "just like the white-winged dove", which you had a hunch would become your nickname).
your train of thought was interrupted by amber tugging the sleeve of your windbreaker. she was pretty much the only one keeping you and alysa in line these days. she whispered to you "they just said your name, look", and pointed to the screen before stepping away a bit as to not block the cameras from you.
"oh, and it seems she's just realized!" one of the announcers barked out a laugh, as you squinted toward the screen. your jaw dropped at the placement of silver. in the olympics. with a scoring of 148.96.
"oh my god!" you couldn't help but shout, smacking a hand over your mouth as you jumped up from your seat. you looked over the screen a bit more, noticing the name above yours. it brought an equal rush of excitement, to see "gold: alysa liu, 150.20"
your head snapped over to your girlfriend, who was already practically cheesing at your excitement. she found it hilarious that you were the last one to notice such a large moment in olympic history.
you wasted no time in running over to alysa, throwing your arms around her in a bone-(and costume)-crushing hug. you squealed excitedly, it was girlish and high-pitched, but you were too excited to care.
"we won! we won!" you jumped up in down, pulling back from the hug and opting to grab her hands instead.
"i know, i know!" she replied, laughing at your bunny-hopping. she let go of your hands, and without thinking, brought hers up to cradle your face, and kissed you. in front of everyone there, and their hundreds of cameras. you melted into it, as routine, but suddenly remembered where you were, pulled back, and looked around.
"uh oh." you giggled, looking over to alysa, who'd also realized what she'd done. you figured there's no going back now, so you wrapped your arms around her once more and shoved your face in her neck to hide your embarrassment.
"well, that's sure to ruffle some feathers." an announcer joked, as the camera zooms in on a quill falling off of your dress.
wait i like this one!!!!! see original request here ! also if you were the person who sent in a nat request (that i mentioned on my alysa post from yesterday), i think it deleted from my inbox or it glitched bc it's now gone? feel free to send it in again! also i saw stevie live so i was inspired to use her song
You hate Ilia. You can’t get enough of him. Tensions rise to a head at Milan, and he’s more than happy to talk - and fuck - it out.
☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆
contains: dom!ilia x f!reader, enemies to lovers-ish (they’re stupid and down bad for each other), semi-public sex, oral (m + f receiving), slight praise and degradation, mentions of dacryphilia
a/n: for the sake of this fic, pretend than men and women’s free skates compete together + no feb 13th. also wc: 3.5k
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You didn’t know if you wanted to get on top of him or get under him.
2024, Worlds, free skate - you gave what you considered a show-stopping performance and received good applause, even the occasional cheer. Then it was his turn - about as good as yours but with some less-than-clean jumps. Impressive, albeit, but with shaky landings.
Yet, as he left the ice, the arena thundered with applause - more applause than you got during your entire routine.
“You did great,” he enthused as he headed towards the locker rooms, receiving a rain of pats on the back. “My favorite silver medalist.”
You tried to remain stone-faced, to not to sulk like a sore loser. He broke away from the sea of praise, motioning for you to follow.
“What?” you asked, arms crossed.
“Nothing. You look really pretty.”
And then he blew you a kiss and left - really, just waved to all his fans, teammates, parents, anyone but you - and raced off before you could get a word in. Before you could think about the way that his muscles flexed beneath the shirt he was wearing and how they’d feel caging you under him.
2025, Worlds. Ilia rubs his gold in your face before trying to hug you, and you wince. You see the flicks all over social media the next day. 2025, Grand Prix Final. You try to congratulate him, put a pin on this weird, one-sided rivalry, and he rushes off. Your coach gives you a bouquet that feels like a consolation gift. 2025, US Championships. You don’t catch him at all, but the first post on your TikTok feed is saying that you should switch to pairs skating. With him. As if you weren’t polar opposites in artistic direction.
He reposts it.
You shouldn’t have been checking in the first place. (You still do). He has that effect on people, the poster boy for the sport, sure to go Olympian. And you’re - well, you’re just one of them.
You see the TikTok before it reaches fifty likes - a humiliating metric that proves you’ve been lurking more than you’d like to admit. Can you teach me how to skate?. Ilia slides across the ice, tongue out, and winks.
You cringe.
You watch it three more times.
2026, Milan, free skate. It’s a dizzyingly larger crowd than you’re accustomed to. Fans - fans - wield signs with your face on it, standing and pointing their phones straight down at you, fire the trigger of their cameras. Point, click, flash. You pace in the entryway towards the ice, willing the adrenaline to wear off.
A hand on your shoulder startles you.
“Feeling ready?”
“Yeah.” It’s abrasive and through your teeth. He laughs nervously, running his hands through his hair.
“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he says. And he smiles. The sight makes your stomach flip in ways you don’t want to think about. Like how you felt watching that Tiktok. Ilia, can you teach me how to skate?
“No, yeah, uh - for sure.”
You don’t even recognize your own voice - weak, cracking at the edges. And you’re still staring at him. The chatter of the crowd fades to the contour of his jaw, the fanning of his lashes, the slopes of his face. “I like your costume.”
His eyes flutter, surprised, and soften. “Thanks. I took inspiration from your fit in that one training video.”
“You watch my training videos?”
Ilia ducks his head bashfully. Stuffs his hands in his pockets of his windbreaker.
“I mean, yeah. You’re a great skater.”
You open your mouth, questions flooding your mind but none sitting right in your mouth. “Thanks.”
“Wow, you’re not gonna say it back?”
“Fuck off, Ilia.” You storm off, white-hot irritation swallowing any ounce of anxiety you once had.
“Hey - hey! I’m sorry.” Ilia chases after you, catching you by the arm. “When’s your skate?”
You yank your arm out of his grip. “Like, fifteen minutes. Why?”
“I, uh. I thought we could talk for a bit.”
You sigh. Jab him lightly in the side, the lines of his abdomen tensing and contracting beneath your hand. You try not to picture what it would feel like to put your hand up his shirt.
The back hall winds past a series of warmup rooms, one of which is empty. “Fine,” you say, fidgeting with the trim of your dress. “Let’s talk.”
He nods, gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
You cross your arms, painfully aware of the seconds ticking by. The clock seems to thunder in your ears. You wonder if this is a mistake, if there’s a reason competitors aren’t friends-
And then he pouts, big eyes, soft, pretty lips. And he knew you’d looked down at his lips, because they’d curled into a grin, and he was inching towards you. Hand on your shoulder, sliding down your arm, touch burning and leaving you drunk in its wake.
“Is this because of Worlds?” he says, pitch an octave lower than usual. You bristle. “Come on, that was two years ago.”
“You were mean to me.”
“Two years ago!”
It’s your turn to pout.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, then, bordering on a whine - “let me make it up to you, please?”
You try to ignore how your heart’s thumping a million miles an hour, how you can’t lie anymore and attribute it to nerves.
“I can think of a way.”
You kiss him.
Ilia may have been a two time world champion, soon three if he had his way, but when it came to resisting you, he always lost.
The doors aren’t air-tight. You can hear chatter outside, footsteps, and the flashing of cameras, but fuck, does his mouth feel good on yours. His curls tickle your neck as he lathes open-mouthed kisses into the expanse. Thighs wedge tightly around yours as you fall back onto the table - stained with dried ice stains and god-knows-what. Arms flex as he pushes you further down, biceps taut on top of your ribs. You swear you can taste the sweet musk of his cologne as you kiss the underside of his jaw, drawing a shaky gasp from him.
“Fuck,” he groans through gritted teeth. “How many minutes till you have to skate?”
You check your phone. “Ten.”
He smooths your now-frazzled hair behind your ear, peering thoughtfully into your eyes. “I can make you cum in five.”
“You’re so fucking cocky,” you grit out, as he slides his hands out of your shirt to yank down your skirt. The contact of his hands to bare skin feels electrifying. You can’t bring yourself to care that it’s Ilia when he undoes his pants just enough to free himself. His hair’s extra curled from the thin layer of sweat forming in it. Cute. He’s cute.
You get why people fawn over him. When he’s like this - baby blue eyes straining to stay open, lips parted, hair mussed in his face - it’s hard not to. He’s a sensation. A class act that fucks in backrooms before skates. A poet that uses his mouth for his skating intros and to-
Ilia slides his tip against your clit, achingly swollen. Wet and dirty and warm. You whimper into the empty room.
“Fuck, we really shouldn’t,” he says, breathing raggedly into your ears.
“Why? Ilia, please. Need you.” One side of his lips twist up.
“But you’ll scream.”
And he pushes in without warning, muffling your cry with his mouth. The synchrony of your sounds, his tongue swiping your bottom lip in a slow, aimless way, his hips bucking into yours - it’s the epitome of sex and hate and everything in between. Ilia’s cock nudges that spot and you keen, clit bumping against his pelvis with each thrust. You clench around him. He fucks harder, wipes away the tears on your lash line with a smug grin.
“Aww,” he coos as you squirm and whine, clawing at his hair, chest, anywhere to ground yourself. “What happened to all that attitude?”
You clench involuntarily around him. “Ilia,” you moan weakly.
He groans into your ear. Plants your hands firmly above your head as he snaps his hips into yours. His necklace falls into your face. You bite the chain.
“Don’t do that, pretty girl.”
You smile playfully, craning your head to kiss his cheek. “Why not?”
“Because - fuck,” he positively whines as you latch onto his neck, warm and beating, teeth barely grazing the surface. “Our teammates are right outside. They’re gonna hear us.”
He buries his face into your neck as his thrusts slow down. You tuck his hair behind his ears, whispering into it-
“I’ll be quiet.”
He snaps his head up. Sears his mouth onto yours hard. Your teeth click together, but you can’t bring yourself to care when he fists a handful of skin at your waist and hisses into your ear.
“For someone who hates me so much, you sure like how I fuck you. Sucking me in so tight, fuck. Pretty pussy on a very pretty girl.” His hips again slow to a lazy rhythm, cock barely nudging the spot you need him most. “But you’re mean to me every time I try to make amends. Remember when you got flowers after your last big comp?” When you nod, he leans in, mouth nipping at the shell of your ear and whispering-
“That wasn’t your coach. That was me. I wanted to do something nice, make it up to you, but I had to leave before I could apologize.”
Your heart flutters, a dopey smile breaking across your entire face before you can help it. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” He slowly drags his length out, tapping the tip against your clit - the spikes of pleasure and the emptiness making you squirm.
“Thanks, Ilia. That was sweet of you. Though,” you start, “if I’m being honest, I like it when you’re mean to me. Like it when you’re cocky and mean and have a big mouth.”
He lets out a pained sound, cock twitching in you furiously. “You’re such a freak,” he groans, punctuating his words with a particularly hard thrust.
“Ilia,” you whine, seeing stars as his hand rests on your throat - not pressing, just holding your head in place. “Please don’t stop, please. You feel so good.” His fingers draw careful circles into your clit.
He spins you around so that your back presses against the wall, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he crouches over you.
“My favorite silver medalist,” he coos as you tighten around him. “You gonna cum?”
You bite his lower lip angrily. “No, I’m gonna win.”
He laughs, squishing your cheeks together with his spare hand while the other speeds up on your clit. “If you beat me, I’ll eat you out until you cry.”
The knot in your lower tummy tightens impossibly. “And if I don’t?”
“I’ll eat you out anyway.” He smiles charmingly, contrasting the dirty, wet sounds of his cock hitting your ass. “Wanna make you cum so hard you forget your own name.”
You finish with a squeal that he muffles with his hand, pouting when you claw at his chest and beg him to slow down.
“Aw, is it too much?” he mocks. “But she’s crying for me, your pretty pussy. You and her. Only right that I give her what she wants.”
His hips stutter as he chases his high. “Fuck, pretty girl. So good. So pretty, wanna take you out to dinner and fuck the attitude out of you for dessert.”
He guides you to your feet, smoothing your skirt and hair and tucking himself back in his pants. His release spills out of you onto his underwear, creamy white. Filthy. A communion of you and him. “Check the time.”
“Five minutes and fifteen seconds left,” you read out from your phone.
He kisses your forehead and clasps your hands with his. “Told you I could do it.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, whatever. I gotta run, they’re waiting for me.” The knocks on the door, loud and frantic, make you jump. Your coach is calling your name, asking you to hurry up, we’re waiting for you.
“You hear that?” says Ilia. “They’re waiting for you.”
He smooths out your hair, pecking your forehead before you walk towards the doors.
“Good luck,” he calls softly as you turn the handle. You glance back at him, renewed with strength.
“Thanks, Ilia.”
“Meet me outside the locker rooms after we’re both done.”
“For what?”
Ilia smiles shyly. “You’ll see.”
The second your skates hit the ice, you feel like you’re soaring. You fall into an easy rhythm, a smile never leaving your face as you scan the crowd, gnawing on your bottom lip when you spot him. His head rests in his hands as he observes you.
A high-pitched cheer nearly blasts your eardrums as you as you step off the ice. He immediately shuts his mouth, then leans into your ear to whisper as you cross paths.
“Great job, pretty girl.”
You can’t help the stupid grin that bursts onto your face.
The yolk of early evening sneaks through the hallway’s windows, casting a golden flush upon his skin.
“Hi,” he says hoarsely, thumbing the pockets of his sweats.
“Hey, you.”
“I…think I have a promise to fulfill.”
You end up in a rental car in a secluded parking lot, windows fogged up and the enclosed area barely concealing the sounds of sex. He has your skirt bunched up in one hand, panties pushed to the side with the other, and his lips are swollen and covered in your arousal.
He pulls away from your clit with a pop, tongue lolling from his mouth and cheeks ruddy. You card your hands through his hair as he preens.
“So pretty, Ilia. You look like a dream.” He latches back onto your pussy with fervor, whining and groaning into your skin. You absently register that he’s humping the seat, eyes rolled all the way back when they flutter open.
“Fuck,” he whispers, staring up at your fucked-out expression. You whine at the loss of contact, and he pats your thighs. “I know, baby, I know.” Without breaking his gaze, he slides two fingers into you, curling them straight into your sweet spot.
You squeal. Squeal. Fuck, you hate him.
“Right there?” he asks. “Already made you cum three times and you still want more.”
“Please, Ilia.” Tears bead your waterline, and a sick part of him likes it. Likes when you beg and cry and cum all over his face.
Slowly, his head dips, sucking and biting at any skin he can reach. And then you feel it - his lips wrapping around your clit. Kneading, flicking, drawing circles into it. He groans into your pussy, hips chasing his own high. Traces hearts along your inner thighs.
As you fall over the edge, Ilia tenses, gripping your waist for dear life. There’s a wet spot at the front of his pants once he rises.
“Did you just-”
“Shut up.”
He swats you playfully as you crawl into the front seat, inspecting yourself in the car mirror. Swatches of deep purple litter your neck and chest.
“Come on, Ilia!”
He evades your swats, half-playful, half-indignant, as he drives the two of you back.
You jump when you see him the next morning, hovering by your door.
“Breakfast?”
You nod. “I’d like that.”
You were imagining the dining hall, but he, evidently, had other plans. You marvel at the scenery as you drive through winding streets, stopping at a diner tucked into the corner of two brick buildings.
Ilia opens the car door. “After you.”
Chatting with Ilia is, shockingly, as easy as breathing. He peppers jokes into lulls, asks questions about your life, peers thoughtfully as he talks about his. You laugh so hard that tears brim your eyes.
The sight is the best thing he’s ever seen, he thinks. He props his head on his hands just to look at you.
You’re three mimosas and a lemon-blueberry pancake deep when you decide to pop the question.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
You take a swig of your drink. Purely for the flavor, not for liquid courage. “Ilia, why’d you say that at Worlds?”
He groans. “I don’t know. I saw you, and I guess I just got nervous.”
“Ilia, that is the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
He not-so-surreptiously mops an egg off your plate with your toast. You glare at him playfully.
“Hey - you’re just - fuck, you’re really pretty, okay?”
You spend the rest of the Olympics fucking in secret, yes. You also get brunch, and you go on walks around the city, and you paint each other’s portraits over wine (Ilia, I do not look like that!), and you massage each other’s sore muscles every damn night in a bubble bath.
“Relax.” he murmurs, eyes lasered on your tense legs and methodically kneading them.
You push him off, motioning for him to stand. The startled expression on his face fades when you drop to your knees in front of him.
“Can I?” you ask sweetly. He cards his hands through your hair, smoothing out any knots, and whispers a breathy yeah.
“Just wanna thank you,” you add, as he unbuckles his belt. The clink of metal makes you bounce on your heels in anticipation.
When he finally unzips his pants, pulling himself out of his boxers, you salivate. Shiver from the tub water clinging to your skin. Ilia notices and hands you a towel.
You plop back down.
“Come closer,” he groans. You tilt your head back to take the tip just between your lips, the warmness settling on your tongue. “Fuck-” you suck gently “ah-” and the tip keeps dripping precum, no matter how much you swallow. He scrunches his nose - cute - as his hands card through your hair, tugging lightly - enough to say, get a move on without hurting you.
Ilia’s left hand flies up to cover his mouth when you take him fully. You bob your head, swirling your tongue along his length before pulling away with a pop. It jumps against your cheek, hard and heavy and wet, when you nip at his inner thighs.
“Dinner tomorrow?” he asks, once he comes down from his high.
“Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. I’d love that.”
He pumps his fist. “Yesssss.” Kicks his feet in the air before collapsing them on the mattress.
“Dork.”
“You still hate me?” he asks, worry masked by humor.
You shake your head vehemently. Trace tiny hearts into his back.
“Ilia?” Your voice is barely a whisper.
He nods.
“What would you do if you had a crush on someone but wasn’t sure how they felt?”
He slumps in your arms, brows drawn together. “Well, it would depend on your relationship with them. If it’s good, then I would tell them and trust that our connection is stronger than the outcome. But no one is as good as me.” He kisses you hard that you’re breathless. “No one does this as good as me. No one fucks you better than I do.”
You poke him in the nose. His elbows, propping himself over you, falter, then collapse. He falls onto you like a deadweight, then turns his head away so you can’t read his expression.
“Ilia…” you whisper into the midnight air. You cup his cheeks with your hands. He lies perfectly still - not moving away but not leaning in.
“What if you and this person had a…complicated history? Like, you thought you hated each other and kind of did for a bit?”
He whips around so fast that your hands almost get crushed by his torso. “What?”
You blink. Realization dawns upon him.
“Me?”
You force yourself to look at him as you speak.
“Yeah, you.”
For a moment, you can’t pull your eyes away from each other. Then, after a beat - you interlace your fingers together, look down at where they meet. And laugh. You don’t know why, but you do. And then you’re rolling around in the bed together, clutching onto each other for dear life as you laugh, and laugh, till you’re heaving for air.
“She likes me!” he says dopily, kissing your forehead. “She likes me.”
You nod. He kisses you.
“What’s your favorite flower?”
You answer, and he pretends to jot it down into an invisible notebook.
“Got it. I’ll have to get some at the store before I ask you to be my girlfriend tomorrow, on a very special date, for a very special girl.”
You wear a face of false contemplation. “As long as we don’t have to be pairs skaters.”
“Aw, what’s so bad about that? More time with me.”
He pouts, and you kiss it away.
“Ilia, I really like you, but I’m not doing a backflip on ice.” You shut him up with more kisses before he can protest.
It's that time, friends--when everyone gathers together to cheer on their favorite athletes authors for another round of WiaC!
This week, our authors were asked to write to the following prompt:
Write a story where Bucky is an Olympic athlete, coach, official, or otherwise involved in the Winter Olympics.
(If you're hoping for further inspiration, look no further than the Olympic fanfare, conducted by John Williams himself.)
We have nine wonderfully snowy, icy stories for you to read before we ask you to choose your TWO favorites in our Google poll. At the end of the week, the authors of the top seven stories will continue on to Round 4, and the authors of the two remaining stories will be revealed and given their own private Cyrofreeze, where they can watch the remainder of the Olympic games in climate-controlled chilly comfort.
Ready for some snowy fun? Here we go!
Fic #1 - Last Shot
Rating: General Audiences
Her hotel room was quiet; Bucky's groans and uneven breathing were the only symphony inside the walls. He lay face-down on the bed in nothing but his boxers, one arm under the pillow, the other stretched out at his side. The sheets were cool against his overheated skin, but it didn't help much.
Her hands worked over his left shoulder and upper arm, and when her thumb found a particularly vicious knot just below the joint, he hissed through his teeth.
"How many times did they go for the arm?" she asked.
"Stopped counting after five." His voice was muffled against the pillow.
She clicked her tongue in disapproval but didn’t say anything about it.
"I'd do the same," he muttered.
"Buck-"
"It is what it is."
A beat of silence. Her hands didn't stop moving, pressing and kneading with a familiarity that only came from doing this too many times before. He let out a long breath and felt some of the tension bleed out of his body.
"How do you see yourself for the finals?" she asked eventually.
"Good."
She pressed deliberately on the spot where his shoulder met his arm, and he jerked, swearing under his breath.
"I have to be," he added, quieter. "Last shot at this."
She didn't answer right away. Her hands shifted lower, working down the length of his bicep where the muscles were still hot and tight. He could feel every place he'd taken a hit tonight, each one making itself known.
"Coach wants me on the ice from the opening face-off," he said. "Wants me blocking Karpov."
Her hands slowed. "But he knows that-"
"They brought me back because they think I can handle it." His voice was matter-of-fact. "And I will."
She was quiet for a moment. Then-
"Yeah. You always do, bear."
There was something in her tone. Perhaps the weight of watching him push through one more game, one more shift, one more hit to that arm.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat. Acknowledgment, maybe agreement. Her hands moved back up to his shoulder, gentler now, tracing the edge of the joint where the scar tissue ran deepest. This was the part that never really healed, no matter how many hours of rehab he logged or how many doctors signed off on his clearance.
"Three more days," she said quietly.
"Three more days," he echoed.
Neither of them said anything else.
Three days until the next game. Three days to hold together what was already coming apart. After that... well.
She worked in silence for a while, and he felt himself starting to drift. Not quite sleep, but something close. The kind of exhaustion that only came after you'd left everything on the ice. His body was a catalog of damage: bruises blooming purple-black along his ribs, a split in his lip from an elbow he hadn't seen coming, and the arm. Always the arm.
Her hands slowed, tracing idle patterns now instead of pressing deep against his battered flesh, and it was his cue to shift, rolling onto his back with a low groan.
Before she could process it, his hand shot out and caught her wrist, pulling gently, just enough to lead her down beside him.
She let herself fall, pressing her cheek against his chest, and he turned his face into her hair and breathed in, slow and deep.
"Already got a word to find you a good seat," he murmured against her temple. "Center ice. You'll see everything."
“Just make sure you're still standing to see me there, when you get that gold," she said softly, threading her fingers with his, pressing her lips to his chest -once, twice- before nuzzling at his warm skin.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand with his good arm, squinting at the screen as he set an alarm. Two hours. Maybe less. Just enough to let his body remember what rest felt like before he had to pull himself back together and return to the village, to the flashes and the noise.
----
The dining hall was still loud when he walked in. Trays clattering, voices overlapping in a dozen different languages, the particular brand of chaos that only happened when you crammed a few hundred athletes into one place and fed them happy carbs.
His teammates were at their usual table near the back, plates half-empty, still riding the high from the win. He spotted them before they spotted him, which gave him about three seconds to brace himself.
"Well, well," Wilson called out, grinning widely. "The Winter Soldier graces us with his presence."
A few of them laughed. Bucky slid into an empty seat, reaching for the water pitcher like he'd been there the whole time.
"Took you long enough," Barton added, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "Did she take care of all that post-game tension?"
"Must've been some deep tissue work," Odinson boomed, waggling his eyebrows. "Man's practically glowing."
That got hoots and a couple of exaggerated groans.
Bucky let a slow, cocky grin pull at his lips. The easy, well-worn version of himself that fit here, that was expected. "Fuck off.” A pause, as he reached for a bread roll. “What, you want a mental picture for late at night?”
That shut them up for half a second before the table erupted. Someone threw a balled-up napkin at his head, and a heartfelt “I hate you” was spat from a couple of chairs far away.
His arm screamed as he closed his hand around the bun, and for a fraction of a second, his fingers nearly released their grip. But his expression didn't change. He forced his hand to close, pulled the roll back, and tore into it as if nothing had happened.
Three more days.
He could hold it together.
He will hold it together.
Fic #2 - Ready when you are by @hawkdisaster
Rating : General Audiences
He can do it. Bucky takes a few cautious steps forward. No, he has to do it. He fills his lungs to capacity before exhaling in the same way, putting all the weight he can on his leg. He is reassured to see that the pain that had pulsed constantly and unbearably in his left leg a few months earlier is now just a bad memory. All of this because of an accident. Steve never agreed with him when he described the event that way - how could he use the term “accident” to describe the day that had nearly ruined a significant part of his life ? - but to him, that's all it was. Bucky had only a very vague memory of the accident itself: he remembered taking Erin to the ice rink to teach her how to skate, then his little girl suddenly started screaming, and at the same time, he felt as if his leg had been ripped off in one fell swoop... then nothing. According to some witnesses, he had been so focused on his little girl that he hadn't seen two other skaters - clearly beginners - fooling around until they crashed into him violently. The accident had been stupid, even perfectly avoidable, but it had been nothing more than an accident.
Bucky stretched his legs one after the other. He had been right to be patient. The pain had gone and his leg was completely healed, just as he had hoped. After months of having to use a wheelchair or crutches to get around, months of not being able to walk for more than a few minutes before being forced to sit down, he was finally himself again. Standing in front of the large mirror in the locker room, Bucky made sure his outfit was as it should be before his gaze fell on his left leg, where he could only imagine the long scar that ran across most of it. Starting just below the knee and ending at his ankle, the scar itself sometimes reminded him of bad weather days, but the pain he sometimes felt was a small price to pay to keep his leg. A leg he had been able to keep thanks to a brilliant orthopedic surgeon who had performed a miracle by saving him from amputation. A leg he had slowly regained through rehabilitation. It will be long and painful, he had been told. There is a chance, however slim, that your leg will never regain full mobility.
A veritable death sentence that he refused to believe. I'll be recovered in time for the next Winter Olympics. A completely crazy promise that no one in their right mind would ever have thought of making. But it had been his goal long before his accident, and Natasha was counting on him, so how could he let her down ? It wasn't easy, but he did it. Each rehabilitation session was an opportunity to repeat the exercises over and over again. To note the progress, however small. To put one foot in front of the other. To bend his leg despite the pain. To walk without limping too much. And just like that, he had relearned movements he used to perform without even thinking, and every movement he managed to accomplish on his own was a real victory. I can do it. I have to do it. For myself and for others. I'll be recovered for the next Winter Olympics. That's all he told himself when his body gave out or his spirits flagged, as they sometimes did. But he never gave up, thanks to the unwavering support of Steve, Natasha, Sam, and the others.
I'll be recovered for the next Winter Olympics. It was a completely crazy promise that he managed to keep, convinced that he could do it. Because he wanted to. Because he wanted to get back on the ice at all costs. Because he refused to consider his career over. He wanted it, and he did it. One last glance at the clock on the wall, and he knows it's time for him to go. Once again, he takes several deep breaths, in and out. He can do this. He knows what he has to do, everything will be fine. Natasha is already waiting for him, her face devoid of any expression, although he is sure he sees her lips curl slightly when he joins her. Further away, Sam, Thor, and Clint are deep in conversation, and Steve isn't there, having already gone to sit in the stands with Erin.
– Are you ready, James ?
Natasha's hands are resting on his shoulders and his own hands are wrapped around the young woman's waist as they both wait to begin their routine. Bucky nods and smiles. He has never been more ready in his entire life.
– Ready when you are, Nat.
The first notes of the music they have both chosen for their routine ring out, cutting short their exchange. And both of them let themselves be carried away, gliding and dancing on the ice in perfect harmony, in a ballet they both know by heart, having rehearsed it over and over again. Bucky could skate with his eyes closed, just like Natasha, he knows that. And when they both finish their choreography with a backflip, when the stands erupt in thunderous applause and his gaze catches Steve's smiling face and the little face of Erin, his granddaughter clapping her hands with excitement, when Natasha and he are called to the top step of the podium, Bucky is only too happy to have achieved his goal: to be recovered in time for the next Winter Olympics, as he had promised himself.
Fic #3 - More Than the Story
Rating: Teen +
Warnings: Mentions of combat injury and amputation, Discussion of trauma & recovery, Media pressure ‘inspiration narrative’ discomfort, Emotional vulnerability (No graphic content)
The morning air buzzed with quiet energy. Just the scrape of skis carving early lines into packed snow, the low murmur of officials checking radios, the metallic click of rifles being tested and retested.
Everyone’s breath fogged white in the cold. The world felt wound tight.
Fresh. Clean. Still untouched by spectacle.
You loved it like this.
When you pushed into the athlete tent, Peter was already inside, darting around like a hummingbird with his camera.
In the middle of it all was Bucky Barnes.
Long hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck, dark strands escaping as he bent over his gear. One sleeve of his thermal top hung empty, while his right arm worked with practiced efficiency: working on laying everything out with careful focus on the table in front of him.
He didn’t look up once.
Didn’t react to the camera shutter.
Just calm. Controlled. Focused.
You’d been covering winter sport for nearly a decade; Olympics, Paralympics, world championships, you were professional.
But it was hard not to notice the way strength lived in his legs. The way muscle flexed and shifted when he crouched. God he was good looking.
“Light’s unreal in here,” Peter breathed, circling. “This guy’s going to break the internet.”
Bucky finally glanced over, polite but guarded, his right hand pausing midadjustment. His gaze flicked to Peter’s lens, then past him, landing on you.
“Go ahead,” Barnes motioned to the seat across the table. You settled into the folding chair, recorder in your hand but not yet switched on. You watched him instead as he continued with his gear, the quiet concentration narrowing his eyes.
Last Games, he’d taken bronze in two of the standing individual biathlon events.
This year, he was expected to do better.
The headlines had already started.
Winter Soldier Returns.
You cleared your throat gently. “Peter, why don’t you grab some shots course?”
Peter blinked, then grinned. “Oh? Yeah, good call.” He disappeared back into the cold in a flurry of enthusiasm.
The tent felt smaller immediately.
Just you and Barnes as he stood back up.
You placed the recorder on the table between you and clicked it on.
“James Barnes,” you began, “We’re a few days out from the standing individual events. How’s preparation feeling this time around?”
He lowered himself into the chair opposite you, elbow on the table. Snow still clung faintly to his boots.
“Good,” He nodded. “Better than last cycle. Training’s been consistent. Snow’s cooperating.” A brief lift of one shoulder. “Body’s holding up.”
Your gaze dipped briefly to the empty sleeve before you caught yourself.
Professional.
“After the last Games,” you continued, “most people are familiar with your story — the injured sharpshooter who found biathlon during recovery. Physically and mentally. What’s changed between then and now?”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Last time,” he admitted, eyes dropping to his lap “I was just trying to prove I could do it..”
His thumb dragged slowly along the table edge.
“And now?”
His gaze lifted again locking with you.
“This time people know who I am.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
“Does that feel different on the course?”
He let out a harsh breath through his nose.
“Yeah. Last Games I was just...” His mouth twitched faintly. “Now I’m the Soldier.”
He reached for the rifle with his right hand, the adaptive stabiliser clicking softly into place as he checked the bolt. Even seated, there was something coiled about him.
“What do you like about the sport?” Changing to nicer topic.
His expression shifted, something almost peaceful passing through it.
“Out there it’s just my legs burning, my lungs screaming, and a rifle.” His eyes held yours. “It’s simple.”
It was how he looked when he said it.
“Is it the shooting?”
“That’s part of it,” Bucky right hand flexed unconsciously, fingers curling and uncurling as if remembering recoil. “When I’m shooting, my head goes quiet. No noise. Y'Just breath in, breath out.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “It’s in your legs too,” he went on, voice lower now. “I don’t think about the arm once I’m moving. Pulling yourself towards something. It’s all here.” He tapped his thigh.
You had noticed the power there. The steadiness. His muscles carried him without hesitation. Those legs looked like they carry him through a blizzard.
“Does being labelled an inspiration change anything?”
Bucky stiffen immediately.
“It’s hard to be proud about why I’m good with a gun,” His gaze drifting to the tent opening where snow drifted lazily past.
Your hand hovered over the recorder. You switched it off.
“This part doesn’t have to be on record,” you assured him quietly.
“Snowboarders get on the front of cereal boxes,” he muttered darkly. “I just get something heavy around my neck and everyone wanting a story about tragedy.”
You leaned forward without thinking.
“I can change that.”
His brow furrowed. He didn’t look away.
“We could spend more time together,” you suggested, holding his gaze. “I’m happy to make sure the story you want told gets told.”
The shift was subtle. His eyes dragged over your face slowly.
“What story’s that?” Bucky voice dropped.
“Discipline,” you answered. “Precision. A man who rebuilt himself.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“What if I don't want there to be a story at all?"
“You wouldn't have agreed to speak to me." A low huff of amusement escaped him. Not quite a laugh.
Outside, a whistle blew, signalling the course was opening for official training.
He stood in one smooth motion, slinging the rifle case across his back with practiced ease.
Up close, the difference in height made your pulse skip.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
“You're interesting...Stick around after training?” he asked. Casual. Almost.
“Was going to watch you."
“Good.”
You watched him go, heart beating a little faster than it should have.
This time, the story would be about the man who chose to move anyway.
…about the way he made you want to follow.
Fic #4 - 1600 Meters to You
Rating: Teen
Air in the Antholz Valley slices like a blade for those not used to the cold. Crisp and unforgiving at 1600 meters above sea level, so does Bucky Barnes stand there, on the Biathlon Arena, which sits cradled between jagged Dolomite peaks near the Austrian border.
The Winter Olympics started days ago, but for his sport, this is the heart of it: 19,000 seats packed with roaring fans from all over the globe. This Arena is the highest-capacity sports competition venue this time around, and yet despite all the crowd and the noise, the only sound he can really hear is the thundering of his heartbeat. And maybe, if he listens close enough, your own.
Standing his with his arms crossed to weakly protect him from the February wind, Bucky has his eyes locked on the start corral. It’s the day of the Women’s 7.5 km Sprint, and right now, he only cares about one bib: USA 7. You.
His fastest student, always have been. From the moment you’d stormed into his training group a few years ago, all fire and zero patience, he knew you’d be great. Or you’d break, like the great wildfire that eventually burns out. He tried to push you towards becoming the former, even if it meant near-constant friction between the two of you. Sharp words, barked corrections, all a mimicry of armor meant to hide the truth buried really deep in his chest: he was falling for you. Stubborn, rock-hearted you.
Bucky adjusts your rifle sights, vibranium fingers brushing the cold metal. “Remember what I told you last week about your breathing.”
You yank the barrel away, eyes flashing with the barely contained fire you always have. “I know what I’m doing, Barnes. Stop hovering and let me do my job.”
“Choking on ego isn’t your job.” He steps in, voice dropping low. "You redline too hard. One bad shot, and it's over. This isn't nationals, it’s the Olympics. Act like it."
Your proximity always makes his pulse kick despite the sub-zero air, and even now, as he lectures you on how to breathe to become a World champion, he feels it. The heat that blooms and never leaves him alone. He hates that you always push back enough to make him want to pull closer. “Quit treating me like I’m a child,” you snap. “I’m your fastest and your best.”
Best. He had said it so himself, exactly once, after shoving a protein bar your way and half-groaning, “Eat. Can't have my best fading." The phrase stuck, warm against denial. You made sure he remembered saying it all too often.
When race time comes, he watches you clip in, rifle slung and body coiled. By the time the gun cracks and you explode off the line, Bucky’s tracking your every move with his heart in his throat. First loop climb scorching your quads (he knows the burn in your legs like his own old injuries), descent a controlled blur. Prone range, you drop flat, bipod set. Bucky almost holds his breath as you hold your own. Five shots, clean.
Standing next, he watches you chamber rounds. When the wind hits, you adjust, exhale. You fire the rounds, with one miss on the edge target. Penalty loop, an additional 150 m for you to work through.
Bucky’s fists clench. It’s not anger, not at you anyway, but rather at old ghosts that were never quite ripped off his flesh. Too many decades ago, the Winter Soldier had been built for precision killing, with no room for error or second chances.
Coaching biathlon had been a redemption. The rifle wasn’t for ending lives but rather for targets, for sport, even for bringing his country some glory. Teaching you had let him channel the accuracy and the cold calculation into something good, something that built instead of destroyed. And watching you miss never meant you weren’t good; it meant he wasn’t good enough to teach you.
Still, he watches you surge past two racers on the final climb, skis carving clean lines, legs turning fury into speed. Poles planted just right, with no wasted motion, he watches you do what he still has trouble doing himself: forgive mistakes and learn from them.
On the final stretch, you slide into the chute, body low. The timer flashes: 20.41.4. Gold.
The arena erupts. Bucky lets the noise wash over him while his pulse hammers, giving himself some time to realize what has just happened before he finally cuts through the chaos post-race, pulling you into the team tent, away from flashing cameras and backslaps.
“You did it.”
“We did it,” you correct, eyes somehow softer than he has ever seen. “The standing miss, though… your fault. Should’ve grilled me harder on wind reads.”
He huffs, almost a laugh, and his vibranium hand rises with its own mind, gently cupping your jaw. “Didn’t wanna break you. Thought you might run off.”
“Could never leave you without your best.”
That’s the moment Bucky lets his armor drop, forgets his role of coach and finally pulls you into a kiss. Metal arm falls to your lower back, flesh hand in your hair, cold lips finally warming each other.
He pulls back just an inch, forehead to yours. “My fastest student, and the slowest at figuring this out.” A pause where he lets himself breathe you in, and then, “Gold is gonna look good on you.”
You smile against his mouth. “It’s gonna look better on us.”
In this moment, Bucky realizes achieving perfection was not the most important thing he ever taught you.
Fic # 5 - Alpine Skiing by @eterna1reverie
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky wasn't entirely sure that taking his sweet ball of white fur to the alps with him would be a good idea.
Actually, he knew that the idea was horrible, but the amount of complaints he received from the pet sitters he hired in the past was piling up one on top of another like mattresses in "the princess and the pea."
He couldn't possibly leave the little rascal alone, as she would certainly find a way to cause trouble despite being locked in. She'd either tear his (already run down) couch to shreds, or manage to escape his apartment and lament to the neighbors so she could get scraps from their dinner.
He genuinely considered just throwing all the plans he made out the window, staying home and taking care of Alpine himself, as he always does.
Unfortunately, Sam was persistent. He wouldn't let him stay.
And if he can't leave Alpine, and if he can't stay, then the only option left is taking the cat with him.
Which somehow also turned out to go sideways.
The trip in question was a ski trip - nothing complicated, no dangerous ski slides, cheap carnet. Just a casual, safe and beginner friendly place for a group of friends to hang out together.
While Bucky was out skiing, Alpine was waiting in his hotel room. Even though the fun didn't ever last more than a couple of hours, he always made sure her bowl was filled to the brim before he left, and that her litter box was clean, and that all the windows and the door, and all other possible escape routes for the fluffy troublemaker were sealed properly.
First day? He came back to a piss puddle right beside the bed.
Second? A ripped apart pillow, synthetic feathers flying all over the room.
Third? The curtain was ruined. He had to pay for the losses.
But those things were only a warning. An arguable calm before the real storm begins to rip roofs off of buildings.
Because apparently, no matter the efforts of keeping Alpine safe and comfortable, she always finds a way to make life harder for Bucky. Especially when she's annoyed by being dragged out of the comfort of her house into some shitty three star one room one bed hotel.
Bucky doesn't know just how it came to be, he doesn't even realize that something's wrong until it's already too late, which is completely unlike him - especially when it comes to his precious Alpine. He always know when something's wrong and it concerns Alpine.
Yet somehow, as he gets off of the ski lift, getting ready to race down with Sam, determined to win the ten dollars he bet on his own win, he catches an unusual movement of to the side.
Sam storms off, and Bucky swears under his breath. Well, there goes the ten bucks. If he started now, he would still have the chance to win, but the movement in the bushes nearby doesn't stop, and for some reason, it grabs his attention more than the wasted money.
It's a miracle that he didn't rush off after Sam when he could, because low and behold, it's Alpine that walks out of the bush. Despite her fur bearing traces of leaves and sticks, her walk is graceful, and she looks almost proud.
Seeing her here, in a place where she absolutely shouldn't have found herself, sends Bucky into a state of panic.
"How did you get here you little troublemaker?" He grumbles, only pretending to be annoyed with her antics. He knows damn well he could never truly be angry at Alpine.
He decides to do the first, most rational thing that comes to mind, which is to carry her down with him.
She jumps up into his open arms without objection, and he holds her close to his chest, careful of the delicate creature, as he slowly, very carefully begins to slide down.
It goes well. Well, as well as carrying a cat with you as you ski can go. The little fluffball hides her head in the crook of his arm, and when she does so, he realizes it's because her ears are cold.
"Should've thought it through before you climbed all the way up here, huh? How did you even do that?" He continues mumbling questions, simultaneously zipping open his jacket to let her hide inside and avoid getting cold, or worse, sick.
It's a long and slow journey down, one that makes him a complete wreck of nerves, but there's fortunately no more complications along the way.
He packs his bags and takes his cat home the next day, cutting what was supposed to be a two week long vacation short. But that was an outcome easy to predict - Bucky will always put Alpines safety and well-being before anything else.
#6 - The protein bars are nutritional
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky Barnes had dismantled more weapons rings than the average man, infiltrated fortified compounds while half-asleep, and disarmed bombs as Sam chattered down his ear as if he’d never heard the word concentration in his life.
He could spot a dodgy handover from half a mile away.
They - his speed skating team - were not as discreet as they believed.
He first spotted a suspicious number of gym bags being passed between his perfectly innocent Olympic team at six-thirty in the morning.
“Dude! Got your bag by accident, sorry about that!”
“They all look the same, happens all the time right?!”
Somewhere further along the changing room, someone yelled, “Watch the pins, they’re sharp!” Followed by a very reckless shushing noise.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed into a squint over the top of his coffee.
He let it slide.
Then came the helmets.
Considering he’d spent the best part of a year fining the team every time they left their equipment behind, they were suddenly guarding their helmets like they contained state secrets.
Or extremely good snacks.
Two athletes standing watch while a third tied and retied the same shoelace at a bench next to them. When a Norwegian skater wandered too close, all of them shifted in eerie synchronisation.
He had to give them a little credit. He’d seen real covert operations with worse discipline.
A couple of days later and they're at it again.
He was watching for it, expectantly, this time.
What he isn't expecting though, is you.
His star skater. A fearsome speed demon whose capabilities on the ice are frankly, insane.
Which was why the disappointment hit harder.
He could already picture the headlines. The investigations. Getting kicked off the world stage.
Performance enhancement.
You hurried from training like the IOC themselves were on your heels, eyes darting left and right, glancing over your shoulder.
He looped around the lockers and caught you mid-step.
“Coach! Hi!”
Bright. Peppy. Suspiciously so.
He held out his hand.
“Give me the bag.”
He expected you to resist.
Deny.
A list of excuses the length of the Luge track. Possibly even tears.
What he did not expect was for you to shrug and hand it over immediately.
“It's not what you think -” you started, then stopped.
Bucky braced himself for vials and syringes.
He’d opened bags like this before. Different countries. Different wars. The anticipation was always the same.
The moment before you confirm the worst suspicion you didn’t want to be right about.
Inside the bag were twelve neatly stacked bars of Swiss chocolate arranged like gold bars.
He frowned.
Next to them sat a stack of protein bars with German labels.
He was at a loss. “This is…”
Bucky moved onto the side pocket, as the zipper pulled, a vast collection of multicoloured square foil wrappers cascaded out, tumbling to the floor between you both.
He sighed.
“Condoms? Really?” he asked, because apparently this was his life now.
“Not for me!” You breathed hurriedly. “This isn't all… mine.”
Before he could challenge that comment, he unzipped the other side pocket.
“Careful!” You warned as a handful of enamel pins spilled into his palm - flags, mascots, limited editions. “We don't mix the pins and the condoms.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
“I can explain,” you said finally.
“I’m sure you can.”
“The chocolate is for morale.”
“Of course it is.”
“The protein bars are nutritional.”
“Obviously.”
She hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the foil squares. “And those are… also for morale. Apparently. Not that I'd know -”
He shoved the pins back into the bag. “You’re speed skaters.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Olympic speed skaters.”
“Yes, Coach. Would you like a chocolate bar?”
He looked back into the bag, almost wishing that illegal technology might materialise out of nowhere and free him from this farce. It remained full of snacks and responsibility.
“Are you seriously trying to bribe me?”
“No, Coach!” Your eyelashes fluttered just a little. “Unless of course its working?”
“How many teams are involved?” he asked.
You pursed your lips, he could see you calculating how little you could get away with telling him. “Define involved.”
He lowered the bag with a sigh. “How many.”
You cleared your throat and shuffled from foot to foot. “Most of Europe. Parts of Canada. The curlers have their own network - they're trading socks -”
He closed his eyes.
Bucky opened his eyes again and regarded you steadily.
“You've got a side-hustle in contraband?”
You beamed. “Contraband implies this stuff is banned, Coach. It's not.”
“I think the nutritionists would say it is. The team doctors?”
He reached into the bag, confiscated one bar of chocolate, and zipped it shut.
“You've got physio in ten,” he said, handing it back.
You grinned with relief and scrambled to collect the dropped condoms. “Yes, Coach.”
He watched you disappear down the hall, hugging the bag to your chest like it contained the Declaration of Independence.
The chocolate was excellent.
With one visit to the main restaurant in the Olympic Village, he can tell it’s not an isolated incident.
He watches a downhill skier hand off a pair of thermal gloves like they’re nuclear launch codes. A cluster of figure skaters discreetly swaps velvet pouches across a cafeteria table without making eye contact. Two hockey players conduct what appears to be an fierce negotiation over a shoebox of… shoelaces.
The Germans have protein bars in more flavours than he’s ever tried. The Swiss have chocolate, of course. The curlers, are indeed trading hand-knitted socks like currency.
No one is running. No one is even hiding it very well. Everyone is smiling.
He updates the team rules that evening.
No trading during training hours.
Pins remain separate from the condoms.
He confiscates another bar of chocolate just to enforce the rules.
The Olympic spirit, he decides, runs on sugar, caffeine, and surprisingly efficient supply chains.
Fic #7 – Lake Placid, 1932
Rating: General Audiences
Ma and Pop had been whispering the last few weeks about something. It was too soon to whisper about birthdays and Christmas had just passed. I suspected Ma was gonna have another baby. My youngest sister was just 7 so it was still possible. Another sister. Just what I needed.
I tried to overhear my parents, hoping to hear anything, while they were in the kitchen. They weren't having an argument, that much I knew; they would go to their bedroom for that.
Pop came into the living room after a few minutes and sat in his armchair, pulling his pipe out of his pocket. He always had one on him; it was the only way I knew him to be able to have conversations. “Say Jim, whatcha reading?”
I really wished my parents would pick up the nickname my friend Steve had given me years ago: Bucky; instead they stuck with Jim because “we named you James for a reason.” They didn't even call me James. “Uh…Scarface.”
Pop gave me an odd look. “isn't that a bit heavy for a 14 year old? Does your Ma know?”
“It's not that bad, Pop. Besides, I'm almost 15. Ma doesn't know.”
He gave a nod. We would keep this between us as long as I didn't try to be a gangster in the city.
“Your Ma and I have something we want to share with you.”
I braced for the impact of his words. “We think it'll be a good opportunity if you come along with me when I go to Lake Placid in a couple weeks.”
Lake Placid? The Olympics were going to be in Lake Placid. “Why are you going there?” Dad certainly wasn't going to be in a bobsleigh.
“I was asked to be a referee for some of the hockey matches,” he said casually. Dad was all about hockey. He was always bringing me along to games during the season when he worked. He played when he was younger and still would play on occasion now, but it took a lot of coaxing.
My eyes flew open. “When do we leave? How long will we be there? Are Ma and the girls coming too?”
He honestly didn't have to ask me twice. I'd gladly miss school for this. This was the first time the United States would be hosting the Winter Olympics.
Pop just chuckled. “I have to be there on the first. The games start on the fourth. We'll be there about two weeks. Your Ma and the girls might come up for a weekend. I may have to put you to work, too.”
I nodded. I'd gladly work at the Olympics. Steve would be so jealous! “Can Steve come too?”
“It took a lot of convincing to get your Ma to agree to you coming along. I don't think I could convince Sarah,” Pop said, shaking his head.
That was a let down. I'd get him a postcard if I could. Maybe I could get an athlete to sign it for him. I let out a sigh. “I honestly thought you were gonna tell me Ma was having another baby.” Pop's eyes bulged out of his head.
–
Two weeks later Pop and I made the trip to Lake Placid. We were staying near the rink which was nice because that's where the opening ceremony was. Pop went over the rules (“Don't do anything stupid, James. You're representing your country. Don't give anyone a reason to dislike Americans.” “I won't do anything stupid. Steve's not here.” Pop rolled his eyes at that ). My role was trash pick up around the rink mostly. There were no set hours for it so Pop would let me explore. By the third day there I knew a lot of people: athletes, coaches, judges, people who made things happen behind the scenes.
I was able to watch some of the skiing, and most of the hockey and speed skating. The figure skating didn't really impress me even if some of the ladies were pretty. I met a lot of athletes from around the world. Some hardly knew any English and I didn't know their language but I was still polite and wished them luck.
There was one German man I met who made me feel nervous. There was something unsettling about him and I was glad when we parted ways. Talking with him gave me a feeling of dread deep in my stomach. I tried to tell Pop about it but he said it was probably my lunch not agreeing with me and to go to the health tent for some milk of magnesia. I'm pretty sure Pop was wrong. I made sure to avoid that man the rest of the time.
Other than that one interaction, everything about being there was wonderful! The cleaning up got boring after a couple days, but watching the hockey games was fun. I did get a postcard and all of the US hockey team signed it. I knew Steve would like it. I dragged him to the rink some nights even if it made him cough a bit.
Ma and the girls ended up coming the weekend of the hockey final: it was Canada versus the US. I wish I could say that the US won, but silver ain't too bad.
Two weeks went by real quick. I wish it'd lasted longer but Pop said that with the way the economy was, we were lucky to have as many countries represented as we did. I think he said there may have been 18 countries.
“You and Ma ain't gonna have anymore babies, are ya?” I asked on the way home.
Pop gave me another Look. “The next time a Barnes baby crosses the threshold of our house is when it's a child of yours.”
I couldn't help but laugh at how adamant he sounded. “That could be just ten years from now, I hope you're ready.”
Pop just shook his head.
Fic #8 - Winter Storm
Rating – General Audiences
A biting chill swept through the air slicing across the exposed skin on Bucky’s face.
Standing with his arms crossed he watched the bane of his life. Usually that role was somewhat affectionately reserved for his best friends Steve or Sam depending what they’d done and how much trouble had ensued. But for the man who was currently showing off Bucky felt nothing but disdain and disappointment.
Instead of acting as an Olympic competitor the man looping up the slopes of the halfpipe was loudly whooping and showing off if there were women nearby. Unfortunately his antics only seemed to drum the crowd into a frenzy as they whooped back.
“Johnny! Johnny!”
The man in question shot up the side of the halfpipe and as he twisted to execute a trick he gave a shout and punched the air… only to land back in the half pipe at an odd angle. His board tipped and sent a hollering Johnny whizzing down the rest of the way on his belly to face plant the snow at the bottom.
Knowing cameras would focus on his reaction Bucky kept his face purposefully blank as he waited for an update. Not that he had long to wait seeing Storm scramble to his feet and already laughing the whole thing off. The younger man’s apathetic attitude chafed away at Bucky’s stoicism.
Out of the corner of his eye Bucky saw a reporter speaking into a microphone as the cameraman kept the lens on Bucky.
“The Winter Soldier does not look happy with the newest member of his team. Barnes’ arctic approach versus Storm’s heedless hotheadedness. Who will be the victor in this battle of wills? More importantly, will the newest member of the USA Olympic Snowboard team make it through to the next round? Stay tuned.”
Bucky rolled his eyes both at the theatrics but also the usage of his old nickname. Until a few years ago Bucky had been a member of the team until his last qualifier ended with his arm being injured. Bucky had taken the time to recover and spent some time relaxing before he was offered a job as a coach. Hesitant at first, Bucky soon relished the job though the athletes he helped to train didn’t because of his strict rigorous methods. Hence how the name returned with a new twist. But for all their grumbling and the scrutiny he faced no one could deny Bucky’s methods produced results. Though they didn’t always win, the ones he trained always placed high in the overall rankings.
And then there was Johnny Storm who seemed not only incapable of following instructions but actively rebelled against Bucky’s methods. As the younger man approached Bucky angled his body so no one would be able to see either of their faces.
“You think you’re something special, huh hot shot? Trying to please the crowds with stupid stunts. One more wipe out like that and you’ll be yesterday's news.” Bucky paused. “Actually your stupidity will live on because it'll be played and replayed on social media forever.” Bucky watched as the amusement left Johnny’s eyes. “Listen to me now. A lot of people are going to be watching this. Including your fellow countrymen. Friends. Family. If you’re gonna treat this as a joke or a chance to impress some girls I’m telling you to walk away now. Spare the team some embarrassment.”
Bucky watched as Johnny swallowed and stepped past him only to pause and glance over his shoulder. “During the qualifiers I thought I saw something in you.” Bucky chuckled mirthlessly. “Guess I was wrong.”
With that Bucky trudged back to where he’d been standing before. The rest of the team looked up as he approached and immediately knew to leave him alone. It wasn't long before the crowd became riotous once again when Johnny appeared at the top of the slope.
“And Storm looks ready to take the slope on… well maybe not head on, he’s already done that.”
Bucky could hear some laughter from the crowds but tuned it out as Johnny took a few moments before starting off down the slope. Though the crowd shouted his name he didn’t acknowledge them in the slightest. On the first attempt he nailed a few tricks excellently and landed smoothly before zipping across to the other side.
“He’s getting some speed up and - OH MY GOODNESS!”
Bucky’s jaw dropped slightly as he saw Johnny easily soar 20 feet above the half pipe with a graceful accuracy in every maneuver that he’d never shown then landing smoothly for one last launch into the air before reaching the bottom of the slope. Cheering filled the air as Johnny’s performance guaranteed him a spot in the next round.
”You done good kid.”
“Thank you Coach.” Johnny shuffled on the spot, not quite daring to look at the man he’d been challenging all this time. He wanted to apologize but wasn’t sure what to say.
Bucky offered his hand which Johnny shook. “Another performance like that and you might just end up on that podium.”
”Yes sir.”
As Bucky clapped Johnny on the shoulder neither noticed the multitude of reporters fighting to capture the moment not only as a ceasefire of hostilities but of a pair that would become known as Winter Storm.
Fic #9 - Worth More Than Gold
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky Barnes was Team USA’s most brutal defenseman. He hit like a freight train, never smiled on the ice, and played cold and calculated. Most opponents feared him since he was practically a machine in the form of a man. It was no wonder people called him the Winter Soldier.
But the Winter Soldier had a soft spot.
You.
The team trainer, you were the opposite of cold. You carried a warmth about you that drew people in like a beacon. You always had a soft smile or words of comfort to match your healing touch. While you may not call yourself beautiful, you turned heads whenever you walked into a room.
Bucky noticed.
He saw how the rookies straightened up when you walked past. The veterans liked to lean in a little too closely and smirk when you taped their wrists. And opposing players, their eyes always tracked your movements during warm-ups.
He tried to brush it off jealousy with slow breaths. You weren’t his. He didn’t own you.
But that prick just had to open his mouth tonight.
It was the game that would determine who would take home the gold medal. The arena erupted in cheers when his team took the ice. He blocked out the noise and focused on playing his best. He wanted to make his team, and you, proud.
And then an opposing player skated by the bench and smirked at you.
“Hey, sweetness,” he called out. “Come celebrate with me when I win. I’ll show what a real athlete looks like.”
A couple of his teammates snickered while you checked the medical kit, not sparing the guy a glance.
But Bucky heard it and something in him snapped.
His eyes were colder than usual by the time the game started. The puck hit the ice and he moved with a vengeance and agility that many wouldn't expect from a man his size. The world narrowed to his opponent. Slow breaths and brushing it off wouldn’t work this time.
The board rattled when Bucky checked the player into it hard, his jaw tight. The hit was perfectly legal, of course. But it was personal.
So was the hit after that.
And after that.
One of the commentators stated, “The Winter Soldier is playing with an edge as sharp as his skates tonight.”
The prick tried to posture in the second period, shoving him after the whistle. “How about I get that little angel to take care of me?”
Bucky didn’t take the bait immediately. He simply adjusted his hold on his stick and waited with a glare. And it only took a minute for him to check the forward into the board again hard enough that the glass shook and the crowd roared.
Another clean hit. Unmistakenly deliberate. All power.
Steve gave him a concerned look when he returned to the bench. “You good, Buck?”
He nodded once, his gaze flicking to you.
You were watching him with a look of concern, too, and it was enough to make his heart ache.
But he let his feelings fuel him. It was enough to get him through the third period, even when he took a hit to his left shoulder which bothered him for part of the season. He barely reacted beyond a stiff roll, continuing to play like a machine until the final buzzer.
Team USA won.
Bucky celebrated with his teammates, but he was still wound tight.
You noticed.
That was why you didn’t wait for him to ask for help once he left the ice.
“Sit,” you instructed gently, nodding toward the exam table in the medical room.
Bucky got out of his gear and obeyed without arguing.
You closed the door behind you, muting the noise outside. “Left shoulder.”
“It’s fine,” he muttered, his hair in his eyes.
“Bucky,” you said above a whisper.
He sighed, letting you step close. He tried not to get lost in your warm and steady touch. The adrenaline finally wore off since the bit of pressure you applied made him hiss.
“That’s what I thought,” you murmured, reaching for an ice pack.
He watched you with stormy eyes. “We won.”
“Congratulations. I’m proud of you.” You smiled softly, and he found himself smiling, too. “Was it worth it?”
He frowned. “Was what worth it?”
“The extra hits,” you answered with a knowing stare.
Silence stretched and his heart raced. Did you know? Regardless, he couldn’t avoid it forever. He might as well rip the band-aid off.
“He shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” he muttered.
“I’ve heard much worse,” you said nonchalantly.
He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that, and he shouldn’t have treated you like you’re something to win.”
You weren’t a prize and you weren’t a game.
You moved close enough that your knees brushed together, warmth moving through his body. “So, you were defending my honor?”
His expression softened, looking nothing like the Winter Soldier on the ice. “You’re not mine. I know that,” he whispered and it hurt to do so. “But I wish you were.”
There it was.
Even if you walked away, at least he was honest.
Your hands came to up to cradle his face, and his breath hitched. “And what if I said I want the grumpy defenseman who hits like a wrecking ball when someone crosses a line?”
His hands settled at your hips carefully. “Please,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
A man could only hope so much.
“I mean it,” you promised.
He exhaled slowly. “Then I’d wonder if this was real,” he admitted with a faint smile. “Because I won a gold medal tonight and got the girl of my dreams.”
You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his. “It’s real,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes.
Outside the door, his teammates celebrated winning the gold.
But Bucky, in that medical room, felt like he earned something that mattered more.
That's all the stories--thank you so much for reading, and we hope you enjoyed this Olympic-themed round. Please head over to the voting post to mark your two favorites!
a snowboarder alex and figure skater henry fic for @rwrb-goinforgold
At the Winter Olympics, Alex chases the kind of glory that leaves bruises. He makes Big Air gambles, gets Slopestyle surprises, and has a Halfpipe run that could define his career.
Henry chases perfection on the ice, wanting a gold of his own.
Between the lights, near-misses, and medals won they circle each other in the chaos of the Olympic Village—close enough to burn, but pretending they’re not.
It seems to push them to their limits—on the snow, on the ice, and in the quiet moments behind closed doors. Cameras circle and speculation grows louder, as Alex and Henry make decisions about more than just their careers.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
On the fifth day of Winterfic, Hazel gave to you…some Nuny at the Winter Olympics!
Read the other days here!
Evgeni didn’t know how to shake Jackson’s hand just then. It wasn’t just Jackson who had taken the gold metal from him. It wasn’t even Jackson at all. It wasn’t even taking. It was a game, a competition. And still, Evgeni looked at his own line of Russian teammates and Jackson’s line of his. The Canadians were being polite, even if his own teammates were being stoic with their disappointment. Evgeni didn’t blame them.
Maybe it was why he didn’t blame himself when his heart seized up as he caught sight of Jackson, shaking hands with that kind smile of his and getting ever closer. But he wanted to be good. He wanted to be good for Jackson. He wanted to be kind and happy for him. The crowd was still roaring, and some of the Canadians were doing a bad job at wiping the smiles off of their faces at the sound.
Evgeni was still breathing hard, sweat stinging his eyes. It made him look down, blink briefly, and when he looked up again, it was at Jackson and pale blue.
“Kuns,” Jackson began softly, and Evgeni grabbed his hand, more squeezed it than shook it, and pushed away, head ducked once again.
His flight was tomorrow evening. He was supposed to be going home, supposed to be spending time with his parents, his sister. He wanted to. He didn’t get to see them nearly enough, especially not Ksenia, who usually spent her summers traveling, while Evgeni finally stopped traveling. He missed her.
He was half-heartedly throwing his clothes into his suitcase when the knock on his door came. He just stood for a moment, holding a shirt that he was pretty sure was Jackson’s, and closed his eyes. He needed to be alone right now, probably. He felt on edge and mean. He’d all but snapped at Vlad, his roommate, earlier. He was supposed to be going home, to his family he missed terribly, and so why did absolutely all of him want it to be Jackson on the other side of that door, offering to take him back to Gryffindor and their snug apartment?
A second knock, followed by a soft and familiar, “Kuns?”
A third knock. “I know you’re in there, I ran into Vlad in the lobby.”
Evgeni grit his teeth and yanked the door open.
“Should be celebrate,” Evgeni said, and decided he wasn’t going to be able to make Jackson leave, so he turned back to his suitcase.
“I…yeah,” Jackson said. Jackson entered the room almost timidly, leaning back against the door when it fell shut. “What about you? I saw Pavel and some of the others in the lobby—”
“Right,” Jackson said. “But, like…you shouldn’t be alone. I mean, unless you want…do you want me to leave?”
“Nado, should be with teammates,” Evgeni said as he tossed his dirty socks in with his clean ones. “I’m not fun. Not right now.”
He didn’t ever want to be anything other than good good good for Jackson, and the frustration eating at him was a snarling bite in each of his words.
“Kuns,” Jackson sighed, hand slapping against his thigh in the way it did when he was annoyed. “You can’t—you can’t be mad at me.”
“Not mad,” Evgeni balled up another t-shirt. “Sad for me. What you want, Nado? I smile at you, so happy, thanks for loss?”
“No,” Jackson fired back, and his lips, already thin, were pressed even thinner. “No, just—but—you barely even looked at me.”
Evgeni tried to ignore the pang in his chest. He knew that.
Jackson’s next words came out even softer. “You won’t even look at me now.”
Jackson let the flap of his suitcase whip closed and turned sharply on Jackson.
“Okay. I’m look now,” Evgeni said, crossing his arms. “What?”
Jackson had half of one expression on his face, and half of another. They were blended and dropped too quickly for Evgeni to really be able to make sense of either of them.
“Stop,” Jackson said, and reached forward to tug at Evgeni’s crossed arms. “Stop, just—Kuns, come on. I hate this.”
“No bossy, not right now,” Evgeni was surprised to find his voice hoarse, throat thick. “Just sad, you not help.”
“Yes, I do,” Jackson said firmly, because of course he knew that. Of course he just had to look at Evgeni like that, like—like—
“Fuck the gold, fuck the silver,” Jackson said, and Evgeni finally gave in and dropped his arms.
“You win gold,” Evgeni said. He felt miserable. “Not let me make a bad night, Jackson. You come on.” Evgeni nodded towards the door. “Go. Celebrate.”
Jackson shook his head. “I can’t. Not with you all alone up here. Come on, let’s go to dinner, yeah?”
Evgeni shook his head, and placed his hand on Jackson’s which was holding his arm still. “No.”
“Why not?” Jackson pushed a little closer.
“Because deserve to be with team,” Evgeni felt some of his frustration crumble, just a little. A riverbank only beginning to taste water. He pressed a warm palm to Jackson’s cheek, thumb rubbing over his scar. “Okay? I’m know how to lose. Do it many times.”
Jackson’s face showed that he knew he should go. He should be with his teammates. They were probably already at wherever they were celebrating. It was just like Jackson to stay behind to check on Evgeni.
“Wish I smile, say something in the line,” Evgeni admitted. “Bad teammate. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” Jackson sighed, leaning into Evgeni’s palm. “I shouldn’t have made you feel like you couldn’t be upset.”
“You don’t,” Evgeni said and, heart beating faster as it always did when they kissed—it wasn’t so regular yet that it didn’t still feel new each time—he pressed his lips to the corner of Jackson’s mouth quickly.
“Come back after,” Evgeni said. “I don’t care if you wake me up.”
Jackson bit his lip for a moment, and then pressed up on his toes and kissed Evgeni full on the mouth. He looked flushed with it, even just the sparse moment of it, and he reached out to touch the heavy golden pendants Evgeni wore around his neck.
“Okay,” Jackson smiled. “Okay. See you later, then. Yeah?”
Evgeni gave him a playful shove towards the door, kissed-smile on his own mouth. “Go. I want sleep.”
warnings: fem!snowboarder!reader. celebrity crushes, sort of? mentions of r & alysa being shipped. reader is lowk an awkward nerd sorry(not rlly). this is my first time writing for alysa so bare with me please LMAO also this is probably very inaccurate i know nothing about the olympic village.
you were lying on the bed of your dorm, your roommate already passed out. you wish. you weren't tired at all, which seemed ridiculous considering the amount of practice your coaches put you through today. you looked away from the sleeping girl, directing your attention back to your phone.
a few minutes of scrolling passed, before your stomach growled almost embarrassingly loud. "seriously?" you couldn't help but think. of course you'd be hungry at... what time was it... 1:34 in the morning.
with a sigh, you slowly pushed yourself up, trying to avoid any creaking of the bed from waking up lily. you slipped out from your room, walking down the corridor and into the elevator.
"thank god they don't close the kitchen." you mumble to yourself, grabbing a blueberry muffin and putting it onto a plate, loading it up with a few berries afterwards.
"totally." you jump at the sound of a voice behind you, a blueberry almost rolling off of your plate.
"jesus christ!" you set down the plate, putting a hand on your chest and turning to look at who the owner of the voice was. "oh, you've got to be kidding me." you think. meanwhile, the other girl felt like the heavens above had just struck her.
"i'm not going to kill you, relax." none other than alysa fucking liu tells you. "i just saw someone else down here, figured i'd come say hello." yeah, if only it were that easy! how could you act normal when this was the girl that the media's been shipping you with since you announced that you'd be competing as well? was this girl just really chill, or chronically offline?
"well, you scared the shit out of me." you huff, turning back to your plate and piling a cookie on it for good measure. she couldn't help but find the action just the slightest bit endearing.
"you're a snowboarder, right?" she proceeded to say your name in clarification that it was in fact you, but she knew already who you were.
"yeah, that's me. you're alysa, i'm guessing?" years of media training meant you had an incredible talent of acting nonchalant. most people fell for the act, but you think that your jumpiness gave you away before you could even try.
"yup." she walks closer to you, plucking a blueberry off of your plate, even though there was literally an entire bowl full right in front of her. you have to fight back an eye roll. "you're up late."
"so are you." you shoot back. "i was hungry. and was getting tired of watching dumb videos for entertainment." you unwrap the muffin, taking a bite and almost groaning at the taste. compliments to the chef, because they were like your damn god around here.
"dumb videos, yeah? so, i'm guessing you've seen the edits?" you freeze at that. okay, so your previous question was now answered. she was just really chill. or really damn good at acting like it.
"...what edits?" you lie through your berry-stained teeth. alysa laughs, running a hand through her stupidly cool hair. you curse at yourself for finding the motion attractive.
"oh, come on. there's no way you haven't seen them. you know, the ship ones?" you give up on acting clueless, figuring it's worthless.
"oh, those. yeah, i've seen a few." which was the truth. you avoided watching them at all costs. "it's kind of crazy, considering we've never met."
"well, i've been wanting to meet you. so... when i saw that it was you making all that noise," your cheeks burned at the revelation that you weren't as quiet as you'd thought. "i decided to follow." you felt your face get a bit hotter. she'd followed you? she wanted to meet you?
"huh. well, hello, then." you internally slap yourself in the face. that's the best you could do? a very cool (and very attractive) girl was here, introducing herself and expressing interest, and you settled on "hello"?!
alysa laughed once more, before looking down at her watch and sighing. "ugh, i have to go back up. my coaches don't like me out past 12." she glanced back up at you, flashing a grin that showed that damn smiley piercing. "i'll see you tomorrow, i hope?"
you smile back and nod, and once she turns around, you grab a pen from the counter and tear a piece off of your napkin with a random burst of confidence. you scribble down your number, placing it in the hood of alysa's jacket without her noticing.
she doesn't realize what you did until later that night when she's getting ready for bed, the note falls onto the ground. she catches herself blushing after she realizes who left it.
ok... what do we think guys... i'm scared this is my first time writing for her🥺😅 see original request here ! also for my yjs followers do not fret i have a nat req that i'll be completing tomorrow
