bucky barnes imagines

lxxii. INNOCENT [smut]

When you heard a knock at the door, you let out a heavy sigh and quickly moved to answer it. Sure, it could've been anyone, but you recognised the pattern; three fast knocks, a short pause, two slow knocks. The sequence that you'd given to all of your regular clients, just for easier recognition.

You were a sex worker. A prostitute, a hooker, or as some of the less accommodating men tended to call you, a whore. Being a woman during a war, it was difficult to find a somewhat decent job, so you'd settled for this. It wasn't all bad – yes, your clients were mostly impatient and selfish, but it paid the bills.

You pulled at the door handle, painting a signature smile onto your previously grouchy face. However, your faux expression of eagerness melted into confusion when you set eyes on the man before you.

Well, you used the term "man" loosely. He was a young soldier, nervous and clearly innocent, with wide blue eyes, fluffy hair and flushed cheeks. He certainly wasn't a regular customer of yours, though as you took in his chiselled features and pristine army uniform, you almost found yourself wishing that he was.

"Can I help you?" you asked, cocking your head to one side.

"A-are you Y/N?" he stuttered, his blush intensifying.

"That's me. But I, uh... sorry, did you have an appointment? I don't remember—"

"No, we've never met before," he clarified, leaving you even more puzzled than before.

Stepping backwards slightly, you beckoned him inside, inviting him to follow you awkwardly to the couch in your living room. He perched on the very edge of the cushion, gazing at you with an expression not unlike wonder.

"So, you know I'm Y/N. And you are..." you began, prompting him to formally introduce himself.

"James Buchanan Barnes. But everyone calls me Bucky."

"Bucky," you repeated, trying the name out for size. "And why are you here? I mean, how did you find out about my... well, my services?"

"A friend recommended you," he explained, somewhat hesitantly. You got the sense that he wasn't telling the full story and, when you remained silent, he continued to speak, a tad embarrassed. "I've just been drafted, y'see? And, well, y'know what guys are like, especially after a couple of beers. I guess they figured I'm young, wanted to know if I've got a girl, if I've... y'know."

"You're a virgin?" you enquired bluntly, cooing when he hung his head. "Hey, it's nothing to be ashamed of. What, you're waiting for the right girl? Or you've just never had the chance? Though with your looks, I find that hard to believe."

Bucky grimaced, but still managed a small, mildly forced smile. "Neither, I-I'm just nervous, I suppose. I mean, I want to do it, that's... that's why I'm here."

Leaning forward, you placed a hand on his knee, slowly letting your fingertips trail upwards over his thigh. His breath hitched audibly, and he shut his eyes as he felt himself beginning to harden from just the simplest touch.

"I have to ask, Bucky – are you sure you want to do this with me?"

"Absolutely," he insisted. "Please, I want it, I need to know how it feels. But only if you don't mind, of course."

It made a pleasant change to actually be asked for consent; most clients wrongly assumed that, by choosing this line of work, you automatically sacrificed your right to say no. Strangely, you felt as if Bucky actually cared for you – and truthfully, you wouldn't mind pretending that that was the case, at least for the time being. So you nodded, attempting to appear reassuring.