inspired by MY ONLY WISH (THIS YEAR) by BRITTNEY SPEARS
Christmas was a…trying time of year for you. Christmas meant time with family, food, and celebration which in theory was what anyone wanted from the holidays. But when it was your turn to host at your own place, it resulted in only stress.
Everywhere you looked was chaos: children running around playing with their new toys, cousins only yelling to make themselves heard over each other, aunties and mothers micromanaging every inch of your cooking process. If you were a cartoon you were sure you’d be red in the face.
“Dear, are you sure you’re meant to keep the turkey in the oven this long? It smells burnt.”
You sighed, looking up from the onions you were chopping to see your mom peeking into the oven to look at the very underdone turkey.
“No, mom, it's fine. Please leave it alone.”
She hummed, letting the oven door close but still peering at it from behind the glass. “Are you sure? I just want to help.”
“You could help me cut the onions,” you offered with a trying smile.
But she only wrinkled her nose, carrying herself away from the cooking station and back to the other side of the island where most of everyone else sat, waiting. “Oh no I shouldn’t. The smell sticks to my fingers and you know how much onion irritates my eyes.
Some sort of response lingered at the tip of your tongue, something you were sure was the product of all the stress and commotion but luckily something else stole your attention. “y/n! Something’s wrong with your tv!”
You could feel your eye twitching as you let the knife clatter onto the chopping board. You walked in stride, bee-lining to where all the men lounged in front of the darkened television.
“What happened,” you sighed, one hand on your hip and the other wiping sweat from your forehead.
Your dad simply shrugged. “I dunno, it just turned off. You know I’m not too hot with technology.”
“Where’s the remote then?”
He looked around for a moment before silently turning back to you. “I thought you had it.”
You fought the urge to groan, grumble or even outright scream as you began to search for the remote.
“Sweetie, it’s okay we can fin–”
“No dad,” you huffed with a strained smile. “I’ve got it, just sit back, relax and—”
“Are you looking for the remote?”
You looked up suddenly, one of your younger cousins staring down at you innocently as you searched underneath a chair.
You cleared your throat and sat up, sitting on your knees to come to eye level with her. “Do you know where it is?”
Wordlessly, she pointed outside the window with a single pudgy finger. You followed where she pointed, landing outside the window where you saw the two younger boys ( the worst age combination of 7 and 9 ) digging a hole in your yard.
“I–, oh my god...”
You prayed that your hunch was wrong but as you made your way outside but between the whispering and giggling, you had a feeling you weren’t at all wrong.
“Hey,” you shouted at the pair of them. “What are you doing?!”
With wide eyes, they whipped around to see you, then darted off in two opposite directions.
Too tired to even chase them, you peered into the hole in the snow and dirt: a set of keys, batteries likely from the remote, and an action figure. No remote.
“Hey y/n…?”
Suddenly the sound of your name was like searing needles to your brain, pressing down on your growing headache the more it was uttered. “What?!”
You turned around and at the door, you saw your cousin, only a few years younger than you and usually keeping to herself. “My mom was asking where…” she trailed off. “Is everything okay?”
Your entire body felt tense, your teeth clenched, fingers tapping erratically at your side, and your eye still twitching. “No. I–I don’t know how anyone can host in this family. It’s like everyone lost all kind of sense and they think I have a million arms and the boys just ran off with my remote they just buried!”
Somewhere in your speech she abandoned the front door and stood by your side, arms crossed and silently listening. “That’s…that family I guess…what if you just take a breather and I’ll get the remote from the boys.”
You let out a huff of air, your hands wrapping around the back of your neck in exhaustion. “That…that sounds nice. Thank you.”
And silently, she left, leaving you alone. Wordlessly, you looked to the sky. The sun was just beginning to set, the orange contrasting beautifully against the white snow.
“Family drama,” a voice asked you.
With a startled jump, you looked to see your neighbor in his yard, giving you a sympathetic smile.
“Bucky,” you breathed. “Hey. I didn’t know you were still in town.”
He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t really go anywhere for the holidays, just kinda…stay put.”
You wandered closer, shoving your freezing hands in your pocket. “So you’ve got friends over?”
He tilted his head off to the side, making a strange noise before turning back to you. “Uhh, sure! You can say that.”
But you looked back to his house, seeing it completely barren, empty and most of all, no one inside.
“You’re a terrible liar,” you almost laughed, brows dipping down in concern. “Don’t tell me you’re spending Christmas by yourself.”
He shrugged. “I mean. I’ve got my television, so I’m not completely alone.”
You opened your mouth then shut it, unsure of what to say. The last thing you wanted was for him to be completely alone on Christmas of all days.
But before you could find something to say, you heard a loud crashing from the side of your house. Turning around, you saw one of the boys, tackled to the ground by your older cousin, wrestling for the remote.
“It’s fine,” she shouted. “All good over here.”
With wide eyes and a sharp inhale, you whipped back around to face Bucky. “Do you wanna go on a drive, or a walk? I think…I think I need a break and you,” you paused, taking a moment to think. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
A cross between an amused and concerned smile slipped onto Bucky’s lips before reluctantly nodding. “Why not?”
You’d hung out with Bucky a few times, but never outside of a friendly conversation in either of your front yards. He lingered in your mind more often than you’d like to admit though.
When he first moved in, you remembered calling our best friend to tell them about the “new hot neighbor next door”.
The last thing you expected though was to be walking around with him on Christmas evening, your duties at home left abandoned.
It was nice though, peaceful as the two of you laughed down cold streets, bumping into him occasionally.
“So wait,” he laughed, a rare genuine smile gracing him. “Why’d they bury the remote?”
Laughter fell freely from you as you recounted the story that occurred right before he interrupted the chaos. “I have no clue. Maybe they were trying to get back at us adults or something.”
He grinned. “Or something.”
It was a strange feeling, the peace that Bucky seemed to invoke just by being there. He was unlike your family. He was quiet and withdrawn yet had a charm in him that you noticed he didn’t allow for most people.
You’ve seen the videos of him as ‘Senator Barnes’: stern, disconnected, and most of all just glum.
“What are you thinking about,” he questioned with a smile, knocking his shoulder into yours.
You smiled and laughed. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got that look, like you’re coming up with something.”
You shrugged and smiled up at him. “I dunno, I guess I’ve never seen you smile like this before. It suits you.”
His steps slowed, turning to you with a million illegible thoughts in his eyes, like it was something for you to decode. “Thank you…not just for that but for—” he cut himself off, ruminating over his words, “for inviting me out. I like being with you.”
You smiled coyly. With a boost of adrenaline, you surged forward, placing a simple kiss onto his cheek. “Me too.”
Day Three!! love it SMM comment, like , reblog, and come back for day four!!
Summary: Ladda and James are part of the Winter Soldier program. These are different stories of their missions, their traumas, and their history together over the years.
You can also find this story on AO3.
November 2nd, 2026, Dominican Republic
She lived on the outskirts of Manabao, Jarabacoa, near La Ciénaga. Her property was nestled deep in the mountains, with only a handful of houses nearby. The winding dirt road that led to her home was entirely private—a feature that gave her a false sense of security.
It was nearly midnight when Rose arrived home. She parked her motorcycle in the garage and headed straight for the shower. After nearly a week in the field—surviving on wet wipes and way too much perfume—she needed to stand under hot water long enough to feel human again. As the steam filled the bathroom, and she brushed through her damp hair, a quiet restlessness began to settle in. She was going to see Jack, her son, for the first time in a week.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of red wine and turned on Ella Fitzgerald. Humming along, she began to prepare Jack’s favourite meal—mac and cheese with roasted chicken. These peaceful rituals, like the remote location, were part of the illusion of safety she allowed herself. But underneath that calm, the fear always lingered. A part of her half-expected a grenade to crash through the open window and reduce everything to rubble.
She knew there was no real danger. She’d done her sweep: the first gate, the perimeter fence, the hidden cameras linked to the small surveillance hub in her study. But the intrusive thoughts came anyway—part of the mental residue she brought home after spending seven days in the desert surrounded by hitmen and sandstorms. It was the price of being a CIA field operative.
Rose exhaled slowly. She was tired, but Jack’s dinner wasn’t going to make itself. After finishing the meal, she cleaned her gear, taking special care with the tools of her trade. Hidden behind the sofa in her study was a secret panel leading to a small tech room, where she stored her computers, weaponry, and surveillance screens. She set down little Peggy II—a battle-worn Getac B360 that had taken a bullet in South Sudan. Tomorrow, while Jack slept, she’d transfer all the intel and lay Peggy II to rest.
That night, she took three Ambien and prayed for a nightmare-free sleep. She slept deeply, but some dreams still dragged her back to Siberia. To the cold. To the screams. And worst of all, to his face—twisted in pain and rage.
In the dream, she saw the snow falling again, slow and silent, like ash. She felt the sting of the chains biting into her wrists. Metal on skin. Blood on snow. And then—his hands, bruised and trembling, brushing against hers in the dark. There had been a moment, barely a breath between missions, when everything else had disappeared. The war. The orders. The voices in their heads. Just the warmth of his forehead pressed to hers in a corridor lined with frost, his breath misting between them. He’d looked at her like he remembered who he was. Who she was.
But the memory always fractured—splintered by alarms, by blinding lights, by the sound of someone being dragged down a hallway.
She turned away from it in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent. Her body, though motionless, flinched as if resisting the pull of something long gone.
And then his face again, not as it had been in the cold—feral, hurting—but how she remembered him after it all. After the silence between missions. After the Winter.
The next morning, Rose hopped in her Jeep and took off down the narrow jungle road. Jack’s boarding school let out at noon, giving her just enough time to make it and surprise him with a cold Coke and a tiny car keychain she’d picked up at the airport.
Sending Jack to a boarding school was the compromise she’d made between motherhood and espionage. It came with its share of awkward encounters—especially from teachers who liked to play amateur detective. Like Ms. Reyes.
When Rose arrived, she checked in at reception and made her way to the first gate, where other parents were already waiting. The bell rang, and a swarm of children poured out.
She scanned the crowd for Jack but was intercepted by a woman in her late 30s or early 40s, her expression a mix of surprise and curiosity.
Rose tried to offer a polite smile. “I notified the school I’d be picking Jack up today. Is he not ready?”
“Oh, yes, yes—he’ll be out shortly. But I actually wanted to speak with you. About… some things Jack mentioned.”
Rose’s expression sharpened. “Is Jack okay?”
“He’s perfectly fine. But some of the things he said about you… about your work…”
“About me?” Rose blinked. “Jack doesn’t usually talk about me.”
“Well, Rose—he did mention—”
“Ms. McMillan.” she corrected coolly. Rose had zero patience for the faux-friendliness some people used to lower your guard. She wasn’t here to bond with Jack’s teacher—she just wanted to know what the hell was going on.
“Ms. McMillan.” Reyes corrected herself, awkwardly. “Can I ask what line of work you’re in?”
“Did Jack ask you to?”
“No… not exactly. He just said you work a lot. And…”
“Well, if he knows his mum works hard to provide for him, I don’t see why that should keep you up at night.”
“It’s just—other parents have started to question it, too.”
“Other parents?” Rose’s tone hardened. “I don’t even know the other parents.”
“Well…”
“MOMMY!” Jack’s voice cut through the tension. Rose turned and saw him sprinting toward her.
“I came to get my son, Ms. Reyes. That’s all. Have a good day.” She ended the conversation without another glance.
Jack threw himself into her arms, and she scooped him off the ground in a tight hug.
“You came!”
“Of course, baby. I’m here. Let’s go.”
On the drive home, they shared a Coke and sang Smash Mouth at the top of their lungs. Rose tried to catch up on every little detail of his week—his friends, his classes, what he loved, what annoyed him. She wanted to know it all.
“…and then Isabella started spitting her food.” Jack said between giggles.
“That’s kind of clever. Did you join in the prank?” Rose asked, amused.
“No… I just laughed a little.” Jack admitted, dropping his gaze. “I know it was mean, but she’s the one who put gum in my notebook last year. Remember?”
“I remember, love. We hate that girl.” Rose chuckled. “But also, laughing at someone getting picked on isn’t cool.”
“I know, Mommy. I swear I didn’t do anything!”
They ate lunch together and continued talking. Rose gave a few life lessons in between bites of chicken. Jack begged her to watch a movie before bed. She gave in, made popcorn, and let him choose.
When she returned with the bowl, she found him staring at the TV, wide-eyed.
“MOMMY, MOMMY!” he shouted. “It’s Captain America!”
“That’s not Captain America.” Rose muttered as she saw Sam Wilson giving a speech to a group of reporters.
“And look! It’s Bucky Barnes!”
Rose froze. James. His hair was shoulder-length again, and he was dressed in a sharp navy suit. He stood beside Wilson, stoic but composed. It didn’t surprise her that after Wilson’s speech, Bucky stepped forward to speak.
What did surprise her was what he said:
“…and that’s why I’m officially announcing my candidacy for United States Senator.”
“What the fuck?” Rose whispered, stunned.
“Whoa.” Jack breathed. His eyes sparkled with admiration. “Bucky Barnes is my favourite superhero.”
Rose’s heart twisted. Her son was unknowingly idolizing his own father—and had no idea.
...my brain just went brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr and went offline for a bit, hahahaaaaaaa. Okayokayokay random thoughts, real fast:
he wouldn't be nearly as aggressive or stern or harsh as Senator Rogers, but is arguably more intense
unassuming, an excellent interrogator, calm and charismatic, runs a tight tight ship
a Switch 😮💨
is reeeaaallly into bondage, pet play, edging, aftercare, and a good sloooooooow burn
loves few things more than one of his Subs reaching subspace
but might love seeing his Sub cry more 👀
you never know where you stand with him, what his next move is going to be, his voice low and enchanting, his power over your body and mind immediate and all encompassing
wants communication at all times, is not a huge fan of gags of any sort, wants to hear that communication from his Sub instead of seeing it
and good god this man's mouth, his direction, his guidance, his authorityyyyy
"Look at me, look. Put your hands on me, both of them. There you go, look how hard you make me. You feel that? You feel how hard you make your Sir? Hey. Did I tell you to stroke? Did I tell you to move your hands? What do you say when you—let me finish.”
“What do you say when you do something you're not supposed to do? Mhmm, do that now. Thank you, kitten. Now...I'm going to enjoy this glass of brandy you just poured me while also enjoying your perfect little mouth. Keep me hard, tease me, play with me; you know what I like.”
“And when I'm done with my drink...I think I might tie you to my bed and continue to use your tight little body. How does that sound? Yeah? Good, sweetheart— that's good. Get to it then..."
