Situations with Bucky Barnes!
[ BUCKYBARNESXFEM!READER SMUT/FLUFF ]
* mild language and explicit depictions of sexuality (other trigger warnings stated at the beginning of the chapter). 18+ or else...
requests are [open but no guarantees]
started De...
A/N: if it's riddled with inaccuracies—i know. listen.... that H3TV 20 minute impromptu segment with the stripper sparked... this... that's all. also this is fiction. client/stripper relationships are highly unrealistic and extremely rare, so don't go around courting your local stripper pls and thank you. instead, pay them boat loads of money and then go home by yourself :) Summary: Stripper!Reader finds a new client in the likes of New York's leading mobster. 3.1k words. Warnings: talk of violence, stripping, smut, praise, basically prostitution, pussy slapping 😛😛, f receiving oral,
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Right off the bat, you know who he is. He didn't have to walk through the doors for you to smell the Tom Ford clinging to the back of his neck. Like two thousand bucks, imported from the heart of France. And there he stands, hulking in the doorway as the bouncer steps aside with a flustered and blushing nod.
The girls flock together like little birds at the sight of him, advantageously placing themselves onto the cushions of his favorite red velvet couch. He's a big tipper, and you know all the rules they have with their regulars will go out the window the second he sits in their crosshairs. They chatter and cluck and busy themselves with their french tip manicures, and you laugh from the backstage door.
"C'mon, ladies," you mumble through a chuckle, "he can't tip you all."
"Yes, he can," Bonnie chirps from behind you. She plucks a prickled hair from the edge of her eyebrow, leaning so close to the mirror, her nose grazes its reflection. Then she stands and shimmies into the cups of her iridescent bra. "Which is exactly why we're going to go sit right there next to him."
"There's no space—"
"His lap, then," she says, determined and grabbing your hand. She drags you barreling toward the crowd of girls standing up from the couch, dejected. "Hey, hey," Bonnie whines at one of the girls, letting go of your wrist, "did I miss it?" It being the second he unsheathed the hockey puck of a wallet he keeps shoved in the front pocket of his slacks.
"Nah, he's all grumpy tonight. Even snapped at Daisy." She says it like it's a surprise when Daisy is commonly on your nerves, too. But the couch is empty, and he sits frowning and alone, smack-dab in the middle of it. The girls and Bonnie flood back onto the checkered dance floor with a collective sigh, mingling between men with grossly overestimated egos and bad breath.
And you're kind of determined to crack this guy. Laid back in suit pants, neck tie loosened around the collar of his button up, he's disheveled like any other thirty-something CEO after a wild day of yelling at his assistant. Tight sleeves rolled up past his forearms, the left caught on one of the plates of metal, you smile wickedly.
"Long day?"
He spares you a glare from the corner of his eye. "You could say that."
