i love writing more grounded realistic whump- whether i actually do that accurately is up to interpretation lol. writing to cope is my jam. that being said i work a hella busy job so updates may come slow.
i trigger tag nsfw posts but please, minors, do not follow me. 18+ only. Thank you!
>> #personal - anything going on w me
>> #my writing - self explanatory
>> #art - any art i make of my ocs or otherwise
❤️: captive whump, pet whump, angst with a happy ending, nsfwhump, intimate/creepy whumpers, recovery whump, sick whump, rescue whump
💔: hurt no comfort, urban fantasy tropes, heavy medical whump, military whump
do you have any ideas for whumpee resolution arcs that don't involve killing whumper? or long legal battles?
yes absolutely!!
loved ones/found family - after the whump, Whumpee is taken in by their loved ones, or their rescuers/Caretaker, or a new team. While they can never erase what happened to Whumpee -- and they know Whumper is still out there -- being surrounded by the loving care and companionship starts to bring Whumpee out of their shell and back into the world. the healing is through connection and love
new life - after the whump, Whumpee is either forced to flee or chooses to go somewhere where they know absolutely no one. In this new place, they can be whoever and do whatever they want. Maybe there's a period of isolation at first, but Whumpee starts to try new things, talk to people they've never met, and make an entirely new life for themselves. the healing is through reinvention and reclaiming identity
mission-oriented - after the whump, Whumpee is driven by a new purpose. Maybe it's related to what they went through and making sure it doesn't happen to others, maybe it's simply because they came so close to death that they want to make every minute count. the healing is through action and dedication
mentor whumpee - after the whump, Whumpee meets someone who has gone through something similar, maybe even with the same Whumper. Helping this person/people reinvigorates Whumpee's passion for life and helps them heal themselves. the healing is through bonding and guiding someone, allowing them to see their trauma in a new light
revenge (with a twist!) - after the whump, Whumpee is hellbent on revenge. in the proces, however, they stumble across something new -- a person or a craft or a place. and in this new thing they begin to find fulfillment completely unrelated to Whumper, and while they may never forgive Whumper, their life starts to revolve around them less and less. the healing is through internal gratification and rediscovering something in themselves
just off the top of my head, would love for people to reblog with other examples, especially from their own OCs :)
character b is laid on the gurney, shaking uncontrollably. “Hey- hey, kid, it’s okay,” a medic says gently, trying to hold them down. “No- NO!” They cry, trying desperately to get to- something-
Character a, just a few yards away, runs to them, and despite everything, character b pushes themselves up and grabs on to character a like their life depends on it. Character a holds them tightly.
The medics exchange looks- they should definitely separate them. But for the moment, the world goes still.
it has been almost an entire year since i put out new ws content.... but hello i'm back!
chronologically this is ryan's pov and takes place during chapter 15 but onyx and ryan haven't seen each other so the chronological stuff isn't super important here
content warnings: fucked up government mentions, captivity, refusal of wound treatment, whumper pov
masterlist | chapter 15 | chapter 13.1
Bantu knots and glasses brought Ryan his lunch, too. He spared a glance at her nametag this time, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t actually be staying long enough to need remember it. Still, he recognized that it was always better to be prepared.
Hi! My name is Dr. Hailey.
Huh. Was the bright red introductory sticker mandated by Dubhe, or had Dr. Hailey just… decided to wear that? And did she wear them for every patient, or just the ones that were rude to her when she wanted to treat them? Ryan couldn't quite recall if she'd been wearing the sticker the last time they'd spoken.
Ryan had less ridiculous things to focus on. Like eating a meal. And apparently, like convincing Dr. Hailey that she should leave. Again. Because after giving him the lunch, she didn't even bother walking away, just staying right where she was to stare at his arm.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” he answered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The stab wound in my arm feels just dandy, thanks.”
“I could help you,” she offered. Ryan rolled his eyes. “You know, you don't have to just keep suffering.”
“Really?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up with something akin to humor. “Do you really think that just not suffering is an option here? For fuck’s sake.”
“It is an option,” she insisted. “I could treat the wound. I could give you pain medication.”
“Do you need me to spell it out for you, idiot? I'm your prisoner. Pretty sure I've committed more crimes under Dubhe's laws than anyone ever managed to commit under mine. I don't get to stop suffering, no matter how much influence I still hold over pathetic servants like you.”
She smiled, almost guiltily, as if they were in on a secret. “That's none, you know. Do you know that? You don't have influence over me, Mr. Rao. I'm also not even a servant."
"I have plenty of influence over you," Ryan sniffed. "You've left when I've told you to. You haven't said my first name a single time. You've offered me pain medication. You're terrified of me, whether you like it or not.”
“Really?” she asked, still smiling. “Oh, that's funny, actually, that you think that. No. I'm not scared of you. You're a prisoner, yeah, and this is how we treat prisoners, regardless of the crime. You're still a person.”
“Yeah, right,” Ryan sneered. “Dubhe can preach on and on about his bullshit of becoming a better person, but that doesn't actually make it work. You wouldn't listen to him if no one ever had to face consequences for not listening to him. And everyone will still listen to me because of all the people who've had to face consequences for not doing so."
She tilted her head at him. “You really can't believe it, can you? You were so mean to people, just to get them to do what you wanted. You can't imagine a world where people listen to their king without him threatening to kill us. You can't even begin to picture it, can you?”
The look in her eyes felt almost like pity.
Ryan wondered if this was how cats felt after being declawed.
“I don't want you touching my arm," he said after a moment. "You're a coward, a liar, and an idiot, and you don't understand how the crown works. But since I know you're scared of me, and I know you're supposed to fix my arm, I do have a different request. I want to talk to the angel.”
“The… what?”
“Onyx. I'd imagine he's either a prisoner or one of Dubhe's personal guests by now. You may treat my arm in Onyx's presence.”
“If I figure out what the hell you're talking about, I can pass along the request. Don't get your hopes up.”
“I won't let you treat my arm otherwise," he repeated.
"Okay, so I'll pass along the request." She rolled her eyes. "I don't care about your arm. My job is to offer to treat it, not to barter with you. I hope you’re aware that leaving that arm alone will have a lot more negative consequences for you than it will for me.”
What if there was a whumpee who got sent to auction but nobody’s bidding on them and they even lower the price. Carewhumper gives an exasperated sigh before throwing out a pity bid.
#353
content: servant whumpee, humiliation, dehumanisation, human trafficking whump, past trauma, implied past torture, implied starvation, implied murder, carewhumper
Whumpee was standing on the stage, emaciated body full of cuts and bruises unable to be hidden behind the clothes their handler had hastily procured for them, and stared at the crowd with wide eyes. The starting price for them was already low, lower than for many of the other servants, and they knew full well why. They were not a good servant. They tried and tried and tried but their body simply couldn't keep up. When they fell behind, they got punished, and the punishment made it so that they were unable to do even the tasks they had previously been able to. Rinse and repeat.
"500," the auctioneer tried again, and Whumpee closed their teary eyes for just a moment. The lighting in the tavern was dim, and yet they felt like if they had to stare into the lamp for one more second they would throw up. The other servants went for 700, 800, even 1000. And there were bids for them. They were wanted.
Whumpee wasn't.
"500?" the auctioneer yelled, and Whumpee opened their eyes. Nobody in the crowd was really paying them any mind. They were the last servant of the evening to be sold, and most of the guests already had a servant by their side that they'd purchased. The ones who didn't — well, they weren't interested in Whumpee either. "450!"
Great, they were lowering the price even further. Whumpee's legs were shaking from having been up and working all day, only to then be led to the auction where they had to stand for as long as the others were sold. They longed for the uncomfortable wooden chairs of the tavern.
"450?"
Whumpee glanced at their handler, and they got a glare in response. They would get the biggest cut of the sale, and the further the price went down, the less they would get. Whumpee looked away as quickly as they'd glanced at them, down at the floor. Their bare feet were bony and deformed from having spent so much of their time walking back and forth.
"400!"
They knew what happened to servants that didn't get sold. They'd never personally seen it before, but they knew. They'd seen their handler come back with patches of blood on their shirt, they'd heard the rumours, they knew they never saw someone from previous auctions ever again.
"300," someone finally yelled from the crowd. Whumpee risked a glance up at them. They were middle-aged, with hair down to their shoulders, in clothing that was quite unassuming. They didn't look cruel. If anything, it looked like they were trying to save Whumpee from the fate of an unwanted servant.
But would the auctioneer accept such a low bid?
When Whumpee looked at them, they looked a little taken aback. The whole night, the prices had only gone up, not down. The auctioneer exchanged a glance with Whumpee's handler, and when their handler nodded, they turned back towards the crowd. "300! Once, twice…" Whumpee held their breath. "Sold!"
Whumpee was grabbed by their handler and dragged off the stage, and they followed clumsily. "Lucky, aren't you?" their handler sneered.
"I'm sorry," Whumpee said, as though they had any power over the bidding process. They felt like they'd robbed their handler by being such a bad, useless servant.
"300 is still money, I suppose. Do not embarrass me. Do everything the way your master wants, be quiet, be docile. You know the rules. If they bring you back and ask for their money back, I will personally wring your neck."
Whumpee had no doubt about that. "I will do my best," they said quietly.
They finally arrived at the table where Whumpee's new master sat. "Whumpee, was it?" their master asked.
"Yes," they said meekly.
"My name is Carewhumper, I—"
"Money first, introductions later," Whumpee's handler cut in rudely. Carewhumper sighed and reached into their pocket, pulling out a purse with more than enough money to pay for Whumpee. They took out some coins, counting them carefully, not wanting to pay more for a no-good servant than they absolutely had to. Once they handed over the money, Whumpee's handler was gone. Not even a goodbye.
"I'm sorry you had to pay for me," Whumpee said, eyes downcast. "I will do everything I can to make your purchase worth it."
"I'm sure you will," Carewhumper said, and Whumpee could hear the thinly veiled threat in their voice. "But not tonight. Tonight, just sit here with me. Enjoy a beer or two. Your job only starts tomorrow."
Whumper runs a charity. They help people out, giving them food and financial aid, helping them find shelter and accommodation etc etc. But when those people are in a better place, Whumper goes looking for them again. They want some credit for getting them there. A thank you. A little something in return.
"I have been so happy here," Whumpee says, smiling from ear to ear while looking around in the entryway of their new apartment. "I'm so grateful for your help -- I don't know how to ever repay you."
"Oh, don't you worry," Whumper says, closing the door behind them. "I have a few ideas in mind."
Whumper cornering Whumpee and, at first, trying to calm Whumpee down as they freak out from the realization they're about to be raped. "No, no. Hey, don't cry. I know you're scared, but it's okay. You're okay. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. It's just sex, that's all. You like sex, don't you? You're going to be fine." And when that obviously doesn't work and Whumpee keeps pleading Whumper loses their patience. "Look at me. This is going to happen. There's nothing you can do, okay? Nothing. There will be no hero coming to your rescue. Nobody is going to stop this. Nobody is going to save you. You understand? Nobody. Nobody. NOBODY!"
oh my god that hits like a truck huh, that's REALLY good
trying to calm whumpee down, that sort of firm and insistent and reassuring tone combined with the actual content of what they're saying. 'you're okay. i'm not going to hurt you, i promise. it's just sex.' this is going to happen. there's nothing they can do.
and i like the thought of whumper getting impatient and snapping but there's something compelling too if the oppressive, gaslighting type of comfort continues. if it keeps up like that the whole time. whumper's demeanour never becomes angry, they never get aggressive in tone. their voice is soothing. is reassuring. even as they're raping whumpee, the assault dragging on endlessly, their voice is low, firm but gentle. "it's okay. you're going to hurt yourself if you keep hyperventilating like that. just breathe with me. in and out." (in and out. in and out.)
if this is an ongoing situation, too, the next time it happens - "hey, it's okay. remember? i didn't hurt you last time. it's just like last time. all you have to do is relax and take it. i know you don't want this but it's okay. you're okay, everything is fine. you know you can't stop me, you know nobody else is going to stop me. shhh. it's okay. you don't have to cry, it just makes your head hurt, and it won't help. we've done this before. it's just sex. we've had sex before, remember? it'll be just like that."
Rating: T (For some mention of drinking, heavy and implicit drugging, and kidnapping etc.)
a cat gets caught because someeeeone cant hold back any longer
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> I’m pretty bad with faces lol tell me what you’re gonna wear so I can spot you??
There’s only one person who’s wearing a turtleneck at Frank’s in nearing 80 degree heat.
“João…?” She tries. Glasses, turtleneck, silver necklace–
He brightens, “Hey! Nice to meet you finally.” Win for me!
“Yeah, same. Ah– A turtleneck is a strong choice in this heat.” She says, flashing him a smile. Talia forewent the dressier approach for a casual set of jean-shorts and simple top, but now she’s feeling underdressed. João is sporting a silver chain and slacks, all black, in 75 degree heat.
His attire is better dressed for a high end club than simple off-the-corner Frank’s. But that’s his lot, not hers, at the end of the day.
He picks at the shirt for a moment, owlish, “You think? I thought it’d be distinct.” Then he fingers a silver chain.
“It’s distinct alright.” She shakes her head, bemused, “Felt like I maybe didn’t dress up enough now.”
“Not at all!” João assures her, “Dress for comfort, that’s what I say.”
Well, he’s the one in slacks and a turtleneck. Maybe that’s comfort to him.
His words get swallowed by the pounding noise of pop and clinking glasses. Frank’s is just getting it’s starting clientele for the night, but it’s already become a hotspot of wandering drunkards.
“Right, yeah.” She forces a laugh.
She wets her lip, eyes dancing off to the accumulation of cigarettes dotting the sidewalk. Weird. That’s the only way she can describe the tension. Weird.
Talia slips her hands into her pockets, “We should get inside. Y’know. Secure a booth and everything.”
“Right, of course.” João side-steps and swings open the old door, waving her in, “After you.”
————
“Listen I… I know I’m being a little… I just feel like I need to tell you one more time that I’m a lesbian.” She gestures to a long scan of João, “So it’s not even kind of possible. If you’re looking for some kind of third or whatever, it’s not happening.”
João throws his hands up, “I swear. Cross my heart. Gay man, through and through.”
She tongues along her molars, “Alright… You get it though, right?”
“You’re being cautious.” João says, corners of his eyes crinkling, “That’s a good thing. People are assholes. You have experience, then? In this?”
Talia gives a half-hearted yeah, and gestures to a spot in the back, where the booths are filling by the moment.
Suddenly, much closer, João’s voice fills her ear, “I get it.”
She whips her head around and almost smacks him dead in the nose.
“Woah! Careful,” Talia puffs out a laugh, “Scared me.”
“Sorry.” João grins, “Loud in here.”
They wander to the back of the bar. Talia’s never been a regular enough customer to recognize any names, or be recognizable by proxy, but it’s nice to see people she remembers working there a year ago still manning the bar.
“I’ll order for you,” João offers, “What do you usually get?”
Talia would argue on another day. Right now, she wants to make sure she gets that booth spot so she’s not forced to stand the whole night.
“Vodka soda.”
“One second.” And slowly meanders towards the bar.
Talia jumps into the nearest booth, throwing her bag into the seat across in hopes of securing one for him too.
He comes back seconds later, two drinks in hand, “My treat as a thanks for coming out.”
Talia snorts, “Thanks, but I came out awhile ago.”
João laughs back. It’s nice. He tilts his glass towards her. She clinks back.
He slides into the seat across from her, handing her bag back without a word.
“So what are you doing most days?”
Talia puffs out a half-breath, “Unemployed, right now. Apparently I’m over-qualified with my degree.”
“What degree?” João asks, brows raising.
“Fine arts with a minor in graphic design.” She snorts, swirling her glass, “I don’t know how that over qualifies me for anything.”
”I’ve been hearing that the job market is… hard.” João admits, “I’m currently working on contract jobs.”
”Yeah? What do you do?”
“Photography,” He grimaces, “I admit, my husband has been doing more of the money-making. He’s a—“ João waves a hand, brow furrowed and deep in thought, “A doctor. But something more important that I can’t remember the name of. More of a scientist than a doctor these days.”
”Damn, sounds important.” She drinks a sip, “So that’s why you came here? His stuff couldn’t move, but yours could?”
João shrugs, “In a sense.” He picks up his own glass, pointing a lazy finger at her, “I talk too much. Tell me more about you.”
”Not much to say,” Talia admits, “I’m living with a friend right now.”
“And unemployed,” He notes, hurrying to add, “Understandably.”
She taps her fingers along the glass, “I’m working on it.” It’s hard. Every rejection she gets goes straight into her art, which leads to only more rejections. Sometimes it feels like she’s manifesting her own doom that way— Putting out the energy of denials from every gallery and website she contacts.
”You’re a creative,” João says, “One of the worst things to be in the modern era.”
”You make it all sound so bleak.” Talia jokes.
João’s lip twitches into a frown, “It is. This world— It’s troubled. Difficult. Look at your prison systems. Brazil’s are not much better, but it’s hard to find anyone who’s doing them right. We lock up our problems until they become tenfold, then punish them for being products of…” He gestures in a wide berth to the room, “This. Everything.”
“I guess.” Talia mumbles into the rim of her glass. She’s not… well, she doesn’t exactly see it that way, but João seems pretty smart. Passionate, if nothing else. This isn’t exactly a discussion she’s eager to start up. She just… wouldn’t do the injustice of comparing artists to like… murderers or something.
When she glances back up, João is more.. subdued. Smiling lightly, “I did it again.”
“Hm?”
“You’re supposed to be talking, not me.” He shakes his head, laughing to himself, “Please, I would like to learn a little more about you.”
She shrugs, “Like I said, not much to say.”
João hums something curious. In symphony with the glint in his eye that Talia can’t quite decipher. It’s not bad— João is hardly the oddest sort she’s ever talked to. She went to art school, after all.
He pinches the edge of his napkin, and she can see the mistake before he can—
He pulls and her glass tips over onto her hand. She starts, standing and trying to put it upright.
”Sorry!” João immediately starts patting down the spilled drink with said napkin, looking flabbergasted, “I didn’t see— Shit—“
“No! No, it’s okay!” Talia flicks droplets of her vodka soda onto the floor, wincing.
João plucks the glass, “Hang on, I’ll get you a new drink. And— maybe some napkins— I’m so sorry.”
She tries waving him off, face red, “You already bought the first.”
“No, no, it’s my fault the drink spilt.” João cringes at his own words, cradling the glass like it’ll bite her, “Give me a minute. Vodka soda, right?”
After a moment’s contemplation, she sits, “Yeah, thank you.”
”It’s really no problem.” He assures her, already palming around for his wallet as he vanishes into the crowd of dancing folk.
God. She hopes this isn’t because he just found out she’s unemployed. Talia rubs a hand down her face. Rough start. Really, really, rough start. Her drink spills, she’s all anxious and worried— João must think she’s an asshole.
Maybe it’s the richness. She thought she’d be more acclimated to weirdos with cash after spending so much time with Mark, but apparently not.
Instead, she’s still picking up on weird… vibes.
Someone bumps into her side, apologizing under their breath. They’re gone before she can even see much. This place is… busy. Like way busier than Talia remembers it being. Maybe it’s been longer than she thought since she last went here. It’s easy to slip into a crowd and disappear. Makes her uneasy.
A glass is set in front of her.
Talia takes it with a polite thanks, “I should probably head out soon. I hate all the noise.”
João’s eyes widen, “Oh? Sure. One last drink then.” He shows off the amber whiskey in his own glass. Barely touched, but then again, he’s probably driving.
Yeah. One last drink, then she’ll grab a ride home and sleep off tonight.
“We can head outside to drink as well.”
“Nah, it’s alright.” Talia thumbs her glass, “I’m just not a big conversationalist, I guess.” She laughs to herself, sharp with contempt. She brushes a strand of hair back out of her face, digging a nail into the strands.
“No worries, I get it.” He drums his fingers along the table-top, “I could talk about myself. Or, rather, I can talk about my husband for ages.”
“Go for it.” She might as well. He’s bought her two drinks tonight. Fair is fair. Besides, she’s got not much to contribute that isn’t too dark to be talked about on a first meeting.
João smiles, pulling up his phone, “I’ll show you our trip to Uruguay. I went a year or so ago, right after I reconnected with my sister.”
“Sister?” She asks.
“Carol.” He says, “She says I give her gray hairs.”
Aw. That’s kinda sweet. João turns his phone around and Talia sees him and who she assumes is his husband, splayed out on a beach.
João has a shirt on, but his arms are littered with criss-crossing scars. Even his legs. Diligent, deep, lines of puffy, shiny, skin.
She reigns in a confused look. People are complicated. She gets that. It’s none of her business.
Instead, Talia smiles around her glass as she drinks, nodding. “You guys look happy. When’d you meet?”
When she lifts her gaze, João stares straight at her. Not talking or moving. Still as stone.
Her face falls, “João?”
“Sorry.” He swallows hard, pulling the phone back, “Remembering.” João explains, his face drawn up tight. The table shakes, and Talia realizes his foot is bouncing.
“You alright?”
“Just excited.” João answers, swiping through the photos with a smile, “Matt. His name is Matt.”
“Oh. Cool.” She spies his careful watch of her as she takes another long sip.
He turns back around his phone, this time the two of them are posed in front of a cherry tree. João starts to explain how much they travel, chirping proudly.
Talking about Matt must really make him happy, because João is seven times more enthused now than he was before they started talking. Which is sweet, if not boringly familiar to Mark and Vidal.
A slow tap in the back of her mind starts to ease up the pipes, smooth over the rust. Talia swallows another mouthful of drink. She feels a little strange. They’ve gone hard on the vodka, clearly, but she’s not gonna waste a drink.
Her blinks slow. The music pumps loud in her ears.
João tunes in and out of focus. He’s pointing to his phone, to texting away, to talking about something she can’t understand through the blurriness.
Talia winces, rubbing at her forehead.
“Is everything alright?”
She mouths the word, yeah, but it doesn’t sound like it passes her lips.
Talia stumbles, palm flat on the glassy countertop.
She… doesn’t… feel right. Her stomach is rolling with nausea, but in a way that feels alchemical. Palpable. Like the liquid in her stomach is hotter than whatever base temperature her body is.
João’s palm hovers over her arm, “You okay?”
She makes a stiled noise. Maybe she drank too much? She always did have a lower tolerance than Mark, but that’s pretty much everyone. How many drinks did she even… have?
Looking back, she’s really not certain. Memories slip right through her grasp. It must’ve been a lot. It couldn’t have been the maybe three she solidly remembers taking from João.
“Do you— Sorry, do you want to go to your car?” João asks, in a cadence that sounds like he’s trying to ask again, like he already did, but Talia didn’t hear it. Reality degrades around her, skipping and jolting violently around her mind like snapping rubber bands.
“I’m… tired.” She says, mouthing the words twice before she even says them.
She did weed maybe… three times in her life. The last of which being a situation where a friend said she greened out— Basically took way too much and started having a panic attack.
This… feels like that. Not the drunken nausea of too many drinks, but the dry-mouth sensation of an overdose.
Her head feels a million miles away from her body, fingers fuzzy and numb as João takes them in his and gently tugs her towards the exit. “Here, I’ll get you to your car.” He looks almost embarrassed, shyly waving to people as he straightens her upright.
”Thanks.” She slurs out, brow furrowed. It sounds funny to say, so she tries again, tongue buzzing with flavor and vibration, “Tha-anks.”
She laughs. The table is left behind.
They slowly slide around the outskirts of a loud dance floor. There’s not a sober mind around them besides João, to her limited vision. She tries to look for her phone. What time is it? She should probably text Mark.
It’s been ages, right? The building wasn’t this packed before.
A cold sweat beads on her forehead, “No’s’— My phone?” Her fingers slide to her pockets. A pounding headache starts growing between her temples.
A pink phone case and image of a smiling, happy, Leo on her home screen wiggle back and forth in João’s hand. “This? You left it on the table, silly.”
She swipes out, and he holds it just out of her reach.
“Hang on, you’re too drunk—“
“I’m not drunk!” She shrieks, slurring. A couple passing them gives her a dirty glare, and a hot flush rises to her cheeks. She’s not— Talia’s not the type of person to do this or get this drunk— She mumbles out a couple weak apologies—
With one last push, the two of them bustle past the front doors. Cool, evening, air hits her with the shocking realization that it’s far past sundown. It was only… maybe 5, when she left? Yet the tepid humidity of California’s nearing midnight sky says she’s been gone for hours.
João tugs her aside, apologizing as a group of drunk college kids muscle past into the bar.
“I’ll call someone for you. You want an uber?”
“I can do it.” She insists, wobbling unsteadily.
João hums, neither relenting or accusatory, “I think I’ll do it for you. Just sit tight, alright?”
He tugs her close, and holds her phone up to her face. And fuck stupid fucking phone— It unlocks.
“What’s your address?” He asks.
Talia’s frown deepens. She’s never been this drunk before. Fuck. Not even on her 21st, when she took those stupid shots of vodka from Mark. One for each decade!
“Talia, querida,” João calls, reaching out to pull her chin, “Address. For the Uber.”
His hand is so warm against her skin. Even just the thumb and forefinger spark tingles along her jaw and down her throat. So warm. She laughs. So stupid.
What was he asking?
Oh! Address. She shakes free, ignoring the strange, long, sideways look that João gives her.
She parrots something approximating. It stumbles off her tongue with a bouncy cadence, and she giggles at it.
“Thank you,” He sighs, content grin spreading over his lips, “Thank you. That’s very good.” His fingers brush over her cheek again, scratching at her nape. It’s different than an attention grabbing chin pull. She can’t quite pull away from it all the same.
The ground shifts from under her. João’s hold on her shoulders does little to keep her upright. Static noise fills her vision, piling up like snow. The asphalt gives way to a car interior, then up and up towards the sky.
She almost goes nose first into the dashboard. Palms slapping over the seats, she crawls up and in. God forbid she float up into the sky with all the helium that’s ballooning in her ribs.
“Silly,” João teases from far, far, away, “You like the car?”
She hates cars. This whole stupid town smells of diesel and car exhaust. Talia blows a raspberry, lips buzzing, “No.” Then, with a frown, “My head hurts. I think I n- need to lie down?”
”Soon, Talia.” João promises her. He sits on the driver’s side, jiggling the key into the ignition. Is he driving? She thought this was an Uber? Her stomach swoops and she leans forward, hugging her knees.
Beneath her feet, the engine rumbles to life. She groans, nausea flicking bile up her throat. “Wait, I need to get out.” Talia whines, eyes pressing shut, “I don’t feel good.”
João makes a cloying sound, like saccharine pity. His hand glances her back, settling along the knobs of her spine to rub up and down, “It’s alright, you can throw up on the carpet. You feeling nervous?”
Her face pinches further. What? No. She’s not nervous. “I don’t feel good.” She reiterates.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll throw on the air conditioning.”
“But I want to get out.”
“We’re driving, Talia, I can’t let you just jump out of the car. It’s not safe.”
Are they moving? It’s hard to tell. “I don’t wanna be sick.”
”Just keep your eyes closed. Take deep breaths.”
She rubs her wrist along her cheek and nose. An ice pick is digging into her temple, flaring louder when she gives it any attention. Ow.
João reaches over and adjusts the vents along the dashboard, blasting her with cooling air. It smells stale. She’s so thirsty.
“Comfortable?” He asks, gears shifting with loud clunks. As if not expecting an answer, he barrels on, “You’ll be home soon, don’t worry.”
