#I think I over think it so I did this color first then lines

[lj-lephemstar]

Progress Checkup! (Jan. 2025) | Scratchin' Melodii Devlog

Hey guys! Time for another progress checkup; This is actually the first one of the new year! I hope you were all able to enjoy the holidays. I took a bit of a break from working on most stuff last month and have been getting back on things this month. First, I wanna thank everyone who's wishlisted Scratchin' Melodii on Steam! So far, the game's gotten over 17,000 wishlists! Thanks so much for the support!

In the previous devlog, I mentioned some changes to the rhythm system. In the Dragon Funk preview, you can see the new rhythm system and character icons I mentioned in the previous devlog! Actually, let's unpack some of the new things you're seeing in action there:

Hold Notes This is the first song in the game to include hold-notes! They mostly work the same as they would in any other rhythm game. However, since this game has an emphasis on self expression, moving the control stick during these will let you tune the note's pitch-bend for extra expression points! I showed that off in a post here. As for Pow Notes, I've been working on a way to let the player get expression points from these too! I'd like for most of the special notes like these to be not just a gimmick, but a tool that the player can use to their advantage.

Quadruple Lines Yep! The first blue line in this one is extra long and has 4 rows! Fun fact actually, I had to implement this feature after I realized that part of the song was too long to fit in just two rows. It was pretty difficult to figure out both how to do it and how to execute it in a way that doesn't feel too jarring, but I'm pretty satisfied with the results! In fact, barely anyone's even noticed it; I guess that's just how natural it feels! Not sure how much more often I'll be having lines longer than two rows, but it's great that I have the option now.

AutoPlay You might also notice that the player inputs are perfectly timed... TOO perfect... that's because I've developed an autoplay feature for the game! At the moment, it's mostly for debugging and stuff, but if all goes according to plan, AutoPlay Mode and Replays should hopefully be available to players as well in some form when the game comes out!

"Next" Indicator & Other UI Related QoL Some of the top things players said they had trouble with in the demo were related to being prepared for the next line. So, if you look at the right-end of the rhythm bars, you'll see a little tab that shows the color and amount of rows the next line will have! Also, now each line's suggested notes can be seen before the rival performs them. This did take some thought, as I actually kinda still liked the idea of it appearing as if the characters were making it up on the spot, but to put game design first, it makes more sense to have it displayed as soon as possible so the player has more time to react and prepare. This also opens up more possibilities for future mechanics, so in the long run, I think I've made the best choice here.

Now, let's get into what I've been and/or will be working on that you haven't seen yet!

Act 2's Boss The music for the Act 2 Boss is  nearly complete! I'll likely be starting to animate it pretty soon. This song is the longest one I've done so far, clocking at a duration of a little over 3 minutes long!

More Animation Updates for Stir & Mix At this point, I've done even more cleanups on the sequence you saw in the last devlog and I've finished animating the "I wanna" scene of the song, which will probably have the most changes out of any other scene in the song. When I first animated Stir & Mix, I didn't quite have the time or skills to do everything I really wanted to do with it. That scene in particular I felt was WAY too stiff and boring, especially compared to the more dynamic and fluid scenes that appear in some of the other the stages now. I'd say I'm about halfway done retouching all the animations for this one!

Refined Model Sheets I don't talk about these very often, but sometime around 2023 I started using model/reference sheets for the characters. (I might show them off someday, but for now they're staying private!) Before this point, the designs are pretty inconsistent from shot to shot, so this helped a lot with that. Recently, I've done some revisions I'm really pleased with. Their designs are finally becoming... well, final! I'll be reworking the affected characters' hub world sprites at some point to reflect these changes.

Slight Reworks for some Act 1 Songs On the sound side, Stir & Mix's vocals have been reworked again! As I've mentioned in the previous devlog, 2cada's tuning style and techniques have evolved a bit since we first started working together, so we thought it'd be fun to go back and incorporate some of that into it. We'll also probably be reworking the structure of Nami's song a little bit at some point just to make it a feel a bit more solid, which may require a new line or two from her voice actor, Meggie-Elise! So funnily enough, it seems some of the songs will have end up having TWO unused beta versions after this.

Also, a quick PSA: Please note that beta versions of content will NOT be included in the full game. I've heard people ask for them to be "brought back" or toggleable, but in my situation something like that is both easier said than done and I also just... don't want to LOL. With as many directions I can take this game, I know I can't satisfy everyone, but I can make a game that satisfies me, so I'm aiming for that! And hey, maybe other people will like it too.

I think that's all I wanna talk about for now! Thanks so much for reading. It can be a bit of a daunting task to write these at times, but I'm glad to keep you up to date on the project when I can.

-LJ

[quibbs126]

So I was attempting to practice the Cyberverse style Optimus and Megatron, though as you can see, I got a bit distracted at the bottom left, and sort of just had to put something else to fill up space

I actually started practicing yesterday at work, drawing on my cardboard sheets, so it meant I was a bit more practiced when I started here. Though annoyingly, since I elected to not go over my pencil sketches with pen, I could barely make out details in the drawings, and I could barely tell what I was doing on Megatron

It was also going to be more than just their heads, but not only was Optimus’ body taking up most of the canvas already, I wasn’t really sure how to draw it at the time. The stuff at the bottom right may have been for filling up space, but I also did need to try and at least practice their bodies

*sigh* the real struggle is making them 3D things. It’d be so much easier to figure out the shapes if I didn’t have to. But oh well, comes with the territory I suppose

But back to it, I think I did alright with the head sketches? They aren’t bad, but they feel slightly off, like I haven’t quite got them looking right

I probably need more practice, and to actually draw them full body. Also probably wouldn’t hurt to look at more Cyberverse fanart for more exposure to the style

I probably also need to start actually drawing characters more consistently, instead of drawing sketches of characters once and then never doing it again. It means I never fully get the hang of it and I keep not really making much of substance

But yeah, I feel like drawing them again at a later date, possibly even with lineless. I just don’t know what to draw them doing

But anyways, on to the bottom left

So I had finished the sketches, and my brain was like “well since we’re here, and we have helm designs right there, we could try making up fankid designs?” and eventually I gave in and decided to start sketching. I knew it’d end up on the final product anyways, but I had to give in to my impulses

Sorry, I’m sure people are sick of me bringing up this sort of stuff

Then with my first attempt, I ended up with something I actually quite liked. So I was like, might as well fully line and color

I still like the original sketch, so I’m gonna put it here, and also since I feel like the vibes are slightly different from the final

But then a problem arose after lining and going to colors. Namely that I had designed this on a whim and I had no deep thought as to what colors to use

After some tries I ended up with what you see here, but I’m not sure if I want to keep these colors. I’m not sure it fits the vibe the original sketch had

The blue middle piece I’m especially not sure on. I think it looks off, but I don’t know what to color it

Oh also, his purple isn’t exclusive to his helm, it’s his main color for the rest of his body too. At least that’s how it is in my head right now

Also as you may notice between the sketch and final, the eye shadow came later, mostly because I thought he didn’t have enough Megatron in his face. But also because of that, I hadn’t made the eyes and eyebrows with that in mind. So if I draw him again, those’ll get tweaked

I still in general don’t know if he looks enough like Megatron. I suppose I should be wondering more if he should look more like Optimus, since general shape wise he takes far more from Megs, but I’m also aware plenty of his colors stray more towards Optimus anyways

Oh yeah also, he has blue eyes here, but I really don’t know about that. I wanted to give him something other than blue or red, purple being my initial choice, but I was struggling with the colors in general and so right now he has blue. It works but I wonder if it looks too much like a fusion of their eyes

He needs more work, just like Overdrive I think. But he is here

No clue his name. I wasn’t even sure about his gender until drawing made me think “oh yeah that’s a guy”. I do have a name in my brain for a megop kid, that being Starcutter (which the two probably didn’t pick), but I don’t know if that works for him

I do think I’m going with that idea I posed yesterday (well not yesterday, but yesterday I said “what if I put it in Cyberverse?”) of him being the secret megop love child that no one but Megs knows about

I don’t know anything about him other than he’s probably on the Autobot half of Cybertron but was never really involved in the war much. To involve him in any plot, he probably comes over to Iacon after the war to try and make some name for himself

Also another idea is that he and Megatron met again during his multiverse adventures, in some universe where he was actually raised by Megatron, possibly where the Autobots and Decepticons never split because Optimus was able to properly reason with Megatron. They didn’t take him on their multiverse adventures, probably because Megatron knows he exists in his own universe and doesn’t know how to handle two versions, but also possibly because he died, I don’t know. But it was these encounters that led to Megatron attempting to search him out when he returned to his own universe. This also means Dead End and maybe Astrotrain knows about the kid’s existence, but they’re under the assumption they only exist in these wildly different universes, not their own. Which may lead to shenanigans

But yeah I haven’t solidified anything else really I don’t think. Should work on a name

And I think that’s about it for now? Yeah I should draw more Cyberverse I guess

[ghostsforghosts]

The Start of a Courtship

(NOTE: This is the second part of a COD Regency AU, the first part is here.) This took longer than I had expected, oof. But it is finally written, so I can't complain. Anyways, like last time, Reader is male. Summary: It's time for the first ball of the season and this time, Susannah has a suitor to impress. Meanwhile, Lord Riley is getting closer to you, wanting your presence beside him. Word Count: 1,897

You resisted the urge to fiddle with your gloves, waiting in the main foyer for Susannah.

She was taking longer than you expected to get ready, but perhaps that was to be expected. She had accepted the deal Lord Riley had made and thus for this deal to work, she had to pretend to impress him so well that he'd want to start courting her. This was not only because she had to fool the ton, but she also had to fool your mother.

"One might think you're the one who had to impress suitors," Mama said, her voice biting as she stared at you being fidgety. She slapped your hands down until they stopped fiddling with your gloves, her hands not being kind to you in her actions. "Stop it. You're the man of the house, the Baron. You can't go acting like you're a child who has no clue what you're doing."

You nodded in agreement, deciding to tightly clasp your hands behind your back so you no longer fiddle with the gloves. The seconds seemed to tick slowly, your impatience growing as you all waited for Susannah.

Susannah finally came down the stairs, wearing this gorgeous red-lilac gown adorned with gold beads, her gloves matching the gown. Around her neck was a gold necklace that surely must've cost more than anything you were wearing, Susannah having chosen something that was an eye-catcher to draw Lord Riley in.

You had been conversing with the lord for the past week via letters and learned red and lilac were his favorite colors, so you had been sure to tell Susannah so she could buy a dress Lord Riley would love. You had to sell this ruse, for it to work, which meant she had to make his breath hitch.

A small red rose was clipped to the breast of your tailcoat, as you had been unable to resist adding one of Lord Riley's colors to your outfit.

Mama looked at Susannah with pride, her smile genuine when it came to her daughters. "Look at you, a gem in the making. All the lords will be fawning over you," she said, helping Susannah down the last few steps.

"Lord {Last Name}, the carriage is ready for you," the footman of the carriage said, having come inside to tell you.

"Shall we?" You asked your family, gesturing for them to lead. You stepped aside so your mother could lead Susannah outside.

You were the last one out of the house, the footmen closing the doors behind you. Walking to the carriage, you tried to steel your nerves, hoping this ruse worked.

The journey to the ball was silent, with no one wanting to talk and break it by saying something potentially awkward. Even your mother ignored Susannah's fidgeting so she didn't have to be the first one to speak.

All too soon, the carriage stopped at the manor hosting the ball and you got out with your family following.

Since you were the man of the house, you looped your arm with Susannah's, leading her up the steps and inside the manor. You followed the procession of guests who had come just a few moments before your family did, following them to the ballroom.

Susannah had done so well dressing up nicely that when you two entered, all eyes were on her. She didn't buckle under all the attention, keeping her head high like she wasn't internally screaming with nerves.

It helped that you led her around like you had so much experience showing off your debutante sister. You made your way to the king and the queen were lounging around, waiting in line with Susannah to greet the pair of royals.

The line went quickly and when you two finished greeting the royals, you let her mingle. You didn't go far, knowing that suitors would soon flock to her and you didn't want her to become overwhelmed.

You watched on, watching her talk to her friends while sometimes engaging in conversations with suitors. You saw that your mother was pleased, her eyes twinkling as she watched Susannah as well.

The man you were waiting for arrived, Lord Riley's cane clacking against the ballroom floor being heard before you saw him. All eyes turned onto him, seeing him walk inside the ballroom with his head held high.

He was wearing your favorite color and he looked so handsome in it, your breath catching in your throat as he walked towards the king and queen with a determined stride. With him needing to greet the royals first, it gave you time to walk over to Susannah and wait for him to come to her when he was done.

Your heart was fluttering and you had to remind yourself that Lord Riley was here for your sister, not you. Or well, he was pretending to be here for your sister.

Lord Riley finished greeting the royals and immediately turned towards where you and Susannah were just milling about, waiting for him. His strides remained confident as he walked over, giving a subtle glance over at you and Susannah.

You were pleased when he seemed to have a sparkle in his eye when he caught the red rose attached to the breast of your tailcoat. He seemed to like it very much, exactly as you had wanted him to.

"Lord {Last Name}, Miss {Last Name}, good evening to you both." Lord Riley greeted you two, bowing to you both as he did so.

"My Lord," you and Susannah both replied, bowing as well.

Lord Riley's brown eyes lingered on you briefly before turning to Susannah. "M'lady, you are looking marvelous tonight," he murmured, sounding sincere as he took her gloved hand and placed a kiss on it.

You had the strangest need for him to kiss your hand like he had hers. You wanted his attention, despite how improper it would be to have it during the ball.

Susannah grew flustered at the compliment and hastily searched for a compliment to give to the lord, complimenting his cane. The conversation was a little awkward, but she was handling it wonderfully.

You kept standing by your sister's side until Lord Riley asked her for a dance. You secretly wished you could dance with him, but you settled for watching him dance with Susannah.

Even with his limp, Lord Riley was dancing gracefully, leading Susannah well through the dance as the music played. Each step was a brushstroke to a larger masterpiece, one that played out through your eyes in real-time.

They were standing at a respectable distance as they danced, but each dance was always intimate in its own way. The eye contact that was held, the gentle grips of each other's hands, and their respective touches on each other's bodies (hers on his shoulders and his on her waist). You knew from experience of dancing with other ladies that he could see the subtle flecks in her iris, he could see her makeup up close and personal.

God, you wished you could see the flecks of color in his eyes, hold his hand and shoulder. He was a masterpiece, but one that was out of reach to see.

The dance, finally, ended and they pulled away.

Susannah got pulled into another dance with another lord, but as if they had thought of how to pull this ruse off together, none of her other dances had the same chemistry as hers and Lord Riley's did. Everyone who wasn't dancing was quickly murmuring about how well Susannah and Lord Riley clicked, how it was like sparks had ignited as soon they had met.

You were too busy watching your mother brag to her friends about her daughter managing to catch the eye of an earl to notice Lord Riley sliding up to you and taking in the image of you.

"Are you wishing that I had danced with you?" he asked, his voice a low murmur which quickly made you aware of his presence beside you. He stared at you beneath hooded eyes, his gaze steady as you turned to face him.

"Is it wrong of me to indeed wish we had danced together?" you asked in return, your hands feeling sweaty beneath your gloves as you stared into his eyes.

It felt wrong to even admit that you had wished to dance with him, but at this moment, you felt so safe with him. You felt like you could say anything and he wouldn't judge you.

Lord Riley's face brightened as his lips pulled into a smile, making his scarred face look more handsome. "I too wish we could've danced," he admitted freely once he made sure no one else was nearby. His lips parted as he continued to stare at you. "Forgive me for being so bold, but you draw me in like no other. It was very hard to keep my eyes on your sister while dancing when all they wanted was to look upon you."

Your heart skipped a beat and you had to hide a smile, knowing that you'd be beaming too much that others would become curious. You couldn't believe your ears, but perhaps you shouldn't have been surprised.

You hadn't just taken up the offer of Lord Riley being Susannah's suitor, but also the offer of you two being... friends. You had bonded over your mutual attraction to men and he had often written about his desires for you in the letters you two exchanged.

You weren't in the place to express your desires for him yet, but you had let him know that his doing so wasn't unwelcoming for you.

You wetted your dry lips with your tongue, trying to wet your dry mouth. "I draw you in?" you asked, unable to help yourself from wanting to know more.

"I long to be beside you exactly as I am now, the two of us so close," Lord Riley answered, his free hand that wasn't holding his cane twitching with the need to touch you. He groaned softly, forcing himself to place his hand behind his back. "If we were in my manor, I wouldn't hesitate to draw you closer to me. To give you the dance we both wish to have."

"Perhaps one day," you said too quickly for your liking. Your heart was pounding in your chest, a warmth filling your body as you thought about the two of you dancing with no eyes upon you two. "Perhaps I could come over one day and we can have that dance."

"I'd love that."

The rest of the ball wasn't as exciting as the beginning of it was and you could tell your family were slowly starting to get tired, especially Susannah who had been dancing with lords left and right for most of the night. You had stayed next to Lord Riley for most of it and so you bid him goodnight, giving him one last look before going to gather your siblings and mother.

As all of you got into your carriage and left the ball, you couldn't help but think about the next time you could meet Lord Riley. You hoped it be somewhere more private, so you two could touch each other freely.

You could only hope this arrangement wasn't found out. It'd be a shame to never see Lord Riley again.

Flower banner made by @/dollywons and reblog & mdni dividers made by @/cafekitsune

Requests are open!

[stupendousfoxthing]

I alternate between thinking it's hilarious and sad when I see other shippers (not just the neighbors or Taennopes) having to analyze color choices, actual numbers, symbols or codes they think they've cracked. This is nutbar conspiracy theorist territory, and it just looks insane. You've really gone off the deep end if this is how you're keeping your ship alive. There are some Taekookers who do this, but I put them on a list of people to not ever take seriously and ignore them. Most of them are pushed to the fringes in this community anyway. Or Instagram. 😂 In my Taekooking, I don't have to do this and there's still SO MANY real connections. Way more significant ones than any of the other ships people bring here thinking they're actually doing something. I can't believe people have so little shame that they try to argue with Taekookers over stuff like this. Whatever you have, I promise you Taekookers have something better and in much greater quantity. Also, this is not something to even try to genuinely answer. I see the "he wears red because of the fortune teller" excuse, and sure he worked some red into his wardrobe because of that but more likely he just likes most of these things he's wearing and they have nothing to do with a fortune teller or any ship. Like any other regular human being. He wears red, and he wears lots of other colors that you don't place any significance on. Editing this because I want to point out how this is one of my favorite kind of anons. The anons pretending to be Taekookers who just now noticed another ship thing and are shook, running here to bring other Taekookers the news. It was just now that I learned that Jennie's 2nd name is Ruby and I've also noticed she has been sporting Red since BP's last comeback. It's been her nickname since she was a kid and her Instagram name for years. BP's last comeback was 2022, but she's been wearing red for a lot longer than that. It's a signature color of Chanel which she has been a brand ambassador for a long time. The joke among her fandom that she wears a ton of red despite saying she hates the color is years old now. I think anon may be a dirty little fibber pretending to be a Taekooker because these crazy coincidences ain't coincidenting at all the way they want. None of this lines up unless you're a desperate shipper OR you just woke up from a coma and the first thing you did was check Taennope accounts to try to catch up. Admit it anon. You're a Taennope just bringing your ship's latest talking points here hoping that Taekookers are as gullible and uninformed as you.

I've always wondered why Tae changed his mic color to Red and has been wearing Red colors a lot. I noticed this all started at the same time Taennie rumors came out. It was just now that I learned that Jennie's 2nd name is Ruby and I've also noticed she has been sporting Red since BP's last comeback. It's just too much of a coincidence, isn't it?

https://twitter.com/kchartsmaster/status/1881873703425941988?t=m-dwzbdygELY6ssWO7lMWQ&s=19

Jkkr and maths 🤝 Taennies and red

Meanwhile Tkkrs…

[rubbery-duckery]

Splatoon idols.

[meamiki]

5% of a color headcanon.... two versions since b&w emphasizes the dagger more i think but i still like the warm tones ASFSADA

i am not biased towards rainbow daggers whatsoever i promise (lie)

((also friend is streaming now and im there too!! bit more info linked here, its rated mature tho))

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also "textless" versions of these, wahooo

[cutestrival]

The flash of light blinds her through her eyelids. Selena throws up a hand in front of her face, and her swing clanks against the light, clacking dully. Surprised, she stumbles back, blinking the spots from her eyes, her arm aching with the aftershock of the disconnected blow. There was nothing so hard that could have caused her sword to shake so badly. Then what…? As her vision blooms color again, she takes new note of the sword she grips so tightly. Its scarlet hilt, and bloodied pommel give her a good hint, though.

There’s no way I accidentally picked out that cursed sword when I was leaving my dorm, right? Regardless, there’s no time to think too hard about it. Her other blades already blunt from the onslaught of the past few days, not to mention left aside by the campfire from her last shift, she simply had to work with what she had. And hey, if Maria’s magic had been blocking her sword, then well, she could’ve been saving her life. Hell, she probably already did. Part of Selena wants to turn a second, shout her gratitude over the battlefield, but, well. There was still an ugly mug in front of her that was begging for a slice of her double edged blade.

With one swift thrust into where she hoped the thing’s shoulder to be, and a sickening crunch to boot, her victory was declared by a wounded growl and a keeling over of large proportions. Selena glances at her sword, only a little terrified. But, she feels no wound nor pain, and turns to her savior. “You saved me, yeah? Thanks.” She manages a wink in Maria’s direction.

Her optimism doesn’t last, another lumbering idiot baring its fangs from the darkness of the cave. She sighs; but instead of picking her side back up from her side, she instead looks around for someone to take up her position. 

Alas, the first she sees is that Hoshidan buffoon. 

She remembers him poking fun at her at the beach a few moons ago…there’s no way she could let him handle things. Seeing the light casted from his hands, she sighs, though: surely he’ll be useful here, Hoshidan or not. Here goes nothing. She looks around for a rock to throw, before realizing with horror that perhaps, just this once, an insult probably wouldn’t help right now. Not when their lives are on the line.

“Hey, over here! Come on, you can do better! Give me all you’ve got, just a bit longer, okay? We need you!” She just hopes he doesn’t conflate her attempt at inspiration with her usual goading. She turns away from him, her face burning. Whatever.

nothing is mended under the sun

#TOAEPIPHANY2025 || Week 3: Combat [Team 11]

[puppppppppy]

for like 3 weeks i was wondering why i was sleeping so much and felt listless. and just now I managed to email 3 people and responded to a month old message in the span of an hour because I got back to TAKING MY FUCKIN MEDS..........

[m0e-ru]

guy whose artstyle is clearly i need to get this out of my system as quickly as possible or i'll get sick inside and die. my grand drawing time was 3 seconds and this year it's 2

[proheromidoriyashouto]

my first rook! Bria de Riva!

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

i understand that this drop is missing that zing piece bc they're holding off on releasing the next marauder hoodie but like. still.

[painted-bees]

A quick, sloppy little comic about Magritte

[OC's]

(image description under the cut)

[Image Description: It's a vertical comic strip of 14 panels arranged one under the other. The style is realistic, done with sketchy lines in a dark burgundy. It is not colored or shaded and there is no background. The comic features the interactions of a couple, Magritte (also called Margie) and Rafael (also called Raf). Magritte is a young woman, she is wearing a baggy armhole tank top with a tight fitting black top underneath, shorts and boots. She has a messy bun and a small messenger bag slung over her left shoulder. Rafael is her partner, wearing baggy pants, sneakers, fingerless gloves, V-neck t-shirt and an open button-up jacket with a hoodie and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair has short side with long top bangs and a short goatee.

 (First panel): There's only Magritte visible from the waist up. Off screen, Raf says to someone else: “Magritte has our tickets.” Magritte is excited, looking straight forward. Her left hand in on her bag's strap, her right hand rummaging inside her bag. Magritte says: "Yeah! Even made sure to put them in my wallet so that I wouldn't- uh..."

 (Second panel): She is beginning to look concerned, now with her face turned to her back, both left hand holding the lip to open the bag wider and her right hand still rummaging inside. Magritte says: "wouldn't forget.... Hang on, it's not on it's usual pocket. Haha." The last is a nervous laughter.

 (Third panel): Magritte is kneeling on the ground. Rafael is standing to the side and behind her, only his feet visible. Magritte looks frantic, searching inside her bag. Her right arm is forearm deep digging in her bag. Magritte says: "It's definitely here-! It's the one thing I never forget 'cus I never take it out of my bag!" Rafael says, firmly: "Margie, when you took it out to put the tickets in, did you put the wallet back in the bag?" The letters are bolded, with the word "back" underlined for emphasis. Magritte says: "Give me some credit, there's no way I'm that stupid." The last three words are underlined for emphasis.

 (Fourth panel):  The scene has changed and now Magritte and Rafael are in a car. We see them from the passenger's side. Rafael is driving, looking straight ahead at the road. Magritte is hunched forward, hugging herself with the left hand. Her right hand is holding her head. She is looking out the passenger window, avoiding Raf.

 (Fifth panel):  Rafael turns slightly to look at Magritte.

 (Sixth panel):  The point of view is now a side profile view from the drivers side. Rafael has his left arm leaning on the open window, his right hand on the wheel. Magritte is hunched over facing the passenger window. Rafael says: "I'm not mad at you, if that's what you're worried about." Magritte says: "I can literally feel your disappointment."

 (Seventh panel): Back to the passengers side, Rafael is looking at the road. Magritte is frustrated, no longer leaning her head against her right hand and instead her hand is palm upwards. Rafael says: "Well, yes. It is a disappointing situation, but-" Magritte interrupts: "You'd think I'd be able to do the one thing I was asked to do-! That I'd at least learn from the last billion times I forgot shit. Rafael says, quieter: “that's not where I was going with this...”

(Eighth panel):  Magritte has her right hand holding her face with the palm on her cheek, left hand placing the tips of her fingers on her left temple and eye brows. She is frustrated and angry. Magritte says: "It's not like I've got anything more important rattling around in my brain.  But, for some reason, if it's not my music, or like.... food or something, then it's just not a priority. I can't make myself care enough to make it a priority!"

(Ninth panel): She now has both hands in front of her, elbows bent, finger extended in a vague hand gesture as if there was something in front of her. Magritte says: "I'm an adult in my 20s and I still manage my responsibilities like a child. I'd be more dependable if I could just stop and think for a second, but I'd probably forget to even breathe if it weren't for the..."

 (Tenth panel): Her frustrated expression turned to confusion. Her hands are still in the air in the same position as before. Magritte says:"... why are we parked?" Her noticing this stopped her rant.

(Eleventh panel): Magritte straightens up and faces the window entirely, left hand crossed over her body to lean on the car door. Rafael, off screen: "Margie." Magritte says: "Oh." Magritte's inner thoughts are written around her. "He stopped the car to scold me. No, not ‘scold’. Don't be a child about this. He's disappointed and just needs to make sure you understand so you can do better next ti-"

 (Twelfth panel): Magritte is still looking out the window, but now with a shocked expression. Rafael reached with his right hand, and its now resting gently on her upper back. Rafael interrupts her inner monologue with "I need you to stop repeating the shit your parents and teachers and such yelled at you growing up. They were wrong, and nothing you just said makes sense."

 (Thirteenth panel):  The perspective switches back to the driver's side profile. Rafael says: "A poor memory isn't synonymous with poor priorities. Nor does it speak to a lack of maturity. The priority was there, we just have to build a better habit of checking things before we leave the apartment. Both of us. It's gonna take time. You afford everyone else a ton of patience, all the time. Can you please afford some for yourself? The situation sucks, we were both looking forward to this. But it's not the end of the world. We didn't forget things on purpose. So let's take it easy and try to end the day on a good note. Alright?" Magritte says: "Okay... c-can we um...."

 (Fourteenth panel): Magritte has turned to face Rafael and her eyes are filled with tears and they're running down her cheeks.  Rafael looks startled, lifting his arm off Magritte's back. Magritte says: "Can we get some ice cream on the way back?" Rafael says: "O-of course!" End of description.]

This description was written and provided by Hiwi.

[shidoukanae]

I would like to make an addendum to this piece with the new chapter out and say that I was wrong about Phillip, he's great, 10/10 he went from being a giant red flag of a character to being genuinely relatable and man do i feel bad about side-eyeing him for that line he said last chapter

Also this chapter finally wrapped up another plot thread I was waiting for it to return to and waaaaaah seeing someone else's POV on Helene is so nice (and we finally got another flashback of OG Helene for like,, the first time in literally forever). Helene being called out as a lonely person who hides her kind feelings behind a cold expression...man suddenly my fondness for Helene is increasing thousandfold

Like literally how the fuck does this manga keep making Helene better and better there's literally nothing disappointing about her character and im STILL shook about it

[indiegame]

today was. good. yeah. needed that.

[evilmenenjoyer]

City of Love

Pairing: The Salesman x fem!Reader

Summary: Months after winning the Squid Games, you receive an unwanted visit from the man who's been haunting you since the very beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), drinking, sex in a public place, some murderous thoughts. Don't be fooled by the title, it's very much not a fluffy romantic fic lol.

*

The City of Love.

At least, that's what everyone calls it. It felt like the place to be after all the horrors you had endured in the past year – horrors you don't dare to say a word about to another soul. Friends and acquaintances have told you about how great it is, how beautiful, how magical. About how just a few days here will heal any woes in your heart.

Of course, it didn't work. Now you're just depressed in Paris.

It's not all bad. The Eiffel tower looks just as pretty as it does in pictures, especially late at night when it lights up and sparkles. The historic architecture and cobblestone streets are a nice break from the modern buildings you're used to from Seoul, so different it almost erases the memories sometimes. Never for too long. Just when you think you're slipping back into something resembling normalcy, they return in your nightmares in the shape of blood, pink jumpsuits and children’s games.

This afternoon, it takes the shape of a ghost – a tall, handsome man, whose face you’ve only ever seen in dreams and in the subway lines of Seoul.

All color drains from your face in a matter of seconds, all that pink winter flush.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, like you're an old friend. It nearly throws you off your balance by how natural it looks, like he's not forcing it.

“Beautiful city, isn't it? Especially at this time of the year.”

This can't be happening. The whole reason you left South Korea was to put distance between yourself and those horrific games, and all the people associated with them. To just run into one right here, in a different continent, mere months after your victory; it makes you feel like you're about to pass out.

You stand up from your seat and walk right out of the patisserie, leaving your ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate nearly untouched on the table.

You knew, somehow, that he would follow you, but you still prayed he wouldn’t. That it had been your imagination, or the PTSD, or anything other than the Salesman himself crossing paths with you in Paris.

“I expected a warmer welcome,” a voice behind you says, making you pause your stroll down the street. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately – you still haven’t completely lost track of what's real and what's not, and you can tell that voice is real, clear as day. He’s real and here and that terrifies you to your very core.

Turning around to face him, you hate how he still looks every bit as infuriatingly handsome as he did the first time you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, your voice shaky and not nearly as incisive ad you’d like it to be.

“Visiting,” he replies. He turns to gaze at the scenery around you. In your hurry to get away from him, you didn't even realize you ended up at the Pont Neuf, the old bridge crossing the Seine River. Dusk settles around the two of you, the purple-ish color of the sky reflected on the river, almost too pretty for this situation. “Like I said, France is quite nice during the winter.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe it's just a big coincidence that you and I ended up in the same place, five thousand miles away from home, at the same time?”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“I’m serious. I did everything you people wanted. I beat the games, I took the money and I kept my mouth shut. You were supposed to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Did what we wanted?” Something in his smile changes, shifts from warmth to something more sinister. “We never forced you to do anything. Remember that. You brought whatever happened on yourself.”

Cold air rushes over you, drawing a shiver out of you. It's not snowing yet, but it start might soon. It's hard to remember you were once excited for it.

He reaches out, ignoring the warnings in your eyes as he runs a finger over the smooth fabric of your scarf, then wraps it around your neck one more time. It’s almost a tender gesture, if he was someone else entirely. It should have you flinching, or slapping his hand away. Instead, it only makes you freeze in your spot.

“Yves Saint Laurent,” he notes. “I see you’ve been making good use of that money.”

It doesn't sound accusatory, but it feels like it anyway. Even after months, it still feels wrong to use the money, despite all the literal blood, sweat and tears it took to get it. Like you should be gathering it all in a pile and setting fire to it in protest. But what would that change? Why shouldn't you be allowed to use it to build a new life for yourself?

So you stayed in five star hotels. So you bought a few more pairs of Louboutin shoes than necessary. Therapy was out of the question, so this was the next best thing you could come up with for the time being. Best-case scenario, a therapist would think you're a nutcase. Worst case, they’d turn you in to the authorities for confessing to multiple murders you had committed at the Squid Games. You didn’t want to take the risk.

“I thought that was the idea,” you say. The Salesman’s hands are still on the fabric, merely touching it, but that doesn't stop your mind from picturing him gripping it, pulling on it until you suffocate in the garment you bought as some empty, mediocre sign of victory.

“It suits you.” He lets his hands fall with no damage to your throat or to your respiratory system. “Much better than those knock-offs you used to wear.”

It disturbs you that he even remembers that. As far as you know, you were only one of the hundreds of people who had played ddakji with him at the subway station. You remembered every second of it, replayed it in your mind over and over again, but there was nothing particularly memorable about you back then. You lost most rounds. You hoped against hope that he would ask you out, even after your cheek was red and stinging.

That was a different version of you. One that smiled more, even with all the hardships in your life. One that was too naive to realize she was selling her soul to the devil from that very first game of ddakji.

“Since the city brought us together,” the Salesman says, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

It would be impossible to keep the surprise from your face if you’d tried. Those are words you would've loved to hear all those months ago, and now that he says them, you can barely draw enough air into your lungs to tell him to fuck off.

“Why? So you can kill me the second we’re off the street?”

He chuckles, like he finds your confusion amusing. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn't that why you're here?” Why else would it be, after all? Maybe it's part of their sick games; to give one person the illusion of victory, let them enjoy the money for a few months, then go after them and kill them. Or worse, pull them back in.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could do it anywhere.”

You suppose there's no arguing with that, but you're not sure if it makes you feel better. Good news: you're still breathing. Bad news: you're still breathing only until he allows you to.

“You still didn't tell me why you came after me, then,” you point out.

“Let's have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

You must be insane for even considering this. The naive girl that had first seen him in the subway, coming home late at night from work, would be enthusiastically urging you to go. You’re supposed to know better than her.

“One drink,” you say. “Then you go home and never contact me again.”

His smile widens. “I know a nice place.”

*

He brings you to a piano bar just a few blocks away from the bridge. It's a fancy place, the kind that makes you feel underdressed even in your designer clothes. He blends right in – not only because of the sleek, tailored suit, but because of his demeanor, the natural elegance with which he carries himself.

Not for the first time, you wonder if he was born into wealth, or if he was ever like you. Someone who had to claw his way out of poverty. You can't picture it, but there's so much you don't know about him. It's what makes him so scary and confusing to you, but also so damn intriguing.

He orders for you before you have the chance to open your mouth. Dom Pérignon, two glasses. You raise your eyebrows once the waiter walks away.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Your victory.”

The response makes your stomach drop. “I don't want to celebrate that.” Not with anyone, but especially not with him.

He gives a small shrug. “Just a special occasion, then.”

The dimmed, warm lights of the bar make the place feel so intimate, almost romantic in a sense. You don't know what to make of it, so you force yourself to look away from him, even when you can still feel his stare unflinching on you. Luckily, the waiter shows up just in time, pouring you both glasses of the bubbly drink and leaving the bottle in a bucket on the table.

You turn back to the Salesman, glaring at him. “I said one drink, not one bottle.”

“You never specified,” he replies, fake innocence in his eyes. “Gives us more time to catch up. Maybe even play a game, for old time’s sake.”

The mere mention of a game makes you want to run away, to lock yourself in the restroom and refuse to come out. It has to be intentional; he has to know what kinds of things would be running through your head, after everything you’d gone through. You take a long gulp of the champagne, nearly done with the entire glass in one go. You can't let him get to you like this. You do your best to look unbothered.

“Do you walk around with ddakji tiles everywhere?” you ask. “Just in case you find someone who wants to play?”

That earns a soft laugh out of him. “No, not ddakji.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a standard deck of cards.

“Have you ever played blackjack?”

You have, but hesitation is written all over your features. “What if I don't want to play?”

“Do you think I’d force you?” he asks, like you're a fool for even thinking so. “Like I said, you were never forced to do anything. It's your choice.” He sips his own champagne in a much classier, more contained way than you. Like he's happy to draw this out for hours, rather than wanting this night to be over as soon as possible. “But you’ve beaten much harder games before. This should be nothing for our big victor, right?”

There's a challenge in his voice, in his eyes. You should know better than to fall for it. So why is there a part of you that still feels like you have a point to prove? That feels like, with a little bit of luck and skill, you can finally beat this man at his own game?

“Fine.” You cross your arms over the table. “Let’s do this.”

Pleased with your answer, he shuffles the cards in his hands. You watch him, almost as mesmerized as you’d been watching him play ddakji at the subway station. It's so hard not to get lost in it, but you refuse to look away in shyness and hesitation again, keeping your eyes on him as you sip the rest of the champagne in your glass.

He refills it before placing four cards on the table: two facing upwards for you, one face-down and one face-up for himself, the dealer.

The rules are simple: your cards all together need to get as close to 21 without going over. Whichever one of you gets the closest wins the round. You have a nine and a four, totaling thirteen. The Salesman has a five, and a card that's invisible for you. 

“Hit me,” you say, figuring your odds can't be too bad.

He places one more card to your pile: a seven. Twenty in total. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, already triumphant even before the end.

He reveals all his cards to you: the five you’ve already seen, a nine, and a three. Seventeen. Your smile widens, relief washing over you like you’d just escaped a near-death experience. You don't think beating a game, no matter the kind, will ever not feel like this again.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He reaches into another pocket for his wallet, drawing a hundred euro note and pushing it towards you on the table.

You just stare at it with an eyebrow raised, baffled and, frankly, a bit offended. With the tip of your index finger, you push the bill back to him.

“Do you really think I still need your money?”

“It's just symbolic,” he argues, but still tucks the money back into his wallet. “Of course, we can bet on other things too, if you’d prefer.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you want. You won.”

“Whatever I want?” A grin stretches across your lips as you lean forward on the table. “Like a dare?”

He leans forward as well, like he wants to meet you in the middle. His eyes never leave yours. “Like a dare.”

You wonder just how far he’d take this game, if he would do something outrageous or serious just because you told him to. Maybe not. But even this is the kind of power that you never, ever imagined you would have over this man.

“Okay. Let me see your wallet.”

He hands it over without a fight. You rummage through all of it, ignoring all the cash and instead looking for something else, anything personal. But there's nothing. No family photos, no old receipts, not even a condom tucked inside one of the pockets. At last you find his ID license, the name Park Ha-Joon listed beside a smiling picture of him that looks so normal you almost want to laugh.

“It's not your real name, is it?”

He smiles. “Smart girl.”

“It was worth a shot.” You close the wallet and hand it back to him.

He shuffles the cards, hands them over again. Seven and six. You tap the cards in a sign for him to hit you with one more.

“Do you really want to know why I came to see you?”

Your eyes snap in his direction, not even looking at the new card that’s placed in front of you. 

“I thought you’d be one of the first to die in a place like that.” He looks focused on the game as he talks, “When I found out you were the winner, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Your throat tightens, making it hard to draw in my next breath. You look around yourself, as if trying to make sure you're really here and not at that disturbing colorful scenario, or at the bunk beds in the dorm. Still the piano bar. Warm lights, soft chatter of conversation, piano notes ringing through the air. The mental image of that place still doesn't vanish from your mind.

“See what, exactly?” you ask, even though you know it would be better not to.  

“If you truly earned it, or if you’re just one more piece of trash who got lucky, like all the others before you.”

Your hand must twitch, an involuntary movement you're not even aware of, and the Salesman places another card to your pile. You look down at it in horror, realizing all the cards together total to twenty-three.

“I didn't say hit me,” you protest.

“You tapped. You know that's the sign.” He looks over the cards again, as if just noticing the source of your distress instead of directly causing it. “Too bad.”

It's not fair, and you both know it, but you doubt pointing it out will make a difference. You bite your tongue around any words as well as the lump that's formed in your throat, tears trying to rush to the surface. Your gaze meets his and holds it.

“Are you going to slap me?”

He’s still for a moment, considering it. It's one thing to hit you in the face in a mostly-empty subway station late at night, and another entirely to do it in this sophisticated bar, with all these people around as witnesses. Still, you don't doubt that he would do it. You hold yourself back from flinching when his hand comes out, bracing yourself for the impact.

It never comes. Instead, his hands merely cup your cheeks, tilting your face to face him fully. He looks at you like he's studying you, his expression unreadable.

“Not now. I want something else,” he says. “A round of shots.”

His grip on your face is firm, but he runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, like wiping away a teardrop that never fell. A gesture that can only be described as affectionate, and it's messing with your head way more than the slaps on the face did.

You nod.

He holds on for just a second too long before he lets you go. He orders the shots to the waiter – you pay no attention to the brand, or even the type of booze –, and you don't say another word until after they're placed in front of you on the table, small glasses so clean they gleam under the light.

“I crawled my way out of that hell,” you tell him. “You have no idea what I had to do to survive. You don't get to sit here and tell me I didn't fucking earn it.”

He looks more amused than anything. “To kill for necessity, anyone can do. It doesn't make you as special as you think it does.” He nods towards the shot on the table, reaching for his own. “Drink.”

You count one, two, three in your head before throwing the shot back, unable to suppress a grimace when the drink comes down your throat like liquid fire.

“Why do you wanna get me drunk so bad?”

He empties his shot glass as well. “Drinking together ensures none of us has an advantage.” He picks up the deck of cards again, before you ever have the chance to tell him you’ve had enough of this game. The words die down in your throat.

One more round. Your cards add up to seventeen.

It’s too risky to ask for one more card; anything higher than four would mean an instant loss. Only then you notice the sweat under your palms, the rush in your ears overpowering the piano music in the background. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to remember that your life is not on the line anymore and losing doesn't mean certain death, even though it feels like it.

He reveals his cards. Eighteen.

“Fuck.”

He seems pleased with himself, accessing you as you brace yourself for whatever he has in mind for you now.

“Come a little closer,” he orders.

You frown, but you find yourself obeying without much questioning, getting up from your chair to slide to the seat next to him on the booth.

He pours you both more Dom Pérignon, and this time he doesn't have to tell you to drink. You focus on the way the bubbles dance inside your mouth, if only to have something to distract yourself from his proximity, from the faint smell of his cologne or from the fact he still hasn't told you what he wants from you for losing this round

His hand lands on your thigh.

You jump in surprise, and his hand tightens its grip there, digging into your skin and keeping you in your seat. Your eyes widen and search for his, a question clear in them.

With his free hand, the Salesman pushes the cards in your direction. “You’ll be the dealer now,” he says, “and for each time you lose, I get to keep my hands on you for one more round.”

Say no, you tell yourself. Say something. A better, stronger woman would throw the champagne in the glass on his face and walk right out of this bar. Instead, you find yourself still as a statue, a sudden rush of warmth overflowing your senses – first, it rises to your face, coloring your cheeks red, then it travels lower to the pit of your stomach and down right into the space between your legs.

You can’t even tell if it’s the alcohol, spreading through your bloodstream and bringing a buzzing sensation to your head that’s not all unpleasant, or the fact you haven’t been touched like this in what feels like forever, or simply the man sitting next to you. How many times had you fantasized about this, until you realized that he was the catalyst of your ruin?

Maybe even a few times after that.

You take the deck of cards. He grins like he knew you would, like a master pleased with a dog following his command. You want to wipe that look off his face, but you can barely concentrate enough to properly shuffle the cards.

If you felt like you were fighting for your life before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The hand doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch until the very final moments of the round, when you realize the two of you are tied. A fingertip slides up the fabric of your stockings until it stops at your knee, your skin erupting in goosebumps following the movement. Your heart beats so hard inside your chest you can barely hear the chatter of people around you as the bar fills in with people.

You lose the next round, and the next, and the one after that. You can’t even tell if you’re doing it on purpose anymore.

With each passing minute that you don’t push him away, that you allow him to test and cross your boundaries, he gets more daring, drawing shapes in the perimeter of your leg and curling into your inner thigh. Your chest rises with a breath that comes tumbling out, the sound of it way too close to a whimper for your liking.

You can tell he notices it instantly, observant and apparently fluent in your body language like he’s spent years of his life studying it. He takes the opportunity to let his hand wander under your skirt, to the spots it hadn’t covered yet.

That’s enough. You need to win this next round.

It’s like, for once, God listens to your prayers. Your cards add up to an even, perfect twenty-one to his nineteen.

He retrieves his hand as if on cue. You thought you would be gasping in relief, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, almost desperate don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t as in stop?” he asks. “Or as in don’t stop?”

Your body answers the question for him before your mind can even process what happened, grabbing his hand and pulling it to the spot where it was. Your skin comes ablaze the second he touches you again, like his touch is charged with electricity.

“Did you know,” you can feel his breath so close to you when he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you were the first person who ever challenged me to play ddakji at the subway? Usually it’s the other way around. Nobody but you ever made the first move.”

It’s hard to concentrate on his words like this, with his body leaning into yours and his hand that still touches you under the table and– whoa, that is not your thigh. The solid press against your core makes your whole body twitch, but you don’t jerk away. You try to focus on the memory.

“I didn’t give a fuck about the game,” you reveal. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.” He draws small, precise circles over you. “Do you ever think about how I would’ve left you alone otherwise?”

Of course you do, more than you would ever admit. But having him confirm it hurts. It’s bad enough to know you’re the one who caused all the trauma you’ve been through since meeting him, that you could’ve just carried on with your life, shitty as it as, if only you weren’t a foolish girl with a crush on a stranger. But to be in his arms right now, your head falling over his shoulder and your lips releasing a tiny whimper; it just makes it all the more fucked up.

“Was it worth it?”

The smile on your lips is devoid of any humor. “Never.”

“Let me prove to you that it was.”

Just like that, everything stops. He scoots away from you in the booth and stands up, bringing all the heat with him aside from the faint lingering warmth on your face. He leaves a few bills over the table, enough for the entire tab, and walks away.

He doesn’t head towards the front door, instead making his way to the opposite direction. You watch him, confused, for a few moments before you trail after him, past the kitchen and the restrooms until you see the red glow of an exit sign.

A chilly breeze rushes over you the second you step outside, and you expect to see him walking into the dark narrow street. But he’s waiting for you, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He raises his eyebrows in that same condescending way he’s done all night, daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate for even a second longer. You grab a fistful of his impeccable suit jacket and pull him closer, crashing your lips together.

From the start, it’s not sweet or gentle. He digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise, wasting no time before he lifts you up into the air and pins you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth, parting your lips and practically begging his tongue inside. Your legs part almost in unison, allowing him to settle between them and effectively trap you, his larger frame blocking any exit.

As if you would dream to get away.

In one swift movement, he reaches between your legs and rips at the fabric of your stockings, the sound echoing through the empty street. You’re already making quick work of his belt; or trying to, frustrated by your lack of mobility from his position. He doesn’t seem willing to let you go, so he does it himself instead, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself from the confines of his underwear.

You’ve soaked through your panties in whatever time it took to play all those rounds of blackjack. It felt like it was drawn-out for hours, but you know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes. He moans when he feels it, before he even pushes into you – a heavenly, otherworldly sound, one you want to hear again and again. You push your hips towards him, feeling yourself throb when he rubs his length over you, burning hot where skin meets even though everything around you is cold. He rewards you with another sound that you drink right in as you deepen the kiss, happy to never have your lips separate from each other ever again.

He pushes the fabric of your panties to the side and thrusts into you without a warning, drawing a strangled, sharp gasp from you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the invasion, setting up a punishing pace that pushes you against the wall hard with every thrust. You claw at his back, losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, helpless to stop it as he all but consumes you like this is his last chance to.

“Ah– fuck,” you have to break away from his lips to attempt to draw in some air, your breaths and sounds interrupted by the rhythmic, vicious snaps of his hips into yours. He takes the opportunity to tilt his head and follow the line of your jaw with his lips, to mouth kisses and graze his teeth over your throat.

Hands find their way under pieces of clothing, trying to cling to as much bare skin as they can. He does most of the work, still holding you up in the air with the help of the wall (you curl your toes just to test the waters, the ones on the foot closest to the ground, and they barely touch the pavement), bouncing you on his cock however he sees fit, and it’s embarrassing how close you are already just from this.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good.”

It’s intoxicating how vocal he is, all the grunts and moans he breathes into your neck, how it rips more sounds out of you than you would usually make. The street is completely silent save for the two of you, not another soul in sight. You could kill him right here and he would never see it coming. Gut him with the knife tucked away in your purse, leave him on the pavement gasping for his last breath. Who would catch you? You have enough money to run to yet another country, to give yourself a new identity and reinvent yourself as many times as you want.

The purse is on the floor where you’d carelessly let it fall, out of reach. Still you run your hands down over his bottom, feeling for any guns or weapons he may have tucked into the back of his waistband, or hidden in his pockets. There’s nothing, but you don’t have a lot of time to be disappointed about it before you’re coming with a high-pitched, broken shout, like your orgasm has taken you by surprise. He holds you up, squeezing you against the wall for support, the only thing stopping you from falling straight to the floor.

The Salesman follows right after, a stream of goods and fucks and your name falling from his lips as he spills deep into you. You wish you had it in you to be offended, to tell him off for it. But all you can think about is how much you wish you knew his name so you could shout it, gasp it, whisper it, for as long as he keeps holding you this tight.