Avengers!Bucky Barnes x Red Rood Stripper!Female!Reader
Warnings are for each part; not every part has the same warning.
Warnings: MDNI, Morally gray reader, angst, mentions of hydra, stripping, widows/red room, forced stripping, mentions of background OC’s for plot, spider-themed names, no use of y/n (in this part), pervy Bucky (if you squint), mentions of cigarettes and smoking, inappropriate language
A/N: Wanted to try something different, haven’t seen a lot of hydra! Readers. The next parts will be more explicit.
“Ladies, gather up.” Victor’s voice cut through the silence. The club was about to open, and you tugged your silk robe tighter, turning away from the light-up mirror. Your makeup was finished, hair still in pins for curls.
Victor was the club manager, a hydra handler with a fat belly and wearing velour tracksuits like every Russian mob man ever. He pulled up his pants, scanning the room.
“My star ladies, you all work so hard. Just wanted to tell you the holiday rush is fast approaching, which means more money.”
The club, The Velvet Veil, was a Hydra front in Manhattan, New York. They sold weapons out the back while stripping served as a cover. Any tips you all made, you've got to keep. Hydra made money from the bar and private rooms for paid sex. Another condition was no forced prostitution. You weren’t stripping by choice, but you didn’t have to do more than that. If you wanted extra money, you had that option. Security was tight, always making sure you women were safe.
You all are Red Room graduates, chosen for your looks. It was that simple. There were six of you in total.
Brown Recluse, named after her light brown hair. Huntsman, because she was the tallest of the group. Red Back, named after her ginger hair and complexion. Banana, named after her bright blonde hair. Trapdoor is named after her powerful legs on the pole.
And then there’s you: Tarantula. The favorite, the one all the regulars loved to see on stage. You earned the nickname because tarantulas are always the preferred pet spider.
You all are like sisters, stuck in this club with no end in sight. You all could be the next Black Widow… if there was a way out. But you all stayed loyal; Victor was a good boss. He loved you ladies like family, gave good bonuses, and was never creepy. Hydra wasn’t in this business for creepiness.
You don’t have phones, and you can never leave the club. When not dancing, there is a full kitchen and beds in the east wing, hidden behind a secret door.
Victor didn’t linger after, just a quick Hurry up and he was gone.
Banana sprayed more hairspray into her golden hair. A couple of you coughed, waving a hand in the air. You looked over at the other Widows, and they went back to getting ready. You let out a long sigh, pulling your hair from the rollers and making your way to the front.
The club wasn’t open yet, and security stood by the doors counting down the minutes. Marco, the bartender, slid you a water on the bartop. You took it gratefully, and downed it in one go. You murmured a thanks and sat down. This was your favorite part, the calm before the storm. The quiet before the pervert men come in, either not knowing or not caring that you could kill them with a single stab to the neck.
A lot of them talk, typically during a lap dance when they think you’re just some stripper, not a parrot for Hydra.
The bass had barely kicked in when the doors unlocked. It was early, and not many would come in for a couple of hours. Not even the regulars. The main stage lights were dimmed to a soft red glow, just enough to make the chrome pole gleam.
Your costume tonight was simple, deadly: a barely-there black velvet bralette that laced up the front, a matching thong, and a sheer robe that you’d let slip off your shoulders the second the first customer walked in.
You swirled the last drops of water in the glass, ice clinking softly. Marco leaned on the bar, arms crossed, watching you with that same quiet respect he gave all the girls. He knew better than to flirt; he’d seen what happened to the last guy who tried.
“Big night?” he asked, voice low.
You shrugged, “Holidays.”
Marco laughed, taking your glass and refilling it, “Ah, the Holidays. You ladies, could always use the extra money.”
An hour later, the first trickle of customers arrived. You slid off the barstool, letting the robe fall open just enough to tease. That was your cue to make yourself scarce until your stage time was on. The house lights came up slowly, bathing the stage in crimson and gold. The DJ dropped the first beat—something slow and filthy, heavy bass that vibrated through your bones.
Banana was already climbing the pole like she was born on it, long legs wrapping around chrome, blonde hair whipping like a halo of sin. Huntsman took the smaller side stage, towering and graceful, her dark eyes scanning the room like she was cataloging every potential threat.
You sat backstage, cigarette between your manicured fingers. You wait until Banana is done with her set, but you’d rather just smoke than strip. What was the point of making money… if you didn’t think you’d ever leave?
A handful of men crowded the edge of the platform, tossing crumpled bills like they were throwing coins into a fountain. When a twenty fluttered down, you arched your back and offered the thin strap of your thong. They snapped the elastic against your hip with greedy fingers, the sharp sting making you smirk.
You didn’t need acrobatics: no wild spins or death-defying climbs. You circled the chrome pole slowly, hips rolling in lazy, liquid circles, letting your body do the talking. The song pulsed through you—deep bass vibrating up your spine, making your nipples tighten against the velvet bralette. You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering closed, surrendering to the rhythm for just a moment.
When you opened them again, three new shadows had claimed the VIP booth. Hoodies pulled low, postures too still, too watchful. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes sharp and half-lidded, and dropped into a slow squat—hand trailing down the cool metal pole like you were stroking something far more intimate.
You couldn’t make out their faces yet. The strobe lights and distance kept them shrouded.
A couple of minutes later, the song ended with a low, filthy fade-out. You held your final pose—back arched, thighs spread, hair spilling over one shoulder. Long enough for the last bills to flutter down, hands to shove twenties and fifties into your garter strap. The crowd gave their usual mix of whistles and groans, but you barely heard them. You straightened slowly, rolling your hips one last time, letting the crimson lights kiss your skin before you sauntered offstage.
Victor was waiting in the wings, but something was off. His face was pale, sweat beading on his upper lip despite the air-conditioned chill. He grabbed your arm—gentle, but urgent and pulled you close.
“Tarantula,” he whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. “VIP booth. They’re Avengers.” The word came out like it burned his tongue. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I don’t know why they’re here, but they keep glancing toward the east wing. The door. They’re watching it.”
“What do you want me to do?” You asked, putting your hands on your hips, “Want me to fight 'em or something?”
“I need you to do your job and distract them.”
You huffed, plucking the money from your straps and any that you put in your bra. “Give me like five minutes.”
Victor waved you off, running to the bar, probably to tell Marco also to act normal.
Bucky Barnes had seen a lot of shit in his long, traumatized life—blood-soaked battlefields, frozen decades, women who tried to kill him in a hundred different ways—but nothing, nothing, had ever hit him quite like the sight of her on that stage.
The club lights painted her in deep crimson and molten gold, turning every curve into a weapon. She didn’t need the pole tricks or the flashy flips the others pulled. She just… moved. Slow. Deliberate. Like she knew exactly how to make every man in the room forget his own name.
And right now, she was making Bucky forget his goddamn mission.
It wasn’t just how she looked, nothing but skin under the lights, or the way she slowly blinked at him; it was the way she carried herself like more than just a stripper.
All of the strippers, for example, moved powerfully. Like Red Room powerful.
He sat in the VIP booth, arms crossed over his chest, metal fingers flexing against leather. Steve was on his left, jaw tight, eyes scanning the exits like always, except there was a faint blush creeping up his neck. Sam was on his right, pretending to sip a beer while cataloging every face in the room.
But Bucky? Bucky couldn’t look away from her.
She circled the pole with a lazy grace, head tipping back, eyes closed as if the music was putting her in a trance. Then she opened them—sharp, half-lidded. It was downright predatory. Then glanced over her shoulder straight at the booth at him.
She sank down, thighs parting just enough to make his throat go dry, one hand trailing the chrome like she was petting something alive. The garters snapped against her skin with every inch she lowered, and the way her back arched—Jesus Christ. The black velvet bralette strained against her tits, the laces begging to be tugged loose. Sweat glistened on her collarbone, catching the light like liquid sin.
Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack.
He was supposed to be watching the east wing door, counting security, mapping the layout, and looking for Hydra signs. Instead, he was rock-hard under the table, pulse hammering in his ears, every muscle coiled tight.
The song ended. She held the pose—back bowed, thighs spread, hair spilling like ink—and the crowd lost their minds. Bills rained down. Hands reached. She let them tuck twenties into her garters, smirking like she owned every single one of them.
Then she straightened, slow and teasing, hips rolling one last time before she sauntered offstage like she hadn’t just ruined him.
Bucky exhaled hard through his nose. “Fuck.”
Steve shot him a sideways glance. “You good, Buck?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Just… keep your eyes on the door.”
But his eyes were still glued to the spot where she’d disappeared behind the curtain.
The sway of her hips and the slow blink of her sharp eyes burned into his retinas like a brand.
Sam leaned in, keeping his voice low under the thumping bass. “Alright, focus up, boys. We’re not here for the show—though damn, that one’s got moves that could start wars.”
Steve ignored the side chatter and kept his tone clipped, professional. “We’re looking for the east wing access. Intel says there’s a hidden door behind the bar or in the back hallway—it leads to the Hydra staging area. Weapons transfers happen between sets. We need eyes on any movement, any packages, any faces that match the dossiers. No engagement unless they force it. We’re here to observe and confirm, not raid.”
Bucky nodded once, jaw tight. “Got it.”
But he didn’t. Not really.
Because right now all he could think about was how her skin had looked under those lights—slick with sweat, flushed, begging to be touched. How her thighs had parted just enough to make his cock twitch like he was a teenager again. How she’d glanced right at him, like she knew he was watching, like she was daring him to do something stupid.
His dick hasn’t been that awake since pre-hydra, when he was busy chasing skirts in the 30s.
Steve’s voice cut through the haze again. “Buck. You’re supposed to be watching the east wing, not the stage.”
“I’m watching,” Bucky growled, but his eyes flicked back to the curtain anyway.
Sam smirked. “Sure you are. You’ve been staring at that stripper like she’s the only thing in the room. Mission clock’s ticking, man.”
Bucky shot him a look that could’ve melted steel. “I said I’m watching.”
Steve sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We give it another twenty minutes. If nothing moves, we slip out quietly. No heroics. No distractions.”
Bucky’s metal fingers flexed against the leather couch, the faint whir barely audible over the music. Distractions.
Yeah. Easier said than done, because when the velvet curtain parted, there she was. Same lacy bra-and-thong set from the stage. Her sharp eyes tracked their eye movements, not just like a stripper should. It was calculating.
But Bucky was too distracted by the bounce of her boobs to notice anything else.
Dividers by @enchanthings
I rushed this. Not sure how much I like it, but it will be several parts. Trying to see how popular this series will be. I added Bucky's POV now to make it more interesting. I hope you all like it! Starting a new fic is always the hardest.
Taglist: @buckysslut @goobers-mcgee @galaxystar04 @buckybarneswife08
