with the winter olympics coming up, can we just take a moment to think about boyfriend!bucky supporting his figure skater!girlfriend at the games?!? i so strongly that this man would pull out ALLLL the stops for her and if she won gold?! game over!
I too feel strongly about this nonny
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You spot him before you spot the cameras.
Not because he’s subtle—he isn’t. Not because he’s tucked in with the coaches—he isn’t. No, you see him because of course your boyfriend is the only man in a 20,000-seat Olympic arena holding a six-foot banner that reads GO MY GIRL OR I RIOT in sparkly silver letters.
Oh, and because he’s wearing your national team jacket.
And a matching scarf.
And face paint.
And—god help you—a foam finger.
You step onto the ice and swear you feel it shift under your blades from how hard he’s yelling.
“THAT’S MY GIRL! THAT’S MY GOLD!” Bucky’s voice booms over a hundred thousand others like he’s powered by pure devotion instead of lungs. He’s standing, hands cupped around his mouth, not caring that he’s surrounded by other skaters’ families. They stare; he beams. His entire soul is shaped like a man who would bulldoze the Olympic committee if it meant he could get closer to the barrier.
You laugh under your breath as you take your opening pose.
God, you love him.
God, he’s ridiculous.
God, you need him to stop making you smile like this before a technical panel calls you out for being distracted.
The music begins—soft, lilting, slow. And suddenly everything narrows to the slice of cold beneath your blades and the warm, steady weight of Bucky’s love anchored somewhere in the stands.
Your first jump comes easy, your body remembering what your brain refuses to—you are good enough to be here. The crowd roars when you land it clean. You don’t look toward the boards, but you don’t have to. You feel the exact moment Bucky leaps out of his seat like gravity doesn’t apply to people in love.
Halfway through your step sequence, your eyes flick toward him.
He’s crying.
Of course he is.
The world’s deadliest hands, the bluest eyes, the softest heart—your heart—clutching that banner like a lifeline as tears streak two perfect lines through his patriotic face paint.
You bite back a grin. Focus. Spin. Breathe. Leap.
Your final combination is the risky one—you and your coach fought about it for months. And Bucky… he never once doubted you. Not once. Every late night, every ice bath, every frustrated sob in the car after practice, he was the one saying, You’re going to nail it on the night that matters. I know you, doll. You always do.
So you go for it.
One rotation.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Your blade cuts through the ice with a crack that sounds like destiny.
You land.
And the arena explodes.
But even the eruption of thousands can’t drown out the one voice you are somehow always attuned to.
“THAT’S MY OLYMPIAN! THAT’S MY CHAMPION! THAT’S MY—” his voice cracks, “—FUCKING SUPERHERO!”
You finish the program breathless, trembling, joy flooding every vein in your body. You take your final pose, chest heaving, eyes stinging. A wave of sound crashes over you as the crowd rises to their feet.
You can feel him standing somewhere behind it all—your anchor, your storm, your safe place.
When you skate off, the moment you cross the curtain, Bucky barrels into the backstage hallway like security has absolutely tried—and failed—to stop him.
He catches you mid-stride, lifting you off your skates like you weigh nothing. “Baby,” he gasps, voice thick, arms locked around you, “you flew out there. I swear you had wings. I swear I saw them.”
You laugh into his chest because he means it. He genuinely thinks you touched the heavens and brought something back with you.
“Buck—put me down, I’m gonna break my blades.”
He does not put you down.
He just reorients you so he can kiss your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw, your nose—every part of you he can reach without dropping you. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. So proud I don’t even know what to do with myself. My heart’s doing somersaults. I might faint. Don’t let me faint on TV.”
You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” he corrects seriously. “That’s different. That’s terminal.”
Before you can argue, an official calls your name to the kiss-and-cry. Bucky sets you down gently—finally—but then grabs your hands, eyes bright, voice trembling.
“No matter what the score is, you hear me? You already won. You won me months ago.”
You roll your eyes. “I don’t think that counts as an Olympic medal.”
“It should,” he mutters. “Gold level boyfriend right here.”
You squeeze his fingers and head with him toward the cameras. He’s vibrating beside you—nervous, excited, in awe.
The scores appear.
Your breath catches.
World record.
Olympic record.
Gold medal level.
The arena goes ballistic, but Bucky goes absolutely feral.
He grabs you, spins you off your feet, kissing you like there aren’t a dozen cameras pointed your way. “BABY! BABY, YOU DID IT! GOLD! GOLD! GOLD!” His voice breaks into a laugh so wet and wild you ache with love for him.
“Buck,” you wheeze, tears streaming, “I can’t breathe—”
“You don’t need air, you need—” he kisses you again “—a medal and—” another kiss “—me screaming for the rest of my life.”
Later, on the podium, he’s somehow found a second banner.
This one reads: MARRY ME OR SKATE HOME.
You don’t even know how he smuggled it in.
You catch his eyes in the crowd—blue, soaking wet, overflowing—and shake your head, smiling so hard your chest hurts.
Bucky listens with half an ear as you talked on the phone, “Mama,” you laugh, “everything is fine. Just fine. We’ve been to all our check-ups and I take my vitamins every day.” He shakes his head. You weren’t even showing yet really. Only when he had you naked.
The little curve of your tummy and the swell of your breasts were really only noticeable then, still safely hidden under your clothes.
But Becky and your mother still called often, fussing and offering advice. You’d just gotten back from taking Becky to do some shopping and he was still willing to bet she’d be calling you to remind you to eat or telling you something not to eat. You hold out the phone to him, silently pleading with him and he chuckles, taking it gently.
“Mama,” he says gently, “We’ll call you the second we need anything. I promise.” He listens for a second and sighs, “No, we haven’t decided all that yet. As soon as we do, we’ll tell you.”
You straddle his lap, arms and legs wrapping around his torso demandingly and he swats your backside affectionately. “No, Mama, I gotta go. Y/N hungry and I should probably feed her dinner.” You look up at him and snort, “I love you too,” he says, “Yes I’ll make sure she drinks water.”
He gets himself off the phone with a sigh and tosses it gently on the coffee table, “Holy cow,” he groaned, “You’d think I was letting you deadlift 200 pounds and live on kit kats.”
You grin, “I do eat a lot of kit kats right now,” you admit. He kisses your nose, “I know,” he chuckled, “I just bought you a bag of the Mini ones on Monday and they’re almost gone.” You pout a little, “I can’t help it, if they’re there I’m gonna eat them.”
He swats your backside again lovingly and laughs, “I know, Princess. Pickles, kit kats and red licorice. And just spicy things.”
“Not at the same time,” you protest. Bucky snorts and kneads into your hips, “No, not at the same time. Usually.”
He smiles a little when you melt under his touch. He really enjoyed the changes to your body. And your sex drive. You were always a little needy, but now you didn’t seem to ever want to stop. Saturday night after you got home from taking Becky to get the things she wanted and take her to lunch and into the wee small hours of the morning, Bucky knew exactly what he’d be doing.
You. As many times as you could take.
It made up for how busy things got through the week. For not being able to spend hours and hours catering to your every little whim. In those evenings it didn’t matter what you wanted, as long as it was safe for you and the baby, he’d let you have it. He smothered you in treats and affection until you were too sleepy and sated to do much more than snuggle closer. Not that you didn’t give as good as you got. You’d done things to him that made him see stars. A couple times he’d started speaking in Russian before he realized he was doing it.
“What’s the plan for today, Mama?” he hummed, resting his hand on your thighs and smoothing slow circles into the sensitive skin on the inside with his thumbs.
“Nothing,” you sigh, “I need a day off. Between the consult Fury asked for and my research, and trying to get things ready in the nursery, I’m exhausted.”
“Then nothing it is,” he soothed, “We can take today and rest... Maybe recreate a little... since we already did the procreate part.” He touches your belly with gentle fingers and smiles softly.
“How’s the baby fever?” she teased.
He grinned, unapologetic, his voice getting husky “I’m still burning up, I think. I can’t wait to see you get bigger. Want everyone to see you. You’re so beautiful, Princess.”
You shiver, “Handsome, that’s not just baby fever,” you tell him, “You’ve got a new kink.”
Bucky laughed, “And I think I like it,” he murmured, kissing along your collar bones, “love what the hormones are doing to you.” You blush and he affectionately reaches between you to palm your cunt, tutting at how you whimper for him.
“Can’t help it,” you plead softly, “You feel nice. Safe... Makes me feel better.”
“What needs to feel better, Mama?” he asks softly. You blush, “Just... Ashley called.”
You don’t need to say another word. Ashley is good at making you feel like shit. Preying on your insecurities and impostor syndrome. He tuts softly and his lips crash into yours, his tongue licking into your mouth.
He doesn’t know what to say, but he does know how to distract you. How to drown out the anxiety and discomfort. He wraps his arms around you and keeps you snug against him, reminding you that your anxiety likes to tell you lies. That he loves you. That he’s here and Ashley is wrong. He’s not going to leave you.
When he pulls away, when he feels you relax a little, he smiles tenderly, “What’d she say?” he asked.
You sigh, “Nothing really. Except the usual implications. You know, my real dad didn’t really care about me so like... why would anyone else. It’s not like dad is really my dad.”
He took a deep breath, “Every time you say that I really wish I’d let you beat her up last Christmas,” he murmured. You make a soft resigned noise and he tilts your chin up, “I love you,” he says softly, cradling your face, “you’re not getting fat, you’re expecting. You’re supposed to get a little plump. You’re amazing at your job. And I’m not going anywhere, okay?”
Tears well up and you swallow hard, “Okay, I’m sorry.”
“Shh,” he soothed, “Princess, don’t be sorry. You don’t ever have to be sorry for feelings. Feelings aren’t logical. You aren’t hurting me.” He wiped a tear away and smiled, “Your heart is in a really fragile place right now. If I had to deal with that many hormones I’d probably just be sobbing in the corner all day.”
You snort and he smiles a little, “Baby,” he hums, “you’re okay. Your sister is terrible. She pounces on you at the worst time then yells at you for getting upset. It’s disorienting and abusive... Let me talk to her next time. You don’t need the stress, okay?”
You nod and snuggle against him, “Just don’t kill her.”
“No promises,” he said lightly.
“Bucky,” you scold gently, “she can’t help it.”
“I don’t care. She hurt my girl,” he said, “That isn’t allowed.”
You sigh, “Can we just go watch movies and pretend other people don’t exist?” Bucky laughed softly, “Only if we can do it naked.” He kisses your nose and you shake your head, “Such a horndog.”
“You would be too if you got to have sex with you,” he protested.
“We can cuddle naked,” you sigh, “But only because I am extremely susceptible to flattery.”
He grinned and shifted your weight so he could carry you in his arms instead of over his shoulder, “Sold... But now I want to know what else I could get you to do.”
“Play your cards right and find out,” you tell him, kissing his jaw.
A/N: Bucky is super soft and super in love. He’s also super supportive and will literally kill someone if they hurt you. Implied smut. One day I will write steamy smut for this fic. But this is not that day.
Bucky follows you on social media, laughing at the awkward fan interactions and texting you daily to tell you that he likes your outfit. You hate California. It’s hot and crowded. You miss your house. And your super soldier.
The evening phone calls are just not enough. Listening to the deep rumble of his voice as he tells you about his day over the phone isn’t near as lovely as having your head on his broad chest while he plays with your hair and tells you about it.
“I miss you,” you tell him one night. You can feel the depression gnawing at you, trying to rip the marrow from your bones. It was a hard day. Negotiations were long and drawn out. The studio wanted the option to cast a white person as a non white character. Your agent was telling you not to die on this hill but then... 10% of millions was a lot of money. You didn’t need the money really and you were more than willing to fight for it. They were Asian. They needed to stay Asian. It was central to their internal conflict and character development. The story wasn’t what you had written if they just cast a white dude and changed his name to Kevin.
“I miss you too, baby doll,” he says. He can hear the tired in your voice. It wasn’t long day in your shop tired, fixed with a cuddle and a warm shower. It was more than that and it worried him a little. “How are the talks going?” he asks. You snort, “It’s all bullshit. They don’t care about making the story come to life, they care about manipulating teenage girls out of their money... I hate it. I’ve got half a mind to walk out and let some indie studio do it. Sure. The budget will be smaller but at least my nonwhite characters will stay not white.” Bucky smiles a little, “Do whatever you think is right, baby,” he soothes, “I don’t know what else to say.” You close your eyes and sigh, “I know,” you murmur. He stays on the phone, desperate to give you whatever comfort he can, waiting for you to speak.
“I did get some good news though,” you say, “I’ll be headed to New York week after next.” Bucky feels a thrill and his heart races, “You gonna have time for me?” he teases, “You know when you’re not being a big shot.” You smile, he always knows what to say, even if he says he doesn’t. “I think I can pencil you in between fan events,” you tease back. Bucky smiles, “Maybe if you show up a little early I can take you to some of my old haunts.” You beam, “The old folks home isn’t really my idea of a date but, I’m sure you could make it interesting.”
“Ow,” he says, mock clutching his heart, “Old man jokes already? I’m shocked.”
“Oooh, I better lay off then,” you tease, “Wouldn’t want to give you cardiac arrest.”
“Alright, whippersnapper,” he says, mock sternness in his voice, “Simmer down before I go get my cane.” He hears the giggle you’re trying to hold back and that helps. You’re still laughing; humor within reach of your fingertips. “What if I don’t simmer down? Then what?” you challenge. Bucky feels his cheeks heat.
Things had been pretty innocent the week he spent with you. Slow kisses and tenderness when the lights got low. Positions that weren’t adventurous but still exciting. He’d liked being on top of you, where he could see you. Where he could feel like he was keeping you safe. Not that this week, as he missed you more with every tweet, text, and Instagram picture, he hadn’t considered other things. “Well,” he said, letting his voice deepen to the tone he used as he pressed you into the mattress, “Keep teasing me and find out.”
He hears the hitch in your breath and his cock twitched to attention. “Bucky,” you say, too breathless to make the tease in your voice work. Your brain was about to make a smartass comment. It was on the tip of your tongue but the bedroom rumble in his voice made it evaporate like water on a hot pan. “What do you need, doll,” he asked, “tell me?” He knows you’re lonely and depressed. He can feel it, even over the phone. “I need you,” you say softly, “I miss you.” The longing in your voice makes his heart constrict. It isn’t simple lust. You just want a hand to hold and even Lady can’t make the empty feeling in your chest go away. “Y/N, do you want me to come out there?” he asks seriously, “I can be there in a few hours, baby. Just say the word.”
You swallow hard, blinking back tears. you’d never had anyone just offer to drop everything. No one, not even Aunt Sarah or your Grandma. They liked to try and make your mom parent first. “Baby, you still there?” he asks softly, “Talk to me, you need me to beat up any weasles?” He’s teasing, of course, trying to coax a laugh out of you. The sound you do make is mostly sob and a little laugh. He can hear lady whining in the background and the sound of fur rustling in the quiet as you hug her like a lifeline. A furry life raft. “Hang on, baby,” he soothes, already reaching for a bag, “I’ll be right there, okay?”
You sniffle and wipe your nose on your sleeve, “I'm sorry I’m such a baby,” you say. You sound so guilty and upset that you’re in pain. “Stop that,” he says firmly, “You’re not just any baby. You’re my baby. You’re my best girl. I love you. I love you so much, don’t be sorry.”
He wants to hurt the people who hurt you. The people who let you deteriorate until you shattered apart. You’re crying and lonely. Afraid to ask him for help. Afraid to talk to the people who love you for fear of some retribution. For fear of being judged or turned away. “Bucky?” you ask softly. He pauses his packing and grips the phone, “Yeah, baby girl?” He hears covers rustle and tissues crinkle, “I’m gonna lay down for a while, I don’t wanna be awake anymore.” Bucky chuckled, “Alright, get some rest Y/N. I’ll be there when you wake up, okay?”
“Okay,” you murmur before you hang up.
Bucky doesn’t hesitate. He gets Natasha to fly the quinjet and take him to you. He’s worried. He’s seen glimpses of the manic the week he was with you. But this is where the switch flips. This is the other side of the coin with you. The price, you told him once, for all of your creative energy. The spy gives him a questioning look but when he tells her it’s for you, she asks no more questions. She really did have a soft spot for you. All awkward puppy friendliness and defending her from misogynistic men that made crude comments. You hadn’t known Natasha at all but when another woman walked into your space you said, “Sweet, work wife!” and showed her where the good coffee was hidden.
“Use protection?” Natasha said with a smirk and a shrug as Bucky unstrapped his bike. The super soldier said nothing but rolled his eyes. You were waiting for him and you needed him. You needed him to come sit with you in the dark until you could find your way back into the sun.
By the time he got to your hotel room, you were still sound asleep. Lady doing her best impersonation of a body pillow as you hugged her close in the rumpled bedding. He doesn’t want to wake you. He just puts his bag down and hushes the dog softly. She listens and you hardly stir. He spoons up behind you and kisses the nape of your neck, “I’m here, doll,” he murmurs. “I’m right here, you’ll be okay.” In the dark of the room, an episode of I love Lucy as background noise, you lace your fingers through his, the feel of the cold metal cooling your skin comfortingly.
