Y/n moves like water, hips tracing lazy figure-eights as fingers trail down their own thigh. The sequined pasties catch the light, scattering sparks across the faces of the regulars - sailors, dock workers, the usual crowd nursing whiskeys and wandering eyes.

The door swings open, letting in a gust of salt air and the distant crash of waves. Four silhouettes block the entrance, framed against the streetlamp's amber glow.

The tallest of them steps forward first. A bull of a man, broad enough to block the doorframe, his curved horns scraping the low ceiling as he ducks inside. His brothers follow - another bull, shorter but built like a freight train, then a lean man with pointed ears and a tail that flicks with interest, and finally a lithe figure with golden eyes that gleam like coins in the dark.

They don't head for the bar. They don't look at the other dancers. Their gazes lock onto the stage. Onto Y/n.

The track shifts, a slow, grinding beat. Y/n's body rolls with it, sweat glistening along the curve of their spine.