The Vixen's Den was a fanboy's dream. Built as a sports bar in the 1980s, it had gradually succumbed to the city's economic decline. Now it was a strip-club dive populated entirely by cosplaying strippers acting in character as the female defenders of liberty and justice - or, on a few memorable occasions, the actual down-on-their-luck heroines looking to make a quick buck.
Neon light spilled across the busted sidewalk, dirty pink and electric blue, flashing in time with some brain-melting bass line that shook the ground. Rogue and Harley stood under the sign like two girls who knew damn well they were about to fuck up their lives. Unfortunately, with the bimbo virus burrowing into their brains, they weren't just afraid this was they only place they could hide - they were actually into it.
Rogue yanked at the bottom of her too-tight top, trying to get it to cover something - anything - and shot Harley a look. "Ya'll sure about this, puddin'?" she muttered, voice rough as gravel. Some stubborn little part of her - old instincts, old training - was screaming at her to turn around. But with Harley bouncing on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement, it was getting real hard to give a shit.
The door swung open before Rogue could second-guess it, and a bouncer built like a brick wall waved them in without a word. No cover charge. No ID check. Tits as big as theirs spoke louder than any name on a list could.
Inside was a wall of heat and noise - perfume and sweat and cheap champagne, strobe lights like gunfire. Girls in micro-bikinis themed loosely around superheroines spun lazy circles on poles that disappeared into blackness overhead. People packed into red velvet booths, tongues hanging out, eyes glazed and greedy.
Harley grabbed Rogue's hand and yanked her through the crush of bodies, weaving like she'd done it a hundred times. Rogue stumbled after her, boots clicking on sticky floors, trying not to think too hard about what the hell they were doing.
A woman sauntered up to them - tall, stacked, dressed in almost nothing but a smile. Rogue blinked. Ex-Wonder Woman, maybe? Or just somebody who wished they were. It was hard to tell in the haze of glitter and hormones.
"You fresh?" the woman asked, voice thick as syrup.
Harley beamed, her pigtails bouncing. "Fresh an' filthy, doll."
The woman laughed and jerked a thumb toward the back. "Changing room's that way. Stage in twenty. VIP if you want extra cash. House takes seventy."
Rogue opened her mouth to argue - to say they weren't actually here for that - but Harley was already dragging her toward the backstage hallway, giggling like a maniac.
"C'mon, Roguey!" she said over her shoulder. "We're naturals!"
Backstage smelled like hairspray, sweat, and desperation. Girls squeezed into outfits that barely deserved the name, tugging on thigh-high boots and smearing on lipstick in cracked mirrors. Somebody was crying in the corner. Somebody else was snorting something off a compact. Business as usual.
Rogue caught sight of herself in the mirror and nearly stopped breathing. She looked... unreal. Pouty, overstuffed, shining like a centerfold come to life. Her top was riding up under the weight of her tits, her shorts digging into hips that looked sculpted for sin. Her skin glowed like it had been dipped in oil.
Harley was stripping right beside her, laughing and naked without a care in the world. She tossed Rogue a tiny scrap of glittery fabric.
"Here ya go, sugar! Let's give 'em a show."
Rogue hesitated - for half a heartbeat - and then yanked off what little she had left on. The virus still buzzed under her skin, sweet and mean, making her dizzy. Thinking was like trying to run underwater. Better to just feel.
Twenty minutes later, the two of them stalked onto the stage - heels clicking, hips swaying like they had a mind of their own. The bass pounded through their bones. The lights caught the glitter smeared across their thighs, the shine in their hair, the desperate little smiles they didn't even have to fake.
Harley hit the pole first, spinning up and locking her legs around it with gymnastic precision. Rogue followed her lead, moving slow, dirty, hands trailing down her own body like she couldn't believe how good it felt to be touched.
The crowd went wild - fists in the air, bills flying like confetti. Every stare hit Rogue like a shot of whiskey straight to the blood. She was supposed to hate this.
But right now? She could barely remember why.
Harley slithered down the pole and pressed her body against Rogue's, hot and slick with sweat. Their thighs tangled. Their tits mashed together. Somewhere deep inside, Rogue heard a voice - a real voice, not the haze, not the virus - saying this ain't you, girl, this ain't you.
But it was drowned out by Harley's giggle, by the music, by the wet heat building between her legs. By the way Harley's hands slid down her ass and pulled her closer like they were the only two people left in the world.
And fuck it.
