Summary: You're a stripper, and first met Natasha under...special circumstances.
Warnings: 18+ themes (nothing explicit in this one though)
A/N: Starting a new AU alert! A short introduction to my new two little freaks. Mob!Nat in this AU is very different from my previous one, given that she's much more nonchalant and toxic. Don't have much of this written but I really like the dynamic of these two (down bad R and could not care less Nat :D)
You didn’t hate your job. Sure the guys were sleazy, some of the girls can be…a little toxic, but it paid well. You needed the money to pay your bills and honestly this job takes less of your time and paid more than what you could get outside.
So here you were, stripping for a man in his late thirties, while he sips on a beer bottle and tries his hardest to respect the no touching rule that you just know he’s itching to break. The way his eyes run over your body and the way he palms himself and adjusts on the seat…
Men are all so predictable.
You liked him though, much more than some of the other clients you’ve had.
He comes about twice a month and always calls for a 30 minute private strip tease from you. Sometimes you feel generous and need the extra tip, and you’d let him grab on your tits.
Everything comes with a price for you.
You don’t fucking eat your greens because you liked them, keeping this body in good shape was a chore, one that you didn’t hate, but still a chore nonetheless.
Your hips sway to the music that you let him choose, a slow one that got you teasing more than stripping. He seems to have a particular interest in your ass today, his eyes never leaving it whenever you would turn or grind down on him.
And then it happened.
You heard her before you saw her. The door slamming open and the familiar sight of a gun and a man blazing in. You weren’t even concerned at your lack of clothes, merely scared that you might not make it out tonight.
You hear your client cuss and try to draw his own gun, hands clumsy and face red from embarrassment or fear, you’re not quite sure. He didn't even manage to touch his gun before the man whacked him on the head and knocked him unconscious.
And then you finally saw her.
You were peeking out from the bedside table, eyes firmly set on the man who hauled your client's body onto his shoulder and carried him out. He stopped right at the door, speaking to her.
Red hair.
Leather jacket.
Piercing green eyes staring right back at you.
Fuck, was your first thought.
She is gorgeous, your brain unhelpfully supplied. Not that it mattered, when she was looking at you with furrowed brows.
Gosh, maybe you are taking your last few breaths.
Being in this industry, it was sketchy. People were nasty. Everyone did something illegal, either professionally or personally. So you weren't exactly surprised by tonight's events.
But damn it, you didn't wanna die.
Not today, at least.
She spoke a few sentences to the man, gesturing for him to leave the room with your client.
And then the door shut.
And there were two.
Fuck, again.
"Come on out, sweetheart."
Oh shit, fuck, shit, fuck, were the only words going through your mind right now.
She walked over to the leather chair that your client was sat on earlier, and dropped her gun onto the table right beside it. You distinctly register that your client's wallet is still on the table as well.
Thinking that there really was no other choice for you, you stood up and slowly made your way over to her. Briefly, you felt exposed at your naked body despite being in this state in front of strangers, many times.
She turned and shrugged off her leather jacket, your brain can't help but notice and take in her toned arms and tattoos that peaked out above her collarbone from her shirt's neckline.
Draping the jacket on the back of the leather chair, she started talking to you, "Sorry about the interruption, but he's really good at slipping away so I had to stop the show before he did it again."
You faintly register a slight Russian accent in her voice, but she must've been in the States for long because it's not too obvious.
You give her your stage name when she asks, and with a raised brow, you relented and gave her your first name.
She tested it out, saying it softly with a smirk on her face, and for some god damn reason your heart started beating faster hearing your name from her lips.
What is wrong with me?
She grabs the wallet left on table, "He pay you any good, sweetheart?"
"Sometimes."
"Let's see…man's not broke, that's for sure," she pulls out a stack of hundreds from his wallet and then leaves it all on the table.
Turning around and taking a seat on the leather chair, she finally looks at you. Really looks at you.
She didn't hide the way her eyes were taking in your body, from your hair to the swell of your breasts, down to you curves and back up again. "You're pretty, I like pretty girls. You think you can give me a dance?"
"If you pay me," came out before you even processed the question.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She laughs, which sounded frankly, quite sexy.
And you think everything is going well until she spoke again, "Of course, how about this…you give me a little performance, and I don't kill you for witnessing whatever that happened just now."
Gulp.
Right.
Definitely not the time for snark and laughs.
"And all the cash you just dig out, I want them too," your mouth is so going to get yourself killed one day.
Natasha smirks, "I like pretty girls with a bit of attitude, deal."
So you walked out the club that day with your life still in tact, and a thousand dollars in your purse.
