sure shot.

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she’s on a platform, so when she kicks her foot out, her stilleto collides with his face. she turns immediately, grabbing him by the fabric of his shirt and pulling him onto her platform, slamming him hard against the pole. “if you touch me again, i’ll fucking maim you!" she hisses at him. and then she remembers she’s at work, this is her job, and it’s one she could lose. so she drops him, and he slides down the pole. a soft buzz fills her ears, and as she looks around, she feels eyes upon eyes staring at her, in shock, awe perhaps? maybe even admiration. she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. somebody laughs. she supposes it was a bit of a funny scene. a young woman, wearing nothing other than heels, a pair of panties and an unholy amount of glitter, slamming a man half her size against a stripper pole and threatening him. she’s about to laugh, but she catches somebody’s eye. fuck. somebody from static was here, and if they hadn’t noticed her yet, they certainly would have now. her cheeks flare red. she wasn’t exactly ashamed of her job, but she didn’t want anybody from her label to see her like this. it’s not the best impression. ‘oh, hi there. i’m lola, i’m signed to your label. also, these are my bare naked tits.’ pushing the man off of her platform, she tries to get back to dancing, but her heel suddenly gives way, splintering in two underneath her foot. she stumbles, and her head slams against the metal pole, the sheer bane of her existence. she falls to her knees, clutching her head. she’s ready. she’s ready to fucking die.

his muse is running dry as usual, so what better way to get those inspiration juices running than to cozy himself up inside a strip club? who doesn't fancy a good tune about strippers? his eyes are trained upon a rather petite-in-stature broad, curly tresses of black tied in two braids that just barely reach her shoulders. she's not wearing a lot of anything, really, and she seems quite fond of him. i mean, you know, strippers flirt with all the men—that's how they earn money—but her eyes are being awfully friendly with his. her lips, too. all red and curvy and what not. funny because it's not like he looks like he'd have the most cash in his pockets, either. he's wearing this old, hand-me-down jacket of his step father's and some baggy sweats. he'd be wearing his straw hat, but he doesn't want to potentially hinder another man's view. point is, sunwoo's a mess like usual. he knows this. anyone who knows him knows this (of course he's made it everyone's business). not just in his appearance, though, but in his state of mind. despondent. for the night. the dancer's doing something for his mood, though. his ego's definitely inflating. even so, he can barely look her in the eye. he'll offer a some-what coy smile, maybe. then he's back to the notepad in front of him. and to his beer. he makes up a name for her. doodles a little cartoon sketch of her with accentuated tits and the word cherrybomb following the action line of her stance. the next time he takes a sip, which happens in three...two...one....now, he spies a familiar face between the slim gap of cherrybomb's thighs. he keeps his glass risen to his lips, narrowing beady eyes in an effort to better his focus. it's—one of the newer recruits of static media. lila or something. her hair (and bare chest) is awful hard to miss. god dammit. is. that. a man she's shoving off the stage? he swears they shared a moment of eye contact. ...but, she's going to continue dancing. if she's not going to acknowledge him, maybe he should leave it at that. and he would have left it at that if she hadn't taken such a hard fall. now he's up and out of his chair, bee-lining past occupied tables, platforms, and boner-ed-men (boner-ed??? ok) like some fucking prince. but he's pretty useless. all he can do is be an active face among the small crowd gathered around the injured female. and then he speaks up. "is no one going to do anything??? for fuck's sake—" here's where he makes a move to climb up onto the stage (so heroic, sunwoo!) and a rough hand curls over the neck of his jacket and gives it a good yank.  "we'll deal with her," they say.