#figure skater!reader

“Just come to the rink tonight,” you’d told him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth as you laced your shoes by the door. “No peeking before. No asking Sam for intel.”

“I don’t ask Sam for intel,” Bucky had grumbled, even as you laughed like you knew better.

Now he’s sitting in the bleachers of a mostly empty rink, elbows braced on his knees, metal fingers tapping absently against his thigh. The overhead lights cast everything in that familiar, sterile glow, reflecting off the ice in long, glassy streaks. There’s a quiet hum to the place—the kind that settles into his bones.

He’s seen you skate before. Plenty of times.

But something about tonight feels different.

You step onto the ice in your warmups, gliding effortlessly as you test your edges, your body already loose, already in tune with the space. Bucky watches you the way he always does—like you’re something fragile and powerful all at once, something he still hasn’t quite figured out how he got lucky enough to have.

You disappear off the ice for a moment, and when you come back—

Bucky stills.

Your costume isn’t one he’s seen before.

It’s… familiar in a way he can’t immediately place. Dark—navy, almost black—with subtle silver detailing that catches the light like frost. The lines of it are sharp but elegant, structured across your shoulders and softer as it trails down your arms. There’s something about it that tugs at him, something that feels like memory.

“Alright,” your coach calls from the boards. “Run the short.”

Short.

Program.

Bucky leans back slightly, settling in. He expects music—something classical, maybe modern orchestral. Something that fits you.

The opening notes hit, and his breath catches.

It’s not what he expected.

Low, haunting strings. A slow build, like something waking up from a long, dark sleep.

And then you move.

It’s subtle at first—controlled, precise. Your edges carve clean lines into the ice, your posture tight, almost restrained. Your arms don’t flow the way they usually do; they’re sharper, more deliberate, like every movement is being measured.

Bucky frowns slightly.

He’s never seen you skate like this.

You push into your first jump—clean, powerful—but when you land, you don’t open up into something bright or expansive. You fold inward, shoulders curling just a fraction, your head turning sharply as if you’re listening for something behind you.

The music swells, and something in Bucky’s chest twists.

There’s tension in your skating. Not nerves—he knows what that looks like on you. This is intentional. Built into the choreography. Into the story.

Your footwork is tight, almost frantic at moments, your blades biting into the ice in quick, staccato steps. Your arms move like they’re being pulled, redirected, forced into positions that don’t quite look natural—until they do.

Until they become part of it.

Part of you.

Bucky’s fingers still against his leg.

He knows this.

Not the routine, not the steps—but the feeling.

The disorientation. The control that isn’t yours. The way your body moves even when your mind is screaming.

His throat goes dry.

“No,” he murmurs under his breath, but he doesn’t look away.

You spin, and it’s not the light, airy kind you usually favor. It’s tight. Fast. Centered. Your arms pulled in close, your head snapping with each rotation like you’re trying to outrun something inside yourself.

The music shifts—softens, just slightly—and so do you.

Your movements don’t loosen, exactly, but they… change. There’s hesitation now. Flickers of something breaking through the rigidity. Your arms extend a little farther, your chest opens a little more, like you’re testing the edges of your own freedom.

Bucky feels his heart start to pound.

Because he knows this part, too.

The in-between.

The moments where something inside him fought back. Where he wasn’t just… the Soldier.

You push into your final pass, the choreography building, the music climbing higher, and this time when you land your jump, you don’t fold in.

You open.

Your arms spread wide, your chin lifts, your entire body stretching into the space like you’re finally taking it back.

The last note echoes as you come to a stop, chest rising and falling, blades carving a final, deliberate line into the ice.

Silence.

Bucky doesn’t realize he’s standing until his knees hit the back of the bleacher in front of him.

You’re looking at him.

Waiting.

And suddenly it clicks into place so hard it almost knocks the air out of him.

The music.

The choreography.

The way you moved.

“Doll,” he says, voice rough, almost unsteady. “That was—”

He can’t finish it.

Because it was him.

Or at least… your version of him.

You skate over slowly, careful, searching his face in a way that tells him you’ve been worried about this. About how he’d take it.

“I know it’s a lot,” you say softly. “I didn’t want to just—take your story without you knowing, but I also… I needed to show you first before I explained it.”

Bucky shakes his head, stepping closer to the boards.

“The short,” you continue, glancing back at the ice. “It’s… the Winter Soldier. Not just the missions, but the lack of control. The confusion. The fight that’s still there, even when no one else can see it.”

His chest tightens.

“And the free?” he asks quietly.

You smile a little, something gentler this time.

“That one’s you now.”

Bucky lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

You rest your hands on the barrier between you, looking up at him like you’re giving him something fragile.

“I didn’t want it to just be about what was done to you,” you say. “I wanted people to see what you are. What you chose to become anyway.”

There’s a long pause.

Bucky reaches out, his metal hand curling around the top of the boards, his flesh hand finding yours.

“You see all that when you look at me?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You don’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” you say simply. “All of it. The bad, the hurt, the healing… and the man you fought like hell to be.”

Something in him cracks open.

Not in a painful way.

In a way that feels like relief.

Like being understood in a language he never knew how to speak.

Bucky squeezes your hand, his grip careful but firm.

“Can I watch the free?” he asks after a moment, a faint, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth.

You grin, eyes lighting up.

“Only if you promise not to cry in the stands.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, already knowing he’s going to break that promise.

“Can’t guarantee that, doll.”

And when you skate away to reset, Bucky sits back down—but this time, he watches you differently.

Not just like you’re something beautiful.

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.

You hold up the gold medal.

He holds up his heart.

You know it’s only a matter of time until Sirius tries to coax you back off the ice for a hot chocolate. “Come on, sweetheart, my treat,” he always says, as if you’re going along for the free watery hot chocolate and not just to spend time with him. Lately, something has shifted in the dynamic between you and Sirius. He spends maybe half his time at the rink actually skating, the other half signing to you from across the rink and warming your hands. And you spend most of your time thinking about him. 

You pull your hands from his. “Did you see my layback?” you ask, mouth pulling sideways into a grimace. 

Sirius mirrors your expression, though you can see his smile peeking through. “I saw. You’ll get it, you just need to get your back leg in the right place.” 

You push out a sigh. You’ve been trying to do that all morning. “Help me with it?” 

“Now?” Sirius’ nose wrinkles. “I was thinking we could break for hot chocolate.” 

You suppress a smile. Predictable. 

“Come on,” he signs at your reluctance. “You’ve got to be freezing. My treat.” 

You laugh. “Help me for a little while, please? Then we can go.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes at you, but his expression is fond. “Fine. Let me warm you up first, though.” 

He takes your hands again, cupping his around them and raising them to his mouth to blow hot hair into your palms. You smile and let him. The warmth is nearly as nice as the feeling of Sirius’ hands cradling your own, of his lips brushing the sides of your thumbs. You wonder, sometimes, if this is really only an excuse to touch you.