Archive of Our Own

He speculated, sometimes. He had a lot of downtime, these days, though that would change soon. They'd woken him from his frozen sleep, which meant there must be a mission they'd need him for, and their tech -- a handler who was also a tech, that was going to take some getting used to. But their tech said he'd have another arm ready for initial testing soon, had needed to take in-action measurements and readings of Bucky's brain to finish finetuning his prototype, so they'd opened the chamber and let him thaw out. The new arm meant he'd be fully functional again, ready for battle and… other things. Most of the handlers he'd ever had tended to find any really obvious or severe injuries offputting, and of course damage reduced his field effectiveness. But a new arm meant missions, which he had a feeling would consist of “assembling" with his master and handlers, and that meant there would be a lot of downtime in between. The new owner seemed disinclined towards just freezing him when he wasn't useful -- he'd already been awake a week since Stark took his readings, and had done nothing more than observe his surroundings and consume supplies. So he probably wouldn't simply be frozen, which made a sort of sense given the team's purpose as a rapid response force. That would mean lots of time for other uses, and they didn't seem to have any other assets to train or tests they wanted to run on him, which only really left one thing he was good for. So he trained as best he could with just the one arm, and while he trained, he speculated.

He was almost certain they wouldn't have him put on a show, not solo. He’d had handlers in the past with a taste for that, but the last one to really like that was maybe in the 70s, and he'd seemed pretty bored by the regular fuck-yourself-with-this-plastic-dick-and-beg-me-for-it kind of thing. After a while, it'd taken this complicated setup with a horizontally-mounted dildo, one choke-chain around Bucky's throat and another around his dick, and damn near passing out every time he shoved back far enough to get some real stimulation to even give the perverted old fuck a stiffie. Now that they had those VHS things, or, wait, those probably stopped mattering in the 90s, what with the internet. Either way, ever since some kind of recorded porn had been easy to get for home viewing, there hadn't been much interest in live shows of just him, not even trussed up so that he had to choose between being able to breathe and being able to come like old Matisov had liked. Kind of a waste when they could be getting their rocks off directly, he guessed. But the Avengers didn't have another asset that he knew of, and regular personnel tended to be less than interested in the things that started right after the show ended, so any show would be solo or nothing, which in turn meant the nothing was nearly guaranteed. Safe there, then.

He wasn't sure one way or another about them dressing him up. That was more of a side concern, something that went along with whatever they ended up doing, but it was still something to think about, something to fill time, something to give him a slight chance to prepare. There was evidence for, and against. Pro, they seemed to actively like him dressed like a civilian when on base. For nearly all the masters before, all he'd had were tactical uniforms for fieldwork. When he wasn't engaged in combat or some other mission off-base, they usually kept him in just BDU pants, or naked if he was going to be useful that way. But his new owner had assigned him a lot of clothes, normal clothes, almost like what he remembered wearing back when he was a person, even if the fabric and styles were different, like the swimming trunks he was wearing even now. And the clothes he'd been assigned all smelled new and fit correctly, too, which meant they'd been purchased with him as the intended wearer, not cast off from an Avenger. So, evidence suggested they were invested in seeing him dressed a certain way, and maybe that translated over into caring about how he dressed for his provision of entertainment. Con, previous masters’ behavior suggested that liking him in people clothes made it somewhat less likely they'd enjoy, oh, leather harnesses and corsets, or those fiddly belts that kept the toy in while he ran laps for them, or the little maid outfit Master Pierce had enjoyed so much despite how ridiculous it looked. Even at the time he was pretty sure maids didn't dress like that, and he'd not even been permitted mind enough to know his original name. But the masters who'd gotten the most creative about dressing him up also had lots of regs about what he was, or mostly wasn't, allowed to wear between missions, and civvies definitely didn't figure in. So, evidence pointed to not dressing him up, or at least only the kind they seemed to do to themselves when they had functions. That seemed extremely likely, once he’d thought about it for a minute, taking long, slow strokes down the length of the pool. They liked to show him off, take him around the city with them like he was part of the team and let everyone see that they'd captured and kept a prize that Hydra couldn't. Probably, if his new arm was ready they'd take him along to the next gala Handler Stark hosted, dress him up all pretty in a fancy suit like Stark had gotten for all the actual team members. He remembered looking good in his best suit, from before, always got the dames batting their eyelashes and that had been secondhand, and only from Macy's even when it was new. He was pretty sure Stark’s tailor wouldn't even speak English, he'd be so fancy. Maybe Master would order him to put something “fun" on below for later as a surprise for the others. Lacy panties, probably, even the tame masters seemed to halfway blow their loads over the sight of their muscular, dangerous, scarred-up asset in something black and skimpy in lace or silk or both. Maybe a plug, too, just a little one to keep him open for easier use, so the team wouldn't have to wait. He was so kind, his new master, had been before he was even a master, had been even when Bucky had been ordered to kill him. He'd want to make sure Bucky was slick and loose and ready when the time came.

So that was almost certain. But the next party wouldn't be for several months and the tech -- Handler Stark said his prototype would be ready for live testing in two more days, which left a long window between, and no scheduled missions. They wouldn't wait all that time to have some fun with him, so the gala wouldn't be the start of it. He kicked off against the tiles -- practicing swimming with only one arm was just sensible preparedness, his metal arm had failed before and might again, and being known to be in the pool and visibly not carrying weapons seemed to make the handlers a lot less tense and a lot less likely to come by to interrogate him on his mental state or require him to study additional elements of popular culture for camouflage -- and started over. Work the problem, first principles. What were his new handlers like as people? That would provide the clues for how it would happen, how he could prepare for it.

His owner was strong, dominant, clearly in control of his team as well as his asset, not to mention their... prior connection. On the basis of that history and his rank, he might claim the first turn. Shy, in sexual matters, given to blushing sweetly whenever one of the others made a raunchy joke, so he'd probably call Bucky into his room and do things quietly, privately. That thought made him shiver, even in the perfectly temperate pool. The ones that wanted privacy were planning on making it either very bad, or very, very good. He's not sure which would be worse. His cell here was very comfortable, his duties easy and pleasant so far, and he'd been well cared for, allowed all the sleep and food and movement he could want. It would be dangerous, if service to the Captain were too pleasurable. He could start to forget his place, and any punishment would seem all the more intense for its novelty compared to his usual treatment. But gentler intimacies were very likely, given his owner's actions up to this point. He imagined his handsome master pressing up close to him during one of the education sessions, starting to pet his hair a little, get him to lean into it before tugging on his wrist and leading him into the bedroom, permitting him to remove his own clothes, to sit on the bed without being shoved, maybe even granting him a kiss. Bucky caught himself shivering again and tried to ignore the reaction such thoughts had produced. It had simply been a long time since he was put to use, it didn't have to mean anything. Still, this was a tactical analysis, not… something else. He shook himself. Necessary preparations for the scenario: none. Unhelpful. He moved on, starting another lap.

It was true that his master was well-respected by his team, but also that he was generous, giving. He wouldn't share a valuable asset like Bucky with something as untrustworthy as SHIELD or another allied organization, but lending him out to his own team was far more plausible. The team, then.

A few, he could all but rule out. Thor was often off-world, and seemed to spend any unstructured time between combat engagements with his woman, or possibly women, that scientist and her assistant. He'd be busy spending his sexual impulses on one or both of them, barring the Captain organizing some sort of group use of his asset. He did talk about team bonding activities a lot. Lang and Van Dyne seemed entirely satisfied with one another, though if Lang’s tastes were broad they might decide to share him, he supposed. Barton had a wife and an on-again off-again something with that SHIELD guy that mostly seemed to involve semi-muffled loud noises occasionally coming from his bedroom at night that could be screaming, screaming, or the TV up a bit because one of his aides was on the fritz again. So, he was largely occupied, at any rate. The robot was hard to read, but for some reason Bucky got the feeling that it-he spent whatever approximation of romance or desire they'd built for him on the witch, and wouldn’t really have the sort of base biological urges that led to straight guys wanting a turn with one of the asset’s holes, just to relieve a little pressure, come down from a fight. He probably didn't even have the adrenaline to need to come down, now that Bucky really considered it, though how the thing's body worked at all was baffling. 

So those were the unlikely ones. The rest he could order by preference or likelihood or both, anything to quantify it, brace for it. He was allowed to have preferences, now, allowed to have opinions. His master’s lax, permissive nature was going to get his punk ass killed one of these days. He kicked off again, surfacing for just a moment to take a breath before diving towards the bottom. Gave him more incentive to focus, to better his form, if air was just a little further out of easy reach while he swam his laps. No one would be able to say he wasn't taking his training seriously, that he was using it as a cover, that he shouldn't be permitted in here anymore.

Peter. Or Handler Parker, really, he should be more respectful. The boy was dangerous, but he was also about twelve and kept calling Bucky “Sergeant” with a starstruck glint in his eye like it was still 1944 and they were making comics about him dressed up like Stevie’s teenaged lapwarmer aw, cmon, Buck, it ain't so bad as all that. They say they gotta have a kid in it so that the kids back home’ll buy it, and since I ‘parently don't have a single field report without you front and center, they just, uh, what'd he call it, consolidated. Stop laughin’, damn it, Buck. You ain't all that, I just keep having to pull your chestnuts out of the fire, I ain't sweet on ya or nothin’. Not... unless you'd… like that… Parker. Parker. Extremely low likelihood, relatively high preference. Teens weren't known for their stamina or their creativity. Could probably get away with a quickie BJ and call it done. Sort of like a warm-up for going back to his duties. Nice. But the boy probably didn’t have the brains to ask Bucky for it, much less the balls to preempt his superiors. No point trying to angle for it, no action needed.

T’Challa. Likely prefers “Majesty" to “Handler" as an address, though. That situation was… complicated to evaluate. It was unclear if he was truly an Avenger, given that he mostly stayed in Wakanda and had only fought during the… disagreement over whether to manage or deactivate the asset, so maybe the King didn't count, as far as access rights. But Bucky owed the man for his mercy, and for the aid he’d given the Captain once he'd reclaimed his asset, when it, he, was so badly damaged. It would be appropriate to repay him with sexual favors, and might strengthen T’Challa’s bond with the other Avengers, which would surely please Master, as the King had already proven to be a powerful ally and would be a valuable addition to the roster for that alone, much less his martial prowess. On top of it making his owner happy, the King no longer appeared to bear the asset any ill will, so he probably wouldn't be damaged by whatever he wanted to do. Hmm. Low likelihood, very low given the travel time, but moderate preference, then. If he visited, Bucky could stay close to him, make himself available, just in case.

Maximoff. Always hard to tell, with women. Some of them still thought he was pretty, but easily as many were disgusted by the thought of letting an asset between their legs, something so much less than a person. Maybe just his mouth, then, or with her robot boyfriend watching so she could make Bucky show him what to do, how to please a woman. He was good at it, had been good at it before everything, too. So low to moderate likelihood. Preference, though… she was… dangerous. Dangerous in a way he couldn’t fight, couldn’t even get his head around. And she’d been Hydra for a long time, before the Avengers. Out of the team, she was the most likely to get really creative, creative like some of his old masters, to have maybe heard about some of the things they did with him between missions. And her powers… she could make him see anything she wanted, while she played with him. Trap him in any kind of nightmare. He thought about red lightning dancing along his skin as she made him relive the initial installation of his arm’s socket, the metal they’d had to put into his spine and ribs, the way they kept giving him more anaesthetic but it kept wearing off, hearing a voice that didn’t sound anything like a person howling and repeating Bucky’s name, rank, and number for some reason, over and over and over until he realized the desperate, pathetic thing screaming like that was him. Low to moderate likelihood, low, low preference. Don’t make eye contact with her, and maybe she won’t notice, won’t take an interest.

Banner. Moderate likelihood, low preference. An asset like Bucky, especially given his enhancements, would be a much safer fuck than a regular human, especially if his semen carried anything toxic after the irradiation. The doctor seemed nice enough, very lights-out-vanilla, would probably use half a tube of lube getting him ready and not even call him a worthless fuckhole once they got going, but he still ranked low for preference because Bucky couldn't be completely sure, and if he slipped and -- or intentionally -- transformed during the act it could inflict serious internal damage, shatter his pelvic cradle and put him out of commission for weeks or more, useless to everyone except maybe for his mouth if they did all the work. But Banner was only moderate likelihood at most, shy enough that he probably wouldn't demand service unless Stark was there to prod and cajole and egg him onto the next bad idea, which seemed to be the tech's primary hobby. Keep on being invisible whenever Stark was around, and hope that if he ended up getting picked anyway he’d be able to keep Banner calm. If he couldn’t… there wasn’t any stopping the Hulk, or placating it. Whole armies of aliens hadn’t been able to stand against the Hulk getting what it wanted. If it happened, it happened, and he’d have to find out if any God or gods out there still listened to his prayers.

Stark. Hard to quantify. Stark could get women or men by the score whenever he felt like it, easy as walking into a store, all handsome and clever and famous. No need to waste his time with a scarred-up asset… unless, of course, he wanted some one-on-one time the Captain wouldn't look askance at. It'd only work once -- his owner had told Bucky no one would hurt him here when they first woke him, and the whole team had heard the order so they knew that outright torture was off-limits no matter how annoyed or bored they got, probably so Rogers wouldn't have to go to the effort of anything extreme to punish him -- but Stark could fit a whole lot of vengeance for his parents into one night. That's what the team was known for, right? Avenging. So while sex with him would by all accounts be spectacular, their first session likely wouldn't be particularly sexual, or at least only involve sexual contact in the service of more pain. Low, low preference. High likelihood of it happening eventually, very high, but before any of the others took the first turn? Maybe not. Steve -- his owner had been keeping a close eye on Bucky, while he only had the one arm, and on Stark to make sure there wasn't any… continued unpleasantness. So Stark wasn't that likely to win the blue ribbon. Hell, maybe he wouldn't even end up taking his night of torture, maybe Stark would just do something to the new arm so that it hurt all the time, something St-- Rogers wouldn't able to detect. He could get his revenge that way, not bother with open defiance of an order when he could go right on enjoying getting his cock sucked suspicion-free like any of the others and still savor it when the arm shocked Bucky in a random pattern, impossible to anticipate or compensate for, and made him whimper around the dick down his throat. Fuck. The best he could do would be to try to keep Stark from getting him alone, making it easy to drag him off for some payback. If he actually made it an order, Bucky would have to obey. His only real chance was to stay out of the way and hope Stark was busy with other things, at least for a while, until someone else got the first slot and he was used to service again, to taking pain again.

Romanova. He's pretty sure he can remember training Natashenka when her cheeks still had that little layer of baby fat and her hand wasn't quite big enough to wrap all the way around the new PSM’s grip. He doubts she remembers him in any specific fashion. They played with her memories before they enhanced her, much more successful, seemingly permanent.  She was… beautiful. Flawlessly dangerous, endlessly competent. The kind of woman nearly any man, any person would want, just like they made her. He, too, would want her if he were still a man. He tried to play it out in his head, if she might want him, how she might use him, if it would hurt, but she was utterly unpredictable, and all the more magnificent for it. She was always stronger than him, once he'd trained her. Oh, he could snap a man's neck between one breath and the next without blinking, but she could have that same man begging her take all his secrets in the same length of time. All Bucky got for his trouble of trying to guess what she might do with, or to, him was the return of the annoyingly persistent pressure in his groin. No. Focus. Romanova, unknown and unknown, but probably too damn high given her damage-effort ratio. Well. Men tend to think with their cocks, so it's hard to blame a stupid animal like this one for doing the same. See? It knows contact with the plate will shock it badly, but it grinds down anyway. This is an important lesson to remember now that you will be graduating soon, Natalia. It knows moving will hurt, but it is still ruled by its urges. Even the very strong are weak to the right kind of stimulus.

R-Rhodes. Moderate likelihood, high preference. His legs still weren't working quite right, meant that Bucky would be doing most of the work, could control it, and he wouldn't really have the leverage to give a good beating, not without getting in his armor and Rogers would definitely notice and put a stop to that. Nice and safe, and maybe he'd even be the kind who liked it when the asset rode him until it came, showed off what a whore i-- he was. That could be nice, take care of the … urges he was having lately, with all the warmth and rest and food they'd allowed him. But Stark was always around him, and there was no good way to try to attract Rhodes’ attention without also risking Stark, and Rhodes deferred to Stark, so he if made a claim on Bucky -- too much risk. The wisest course of action would be to let that one alone, let it happen naturally if at all.

That made him think -- he wondered if he was expected to not just make himself available but to actually take the initiative, if that's why none of them had even hinted, much less demanded a quick lights-off blowjob where they wouldn't have to see the empty nothing of his left arm. Wilson was always giving him talks about “agency” while Rogers looked on and nodded encouragingly. He didn't want agency, didn’t want to belong to himself even if that were possible. If he didn't choose, then even though he did things, bad things, he wasn't to be blamed. He did them, but the guilt went on his owners. That thought even helped him wake up from the nightmares a little faster, sometimes. Hmm. Wilson. That'd be nice. High likelihood… high preference. He was kind, like Stevie -- like Master was kind. He'd be really nice about it, and anyway he was the Captain’s right hand, his favorite, so he had the greatest chance of going first, barring another member particularly distinguishing themselves in battle and earning a reward. Maybe they expected Bucky to have already figured this out, to approach Wilson and ask to serve him. Plenty of them liked begging, and it wouldn't even be particularly forced. It would be so much easier to submit to the others if the first one were gentler, didn't make it hurt too much. He'd… he'd like that, like it to be Wilson, if his owner decided to share him out. Possibly he’d keep Bucky’s first with this team, first in more than two years, for himself, but if not, Wilson would be good. 

Or else maybe it would be a group thing, all at once. Team bonding, like the Captain was always talking about. Maybe he'd do it the simple way, order Bucky to strip and kneel in the common room and let everyone who felt like it have at. But… he talked a lot about games, too, when he brought up bonding. The team playing games together. Now those, Bucky could productively consider, prepare for.

The throne game, maybe. That one was always popular at the big parties, when there'd be a couple different assets there to play with. Sturdy, purpose-built chair with a narrow back and a thick, forward-curved dildo mounted in the seat. Put him in it, or more to the point on it, strap his arms behind the chair-back so they're out of the way, blindfold him so he can't get distracted, get his cock hard and put a ring at the base of it, and there, he's perfect entertainment for the ladies! Yes, Anderson, you too, but use a condom on it, Mercer doesn't need another fucking yeast infection from your sloppy seconds, that's nasty. Gave it another vasectomy last night so it should be shooting blanks, but there's a basket of spare rubbers underneath for anyone worried about baby Soldiers. 

It was far from the worst of the games, especially for the first few riders. Those just felt good, wet and tight and skin pressed against its body for the first time in what felt like half of forever, finally feeling warm again. The dildo nudging into its prostate every time one of the riders got vigorous or it tried to thrust up a little felt good too, at first. It took a while for the simulation to be too much, for the need to start to hurt, and even longer for the thrust-up-drop-down-prostate-stimulation-can’t-come-need-more-thrust-up cycle to turn into a blur of pain-shift-drop-need-pain. And it even got to come afterwards, a few of the times, and that always felt so good even when it burned like mad. Not… not most of the times, no, but its new owner had been so kind that he was likely to be kind about that too, and anyway he seemed to have some kind of phobia about the cold, so he probably wouldn't pack his asset’s little toy with ice until it went back down, once they’d finished using it.

So it wouldn't be that bad, if that's how they wanted to start. It didn't think the throne was really likely, though. That was better-suited to a large organization, to have enough women plus the occasional man who liked it that way, for there to be a nice, continuous stream of people wanting to make use of it -- him, damnit, the new handlers liked personal pronouns, slipped again, him -- that way, rather than his ass or mouth or both. The Avengers themselves didn't have the personnel for it, even after getting back together. Romanova had a taste for men, and Maximoff seemed to at least like the man-shaped robot, but none of the male team members had ever shown an interest that way. Van Dyne and Lang appeared to be pretty monogamous, but he'd had plenty of married handlers before who still liked to have fun with him, so there was no telling if they'd think playing with an asset counted. Only two (or maybe three) riders wouldn’t even get him whimpering in discomfort. Made it hardly worth the trouble of tying him up when they could just order him to see to their pleasure the usual way, especially when he wouldn't even be on the throne long enough to start crying or anything really entertaining. The still-disorganized remnants of SHIELD probably weren't numerous enough either, and anyway his new owner didn't seem like the type to share his toys, much less with SHIELD. And building a proper new throne, solid enough to hold him when it got bad and he started twitching, certainly wasn't cost-effective for only two. He could control himself just fine for two, even three, and they could get the same general effect from a kitchen chair, handcuffs, and one of those suction-cup-bottomed toys they made for in the bathroom now, if they liked the idea that much. So no, probably not the throne game, after all. It would be a waste of his limited time and resources to practice edging himself to better handle the need to come, that particular pain, given its low probability.

There was always the one where they cut bullseyes into his back, one for each player, and jerked off over him. Whoever's load hit the center won, got first dibs on the asset’s ass once the winner could get it up again. The new team didn't seem like the kind for pain for it's own sake, though, and anyway there was nothing to do to prepare for that one, except remember not to flinch when the first few drops hit an open cut and burned. They always punished him for that, moving their targets that way, and anyway it didn’t really hurt that bad compared to some of the other games, it was just surprising. Hmm. Games that didn’t focus on pain. That took an awful lot of them out of the running.

They might play to see who could hold out longer, each player take a hole and fuck it as slow and teasing as he could. No real prep needed for that but to sneak some lube before they got going, which was SOP whenever feasible. Hmm, that game slowed down the proceedings for everyone else, though, and with only one asset to go around the others would get pretty bored waiting for their turns, and the Captain would probably just give the players another talk about respecting their teammates’ time and tell them to hurry up and come inside it already. Him. That wouldn't be the first game, then, only later once more of them were satisfied and one-on-one competitions wouldn't mean hogging the entertainment. 

Who Can Make It Come First, now that sounded more like the kind of game they'd find appealing. They seemed to expect him to like things, want things, enjoy things: his provisions, his educational sessions, even the clothing he'd been assigned. They'd probably enjoy the sight of him desperate for it, whimpering in pleasure, wanting it. It was simple enough, just took a stopwatch to mark off each player's minute as they touched him, and the invisible maid Stark had in the ceiling could definitely do that. Maybe they'd order him to wait until everyone had gotten at least one turn, and maybe not, but it would feel really, really good either way so it didn't matter. And when the winner slipped inside him afterwards, he was so loose and relaxed from the orgasm that the fullness felt good, too, and the handler’s movements were easy inside him, tended to hit his prostate by accident occasionally so the whole thing just kept on feeling good. He could just hold out until Wilson, or maybe the Captain if he was playing, was on his turn and he'd essentially get to pick who had him first, unless one of them got creative sooner and surprised him into coming. One of the later handlers figured out how the asset was controlling it, letting go on purpose when one of the smaller or gentler guys was playing with it, and instituted a blindfold and those silencing headphones, but even if they did think to do that, by now he's pretty sure he can recognize all of them from smell alone. It would feel so nice, wrapped up safe in his master's arms while Master touched him gently, gave him pleasure, and even if he wasn’t allowed to see he'd still be able to feel, feel the length of Master's body pressed against his, warm and strong, maybe still clothed and maybe not. Master would know exactly how to touch him, to, to kiss his neck, maybe even murmur that he was a good boy if they'd let him hear them. He thought -- some of the memories from the war were hazy in a way that didn't seem like Hydra’s work, but he was almost completely certain he remembered Master touching him like that, before he was Master, before Bucky needed to have a master at all. So he'd know just how to do it, either way.

Damn it. The… problem was getting kind of insistent. He’d been keyed up for what felt like days, practically since he’d finished thawing out, and now it wouldn't go back down, had been nagging at him all through most of his attempts at speculation, at preparation to return to his duties. If. If they wanted to play that game with him, he should have some stamina, right? He breached the surface with a quiet splash, loud in the otherwise empty room. He thought about it some more. He wasn't supposed to touch there, ever. He knew that. The punishments for that, the few times he'd tried, had been particularly… memorable. He braced against the wall of the pool, remaining arm rippling as he pushed himself out of the water one-handed, mmhm, a little harder than it should have been, maybe he could request authorization to use the equipment in the gym down here, do a little strength training. They'd like their asset getting stronger, right? Demonstrating initiative to try to make itself, himself more useful, more valuable? He dared a quick glance around, relieved when he was still alone, unobserved. He darted a little unsteadily towards the showers, well aware that the whole fitness complex on this floor used the same pair of group facilities but slower than normal with the awkward unbalanced gait born of his missing arm. The men’s showers proved to be unoccupied, and he breathed a quick sigh of relief before skimming out of his trunks and turning on one of the sprayers. He bit his lip for a moment, considering. He wasn't allowed, but if he wanted to be ready for them, to prepare properly, he couldn't come too soon, and the only way to make sure of that was… he flushed, and turned the handle to warm. He usually took his showers cold, was used to just getting hosed down anyway, and he didn't want to get too accustomed to the free access to warm water in case they took it away, but this once, it would probably be okay. 

He stepped into the warm spray and oh, ohhh that felt good. Now, to… how should he… okay. It was just… preparing for a mission. That was normal. He prepped for missions all the time. Maybe… thinking about the Captain touching him had gotten him this far, just, just reach down and, mmhm. Okay. It was mission prep, it wasn't disobedient to prep… He, he hoped it would be Steve. Master, damn it. He was getting sloppy, with the gentle treatment, the casual environment. But masters had been kind before, sometimes, and it only lasted as long as Bucky was good and obedient and didn't have to be reminded of his place. Just because he was permitted to have things like hopes and preferences didn't mean they mattered, didn't make him something more than what he was, an asset. Asset meant benefit, and the second he stopped being more beneficial than troublesome he stopped being an asset and started being meat to play with, to discard. So he hoped Master was the one who took him first, but he'd submit to whoever ordered him to kneel, to offer himself, to serve. He'd keep being useful, and Master would stay pleased with him, and he'd have a good life here, and maybe sometimes Master really would cuddle up against him on the couch and take him to bed, just the two of them, like when they were young.

He wondered if he should try to open himself too, practice that so it wouldn't be so shocking, but with only one hand, he'd have to choose between … prepping efficiently to reach orgasm as quickly as possible, or trying to see if he could still come from nothing more than fingers in his ass. Probably he could. When he'd been in common service, he'd been able to come from damn near anything, if that was what they wanted. It hadn't been all that long, comparatively, so he should still be able to do it, and maybe it would be easier to go about this if he were clearly preparing himself to serve, not just chasing his own satisfaction. He let go with a regretful sigh and started examining the towering central shower caddy for something suitable. It would… probably be okay to use lube when he practiced. The Avengers seemed like they'd probably let him have at least a little, most of the time. Shampoo, soap, shower “gel,” something called a “cleansing conditioner"... ah. Cocoa butter lotion, yeah, that would work. It was important to use something that wouldn't itch. One of his handlers in the 80s had the sense of humor of a sadistic twelve year old, and when the asset begged for lube used this stuff that burned, burned so bad its vision whited out, and then itched for days afterwards, deep up inside, so he could punish it every time it tried to scratch or readjust. Taught Bucky not to ask for lube, and also to be careful of what was in anything about to go in there, if he had the option. Lotion would feel good, though, and it was marked “all natural" so it probably didn't have anything weird in it, and best of all the tube was opaque. His handlers wouldn't be able to just see that he'd used any, and if he didn't use too much they might not notice the weight difference either and he'd be in the clear. The thought of successfully pulling one over on his handlers was humiliatingly exciting, made him twitch down there and fuck, that was a dangerous kind of thought, led to getting sloppy and sloppy led to getting punished so severely he couldn't walk for a few days afterwards. Focus. Don't fuck up, and they'll keep things cushy.

He popped the lotion’s cap before gripping the tapered end with his teeth, fiddling with it for a second before he figured out how to squeeze it with thumb and forefinger and still get the blob of lotion aimed just right onto his other fingers. He couldn’t wait to have two hands again, even if Stark did boobytrap the replacement arm. Once he had a little of the lotion, he reached back and -- nope, standing wasn't going to work, not comfortably. He could do that, be comfortable, do things because they’d be comfortable. There were no handlers to please here, no one to demand he arch his back until it ached so he could amuse them. He swallowed hard for a second before kneeling on the shower-warm tiles, blushing as his legs parted on instinct. He reached back again and yeah, the angle was much better, even if the position was… awkward, in other ways. He wasn’t getting any less hard, though, and he should practice, so… oh. He'd forgotten how that first breach always felt, oh. Mmhm. The water was so warm, still running over his back, a steady pressure that was somehow reassuring. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was a handler’s weight, his master’s weight, solid and dominant as he put his asset to good use, enjoyed his reactions, took care of him. Bucky started moving, nice and slow, almost teasing. Seemed like his body hadn't forgotten too much after all, ohhhh. It was easy enough to work in a second finger after a moment's effort, and then, yeahhhhh, the stretch was always nice, when he was allowed to take it slow. He wondered if Master would stretch him like this, when it was just the two of them. Maybe. And maybe he could -- Bucky had forgotten that from behind was great for stretching out but not so good for prostate stimulation, but Master would be able to do both, and maybe even willing to. He might… like it, seeing Bucky getting excited for him, seeing how much his little slut loved it. Some of them really liked that, and maybe St-- Master Rogers would want that. Bucky slipped a third in, mmph, maybe a little too soon, but it felt good and he wanted to be good for Steve, make him happy, give him a real nice time, a little break before they went back to the fron-- he shook his head. No. They weren't young anymore, they weren't in the war anymore.

Prepping for service. Right. He still needed to… he pulled his fingers out with a slick sort of popping sound, fuck, that was nice too. Okay. Try it again. He rolled his shoulder, loosening it from the stiffness the strange angle had given it. When he tested it, the weight of the lotion didn't seem noticeably different, so maybe he could have just a little bit more. He managed to work a dollop onto his fingers without causing too much mess, and dared to just lightly brush his knuckles against his… his cock on the way back down. He was allowed to call it that. There'd only been a few handlers who hadn't wanted him to use people words like that, and the Avengers pretty clearly didn't care, so he could call it that, even in front of them, and almost definitely not get punished. It was… safe. He could figure out the rules and be safe, here. He slipped his fingers back inside and thought about safe, and warm, and his handsome, kind new master and all the things they could do together, what a good weapon he'd be, the enemies they'd kill, and how his master might reward him for successful missions and ohhhhh fuck this angle was so much better, let him hit his prostate just by twisting his wrist a little and let his arm brush against his cock a bit, gave him a little surprise of extra friction every third or fourth push of his fingers against his sweet spot. He bent forward with it, feeling the pleasure starting to build as his head bowed, legs sliding farther apart on the shower-slick tiles, water still pounding against his back just as hot and strong as when he started, wet hair falling into his eyes. He was almost, almost --

Suddenly there was a sound, muffled by the water but growing rapidly clearer, and he only had a second to realize footsteps before the shower for opened and fucking Tony Stark walked in, glistening with sweat and naked as a jaybird, coming to shower too. All he could think was damnit, now he'd given Stark a lovingly calligraphied written invitation to make use of him and  punish him without anyone thinking it was anything but normal discipline for his disobedience, but… but at least he knew now, at least he was already slick and open and there would be no more waiting for it to happen, no more speculation. It was that thought, the relief of finally having certainty, and one last hindbrain twitch of his fingers in shock that had him spilling, cock jerking untouched with his remaining hand half-buried up his own ass while the man he'd orphaned watched him come. 

He slumped against the wall, after, panting and too sated to brace himself for whatever was about to happen. It was finally over, the pretending, the tension. He looked up through the sodden strands of his bangs at Stark, who'd gone faintly red even as his dick visibly took interest. 

“I. Um,” he said, and Bucky just managed to work up the energy to observe that today should probably be declared some kind of national holiday. Tony Stark Was Speechless Day. Tell your friends. “Obviously the showers are… occupied. Um. I'll be upstairs, if the world is ending. I remember the days when I could say that and it was a joke. Those were good days, I miss those days. Um. I was sparing with Clint and he sweats like Justin Hammer at a Senate Subcommittee hearing so you might want to finish up, or maybe put a sock the door, or...?” he trailed off, eyes still locked to where Bucky was only just pulling his fingers loose in expectation. “Okay, good talk, I'm going to go be..  not here.”

And then he… left. Just turned around with his cheeks still flushed and his surprisingly pretty dick still half-hard, and left. He'd had a golden opportunity, everything he could have wanted and -- and he definitely wasn’t the type for delayed gratification, to wait and spring his revenge later, not when it was offered out on a platter with a bonus fuck besides. It didn't make any sense. Bucky turned fully into the spray, letting the somehow still-warm water -- did Stark have tanks the size of his swimming pool somewhere in this Tower? -- wash the evidence of his disobedience off of his wrist and fingers. He closed the cap of the lotion, giving it a good thorough rinse too just to sure, still baffled. What could it mean?

Maybe… maybe when the Captain spoke with Stark about burying axes and correctly assigning blame, maybe he'd threatened Stark with reprisals for any misuse of his property, scared him off. That was plausible. But Stark had warned him about Barton coming in, like that mattered, like, like Bucky could do something about it if Barton wanted service. Like Bucky was authorized to act to prevent it, to… maybe even to refuse. That didn't make any sense at all unless, unless -- oh! Unless maybe Master had already spoken with the team, claimed the first time, maybe even claimed exclusive use of his asset going forward. That, that would be so good, to only serve one man, and such a kind man at that. Even with his enhancements, St-- Ma-- no, Steve, before. Steve had only wanted to do it maybe three or four times a day, when they had leave, and Bucky's pretty sure he remembered being able to keep up okay, ending the day deliciously sore and sated and ready to do it all over again the next, and Steve hadn't ever wanted any of really difficult stuff, wasn't creative like his owners would be. His previous owners, now. Bucky smiled at the realization, the reorganization of the team’s structure in his head and reclaimed the civvies he’d been given from his locker, his locker, and his clothes that no one had tampered with while he trained, and dressed exactly as much as he wanted to with no regs on how much skin he had to show or toys he had to wear. In a couple days he'd get his new arm, and once the bugs were worked out he’d dress up nice and come on to -- Steve. Maybe… maybe he'd like being called that, if he like remembering how they were before so much that he’d claimed Bucky for only his use, enough to forbid the others’ enjoyment of him. Bucky would get himself opened up and all pretty and then go offer himself, and maybe M-Steve would take his clothes off gently and kiss him while they fucked and let Bucky sleep in the bed with him afterwards, or at least on the floor nearby. He'd be safe, and useful, and pleasing, and it wouldn’t even have hurt, and he could just keep on like that as long as he was good, as long as he was a benefit to the team. He’d speculated before, but he was sure of it now. Captain Rogers was going to be his best master ever.