#insomnia!au

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.

Taking a shower? You're imagining the redhead between your thighs.

Making a coffee? You're thinking about how her lips will feel against yours.

Just out taking a stroll? Your brain comes up with the phantom feeling of her hands on your back and breath against your neck.

Fuck.

You don't even know why.

Truly, when you gave her a little dance that day, the most that happened was her hand settling on your waist when you straddled her.

No forced kisses, no unwanted touches, no eyes lingering on your lips.

Her eyes were appreciative of your figure, that much was clear; but it never made you feel uncomfortable.

Heck, the guys you've dealt with has given you more dangerous looks than she did that whole night.

So, like any reasonable sane person, you googled her.

You got her name that night. The girls were all whispering when you left the room that night, and for once they seemed relieved that you were alright. They came up to you, asked if you were alright and then began gossiping about what went down.

All you remembered was Natasha Romanoff.

Her name.

Google didn't help, much.

You see crimes that might or might not be related to her.

Blood, gun, corruption, filth.

Again, nothing you didn't expect.

Logically, you know that this little obsession isn't good for you. She's way too dangerous, and obviously getting close to her can only end in your untimely death. But between your lack of family, lack of friends, and depressing job, what can you lose?

Ironically, this is the most alive you've felt in years.

It was as if you finally have something to live for.

Something you desire.

Something you look forward to.

So you begin crafting a meeting with her.

You have the perfect scenario playing in your mind, you'd figure out her schedule, find out which bar or club she might frequent and act like you're bumping into her there one night. Strike up a conversation, entice her a little, and hopefully end the night with one of your fantasies fulfilled.

You start by some good ole fashion stalking. You found her operation base, jot down her car plate, recognize the few people that she works closely with…

You try to figure out her schedule, but she doesn't really have a fixed schedule. Which makes sense for someone in her line of business. So carefully, you began stalking her in hopes to craft a way to 'accidentally bump into her'.

Today is just like any other day, you're keeping your distance while you follow her across town. She headed downtown, went to a bank and then now she's probably headed to a hotel that you notice she frequents - maybe a side business for money laundering?

You follow her from across the street, your eyes carefully keeping her in sight. She rounds a corner and you keep up. You see her take out a cig and light it up - god that's hot, and this distraction caused you; because before you know it, you see her making direct eye contact with you through the reflected window on her street.

Oh fuck - was the first thought.

Turning around, she actually looks at you and you bolt.

Running down the street, slipping between the crowd, and back into an alley that you were familiar with, you didn't hear anything behind you. Stopping to catch your breath, you peek out the alley and don't see anything.

God - that was fucking close.

"You really need to be more careful," you heard, and your brain wasn't catching up that it's a voice from outside instead of the voices in your head.

"I know, I just got distracted for a second," you said, used to talking to yourself this way.

You feel something poking your back, and the familiar sound of a gun cocking behind you.

"Who sent you?"

Oh. Fuck.

Naturally, you raised your hands to show that you weren't a threat while you slowly turn around. There she was, the woman who's been haunting your thoughts at every moment for the past few weeks.

You see her nonchalant stance, clearly not threatened by you at all. One hand in her pocket while the other was holding the gun.

A slow head tilt before recognition flashes across her eyes.

"You're the stripper from the club," was her comment, tone in confusion but also an edge to it.

"No one sent me," you don't wanna die. Not like this.

Under her gun, yes - you have issues, what else is new. But not like this in an alley when she thought you were some spy sent by other people.

You'd never betray her.

"I could believe you, or I could just shoot you and not have to worry about anything," and she was technically right.

But you also know her better than this.

She's not one to just kill for the sake of it.

No.

She'd probably wanna get to the bottom of this.

And oh my god that would be humiliating for you.

How do you even begin explaining that?

Hey, you won't believe me but I followed you for weeks cause you've been plaguing my mind even though you didn't do anything to me?

Oh my god.

You're pathetic.

"I'm not…I'm not a threat, you know that," your voice came out shaky, half by the dire situation you've found yourself in, but also half due to how gorgeous she is standing right in front of you.

You could use some therapy, but no one has the time or money for that shit.

She looks you up and down, obviously finding something in your body language and nods. "Let's take this talk to my office, you know where that is, right?"

"Yes," and your cheeks could not be redder at this moment.

You feel like combusting.