A strip club is the last place Vash thought he’d find himself. At Wolfwood’s insistence, he’d agreed to go out to have fun; little did he know the lecher would bring him here.

Now he’s standing near the center stage, swallowing nervously, his skin already flushed pink and his wide blue eyes locked with rapture on the dancer in front of him: you. He’s never seen anything like you. The way you bend, the way you twirl and grind and dance. You own this club and everyone in it, including him now.

Wolfwood presses a wad of cash into Vash’s hand, grinning like the devil and shoving him to the front of the crowd. He’s got no mind to protest, not when he’s face to face with your gleaming skin and twisting hips. He drinks you in, lost in a stupor, until he remembers the bills in his hand.

I’m supposed to hand her these, right?

His heart stops when your eyes meet, and he fans out a few of the bills, holding them out tentatively. Adorably uncertain.

Until you saunter forward, dropping to your knees above him on the stage. He can only watch in dumbstruck awe as you grab his hand, gliding it up your thigh, making his fingers tuck the paper bills into the strap of your thong.

He’s pretty sure he’s going to combust.