Parents aren't for telling their children who they're supposed to be. We are here to give ya'll tools, help you make fools of yourselves all on your own. No... Your choices, Clark. Your actions. That's what makes you who you are.
Hey if you have chronic pain, you gotta remember that the cognitive load of dealing with that is exhausting. Just that alone. Never mind what else you've got going on.
You're not lazy or being dramatic; you're overloaded.
People will be so mean to teenagers do you literally not remember what it was like to be sixteen. Every time I talk to a teenager I feel I should hold their hands and tell them I think they're one of the bravest people on the planet just for choosing to endure but I don't because I don't want to be creepy.
“but what if you abort the baby who’ll cure cancer?!” sir the baby who will cure cancer is an organic chemistry major who works at a Home Depot because you use AI to go through your resumes
bucky x widow! reader
You're a Red Room operative with a simple mission: seduce Captain America, steal his genetic material, help your handlers clone a new super soldier.
Simple. Clean. You've done worse.
Except Bucky Barnes clocks you immediately, and instead of exposing you, he decides to show you what life looks like on the other side.
Turns out the Winter Soldier runs a very different kind of operation.
Tags: Spy Thriller, Honeypot Mission, Fake Dating, Forced Proximity, Found Family, Recovery, Dark Humor, Moral Ambiguity
Rating: Mature for language
Chapters: 1/7
Word Count: 2.5 k
[AO3 link]
divider art by @saradika-graphics
Chapter One: Magic Juice
You've infiltrated black sites. Seduced oligarchs. Killed a man with a shoe.
And now you're in a vent above the Avengers' gym with a vial of drain water, testing it for super soldier jizz.
The test strip turns pink. Again.
You cap the vial. Log the results on your tablet with the kind of neat, precise documentation that would make your Red Room instructors proud, if any of them were still alive to give a shit.
Sample 07, 0820 hours. Third-floor gymnasium facilities. Chemical markers consistent with Protocol 7-D approved spermicide.
Contaminated.
Four days of this. Crawling through vents, collecting drainage samples, running tests. Every single sample contaminated with government-mandated spermicide designed specifically to make superhero genetic material completely fucking useless.
Captain America and the Winter Soldier are apparently the only two men in America who remember to jizz responsibly. Every single time.
You'd had this stupid, optimistic thought that maybe they'd get lazy. That maybe the tedious bureaucratic bullshit would slip their minds occasionally, men are men after all, they are supposed to be sloppy about details. But no. These two somehow survived being frozen in ice and brainwashed by Nazis and they still file their paperwork on time.
The ventilation shaft is clean, at least. Climate controlled, no dust, magnetic seals that don't squeak. Stark's maintenance standards are impeccable, which makes sense when your tenants can hear a mouse fart three floors away. You appreciate the attention to detail. Makes your job easier.
Below you, Bucky Barnes is beating the absolute shit out of a heavy bag.
Methodical. Controlled. Brutal accuracy honed over decades of being HYDRA's favorite murder weapon. The kind of dangerous, brooding intensity that probably makes civilian women want to fix him or fuck him or both.
You're unimpressed.
You're currently crouched in an air vent planning to steal his sperm so your employers can grow a new version of him in a lab. The bar for "sexually appealing" is pretty fucking high right now.
Forty-two minutes. Another eighteen and he'll head for the showers, based on a week of pattern analysis.
Where he will, undoubtedly, jerk off and then squeeze spermicide down the drain like a responsible citizen.
Because somewhere in HYDRA's decades of torture and conditioning, they apparently instilled excellent habits around paperwork compliance.
You allow yourself exactly three seconds of frustration.
The HVAC kicks on, but you don't startle.
Here's what you know about the Winter Soldier:
HYDRA captured him in 1943. Tortured him. Erased him. Rebuilt him into their perfect weapon. Seventy years of that. Seventy years of cryo-sleep and activation codes and missions he wouldn't remember the next day.
And then he defected.
Disappeared so completely that for a while people wondered if he'd ever actually existed. No sightings, no intelligence, nothing. Just gone.
Then he came back with the Avengers vouching for him and Wakanda's fingerprints all over the situation. Tony Stark brokered the immunity deal, called in every favor he had across three continents. There were hearings. Psychological evaluations. Lawyers everywhere.
And James Buchanan Barnes walked free.
Of course he did.
He was valuable.
The Winter Soldier. HYDRA's greatest weapon. Decades of optimization, the most successful asset ever produced. You know what that means? It means someone stuck a needle in his arm seventy years ago and he became worth saving. Worth Tony Stark's money. Worth Wakanda's resources. Worth Captain America's loyalty.
Worth an immunity deal.
You spent your entire childhood in the Red Room learning to kill with your bare hands and you're still just a tool.
Disposable.
The cost-benefit analysis your people ran was simple: trying to retrieve Barnes wasn't worth it anymore. They'd attempted it in Bucharest, lost operatives, and the Avengers' response time had been under four minutes. Further attempts would cost more than the asset was worth, especially now that he was genuinely deprogrammed rather than just hiding.
So they'd moved on to Plan B.
If they couldn't get the Winter Soldier back, they'd just grow a new one.
The briefing two weeks ago had been short.
Your handler slid a folder across the table in that aggressively beige conference room and laid out the mission parameters with all the emotion of someone ordering printer paper.
"Rogers and Barnes are both classified as enhanced biological assets. Protocol 7-D requires documented disposal of all genetic materials using approved spermicide. Every sample we've collected has been contaminated."
He looked at you.
"We need viable samples. Either target is acceptable. Science division can reverse-engineer the serum or use it for accelerated asset development. Your cover is State Department liaison, compliance monitoring. If they're not following protocol, collect directly. If they are..."
He shrugged.
"Use your judgment."
Your judgment.
Seduce a super soldier. Steal his sperm. Help your employers clone a living weapon.
Your handler didn't care which one. Rogers was the original Erskine formula, clean baseline. Barnes was seventy years of HYDRA improvements, field-tested and optimized for violence.
Either would work.
You said, "Understood."
Because that's what you say.
And you thought: Barnes got Wakanda. Got Tony Stark. Got to be a person again.
I get a beige conference room and orders to scrape his shower drain.
He got injected with super soldier magic juice and became worth saving.
You got injected with God knows what in the Red Room and became an operative.
Guess which one of you gets the immunity deal.
The thoughts took maybe five seconds. Then you packed them away in the box where you keep everything else you can't afford to feel.
And you started planning.
Surveillance confirms they're both religiously compliant with Protocol 7-D.
You've collected samples from every drain in their residential quarters, the gym facilities, even the goddamn kitchen sink just to be thorough. Every single one contaminated.
Which means somewhere in a government database, there are files that say things like:
Date: [Today]
Time: 07:43
Subject: Barnes, James B.
Method of Disposal: Spermicide, Protocol 7-D compliance
Notes: Sample properly neutralized per Enhanced Individual Genetic Security Guidelines
Because his jizz is a matter of national security.
Your tax dollars at work.
Below, the heavy bag goes still. Barnes's footsteps cross the gym floor toward the locker room. Right on schedule.
You've spent two weeks studying them both. Learning their patterns, cataloging their vulnerabilities, identifying potential approach vectors.
James Barnes moves through the world like he's still waiting for someone to say the activation words. Hypervigilant doesn't begin to cover it. He tracks every person in a room, catalogs every exit, maintains perfect tactical awareness even when he's just getting coffee. The smile he uses for strangers doesn't reach his eyes. He hovers around Steve Rogers like a guard dog, and his loyalty extends to exactly one person on this planet.
He'd clock you as a threat in under thirty seconds.
Steve Rogers is different.
Steve Rogers is devastatingly, heartbreakingly sad.
He's polite to everyone and connects with no one. Goes through the motions of team dinners and press events with all the enthusiasm of someone attending his own funeral. You've watched him smile at people and it looks like it physically hurts. He's still in love with a woman who died seventy years ago. Still drawing her face in his sketchbooks when he thinks no one's watching.
He's grieving his entire world. Every person he ever knew. The literal passage of time itself.
Rogers is the logical target.
Not because he's easier. But because he's still open to human connection even if he's too buried in grief to pursue it. You can work with grief. You've seduced grieving marks before. You know how the psychology works, how loneliness makes people drop their guard, how the promise of understanding can override suspicion.
Barnes would see you coming from a mile away.
The shower turns on below. You extract yourself from the vent in one seamless motion, replace the cover with precision. By the time Barnes exits the locker room eighteen minutes later, you're already gone.
Like you were never there.
Your apartment is dark when you get back.
You pull out the laptop and write the progress report with clinical thoroughness.
Subject: Initial Assessment – Project Bloodline
Status: Surveillance phase complete. Direct collection non-viable. Both subjects maintain full Protocol 7-D compliance.
Recommendation: Proceeding to alternative collection methods.
Primary Target: Steven Rogers
Approach Vector: Establish professional rapport via compliance monitoring cover. Leverage documented social isolation and unresolved grief. Escalate to personal relationship over 4-6 week timeline.
You read it over once. Hit send.
Tomorrow you'll introduce yourself. Professional. Forgettable. Just another bureaucrat doing compliance checks on enhanced individuals.
And then, slowly, you'll become someone Steve Rogers trusts.
Someone he might care about.
Someone he might let his guard down around.
So you can complete your mission and deliver viable genetic material from a man who got injected with serum and became a legend.
While you got injected with poison and became a operative.
He's a national symbol.
You're just worth orders.
You don't let yourself think about it longer than that. Compartmentalize. Move forward.
You set your alarm and close your eyes.
You arrive at Avengers Tower the next morning at 0845 hours.
A little early. Professional but not overeager.
Your credentials get you through security without issue. State Department liaison, interagency task force, routine compliance monitoring. The guard barely glances at your ID before waving you through.
The elevator is smooth and silent. Stark technology. You'd memorized the building layout before you ever set foot inside, but experiencing it in person is different. Everything gleams. Everything is expensive. Everything is maintained within an inch of its life.
The common area is open concept. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. Kitchen, seating area, the kind of space designed for an actual team to use rather than just looking impressive for press photos.
Steve Rogers is at the kitchen counter with coffee and a sketchbook.
He looks up when you enter. His smile is polite and practiced and doesn't reach his eyes at all.
"Good morning," he says.
And he stands up.
Because of course he does. Because Steve Rogers has 1940s manners hardwired into his brain and apparently even seventy years in the ice didn't break the habit.
"Good morning, Captain Rogers." You offer your hand and your best professional smile. Warm but not too warm. Competent. Trustworthy. "I'm with the State Department liaison office. Just here for some routine compliance monitoring. Nothing dramatic."
His handshake is careful. Like he's afraid of breaking you.
You've snapped a man's neck with these hands but sure. Gentle handshake. Very chivalrous.
"Steve is fine," he says. "Compliance monitoring for...?"
"Enhanced individual oversight. Post-Sokovia Accords adjustments, interagency coordination, that sort of thing." You keep your tone light. Bureaucratic. Boring. "I promise it's mostly paperwork. Making sure protocols are being followed, reports are filed correctly. Standard stuff."
"Ah." Something flickers across his face that might be amusement. "The protocols."
He knows.
He knows exactly which protocols you mean.
You're both standing here like adults pretending you're not talking about the jizz logs.
"I know they're tedious," you say with practiced sympathy. "But you know how it is. Government oversight, genetic security concerns. Someone in an office somewhere decided it was necessary."
"Right." He gestures to the coffee maker. "Would you like some coffee while you're here? I can—"
"There a reason we have State Department in the building?"
The voice comes from behind you.
You turn.
James Barnes is standing in the doorway.
Dark jeans. Henley. Hair still damp from the shower you know he just took, where he definitely used spermicide because he's responsible and follows the rules and his genetic material is a national security asset.
His eyes lock on you with the kind of focus that makes your training kick in automatically.
Assess. Don't react. Maintain cover.
"Just routine compliance stuff," Steve says easily. "Nothing exciting."
But Barnes isn't looking at Steve.
He's looking at you.
Really, truly looking at you.
Like he's cataloging every detail. Running threat assessment. Calculating whether you're dangerous. His posture is casual but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's positioned himself between you and Steve without making it obvious.
Subtle, Barnes. Real subtle. Why don’t you piss a circle around him while you're at it.
"Compliance," Barnes repeats.
There's something in his tone. Something that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Oh, he's going to be annoying about this. You can tell.
"Exciting, I know." You give him the same smile you gave Steve. Professional. Harmless. "I promise I'm just here to check some boxes and file some paperwork. You won't even know I'm here."
His eyes narrow.
Just slightly.
And you know, with cold certainty in your gut, that he's already clocked something.
Not the specifics. Not the mission.
But he knows you're lying.
"James Barnes," he says. Doesn't offer his hand. "Bucky."
"Nice to meet you."
You keep your smile steady. Your posture open. Non-threatening.
He doesn't smile back.
Steve shifts his weight, clearly picking up on the tension but not quite sure what to do about it. Golden retriever energy, that one. Means well. Tries hard. Currently has no idea his personal Doberman is about three seconds from baring teeth at the nice lady from the State Department.
The silence stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable.
Steve clears his throat. "So what do you need from us? For the compliance check?"
You pull your attention back to Steve. "Just need to verify some documentation," you say smoothly. "Make sure everything's filed correctly. Should only take a few minutes of your time."
"Sure," Steve says. "Whatever you need."
But you can still feel Barnes's eyes on you.
The weight of his attention, heavy and unwavering. He hasn't looked away since you turned around. You can feel his gaze tracking across your face, down to your hands, back up again. Cataloging. Analyzing.
He's staring at you like you're the only person in the room.
This motherfucker is running threat assessment on you like you're a bomb he's trying to defuse.
The air between you feels charged. Tense. Like something unspoken is passing between you in the silence, some wordless understanding that makes your pulse kick up just slightly.
He's giving you the Full Winter Soldier Experience. Very intimidating. Probably works great on people who didn't spend their childhood getting beaten by Madame B.
You hold his gaze for one beat. Two.
His eyes are cold. Assessing. The kind of intensity that probably makes most people uncomfortable, makes them look away, makes them nervous.
You've seduced men more paranoid than this. You've honey-trapped targets who were actively looking for honey traps.
But standing here under the full force of James Barnes's attention, watching the way those pale blue eyes track every microexpression like he's trying to read your soul, you're starting to think this one might actually be hard to crack.
Great.
Nothing you love more than a challenge.
Especially when the challenge got his abilities from a syringe and you had to earn yours with years of blood and broken bones.
You break eye contact first. Deliberate. Controlled. Turn back to Steve with your brightest professional smile.
Steve, who is still standing there looking vaguely concerned and completely out of his depth. Bless him.
"So," you say. "Should we start with those compliance reports?"
Listen, this is by far the funniest fucking thing I’ve read in a hot minute, and I mean that in the best way possible. The snarky narrative voice has been frying me
The world has been saved before. It’s still breaking.
Step into a divergent post-Thunderbolts* MCU timeline where Steve Rogers and Tony Stark live, legacy heroes endure, and new initiatives rise to keep the world standing. The Vanguard Accords is an 18+ roleplay server where canon and original characters meet global stakes, moral dilemmas, and character-driven storytelling.
✅ 18+ MCU canon & OC friendly
✅ Decentralized initiatives & covert operations
✅ Character-driven plots, ethical conflicts, and global crises
✅ Consent-focused, collaborative RP
Do you have what it takes to join the initiative?
Join the Vanguard. Protect the world. Choose to stand within it.
The Vanguard Accords is an 18+ MCU roleplay server set in a divergent post-Thunderbolts* timeline where Steve Rogers and Tony Stark live. Ca
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
