Not Like Them
masterlist
(Soft) mob!NR x stripper!r
Word count: 2.4k
Summary: A redheaded stranger walks into your club one night, and despite doing your best to prove to both her and yourself that she’s just like everybody else, she doesn’t allow you to.
Author’s note: I have never been to a strip club, so I don’t actually know what it’s like inside.
It’s mostly dim inside, smoky, with the few lights aimed at the dancers on stage bright and colorful, highlighting their movements and states of undress. The music is loud, swamping any conversation, but the private booth that Natasha and her associates have claimed in the back allows for the discussion they need to have.
You’re not on stage, not walking the small runway. You’re not performing. She sees you anyway.
And she’s enamored.
She resists the urge to shake her head, as if physically needing to shake you out of her thoughts, and returns to her associates. Focus. She has business to attend to. There are shipments to receive, orders to be placed, and trades to be dealt.
Yet her gaze keeps drifting. If the men around her notice her distraction, they don’t say anything. It’s not your revealing outfit, not your exposed skin or your body on display. It’s you. You’re captivating in a way that, even from a distance, makes her feel lightheaded, steals her breath away.
There’s a small crowd around you.
She watches across the club. You’re talking, flirting, and unjustified jealousy fills her chest. You’re working she reminds herself, and you’re not hers anyway. You two have never even spoken, but she wants to. She’s unable to stop admiring you as you make your rounds, a trail of customers following along, doing their best to keep your attention aimed at them.
When she catches sight of a man getting handsy, one of his hands moving to discreetly brush across your ass, sliding over the swell of it, playing off the movement as a simple mistouch, a mistake on his part, Natasha, acting purely on impulse—and perhaps her jealousy is mounting—waves down the club owner.
He arrives at her VIP booth quickly. Her presence demands it, and she doesn’t waste any time asking her question.
“How much to reserve her for the night?” Her voice is firm as she nods her head in your direction. You’re still enthralling the swarm, handling their lustful gazes with practiced grace. Her temper flares at the way they’re looking, leering, at you.
“For the night? A lot,” is all he answers, chuckling in disbelief, not realizing who she is or how much power she holds, the money she has at her disposal or the influence that follows her every footstep.
An eyebrow of hers raises, and a stack of money is pulled out of Natasha’s pocket and tossed carelessly onto the table in front of him, her expression casual as she dares the club owner to underestimate her again.
His eyes widen in surprise and slight alarm, glancing between Natasha and the bills, trying to piece together who it is he’s currently talking to and whether or not he should grow nervous because of his initial mocking reaction to her request. “I’ll get her right away,” he finally says, grabbing the cash, swiftly pocketing it, and making his way toward you.
He grabs your arm, his rough treatment making Natasha’s jaw clench as he pulls you away from the people you were charming and off to the side to explain the situation.
Natasha observes your brows furrow in slight confusion as he talks, and you glance her way, taking her in, inspecting the person who managed to afford your companionship for the night.
Soon, you’re headed over.
Natasha stands from the booth to greet you, leaving her associates for a minute, not bothering to pause the conversation. There’s no need. It can’t continue without her anyway.
“So, you’re the person who has enough money to just throw it around the club tonight,” you drawl, your voice dripping with flirtatious intent. You know how to play the game, to sweet talk your way through each and every stranger that meets you, instantly enchanting them with your words and the way you carry yourself, and although she apparently has more money than most, Natasha is just another customer to you. For now.
You’re immediately pushing yourself close to her, hand coming up to press your palm against her chest, trailing it up and down her front seductively before you land on her collar and give it a playful tug.
Despite everything that is Natasha Romanoff—collected, cold, poised—she finds herself heating up at the way you straightaway encroach on her personal space, not delaying your performative behavior, angling yourself so your faces are merely inches apart as your hand continues to toy with the collar of her shirt.
You smile at her reaction. You know the effect you have on people.
“What’s the point in having money if not to spend it?” she responds, trying to hide the fact that you already have power over her, her voice casual by force.
You just hum, considering her answer, amused. “What’s your name?” you ask.
“Natasha,” she answers, “What’s yours?”
You ignore her question, asking another instead. “Well, Natasha,” you purr, “is there a reason that I caught your eye?” It’s certainly teasing, but you’re also curious. It’s not uncommon for people to want to rent you for the night, with many pining for and desiring your company—you’re no stranger to the looks of hunger that are thrown your way—but it is slightly unusual for someone to manage it.
Natasha remains honest, upfront. “I didn’t like the way they were looking at you.”
“You mean the way you’re also looking at me?” you throw back at her, not rude, just challenging.
“Please don’t align me with them.”
“Aren’t you buying me all the same?”
“I’m buying your time. I’m not buying you.”
Your mouth parts in slight surprise at her words, at the resolve within them. You can tell that Natasha firmly believes it. She’s doesn’t think of you as an object, and you’re taken off guard by the out of the ordinary perspective that you’re currently faced with. For once, you’re not sure how to navigate a customer. It makes you uncomfortable.
The passion, desire, and appetite to have you, you understand perfectly. But this? Someone who steadfastly doesn’t view you as something to own for the night? You’re uncertain what she wants from you then, and you no longer think your irresistible demeanor is going to be enough to satisfy.
Natasha’s hand comes to respectfully settle at the small of your back, not dipping lower, and she gently leads you to her booth, sliding in to take a seat first.
You settle yourself beside her, keeping up your enticing touches, attempting to fuel her craving for you, to coax the temptation you think she is fighting out of her, your very skimpily clad body touching her. She can feel your heat, and the knowledge that some of you is bare against her… she can only hope that her business associates are unable to see the light flush that reddens her face in the muted lighting of the back of the club. It would be bad for her reputation, after all.
Immediately upon your arrival, the men sitting around the table perk up and begin obviously ogling, their eyes raking you up and down in your outfit.
“Who’s your new friend?” one asks, his gaze lingering on your chest.
Natasha bristles at the less than courteous attention you’re receiving. You deserve better. She wants to give you better. She will make it so.
“Gentlemen, this is my companion for the evening. She’ll be joining us tonight.”
“I didn’t realize that I was being shared tonight,” you murmur, inviting the looks, putting on the persona that you know will get you the most recognition, the most tips, leaning forward toward the men across the table to further show off your body.
“You’re not,” Natasha cuts in, shutting down the idea.
The men visibly deflate at her unyielding tone, but you only let out a light chuckle, sitting back up and curling back into her side. “Sorry, boys, but the money has spoken,” you say, continuing to tease but respecting her wishes.
“Oh, come on, Natasha. We were hoping you’d be a little more generous,” another pipes up, his words suggestive and hopeful.
Years of work has given you enough experience to assuage your exasperation and the inclination to roll your eyes at statements such as his. You’re used to the comments and the treatment. It’s nothing new, so you plaster on a seasoned smile and act as though you’re preening despite yourself.
“No,” is the one-worded response he receives.
With Natasha’s return and her firm halting of anyone’s advances toward you, the conversation resumes. The topic is cryptic now that you’re here, and you’re unsure what they’re discussing, but you play your part and remain quiet, allowing it to proceed without question, occasionally shifting to be more closely pressed into Natasha. The action is more unconscious than purposeful, and every time you move, Natasha has to refrain from stiffening and letting out a shaky exhale, her body hyperaware of your proximity.
“Everything alright?” a man finally asks, making a jab at Natasha’s obvious preoccupation, seemingly mesmerized by your presence.
“Fine,” Natasha grits out. She clears her throat to restart the conversation.
“We don’t blame you for being distracted, you know,” the man responds, “I mean, just look at the tits on her.”
Natasha suppresses a growl. “I highly suggest you mind your manners.”
“Just one look?” he counters, ignoring her warning.
“That’s enough,” she snaps angrily, and the men instantly silence, tension falling across the table. “You will watch your tongue.” The sentence is dangerous, her tone vicious. She doesn’t need to expand on the threat, the men well aware of what she’s capable of and what she’s willing to do if pushed to it.
You regard the interaction intently. Your gaze stuck on the woman that you clearly know even less about than you thought.
You’ve been defended by customers before, but it was always possessive, never protective. There was always a blanket of ownership that came with it.
The discussion with her associates concludes quickly after her outburst, the business dealings being wrapped up as fast as possible as the men refocus on the work at hand, no one offering up any other provocative comments. They eventually vacate the table for the night, leaving just you and Natasha sitting there, and you speak up, your voice once again an attempt at lightness.
“Someone’s more important than they let on,” you remark, huffing out a small laugh. You can’t help the interest and slight wariness that comes with seeing others take Natasha’s words so seriously. Who is she?
“I suppose that’s true,” she answers, remaining purposefully vague.
“Do I get the pleasure of learning who I’m actually talking to?”
She doesn’t respond, and you take it in stride. It’s not the first time one of your customers has wanted to remain a mystery to you, and it’s not as though you’re offering up information about yourself either.
You change the subject, bringing the both of you back into safer territory.
“Well, are you going to pay for a private show? Or did you reserve me for the night just to hold me like this?”
“Would you be surprised if I answered with the latter?”
You freeze, eyes widening minutely, not sure what to say to that. This is quickly evolving into something out of your comfort zone.
When you manage to find your footing again, you try to steer things back into what you know, to something you’re familiar with, something you can understand.
“Are you sure? I promise I’d make it worth your time.”
“I have no doubt that you could make it worthwhile, but tonight, I just want to hold you.”
“Okay,” you say softly, uncertainty obvious, “Whatever you’d like.”
You remain in her arms for quite some time, the air around the two of you strained at first, neither of you speaking, letting silence fall. You’re on edge, and Natasha makes no move to ease it, electing to let you settle on your own, steady in her gentle hold of you.
You don’t realize it’s happening at first, her fingers soothingly tracing your hipbone, but at some point, you’re relaxing, finding yourself comforted by her touch and presence. But when you do notice just how much you’re enjoying her, you stiffen.
No.
You’re not supposed to feel like this. She’s caught you off guard, thrown you off balance. You don’t know how to handle someone who actually seems to view you as a person and not a commodity.
“If you truly bought me for the night, then I can go home,” you speak up suddenly. It’s a challenge. You want to see what she’ll say, want to show that she did pay your fee with some form of intent just like everybody else does.
“You can,” Natasha says simply, not rising to your bait, “If that’s what you’d like, then I won’t stop you.”
You don’t outwardly react, but the shock is overwhelming. It floors you. Someone who bought you is letting you go without expectations. Solely because you asked. Who is she?
You nod once, the movement jerky with surprise.
“Okay,” you murmur, slowly removing yourself from her grip.
Natasha remains seated, looking at you with that intense gaze of hers, but you can see an unmistakable softness there as well. You’re not sure why you’re on the receiving end of it.
“I’m going to go then,” you inform her carefully.
Natasha doesn’t protest.
You tentatively take a step away, watching her closely as you do, almost expecting her to reach out and harshly pull you back to her, to claim that it was all a trick and you have no right to take away something that she owns for the night, but she never does.
Natasha offers you the smallest upturn of her lips as she sees your hesitance, your guarded expression, trying to reassure you, and with that, you’re quickly turning on your heel, practically fleeing to the back of the club to change and grab your things, almost terrified of the gentleness and respect that came with the unusual redheaded customer you had tonight.
Your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest with anxiety, but there’s a faint flutter of something else too. Anticipation, perhaps? You both hope and don’t hope that you’ll be seeing her again soon… whoever she really is.
