#Road Traffic Survey

[furiousstarfishphilosopher]

These surveys are utilized to create the final data of the analysis with a greatest precision. In this analysis we are given determined videos of a specific site where the client need to utilize different cams. The various videos are synchronized and the vehicle are coordinated by their time and the last video of various cams are kept running at same time to follow the specific vehicle moving from their relative starting points and goals precisely.

Road Traffic Surveys 

road traffic counting surveys 

traffic survey

traffic counting survey

road traffic counting survey

road traffic camera systems abu dhabi 

[tektronixtechnology]

TEK Traffic data survey company. It is one of the most technologically advanced companies offering traffic data counting services. TEK Traffic delivers quick and accurate data, which earlier used to take months to collect.

1. Turning Movement Count Surveys

2. Bus Occupancy Surveys

3. Intersection Count Surveys

 4. Vehicle Occupancy Surveys

5. Pedestrian Count Surveys

 6. Cycle Movement Surveys

7. Registration plate surveys

8. Public Transport Surveys

 9. Trip Generation Surveys

10. GPS Journey Time Surveys

11. Origin Destination Surveys

 12. Link Count Surveys

13. Smart Parking Surveys

14. Vehicle speed surveys

15. Pedestrian Counts Surveys

16. Stop & Speed Surveys

CALL & What’s app: +971 508144086 Email: info@tektronixllc.ae

traffic data collection

traffic data collection dubai 

[er1nne]

nobody else sits shotgun besides you, and rafe knows that but...

(do not copy or plagarize, original work)

The sleek black Range Rover sat parked under the soft golden glow of the setting sun, its glossy surface gleaming like liquid ink. The car was pristine, as always—because Rafe Cameron wouldn’t have it any other way. The sharp scent of leather and the faint trace of his cologne lingered as you walked up to the passenger side, the low hum of the engine vibrating softly through the quiet evening air.

You paused for a moment outside the car, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you adjusted your purse. Rafe’s head was tilted down, scrolling through his phone with the same casual confidence he carried everywhere. His other hand rested on the steering wheel, the gold watch on his wrist catching the fading light. He didn’t look up, but even from here, you could feel the magnetic pull of his presence. You smiled to yourself, anticipation bubbling at the thought of spending the afternoon being spoiled—because when Rafe decided you deserved it, he always went all out.

But as you reached for the door handle, something caught your eye. The passenger seat—your seat—was wrong.

It wasn’t just wrong; it was offensive. The seat had been pushed back, too far for someone of your height. It was subtle, but it struck you immediately. You froze, staring at the seat as unease prickled up your spine. Rafe always made sure everything was perfect for you, and this? This was not perfect.

You opened the door slowly, climbing in and surveying the situation like a detective piecing together a crime scene. Your seat, your perfectly adjusted, exactly-the-way-you-like-it seat, was ruined. Someone else had been here. Someone who wasn’t you. You frowned, settling into the seat with a huff as you quickly adjusted it back into place.

“Rafe,” you said, voice tinged with irritation but calm enough to be dangerous.

He glanced up from his phone, his sharp blue eyes flicking to you with a faint smile. “Hey, baby.” His gaze softened as it lingered on you, but then he caught your expression. His brow furrowed slightly. “What’s up? Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” you shot back, already feeling defensive. You shifted in your seat, crossing your arms and staring out the window as you adjusted the air vent slightly—anything to avoid his gaze.

“Like you’re pissed at me,” he said, his voice tinged with confusion. He tossed his phone into the cup holder, his full attention on you now. “What happened?”

You stayed silent, your lips pursed in a pout as you watched the world pass by outside the window. Normally, Rafe’s presence in the car was all you needed to relax—his hand on your thigh, the low rumble of his voice, the way he effortlessly dominated every space he was in. But tonight, his hand felt absent. Distant.

And he noticed.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Rafe’s tone was firmer now, his hand reaching across the console to rest on your thigh. His thumb brushed gently against your skin, a small, familiar gesture that usually drew you closer to him. But tonight, it didn’t. You stayed quiet, your arms still crossed as you leaned further into the door, your head resting against the cool glass.

Rafe’s frown deepened as the silence stretched between you. He turned back to the road, the engine humming softly as he pulled out into traffic. The Range Rover glided smoothly onto the main street, but his gaze kept flicking to you every few seconds, sharp and assessing. Normally, your presence filled the car with a lightness he loved—your chatter, your laughter, the way you’d steal glances at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. Tonight, though, you felt far away. Closed off.

His hand stayed on your thigh, the warmth of his touch steady, but it didn’t ease the tension buzzing in the air. He drummed his fingers lightly against your skin, a quiet rhythm that matched the faint beat of the music playing through the speakers.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said after a while, his voice soft but probing. “That’s not like you.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze fixed on the blur of buildings passing outside the window. The streetlights flickered over your face, casting shadows across your features, and Rafe caught the way your lips stayed in that same faint pout. Normally, his hand on your thigh would’ve earned him some kind of reaction—a glance, a soft smile, maybe even that playful laugh of yours that he liked more than he’d ever admit. Tonight, though, you stayed stiff, unmoving, your arms still crossed like you were guarding yourself.

Rafe sighed, his thumb pausing mid-circle. “Baby. Talk to me.”

Still, you didn’t answer. Instead, you shifted slightly, pulling your leg away from his touch just enough for him to notice. The motion was subtle, but it sent a clear message: something was wrong.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” His voice was sharper now, laced with frustration, though his eyes stayed on the road. His hand returned to the steering wheel, his grip tightening as the car slowed behind a line of traffic. “You’ve been in a mood ever since you got in. What happened?”

You huffed softly, the sound barely audible over the hum of the engine, but it was enough to make him glance at you again. Your jaw was set, your fingers gripping your purse in your lap like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Finally, you spoke, your tone clipped. “Why was my seat pushed back?”

His brows shot up in surprise. “What?” He faces you now seeing the totally serious pout on your face.

“My seat, Rafe,” you said, gesturing dramatically to the space around you. “It was pushed back. Too far back. Someone’s been sitting here.”

He stared at you for a moment, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. When he realized you were, his lips curled into a faint smirk. “You’re mad about the seat?”

“Yes, I’m mad about the seat,” you said, your voice rising slightly as you sat up straighter. “This is my seat. My spot. And someone else sat here. Why would you let that happen?”

Rafe blinked at you, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “Baby, it’s just a seat—”

“It’s not just a seat!” you cut him off, your hands flying up in exasperation. “This is the one place where I get to sit and feel like I belong. And someone else—someone else—ruined it.”

“Sweetheart,” Rafe said slowly, dragging the word out like he was trying to soothe a feral animal. “You’re being a little dramatic.”

“No, I’m not!” you snapped, glaring at him. “You wouldn’t understand. This is sacred ground. You don’t let people mess with sacred ground.”

He laughed then, a short, disbelieving sound that only irritated you more. “You’re actually serious about this?”

“Yes, Rafe, I’m serious,” you said, your voice dripping with indignation. You turned back to the window, your arms crossing again as you sank into your pout. “It’s disrespectful.”

Rafe let out a long, exaggerated sigh, his hand slipping from your thigh to rest on the console. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re actually mad at me over this?”

“You let someone else sit here,” you said, your voice softer now but no less accusing. “This is my seat, Rafe. I belong here. Nobody else.”

For a moment, the car was silent except for the low hum of the engine. Then, Rafe reached over, his fingers gently tilting your chin until you were forced to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were sharp, but there was a flicker of something softer beneath the surface—something like amusement mixed with fondness.

“You’re impossible,��� he said, his voice low and steady. “But fine. Nobody else gets the seat. Happy now?”

You hesitated, your pout faltering as you searched his face. “You promise?”

He smirked, leaning in closer until his lips brushed against yours in a brief, teasing kiss. “I promise.”

You huffed, your irritation melting under the weight of his touch. “Good. Because this is my seat. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” he said, his smirk widening as he leaned back in his seat. His hand found its way back to your thigh, his thumb resuming its slow, hypnotic circles. “Now, can we go? Or are you gonna keep holding me hostage over a seat?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. But don’t think I’m letting this go.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rafe said, his voice laced with amusement as he shifted the car into gear.

“Actually,” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the engine. He glanced over at you, his brows raising slightly in curiosity. “I want my name stitched into the seat.”

Rafe blinked, his lips parting as if he hadn’t heard you correctly. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, crossing your arms again as you turned to face him fully. “I want my name stitched into the seat. That way, everyone knows this spot is mine.”

For a second, he just stared at you, his sharp blue eyes searching your face like he was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, he let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. “You promised, Rafe. This is my seat. I don’t want there to be any confusion in the future.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“And yet, here we are,” you shot back, the faintest hint of a smile creeping onto your face. “Now, are you going to do it or not?”

Rafe sighed dramatically, his free hand running through his hair as he muttered something under his breath about how you were going to be the death of him. But the amused glint in his eye betrayed him, and you knew you’d already won.

A few days later

When you climbed into the Range Rover for another one of Rafe’s spontaneous outings, you paused, your eyes catching on the passenger seat. There it was, stitched into the leather in elegant, looping script: Your Name.

You turned to look at him, your lips parting in surprise. He just leaned back in the driver’s seat, his smirk as smug as ever. “Told you I’d take care of it.”

For once, you didn’t have a snarky comment. Instead, you leaned over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re the best,” you murmured, your voice soft with genuine affection.

“Don’t forget it,” he said, his hand already finding its way back to your thigh as he started the car.

[girlgenius1111]

with a high comes a crash.

barcelona femeni x reader

Alexia heard the sirens. Rationally, she tried to convince herself that it wasn't you. You had only left a few minutes ago, and the sirens were still pretty far. It couldn't be you.

Then the sirens got closer. And closer. And Alexia thought she was going to throw up. She couldn't decide whether to call you or not, afraid to distract you while you were riding if you were fine. She told herself that she was just driving to the dealership after you to give you a ride home. That was all.

She probably shouldn't have been driving, hands shaking as she turned the car on and pulled out of her driveway. The sirens were still loud, and she followed them; not because she was trying to, but because that was the direction she knew you'd been going.

When she turned the corner, and saw the accident scene a block down, she pulled the car over, and got out. She ran the distance towards the wreckage, slowing to a stop when she got close enough to see what was going on. Alexia surveyed the scene. First she saw a car that didn't look very damaged. There was debris on the road, though, and she followed it to find a bike on the ground. Your bike.

It looked mangled, crushed, and Alexia had to take some deep breaths, feeling like she might pass out. Once her vision cleared of black spots, she look back up, and she found you.

Well, what she assumed to be you. An obscured form on the ground, halfway across the intersection from the bike, surrounded by paramedics. The blonde was frozen for a minute, and then she wasn't, running forward at full speed, shoving past anyone who got in her way, until she was a few feet away from you. A paramedic rose from next to you, approaching her.

"Miss? You shouldn't be over here," he said somewhat firmly.

Alexia could only make a choked sound come out of her throat, eyes trained on your face. Your eyes were shut, blood covering the left side of your forehead. You looked so small, so fragile. Alexia clenched her fists, needing to keep it together.

"Miss, are you okay?" The paramedic asked, moving closer to rest a hand on Alexia's arm. She was swaying slightly, and completely pale.

"Is she okay? Is she alive?" Alexia croaked out. The paramedic looked closer at her, before his eyes widened. He did a double take, seeming to recognize you now that he knew who was standing in front of him.

"She's pretty banged up, but she's breathing." It wasn't very reassuring, but Alexia let the words wash over her, nodding her head. She forced herself to calm down, to act rationally. They were securing you to a backboard, strapping you into the neck brace. They were preparing to move you to the ambulance, and Alexia moved to follow them.

"I will go in the ambulance." She declared, and no one really bothered to argue with her, instead directing her to wait for them to get you settled, before gesturing for her to climb in with you. There was only one paramedic back there with you now, getting you attached to all sorts of machines. Alexia got her first good look at you as she sat down shakily on the bench. Her hands hovered over you, wanting to take your hand in hers, but unsure if she could without hurting you.

"You can hold her right hand," the paramedic said. She didn't really look at Alexia, but her voice was kind. Alexia wrapped your hand up in her larger one, as gently as if the the whole limb was broken, ready to crumble into a million pieces. Or maybe, that's just how Alexia felt.

A beeping sound jerked Alexia out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see your heartbeat on the monitor. She tried to figure out what it meant, what the little zigzags meant, but she was a footballer for christ sakes, and she didn't know if the little spikes were good or bad. She decided that they were good, that they meant that you were breathing, regardless of if anything else was going on.

Alexia was silent, gripping the seat under her as the ambulance weaved in and out of traffic. The paramedic seemed to be done attaching you to things, and she placed a piece of gauze on your forehead, holding it there before she looked up at your captain, and addressed her.

"She was moving around a little when we got there, so we're confident her spine is intact. Looks like both of her legs are okay. Pretty bad road rash on the left side, but nothing internal. Her ribs are a different story, the impact with the car has left a few broken. Her left arm is broken, too, probably in multiple places, from the impact with the ground. She was smart, and she had a helmet on, so while her pupils indicate a concussion, it could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse." As she spoke she pointed at different parts of you, explaining to Alexia what the bruises and cuts on you meant. Your left leg did look awful, scraped and bleeding. They'd cut your shirt off, and your abdomen was already turning a nasty shade of blue. The bleeding on your head was stopping, and you looked somewhat more comfortable. Alexia asked the question you knew you'd want her to ask.

"Her legs are okay? Really?" It seemed impossible to her, that the rest of your body could be so beaten up, but your legs were just scraped up.

The paramedic nodded, a bit of a bewildered look on her face. "Somehow, yes. There are no indications of any broken bones, and she was moving them around until she passed out. I don't... I don't know how. I've never seen an accident of this magnitude be so mild."

Alexia felt a shudder run through her at the statement; if this was mild, if this should have been worse... She shook her head. It wasn't worse. You were okay. You were okay. The paramedics studied Alexia for a few seconds before speaking again.

"I'm not supposed to say this, but you can relax a little. All indications are that she'll be alright. Banged up, yes. A few painful months in her future. But it's a miracle that she's alive, and an even bigger one that she isn't more injured."

Alexia let out a shaky breath, feeling like she could have leaned over and kissed the paramedic at her words. She appreciated the kindness she was showing her, the information she gave Alexia, that she wasn't really supposed to. The ambulance was slowing to a stop, and Alexia could hear raised voices approaching the doors.

"It's going to get pretty crazy in a second, and they won't let you in with her, but she'll be in good hands, I promise." Alexia nodded again, clearing her throat.

"Thank you. So much." She said, knowing that her words weren't enough to express her gratitude, but not really sure what else to do.

The doors opened then, and someone was helping her out of the ambulance. What felt like a million doctors and nurses were bringing you in the doors, one of them shouting for Alexia to follow them in, and find a seat in the waiting room.

Numbly, she did, sinking into the first available chair she saw. There were a lot of people she needed to call, yes. People at Barcelona. The other captains. Your teammates. Your national teammates. Her hands were trembling violently, though, and she suddenly felt dizzy again. She was in shock, she realized. How ridiculous. She was fine. Seeing you like that... it was the worst thing she'd ever laid her eyes on.

Alexia didn't make any of the calls she was supposed to. She decided that just for now, she didn't need to be a responsible captain. She could be someone that cared about you, who was terrified, and needed someone to get here and tell her that everything would be okay before she really freaked out.

She called the only person she knew wouldn't be mad at how emotionless her voice was about to sound. The only other person that she trusted to get here as fast as humanely possible, and know exactly what Alexia needed. Someone who could be in charge, just for a little bit.

-----

Mapi and Ingrid had to drive past the scene of the accident on their way to the hospital. Ingrid was driving, deciding that Mapi could call the people she needed to on the way to the hospital. The Spaniard was on the phone with Lucy when they drove by, and she got a glimpse of your bike, crumpled on the ground.

"Joder" She murmured, reaching a hand over to grab onto Ingrid's leg, anywhere she could steady herself on her girlfriend.

"What?" Ingrid asked, glancing over in concern at her girlfriend, who looked like she was about to be sick.

"What?" Lucy echoed from over the phone, sounding frantic.

"Nothing, nothing. Just worried." Mapi said, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. Neither of the other girls believed her, but they let it go.

"Okay, Mapi. I'm heading to the hospital now, Ona's with me, gonna grab Keira on the way. Call Irene. She'll decide who else needs to know."

"Okay." Mapi agreed. Lucy had never experienced such a reserved Mapi Leon before, one who followed her instructions without any jokes or comments. It scared her.

Mapi made the other phone call. Ingrid had grabbed her hand at some point, and Mapi wasn't really sure who was squeezing harder. She got through the call with Irene, who she made promise not to drive herself to the hospital, to have her wife take her.

"You're driving." Irene huffed angrily, not wanting to wait any longer to get to you, and to Alexia. Her wife wouldn't be back for 20 minutes. She needed to be at the hospital now.

"No, Ingrid is driving. Ingrid is calm in a crisis, and Ingrid is driving because my hands are shaking, so don't you dare drive. Don't you dare." Mapi's voice was thick, the horror of another accident happening washing over her. It was a ridiculous thought, but Mapi couldn't help the fear that was choking her right now. Irene agreed, a combination of Mapi's pleading voice, and the reason behind her words, convincing her.

"Okay. Just get there. Fast."

Ingrid accelerated.

-----

They practically stormed into the waiting room. It was mostly empty, an oddity for an afternoon in the city, but both girls were grateful nonetheless. They took one look at Alexia and came to the conclusion that she wouldn't really want anyone seeing her like this, let alone strangers.

"Ale?" Mapi said gently, moving forward. Alexia was sat in a chair, head in her hands. Her whole body was shaking, blonde hair falling into her face and blocking Mapi from seeing the tears that were surely falling. Alexia's head snapped up when she was addressed, and she stood, taking a frantic step towards her friend, practically collapsing into Mapi's arms.

"She was- it was so bad Mapi. The paramedic said she would probably be okay, but it was so bad. The bike was... and she was so far away from it..." Alexia's words were slightly strangled, and Ingrid regretfully pulled her captain away from her girlfriend, directing her back to her chair. Mapi sat next to her, and Ingrid instructed them both to stay put. She went to find water. Alexia was clearly in shock, and Ingrid knew that she would feel that she had to pull herself together before anyone else arrived.

'Calm in a crisis' Ingrid gave herself a minute to rest her head against the vending machine. Ale had said that the paramedic had said you'd be okay. That was all that mattered.

She returned, finding Alexia slightly better off than she'd left her. Mapi had pulled off her own sweatshirt, and yanked it down over Alexia's head. The blonde had only had on a t-shirt, and it was slightly cold in the waiting room. That probably wasn't the cause for the tremors running through Alexia's body, but regardless. Ingrid crouched in front of Alexia, uncapping the water and handing it to her, instructing her to take small sips. Alexia complied, and the couple exchanged a look. They'd never seen Alexia like this. Ever.

Alexia took several sips of water, before sitting back, and running her hands over her face. She relayed everything the paramedic had told her to the others, and they, in turn, told her the situation with the others due to be arriving soon.

After that, they sat mostly in silence, Ingrid taking a seat in the chair next to her girlfriend, knowing that the Spaniard needed her close. She needed Mapi close, too, honestly.

Lucy, Keira, and Ona arrived in a flurry of chaos. Keira was weirdly calm, Ona just looked freaked out, but Lucy was... a mess. She looked disheveled, like she'd been through a wind tunnel on the way to the hospital. She'd barely stepped in through the door before she was asking question after question, pacing back and forth, then sitting down, and then pacing again. Keira sat silently across from the other girls, while Ona hovered anxiously wherever Lucy went, not quite sure what to do.

Alexia's face had transformed completely when the others had arrived. She looked calm, expression deadly serious as she answered Lucy's questions. She was Captain Alexia again, putting her own feelings aside for the sake of the others.

She made Ona eat a granola bar when she decided that the girl looked too shaky. She made Keira come sit next to her, wrapping an arm around the Englishwoman. She finally told Lucy to stop pacing and sit down, after Lucy stood for the 18th time to go ask the receptionist for an update. Lucy listened instantly, sinking back into her chair without an argument.

Irene arrived a bit later, informing Alexia that she'd called Barca, and let the team know what was going on, but instructed them to not come to the hospital, because they didn't want to crowd the place. Only seconds after the words left her mouth, the doors were sliding open again. In came Pina, Patri, Cata, Jana, and Bruna. Irene looked at them, and sighed deeply. Her face could only be described as one of a person "considering early retirement."

To their credit, they were rather reserved, each accepting the tight hug that Alexia pulled them into, before finding chairs and quietly talking amongst themselves.

It was quite a sight to see when the doctor came out look for your family, and instead finding 11 members of the Barcelona women's squad, in various states of distress. They provided a brief update to everyone, before seemingly picking up on the energy Alexia was putting out, that if they didn't take her to see you, she would probably start throwing chairs, and allowing her and one other person to go back to see you.

Alexia followed right after the doctor, practically breathing down his neck. Mapi looked around, at Irene, and at Lucy, who both gave her a nod. You needed Alexia. And Alexia needed Mapi. Ingrid gave her a little push, and the defender walked down the hall, somewhat terrified for what was awaiting her there.

----

Getting hit by a car really fucking hurt, it turned out. Every bone in your body ached, and you were sure that if you opened your eyes, you'd find that you were just one large bruise. You were in and out for a while, not quite awake enough to open your eyes. You could hear people talking each time, though.

First, it was Alexia's voice, strong and confident, talking to the doctor. Then it was Alexia's voice, small and weak, telling you that you better wake up soon before she freaked out. If you were able to talk at that point, you would have pointed out that it seemed she was already freaking out.

Mapi's voice was there, then, telling you that, thanks, now Ingrid was NEVER going to let her get a motorcycle. Alexia laughed at that, but the laugh seemed to turn into a sob, and you could hear Mapi telling her to stop being so dramatic, because you were fine. She was using her soft voice, though, the one she used for the people she loved. (You, Ingrid, Alexia, and the cat. That was the list.)

When you finally did manage to wake up, it was dark out, and the room was slightly more occupied than it had seemed before. Mapi and Ingrid were both asleep in chairs against the wall, hands tangled together. You caught a glimpse of Lucy and Keira in the hall, on the phone with someone. Probably Sarina, you decided. Alexia was in a chair by your bed, as close as she could pull it. Her eyes were on you, absolutely staring into your soul, and you jumped a little when you realized.

"Jesus," you hissed, waves of pain washing through you.

"You're awake! She's awake. Guys, she's awake," Alexia said gleefully, turning to Ingrid and Mapi who woke up rather slowly. Alexia stood, leaning down to press a gentle kiss onto your gauze-wrapped forehead. When she sat back down, there were unmistakably tears in her eyes.

"Don't you ever, ever, do that to me again." She said seriously.

"I'll make sure to tell the car not to hit me next time." You agreed, matching her serious tone. Mapi snickered, and Alexia grimaced.

"Next time. You're never going on a motorcycle again. Or driving. I'm going to drive you everywhere, and you're going to sit in the backseat. And wear a helmet." Her tone was lighter, but you really weren't convinced that at least a part of her didn't want to do that.

You laughed, and then winced as the movement made your entire abdomen spasm with pain. Alexia's face scrunched with worry, and Ingrid and Mapi leaned forward. You didn't want the focus the be on your pain, though, so you asked a question you were dreading the answer to.

"What's wrong with me?" You asked, preparing yourself for the worst.

"Concussion, mild though. Broken ribs. Broken arm. The skin on your legs will be back one day, but no broken bones there." Alexia listed. You smiled again, delighted that your legs were okay, and a little moved at how hard Alexia was trying to make you smile, when it clearly looked like she'd had the most stressful day of her life. Which she probably had.

"When can I play again?" You asked. Alexia frowned.

"When you're all better." She said, refusing to give you a time that she knew you would latch onto, and meet, regardless of how hard it was.

"When Alexia is comfortable with you being more than 2 feet away from her." Mapi interjected, ignoring the look sent her way by both her best friend and her girlfriend.

The doors opened then, and Keira and Lucy walked in. They both lit up at the sight of you, awake and alert.

"You have to be the dumbest person on earth. Could no one have gone to buy your motorcycle from your house? You had to drive it again?" Lucy scolds.

"I like to keep things interesting." You say, smiling at both of them. They roll their eyes in response, each pressing a kiss to your cheek, before sitting in chairs on the other side of the room.

"Sarina?" You asked. They nodded. "How angry is she?"

"Her exact words were 'what the hell was she doing on a motorcycle,' and then 'I'll let Williamson deal with her. Whatever she comes up with will be far worse than anything I could manage.'" Keira tells you.

Leah would be killing you, you were sure. You turn to Alexia, who had been too quiet, and definitely not scolded you enough.

"You're making me move back in with you aren't you?" You ask, eyeing your captain warily.

"Yes." She said, daring you to argue.

You sigh. "Where am I going to park my new bike at your place?"

Alexia's face gets all red as the room falls into laughter and you smile at her triumphantly. "I will lock you in your room." She says through clenched teeth.

"I'll sneak out the window like last time," you dismiss. "Mapi showed me how."

Alexia turns to Mapi, trying to manage some anger, but she's really too grateful for everything her friend had done for her today. her expression softens when she meets Mapi's eyes, and Mapi goes from looking like she's in trouble, to softening as well.

You watch the strange interaction, and realize that today must have really been hell for Alexia. Hell for everyone, but Alexia was a worrier, and as established, she cared a lot about you.

She'll have plenty of time to fuss over you, though. The next months were sure to be painful and awful, and you were secretly glad that Alexia was moving you back in. You weren't good with pain, or sitting out, or taking care of yourself like you should. Everything felt okay, now, because you were alive, and not paralyzed. Tomorrow would be harder. As you have this thought, you reach for Alexia's hand with your one uninjured arm. She turns to you, grabbing it tightly, and sending you a reassuring smile.

Her face told you that she knew what you were thinking, and the determination there told you that she would get you through this, whatever it took. The whole team would. You relaxed slightly. You could deal with tomorrow tomorrow. Today, you focused on the joy of being alive, and joking with your teammates.

-----

hope this was worth the wait :)

not opposed to an angsty recovery part 3 but let me know your thoughts.

[wndaswife]

two slow dancers

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

tags: smut, fluff, angst, unspecified age gap, jealousy, strap-ons, cnc, manipulation, breast slapping, cunnilingus, hair pulling, slight spanking, belly bulges, degradation, praise, dumbification, mommy kink, breeding kink, piss kink, impact play, breast play, mentions of somnophilia, dom!wanda maximoff, sub!reader. MINORS DNI.

word count: 6996

summary: Your coworker invites you and a few others to celebrate New Year's Eve at her place, but all she wants to do is get you alone.

gif credit to creator.

Through your window, stray fireworks shoot up in the dusked horizon.

A week ago, your coworker, Wanda, invited you over for a New Year’s Eve gathering at her house. She started at the job no longer than a month ago, and you believe you’ve gotten relatively close with her since then.

Wanda Maximoff is thirty-four with an ex-husband and two twin boys you’ve never met. You’ve seen her ex once when he was dropping some things off for her at work. The exchange you observed could only be described as one between two vaguely similar creatures at best, interacting only out of necessity. They shared children and nothing more.

She took a liking to you in particular, and you were grateful for having her company for the last month.

She had a knack for offering comfort, and you often found yourself revealing to her some of your most intimate feelings and worries when you hadn’t even intended to. Wanda would always be so kindhearted, running a hand down your arm or squeezing your thigh gently while responding to you with supportive coos.

Now that the day of the party has come around, you’re standing in front of a mirror, holding up a pair of earrings to each side of your face. You survey the glistening faux emeralds, turning them around and observing them with great focus in the mirror before opting for a different pair.

“Are you ready?” a voice chimes from the hallway. 

Looking into the mirror, you see Monica step into your bedroom in a pair of black jeans and a warm blue-green long sleeve. 

“Just about…” you mutter, putting on a pair of pearl earrings. Turning around to face your friend, you ask, “Does it match?”

After a moment of deliberation, Monica nods. “Yeah, it matches,” she confirms and heads over to your bed to get your purse. “Who are you dressing up for, huh?” she inquires, a grin forming on her face as she looks over at you getting your jacket on. “Wanda?”

Your eyes snap over to her too quickly to hide your peaked interest at your coworker’s name. “What?” you chuckle out nervously. You lean down to pick up a pair of flats from your closet, thankful for the way your hair shrouded your suddenly-flushed face.

With crossed arms, Monica approaches your bedroom door as she looks down at you, amused.

“N-No,” you finally answer. “I just want to look good. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Sure,” Monica says simply, nodding. She hooks her arm around yours and leaves the bedroom with you.

You carpool to Wanda’s house together, as plans were to meet everyone there at a certain time. Despite having left early, Monica takes a wrong turn and you end up getting caught in traffic as the car takes the main roads to Wanda’s place.

Finally, you arrive at your destination about half an hour late.

With her homemade mango float and your bottle of champagne, Monica hopes the both of you can apologise to Wanda for the late arrival. She makes a joke that Wanda wouldn’t mind in the slightest if the two of you came even two hours late so long as you were arriving with her. 

The front door to Wanda’s house opens, revealing your coworker with her brown hair let down, and you notice for the first time how long it is. Today, she is wearing a bit of blush and a darker red lip than she normally wears for work.

Her eyes flicker between you and Monica before Monica lifts up a covered dish of mango float, breaking the brief silence.

“We’re sorry for how late we are. Traffic,” she says, a sheepish smile forming on her face.

As if returning to the present, Wanda blinks and smiles. “It's quite alright,” she reassures.

Just then, Darcy pops up behind Wanda and reaches her arms out to take the mango float from Monica’s hands. “Thank you,” she says graciously, eyeing the tinfoiled dish as if she would take a whole bite out of it then and there, tinfoil and ceramic material included. 

“Hey, Y/N. Happy New Year’s Eve,” she greets with a grin.

“Hi, Darcy,” you reply with a smile and a little wave.

Monica steps into the house and takes her boots and jacket off. Darcy leads her into the house.

Then, it’s only you and Wanda standing at the front door.

“Oh dear, how rude of me,” your coworker says. “Please, sweetheart, come in.” She ushers you into her house and tucks a hand under your jacket, making your back straighten. If she notices your sudden jerk of tension, she says nothing of it. Her hand loops around your waist to your furthest hip so her arm embraces you under your jacket.

Her hand reaches down below your eyeline while you’re looking up at her. You’re hugged against her side, swallowing your nerves but trembling all the same.

“Is this for me?” she whispers, grinning as if amused.

All you can manage in response is an idiotic, “Wh-What?”

A bottle of champagne is lifted up so you can see it and, with her eyes, Wanda gestures to it.

“Oh,” you say, then clear your throat. “Yeah, that’s for you. For everyone, kind of.”

Wanda hums and examines the bottle. Her eyes return to you and she smiles again. “We can say it’s for everyone to appease the guests,” she suggests and removes her arm from around your body. She begins to take off your jacket with her free hand and you slip your other arm out of the sleeve. She hangs your jacket up for you, and with her hand against your lower back, leads you out of the front foyer and into the living room.

Familiar happy faces greet you once you enter the living room with some women lounging on the couches and some standing around.

Jen, Darcy, Natasha and her younger sister Yelena, an unfamiliar girl who you would later find is named Kate, and Carol all exchange greetings with you.

Wanda’s hand leaves your lower back and you turn to watch her place your champagne on the kitchen counter with a few other bottles of wine and a cooler of what you suppose is filled with sparklers and beer.

Monica pulls you down onto the couch and you take a seat between her and Darcy. 

You think you see a flash of Wanda eyeing you from across the living room from beyond the passthrough window that connects the living room and the kitchen, but when you look over to her, she’s already starting a conversation with Jennifer. 

You tell yourself that you’ll talk with Wanda later.

A body suddenly sprawls itself out across the laps of you and the two other women on either side of you, thus taking your attention away from Wanda.

Carol stretches herself out in front of the three of you.

“Happy New Year’s Eve, Y/N,” she says with a grin that reminds you all too well of a golden retriever. 

You respond with an equally large smile, “Happy New Year’s Eve, Carol.”

The afternoon passes swiftly, especially with Wanda hosting. Not a moment passes when there aren’t drinks nor fresh snacks and food available along the kitchen counter. She’s an extremely attentive host, engaging herself in conversation and ensuring everyone is well taken care of.

Wanda also gave everyone a tour of her house during which she got endless compliments on nearly every room she introduced. 

Eventually, all of you gather around the dining room table playing a board game Kate brought and are divided into two teams. You have no idea how to play.

At the sight of your confused expression, Wanda places a hand dangerously close to your ass and pulls you close to her under the table. 

“Do you know how to play, darling?” she inquires with a curious tip of her head.

When you tell her you don’t, she invites you to sit beside her and stay on her team. She tells you she’s played it with her twins and ex-husband a handful of times and that she’ll help you through it.

You settle in the chair beside Wanda and move yourself closer to the table.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!” Monica announces and rushes over from the washroom. “What team should I join?”

“Join Y/N’s,” Wanda suggests. “I do believe couples should avoid all competition if possible.”

A few laughs and confused expressions are exchanged around the table.

“Cou…” you trail off and look up at Monica, who looks equally as confused as you. “What?”

“We’re not together,” Monica corrects with an awkward smile and a chuckle.

“Oh, you aren’t?” she repeats, looking between the two of you. You recall the way she looked at the two of you when you arrived together and when you took a seat beside Monica on the couch before. Though it was true that you and Monica were close, one would truly have to reach to come to the conclusion that you were dating each other.

Then, Wanda laughs. “I was under the impression that you were. My apologies,” she says.

The misunderstanding is easily forgotten because Wanda only started working with all of you about a month ago. Anyone could understand the mistake. But even so, your face remains flushed as you think back to the curious stares you got from her, and you were caught up in the momentary glint of envy behind each one.

Monica takes a seat beside Darcy, on the other team across the table.

Kate sets up the game and Wanda pours everyone a glass of the champagne you brought and leaves the bottle in the middle of the table for anyone to refill their glasses.

“Come closer, Y/N,” Wanda whispers once Yelena and Kate begin explaining the rules of the game. She wraps her fingers under your chair and moves your chair closer to her. 

Wanda’s arm remains comfortably wrapped around your waist despite your occasional movements. You watch her concentrated face, her eyebrows slightly furrowed as she listens to the rest of the game instructions all while her hand is running up and down your side as if you were an idle pet.

A pressure forms between your thighs and you adjust your position on your chair.

The game becomes increasingly amusing the more all of you sip at glasses of champagne and some on their bottles of beer, steadily growing more tipsy.

At some point during the game, Wanda’s arm leaves from around your waist, after which her hand ends up finding your thigh instead. Absentmindedly, her hand moves up and down your thigh, her fingers sometimes rounding your leg and squeezing.

Now that you were tipsy, you’d become significantly sensitive, shuddering under her touch and having difficulty playing your part of the game. Your face feels warm, which doesn’t help the blush that you know is there.

After the other team gains an advantage of six points against yours, they’re deemed the winners and everyone helps clean up. They decide to watch a movie and Wanda leaves the dining room momentarily to show them how to work the remote and the television.

There are plans to play a different game afterwards and you hear Wanda say she has it upstairs and will fetch it so it’s ready once the movie starts.

“Come help me, Y/N,” she says as she passes through the dining room to the staircase. Wanda stops at the base of the stairs and lets you catch up with her before you ascend together.

You follow beside her quietly, looking around curiously at the second floor. You’d seen it before when Wanda gave the tour of the house, but it was different now that it was empty other than for you and her. 

With the silence, you could envision Wanda living here on her own, heading upstairs in the evening and descending in the mornings. For the first time, you feel a sort of pity for Wanda’s living circumstances. It’s a quiet house, and rather large. It’s New Year’s Eve and you haven't seen Tommy, Billy, or even her ex-husband. 

You follow behind Wanda when she unlocks her bedroom door and steps in. 

“How are you enjoying the evening so far, sweet girl?” she asks. It’s only when Wanda looks over her shoulder at you that you redirect your attention from her bedroom. 

“Oh,” you answer idly then clear your throat. “I’m enjoying myself. It’s been really fun.”

When Wanda reaches her closet, she opens it and leans down to dig through a pile of boxes. Your eyes instinctively move to the curve of her ass, but you force yourself to look away and at the dresses and coats hanging in the closet. 

“What are you enjoying about it, sweetheart?” Wanda asks once she straightens and closes the closet with her free hand. In her other hand, a few stacked boxes of board games. She approaches you and you struggle to answer her.

It’s incredible what a fool you become around her.

Wanda smiles and sets the board games atop the corner of her bed. She raises her hand to your face and strokes your cheek with her knuckles. “You’re so young,” she whispers. The words themselves didn’t sound entirely like a compliment nor insult, but her eyes that are softened in gentle admiration tells you otherwise. 

You swallow and make a noise that was supposed to sound like a ‘thank you,’ or at least an acknowledgement of her commendation.

“Come here,” Wanda says, her hand dropping to your own. She takes it and leads you towards her vanity. She lifts your arm and with her other hand on your hip, moves you forward to round the seat that’s in front of vanity. Then, two hands are placed on your hips from behind and Wanda guides you into sitting down.

In the mirror, you can see her looming above you from behind. But Wanda isn’t looking in the mirror. She’s looking down at you from above. Her hands move upwards, up your sides and up the sides of your breasts, then to your shoulders. Finally, her hands find each side of your head where Wanda finally does look up at the mirror.

Careful fingers brush your hair back behind your ears.

“These are pretty, Y/N,” she tells you. Her thumbs flick at your pearl earrings.

You blush and utter a quiet, “Thank you.”

Wanda smiles at your graciousness and runs the backs of her fingers down the sides of your face. She continues to do this for the next few moments, alternating between the tips of her fingers to her thumbs to the backs of her fingers, exploring your face gently. With a featherweight pressure, she runs her fingers across your bottom lip, your brow bone, your forehead and your temples.

You watch in silence as she does so.

Green eyes flicker up from your face and into your eyes through the mirror. They wrinkle at the edges when she smiles slightly.

“Turn to me,” she instructs and you do while she leans forward and digs through a box on top of her vanity.

When Wanda straightens, you’re looking right up at her. Your legs are dangling off the other side of the chair and your face is in front of her stomach. Her hand cups your cheek and she positions a mascara wand in front of your face.

“Look up,” she says. When you look up at the bedroom ceiling, Wanda moves the wand forward. She brushes your eyelashes gently, retouching your makeup, and you’re tempted to look down at her but do not lest you get mascara on your eyebrow.

Her thumb strokes at the corner of your mouth.

Then, suddenly, Wanda whispers, “My boys didn’t want to spend New Year’s with me.”

At her words, you look down at her immediately. She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth in forewarning and you look back up to the ceiling,

You question, “Why?”

“Perhaps… their father is more attuned to celebration and I am not,” she supposes. 

“Why didn’t you celebrate together?” you ask and instantly bite your tongue for asking too much. But Wanda’s thumb continues to stroke the corner of your mouth and she shows no sign of irritation.

“They didn’t want to,” she answers. Wanda moves to your other eye. “Almost done.”

There’s a momentary silence between the two of you until you ask, “When will you see them next?”

“I presume the first week of January,” she thinks aloud. “Some time then.”

Wanda inhales softly but you hear the long drag of her breath. 

“Are your parents together, Y/N?” she asks.

“No, they divorced when I was younger.”

With a nod, Wanda says, “I see.” 

Then after a moment, she speaks again, “Was there ever any partiality?”

“It was hard sometimes, from what I remember,” you answer. Wanda nods. “But I really loved both of them the same. They were my parents. They did love me, I always knew that.”

Wanda’s hand leaves your cheek and she reaches back to twist it back into its bottle. “Finished,” she states and lifts a handheld mirror to your face. She tucks your hair back behind your ears. “Look how pretty you are.”

“Wanda,” you whisper.

She looks from the mirror and over to you, lips parted. “What is it?” 

“There isn’t a moment your boys don’t know how much you love them. How could they?” you uttered quietly. “And they love you because of it. Loving them is, essentially, one of the greatest things you can do for a kid. Any child would be extremely lucky to have you as their mother. You mustn't think they don’t know that. They’ll come back to you. I promise you they will.”

Wanda only stares down at you, her eyebrows still slightly pushed together. Her lips twitch in a miniscule, hardly noticeable way, and you wouldn’t have noticed it had you not been staring at them- the soft curves and the full faded-red shade of them.

Her finger hooks under your chin and she sets the mirror down on the edge of the vanity seat. She tugs her finger up carefully and you stand from your seat, but Wanda leans down quick enough to kiss your lips and you stumble back down onto it. Her hands find your hips then round them to your ass, squeezing harshly and pulling you up.

Clumsily, you trip forward against her, but Wanda steadies you. She turns you and makes you walk backwards into her bed.

The back of your knees meet with the edge of her bed and you sit back. Her wrists escape your hold and she slips her cardigan off, then her shirt. You lean forward and kiss her stomach, peppering kisses upwards while you unbutton her jeans and pull them down to her ankles.

Wanda reaches down and unzips your dress. She pushes its sleeves from your shoulders and eagerly pulls it down to your waist. With a hand on your shoulder, she pushes you back onto the bed and you move backwards atop of it so Wanda can pull your dress from your hips. She tosses it onto the foot of her bed and runs her hands up your thighs as she straightens.

She delivers a spank to the side of your ass and with a swift wave of her hand, pushes the board games from her bed, sending them toppling down to the floor.

You move further backwards onto her bed and Wanda gets on. She starts at your knees, parting your thighs slowly as she moves up your body. 

Wanda nips at your inner thighs, sucking at your skin and running her tongue up anywhere she could. Her hands find your ass again and she lifts you up from the bed momentarily so she could nudge her nose against your clothed clit. She grins at your muffled whimper and nips at your hip teasingly. She peppers wet kisses up your stomach and up to the valley of your breasts.

Her hands on your ass move up your body and find the clasp of your bra, taking it off and tossing it somewhere behind her. She gropes your breasts with both hands and moans appreciatively. She pinches your nipples between her thumbs and forefingers.

Her grin widens. “Look how cute you are, huh?” she muses and plays with your tits in her hands, massaging them thoroughly and tugging at your nipples.

Straddling your hips and rolling them forward slightly to rub her clothed pussy against your thigh, Wanda pushes your breasts together and leans down to flick her tongue across each of your nipples. She kisses your breasts and then your painfully erect nipples, making you shudder. Her lips wrap around one of your buds, suckling at you and raking her teeth against you.

Your back lifts from the bed, pushing your breasts further against Wanda’s face as you moan out. Her free hand gropes your tit, her thumb having a particularly enjoyable time playing with your nipple.

“Feels good, baby?” she asks, looking up at you.

You hum out in response because you can’t manage any real words.

Wanda grins at your incapacity and switches breasts. Her saliva cools your other nipple in her mouth’s wake. Her other hand takes hold of one of yours and brings it up to your breast, making you fondle yourself.

The speed of her hips quicken and Wanda’s lips release from your nipple to moan out, her exhale warm against your skin. She straightens herself and moves to sit on your lower stomach, detaching her cunt from your thigh. You can see a darkened patch of her slick against her red panties.

She reaches back and unclips her bra.

Your cheeks and ears become warm as her tits push against your face when Wanda leans down and kisses your forehead. 

“Touch mommy’s breasts, puppy. Don’t be shy,” she utters against your forehead before sitting up and running her hands up your chest.

You reach up and press your hands to her breasts like she asked, fingers squeezing around them and making Wanda moan out. Her hips begin rolling forward against your stomach as she craves friction once more.

She squeezes your tits again, paying special attention to your hardened buds. 

Then Wanda reaches forward, her breasts only mere inches from your face once again. You hear her dig through her nightstand while you hold onto her shoulders, looking up at her face. She smiles over at you appreciatively when you kiss the side of her breast.

When she closes the nightstand and sits up, she’s holding some type of harness and a rather large black dildo. She watches your expression closely, smiling at the shock that comes over you. “Interested, my sweet girl?” she asks you with a quirked eyebrow.

You swallow nervously and Wanda slips off the bed. You watch her slip her panties off and run a few fingers through her cunt. She leans forward and sticks them into your mouth. You wrap your lips around her fingers immediately. 

She curls them in your mouth and you suck from them eagerly.

Wanda smiles and slips her fingers out once they’re cleaned of her juices. She strokes your cheek then pulls away to finish inserting the dildo and strapping the harness around her hips. 

When Wanda mounts the bed again and straddles your hips, she lays her cock across your lower stomach. Her hand reaches down between the two of you and pulls your panties down your legs.

Cold fingers press against your bare cunt and a small smile forms on Wanda’s lips at the shudder that runs through your body at the contact. She draws wide circles against your clit, her middle finger slowly entering and exiting your hole. She traces your opening with the pad of her finger while her free hand plays with your hair.

“You’re so pretty, Y/N,” she says, looking down at your naked body. Her fingers release their hold on your hair and she runs her fingers through the valley of your breasts all while you squirm below her. “So perfect. These beautiful tits and your young body. Gods, even at your age, I never looked like this.”

“You’re…” you manage to say through your whimpers, “... beautiful too, Wanda.”

She smiles at that but her thoughts are indiscernible. 

Now thoroughly saturated with your cum, Wanda wraps her hand around her cock, jerking it softly and coating it with your juices. Moving her hips back slightly, she positions herself against your opening. 

She lowers herself to your face, your breasts pushed up against hers as she kisses the tip of your nose. 

You feel her begin to enter you and a surge of panic quickens your heartbeat. “W-Wanda, no, it’s too big,” you plead, turning your head to look at her as she buries her nose against your cheek. 

“It’ll fit,” she presses.

“No, it won-”

You’re cut off as Wanda’s hips advance forward. You feel yourself begin to stretch out for her and your eyes shut tightly. You’re wet enough for her to glide against you, but you can’t stretch enough for her- she’s too big. It won’t fit. She’ll break you in half.

“Wanda, please!” you cry against her.

“Mommy,” Wanda corrects, hissing against your temple, “will make it fit. Just be a good girl and stay still.”

Your face contorts into something tight and anguished.

Once Wanda fits her tip past your opening, her speed of entering you quickens and you cry out, reaching up and trying to push her off of you.

She raises her hand to your breast and slaps it harshly, making you pull away from her and withdraw your arms. She gropes it, fingernails digging into your skin. 

“Do not move,” Wanda commands, each word thumping heavily against your ears as she speaks from beyond clenched teeth. She releases your breast and takes a hold of both of your wrists before holding them up above your head.

“I’m not above tying you down, Y/N,” she jests with a grin though you know her words are more than partially true. The words send a chill up your spine and you feel a shameful sense of warmth spread through you despite yourself.

She buries her face in your neck and kisses her way up to your ear. “Just relax, my beautiful girl. It’ll hurt less,” she hushes. “Mommy will take good care of you.” 

Her lips wrap around your lobe and she sucks softly at the flaccid skin. Her warm saliva cools your skin in the wake of her lips when Wanda moves towards your face. Her nose rubs against your temple, then her cheek against your own as a mother would her young. 

Her lips are pressed against your cheek and she continues to whisper soft praises and words of encouragement against your flushed skin, her warm breath cocooning you in a snug embrace.

Your hips finally come into contact with Wanda’s and you whimper. Every movement you make creates a pressure in the base of your spine, reminding you that you have the largest cock you’ve ever taken deep inside of you.

“Ah, do you see?” Wanda coos. “You took it all.”

With a shaky exhale, you nod. You open your eyes to see Wanda smiling down at you warmly and you suddenly feel extremely proud of yourself.

She kisses you tenderly and utters against your lips, “You’re such a smart girl. So bright,” she murmurs. “Mommy knows how to take care of you, doesn’t she?”

You nod with a happy smile and kiss her again.

Wanda laughs softly through her nose and kisses the space between your eyebrows when you part from the kiss. “Now, I don’t want to see you disobey me again. You ought to know how helpless and dumb you are without me. Good smart girls listen to their mommies,” she instructs.

“Yes, mommy. Wanna be a good girl,” you affirm, wiggling joyfully underneath her. The pressure of Wanda’s cock returns as you wiggle your hips so you stop immediately, though you feel an urge to buck your hips upwards to see what it would feel like.

“That’s what I like to hear,” she praises and pecks your lips, her tone suddenly maternal. She sits up again and takes hold of your hips with both hands, pulling you forward so the lower half of your body rests atop her lap. 

She pulls your ass against her lower stomach, her hips moving forward and moving her cock deep inside you.

You squirm and only feel it deeper within you, her strap stretching you out as it moves either way while fitting snugly between your walls. 

Then Wanda begins thrusting forward. With your thighs wrapped weakly around her waist, she thrusts her hips against your ass. 

Your head falls back against the pillow and your eyes screw shut at the immense pressure that forms at the base of your spine.

“Fuck, malyshka,” Wanda grunts, “you’re tight.” She places her hand on your lower stomach, drawing soothing circles there with her palm. The act relaxes you slightly and Wanda quickens her thrusts. 

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and restrain a cry. “Mama, too big…” you slur out, grasping at the bed sheets underneath you.

She responds, “You’ll take it, fucking slut.” Wanda pulls out of you suddenly and flips you onto your stomach. With her hands on your hips, she tugs you forward and sticks your ass into the air. She enters your cunt again and you cry out into a pillow. But Wanda does not take precautions she previously did. Her hips pick up speed and she slams forward into your ass repeatedly.

The slapping of skins mingle with the sounds of your muffled cries and Wanda’s grunts.

With the last fragments of capability you have to think independently, you hope desperately that none of the guests downstairs come through the door. You don’t realise how far ahead Wanda had planned when she first took you upstairs, nor the fact that she locked the door.

Your cries steadily turn into moans of pleasure if not fucked out of you with each thurst against your ass. Your hands unclench from the bed sheets but your face is still pressed into Wanda’s pillow. 

Her front presses against your back and Wanda’s groans exhale against the side of your neck.

“Tell mommy you love her cock,” she instructs, then kisses your shoulder.

Your words are slurred against the pillow as you answer, “I love your cock, mama.” You move your head so your lips are exposed to the air and your repeated words can be heard more clearly, but what comes out is no more discernible than before.

Wanda kisses the side of your neck and straightens. This time, she takes you with her, pulling you up so you’re sitting on her lap, your back still pressed against her front. Your knees are on the outer sides of Wanda’s, your legs spread as you sit on her lap. 

You can feel her nipples grazing against your back as Wanda thrusts upwards into you.

With this position, your moans are expelled into the room that already seems to you to be muggy with the scent of sex and the hot pants from the two of you.

She buries her face in your neck, wrapping her lips around your pulse and sucking. She bites down on another spot, causing you to cry out and jerk forward. But she wraps her hands around your waist, keeping you in place.

Her eyes dart down to your bouncing breasts, and with an amused and nearly sadistic smirk, she slaps one of your tits, and then the other. You hear her chuckle against your neck between your yelps. Both hands then grope your breasts, massaging harshly and twisting your nipples callously. 

“Mama, no, that hurts,” you whimper pathetically, squirming on her lap.

Wanda hums, uninterested in your pleading. She kisses your shoulder. “Mommy hurts you because she loves you, puppy,” she says. 

One of her hands moves down to your lower stomach. Her hand brushes over the bulge there, feeling the way it pushes against her hand with every one of her thrusts into your pussy. The heel of her hand presses down without warning. Immense pressure shoots through you and makes your clit throb.

You cry out and you feel your walls squeeze around Wanda’s cock. A different kind of pressure that you can’t quite discern forms in your lower stomach.

“My pretty brainless fucktoy,” Wanda coos into your ear. 

You feel warm pride bloom within you, but you can only manage a garbled, “Thank you, mommy.”

“I want to fill you with my children,” she pants into your ear. Her hips quicken as she continues, evidently turned on by what she’s saying. Your body jerks on top of her lap helplessly, your breasts bouncing at each harsh thrust and making it impossible for Wanda not to continue playing with them.

“Come in your pussy and fill your tight hole full of my hot cream,” she says. “I want you to carry my children. I want to see your pretty belly full of my puppies, to see our babies as cute as you. I want to come home from work to fuck my adorable little housewife dumb, until you can only take more of my seed, filling you over and over like the willing little breeding bitch you are.” 

Wanda reaches up and takes the lower half of your face into her hand harshly. She turns your head and kisses you. Despite her words and the harsh way she’s fucking you, despite the brusing handling of your breasts and the bites she delivered to your neck, her kiss is soft and possessive, her lips moving against yours in soft embraces as if worshiping them.

“You’ll be mommy’s precious cockwhore. I’ll fuck your pussy whenever it pleases me. If you’re angry with mama, if you’re sleeping, if we’re out together- I won’t spare any mercy in taking you for my own,” she grunts with the effort she’s putting into fucking you. “From now on, you’re mine.”

Her hand reaches down and she brushes three fingers side-to-side against your clit, sending you throttling forward and closer to your orgasm. 

Wanda kisses up your neck adoringly, nipping where she can and sucking at your skin soothingly. “Come for mommy, moya lyubov,” she whispers against your cheek then kisses it. “Let me see my perfect little girl.” Her free hand rounds your waist. The heel of her hand presses into your tummy bulge and her fingers pick up speed.

The indiscernible pressure in your lower stomach from earlier suddenly flowers, and at the slightest taste of your orgasm, it comes into fruition. You wince and hide your face in the mess of Wanda’s sweet-smelling hair, and a warm burst of release streams out of you.  

Wanda inhales sharply and her lips part from your neck so she can look down your body where you’re pissing all over her lap.

Your body is fatigued and now acting on its own without any conscious thought, leaving you to Wanda’s mercy as she takes your body for her own. In your complete abandonment of independence, it’s only Wanda who’s holding you up and keeping you warm.

“Oh, Y/N,” she whispers, in awe at your release. Her lips form into a grin and she kisses you. Her hand wraps around her dick, carefully pulling it out of your pathetically wet hole. She lets go of her cock and she slowly slides her hand up your cunt, allowing her hand and fingers to be soaked by your piss. “That’s a good, good girl. That’s right. Just let go, baby.”

Your cries release in short, trembling whimpers and Wanda kisses up your cheek. She presses a kiss to your soft lips.

While you quiver on her lap, your walls clenching hard around nothing and getting used to being empty after taking mommy’s thick cock, Wanda unfastens her strap from around her hips.

She lays you down carefully, onto your back. She kisses your breast, lips grazing your nipple and making you shudder. She watches you pant and squirm weakly with a smile as she slips the harness from her ankles and lays it on the edge of the bed.

The bed dips around you as you slip in and out of sleep. When the bed dips by your head, you open your eyes and find yourself looking up at Wanda. Even while dazed, you’re struck by the sight of her- her cascading hair and her breasts, the plain of her stomach and the creamy white porcelain shade of her soft skin.

Wanda caresses your cheek with her hand and when her knee brushes against your ear, you realise they’re on either side of your head. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you say suddenly, looking up at the older woman with nothing but admiration in the glints of your eyes.

She smiles, though from the angle you’re laying at, you can’t see the soft blush that forms across her face at your words.

Unlike before, it seems that Wanda does believe in the genuinity of your words. It reaches her, embracing her in a way she hasn’t been in years.

“Thank you,” she answers, stroking her thumb across your cheekbone. Then she lowers herself, her cunt pressing up against the lower half of your face.

She throws her head back immediately, one hand going to grip at the headboard and the other grasping at your hair painfully. A long moan escapes her and Wanda begins rolling her hips forward and back.

You part your lips, immediately taken by the taste of her pussy. You dart your tongue out and allow Wanda to ride the stiff muscle. She jerks her hips to the side slightly, teasing her clit and making her clench around nothing.

When the tip of your nose nudges against her sensitive bud, Wanda shudders and chases the feeling quickly, rolling her hips further up and now riding your face steadily. You take your breaths in time with the rolling of Wanda’s hips when your nose is uncovered.

Your lips, chin, and nose are completely coated in her cum, and you feel it begin to glaze your cheeks over in its sticky coating too. Your lips make a circular shape against her cunt, allowing you to suck at her hole then at the rim of it, which Wanda finds particularly pleasurable, evident by the way her thighs tighten around your head.

“Fuck, puppy…” she moans. “So… good. You’re talented.”

With a jerking motion, you turn your head and create a certain friction against Wanda’s pussy that makes her screw her eyes shut and huff out.

The tip of your tongue raises and teases at her hole before delving into her. With her clit pressed down against your nose, Wanda reaches her hilt. Her fingers grip at your hair painfully, pulling you up against her pussy. Her thighs tremble and a melody of pleasured moans and pants mingle.

She climbs off from sitting on your face and sits beside your hip, one leg on the bed and the other dangling off of it. Her thumb runs across your cheek. “What a mess you’ve made of yourself, Y/N,” she states, her voice a low thrum. “Let me clean you up.”

While you doze off in her bed, an indefinite amount of time passing, Wanda soon returns in a red silk robe that only just covers her ass after having redone and retouched her own makeup. She takes a seat at the edge of the bed. She leans over you and with a cool soft cloth, wipes your smudged makeup off.

Her elbow is holding herself up while she pets your head with her free hand. She wipes your makeup and the beads of sweat from your face.

Once she finishes, she lays the cloth on her nightstand and looks down at you. She kisses your face, slowly, all over your forehead and cheeks, your closed eyes, your chin, and finally, your lips. 

“There we go,” Wanda whispers. She touches your face with her fingers while watching you slowly awaken from your brief nap. “You’re very pretty, Y/N. You’re so young…” she says quietly, looking down at you with a small smile, “and your skin is so soft.”

You finally open your eyes and Wanda’s smile widens.

Subtle, muffled music plays downstairs.

“They must be getting close to the end of the movie,” Wanda says. She places her hand between your breasts and draws invisible shapes on your chest with the tips of her fingers. “It's one of my favourites. I won’t spoil it for you. I think we should watch it together, just the two of us.”

The soft hymn continues to play downstairs. 

“I love this song too,” she adds. “Come dance with me. Then we can get ready to join the others again.” Wanda stands from the bed and, while you sit up, retrieves a soft fleece blanket from her closet. She returns to you and wraps it around your shoulders.

You stand from the bed and Wanda pulls you against her chest, her arms wrapped around your shoulders and back, keeping you cocooned by the warm blanket. She tucks your head under her chin. 

“Thank you for what you said earlier, Y/N,” Wanda whispers. “Those were very kind words. I’ll treasure them eternally.”

You nuzzle your face against her chest. “I meant it,” you say.

“I know.”

Wanda cradles the back of your head with her hand, her fingers scratching gently at your scalp. She hums along with the barely-audible music downstairs while the two of you sway in the middle of her bedroom.

[whencyclopedia]

Caesarea Maritima's Role in the Mediterranean Trade

Caesarea Maritima was located on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Built from the ground up in 22-10 BCE by Rome's client king, Herod the Great (r. 37-4 BCE), its location in relation to ship traffic and proximity to historical trade routes indicates a purposeful plan to capture income, making Caesarea a commercial gateway to the West.

Roman Harbor Scene

Carole Raddato (CC BY-SA)

Major Players

The context for Caesarea's existence lies in Rome's rivalry with Parthia: Rome's ablest competitor. With the defeat at the Battle of Carrhae, 53 BCE, and retreat from Media in 36 BCE, the failure to take Parthia's lucrative northern silk routes through Mesopotamia caused Rome to sue for peace in 20 BCE. As a result, Rome's efforts to round out its dominance in the Mediterranean Sea and the Near East took on a commercial tone. In an attempt to control the lucrative southern east/west trade routes through Arabia and the Red Sea, Caesarea would serve as the springboard. As a key hub in the Eastern trade network of ancient Rome, Caesarea's connections to major players in the early centuries of the first millennium would include Gaza, Petra, Sidon, Tyre, Alexandria, and consumer cities like Bostra. Further afield were the commercial centers of Antioch and Patara.

As a major commercial center in the northern areas of the Mediterranean, Antioch benefited from its location at the western terminus of the Silk Road of Mesopotamia. Besides being a major center of wine and olive oil production and the fulling of cloth products, Antioch played a major role in the distribution of silk from China, lapis lazuli from ancient Afghanistan, dye-works from the Levant, and weaved silk from Damascus.

West of Antioch, on the southern coast of Anatolia (modern-day Turkey), was the coastal city of Patara, providing export service. As evidence for the traditional production of agricultural goods and animal husbandry in Anatolia reaches back to the first centuries of the 2nd millennium BCE, the production of Anatolian copper, gold, silver, iron, and lead was documented by Pliny and Strabo. As James Muhly adds:

Anatolia is a land blessed with abundant natural resources, including a wealth of mineral deposits and abundant forests, the two elements necessary for a major metal industry. Recent calculations provide the following figures: 415 major copper-rich zones, more than 136 complex lead-zinc-copper ore deposits, and almost 200 silver-lead deposits, as well as numerous deposits of gold, zinc, antimony, arsenic, and iron. (858-59)

Modern surveys also confirm that, from 3000 BCE to the Ottoman period, Anatolia was an important producer of copper and possibly tin, essential ingredients of bronze.

Then, sharing the eastern coast of the Mediterranean are the two Phoenician city-states of Sidon and Tyre. As Caesarea was built over the ruins of Straton's Tower - named after King Straton I (r. 365-352 BCE) of Sidon - Strabo reports it had its own "station for vessels" (16.2.27). With its location in the midst of shipping and trade routes north of Alexandria and 120 km between Gaza and Sidon, Straton's Tower reflects Sidon's scale of commercial influence. Once providing ships and goods for Persia, Sidon was also an important manufacturer of luxury goods such as glass, dyes, and embroidered garments. Just south of Sidon, the island of Tyre was also a commercial powerhouse. Besides its famous purple-dyed cloth, according to the biblical account in 1 Kings 7:13-45, Solomon sought help from Tyre to manufacture and furnish bronze finished products for the temple.

Roman Rule in the Levant, c. 200 CE

Simeon Netchev (CC BY-NC-ND)

Though their spheres of commercial influence were reduced with the control of the Phoenician coast by the Seleucid Empire (312-63 BCE), then by the Romans, Sidon, and Tyre would continue to play a part in the overall network of trade in the Eastern Mediterranean. Conversely, while Tyre and Sidon were known for their finished products, west of the Nile on the northern coast of Africa, Alexandria shipped goods from Egypt. Besides the bulk manufacturing and export of textiles and papyrus, with Rome as its main consumer, Egypt commonly shipped its oil and grain products aboard the famous Alexandrian ships. One such ship, the Isis, as described by Lucian, had a length of 55 meters (180 ft) and a beam of 14 meters (45 ft); with a cargo hold depth of 13.5 meters (44 ft), it could carry 1200 tons of product.

Finally, within Caesarea's direct orbit were the important cities of Gaza, Petra, and Bostra. Gaza served as a conduit to Western markets, receiving goods from Africa, Arabia, India, and Indonesia, the most lucrative of which would have been pepper and frankincense. Gaza was one of the first cities to come under Caesarea's direct control when Augustus (r. 31 BCE to 14 CE) granted it to Herod in 30 BCE. However, as the Nabateans of Petra were major traders and middlemen for goods coming from the East through Arabia and the Red Sea by way of their port Leuce, Roman interest in Gaza, Petra, and Red Sea connections would be fully realized when the Roman emperor Trajan (r. 98-117 CE) annexed the Nabatean Kingdom as the Provincia Arabia in 106 CE. In addition, important consumer cities within Caesarea's regional neighborhood would include Jerusalem, Samaria, and Bostra. For Rome – perhaps to cut out Nabatean middlemen – Bostra's commercial importance would be elevated when it later usurped Petra as the trading center of the region to become the Roman capital of Arabia, after which a road was quickly constructed to connect Bostra to the Red Sea.

Continue reading...

[ukrfeminism]

A new survey of female cyclists from the London Cycling Campaign has unveiled the relentless abuse women are subjected to on London’s roads. Now, a new petition (link below) is calling on the Mayor Of London to take action.

If you’ve never done it before, the idea of cycling in London can be intimidating. Wrapping your head around all the different routes and cycle lanes can be confusing, and the roads are particularly busy and crowded. But these are things that get easier with experience. What doesn’t get easier is having to deal with abuse – something nine out of 10 women who cycle on the streets of London have experienced, according to a new report. 

The research from the London Cycling Campaign, which aims to make cycling in London safer and more enjoyable for everyone, is based on a survey of 1,000 women who travel by bike in the capital. It found that 63% of women experience abuse from other road users at least once a month, with that abuse including verbal, sexual and physical attacks – including women being groped or slapped on their bikes while stopping at traffic lights. 

Women were also concerned about the safety of cycle routes and the infrastructure currently in place, with nine in 10 saying they would start to cycle or cycle more if they had safer cycle routes – for example, protected cycle tracks – for their journeys. Currently, over half of the women surveyed said they were forced to choose between cycling on busy roads without any safe space or through isolated, quiet or dark places for their journeys.  

The campaign group says these experiences – especially the on-road abuse – have a knock-on effect on the number of female cyclists in the city, where two-thirds of the daily cycle journeys are currently taken by men. And the survey backed this up: over 20% of the women said they’d given up cycling, temporarily or permanently, because of abuse. 

Stylist’s deputy editor Ellen Scott knows all too well how scary it can be to cycle as a woman in London. “I cycle to and from work and I love the freedom of it, but every commute has at least one dangerous moment: most often male delivery drivers on their bikes speeding past or cutting you off without warning,” she says.

“I had an incident a few months back where a male cyclist pushed past me and another woman while we were stopped at a red light. He did it so forcefully that I was shoved off my bike and left with a massive bruise. 

“And it’s not just other cyclists, of course. I was egged while riding my bike by some people driving past in a car. The same week I had a man in a van chase me while shouting out of his window because he thought I’d gone through a red light (I hadn’t).” 

Strong Women editor Miranda Larbi has also faced unwanted attention as a woman on the road. “Cycling is a massive part of my life, and I truly believe that it’s improved just about everything – my mental health, concentration, fitness and mood,” she explains. “In the winter – when it’s not raining – cycling is straightforward, but I’ve found that in the summer you tend to get quite a bit of unwanted attention. 

“Just when it gets warm enough to cycle in shorts and a vest, that’s when the horn beeps and shouting starts. I’ve even had a bloke run up to me at the traffic lights and try to sit behind me on my saddle. Men have tried to run after my bike or kerb crawl in cars alongside me. I’m not intimidated but I can see how that would put new cyclists off.”

Following on from the survey, the London Cycling Campaign has put together a petition calling on Sadiq Khan, the Mayor of London, to take urgent action to improve women’s physical and social safety while cycling in London. The suggested changes include providing more high-quality cycling infrastructure so women feel safe cycling on their own and with children, and working to measure and reduce the abuse women are subjected to.  

The petition, which is still available to sign, also calls for local cycle networks around schools and businesses to be improved to encourage more women to use cycling as a way to get around their local area. 

The final petition will be handed to a representative from the Mayor of London’s office at the group’s central London LCC Women’s Freedom Ride on Sunday 3 March. 

“While more and more people are cycling in London and safe cycle routes are rolling out in many boroughs, there’s still too many parts of London where cycling isn’t and doesn’t feel safe enough,” Eilidh Murray, chair of London Cycling Campaign, said of the findings. “Women still face additional barriers to cycling and additional hostility when cycling.” 

Sophie Linden, London’s deputy mayor for policing and crime, also responded to the survey’s findings: “Every woman and girl should be able to enjoy the benefits of cycling in London without fear of violence and intimidation. Yet sadly, across the UK, we face an epidemic of violence against women and girls and today’s report demonstrates the significant impact this abuse and aggression is having on women cyclists.” 

She continued: “It is simply unacceptable, and the Mayor and I are committed to preventing violence against women and girls and challenging the attitudes that enable these behaviours.” 

[2nd2ndalto]

what if there were two (side by side in orbit)

__

(chapter 1 here)

Chapter 2

September 1998

When Will opens the door to the basement office the next morning, there’s a flurry of activity.

“Thornhill, Virginia,” di Angelo says by way of greeting. He squeezes past, handing Will a map. Will accepts it, his eyes following his new partner’s progress across the office. The dark-haired man drops to a crouch to dig through a drawer in the corner. “Little town, right at the edge of the Shenandoah National Forest,” he continues, his voice muffled. “Place is known for maple syrup, mostly. Tourism. Some very picturesque bed & breakfasts. At least, that’s what the librarian told me when I called.”

“Sounds… nice?” Will says, a little confused. He glances to the clock on the wall, just double-checking. Yes, he’s almost 15 minutes early. Di Angelo has clearly been here for a while already. There’s a bag open on di Angelo’s desk. From what Will can see from where he’s stalled several feet into the office, there are files inside, and a jumble of clothes.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Di Angelo turns to raise an eyebrow at Will. “Except for the recent string of murders.”

Comprehension dawns, probably a little late. “Oh.” Will blinks, trying to catch up. “How – how many murders?”

Di Angelo stands, running a hand through already messy hair, causing it to stand half on end in a way that somehow makes him look even more attractive rather than insane. “Three in the past two months. The most recent being Sarah Wilton, age twenty-four. Her body was found yesterday morning. But I was looking through some old newspaper articles, and the recent deaths are very similar to a string of murders in the same town fifty years back.”

Di Angelo delivers all of this rapid-fire and Will gazes at him for a moment once he’s stopped speaking, still processing. His gaze drifts to the map he suddenly realizes he’s still holding. “Oh. Okay. So, road trip?”

“Yeah, I thought so,” di Angelo says. He’s stuffing a few more things into his bag, then forcing the zipper closed. “You okay with that? If you’re not ready to go out in the field yet you’re welcome to stay here, take a look at some more files. I don’t mind–”

“No,” Will says immediately, “a road trip sounds great. What do I need?” He’d anticipated possibly being out on some overnight trips, or longer. He’s brought a minimal overnight bag to work today, though it won’t be adequate for a longer excursion.

“Shouldn’t be much,” di Angelo says. He plucks his bag from the desk, makes a fluid turn to grab his coat from the hook on the wall. Will stares, transfixed by the other man’s movements. He registers that he’s still standing in the middle of the only open space in the office, and takes the few steps over to his desk.

“It’s maybe a two-hour drive,” di Angelo is saying. “I just want to take a look around, talk to a few people. We should be back by the end of the day, but I’d take a change of clothes just in case. Oh, here,” he adds, fishing a folded newspaper from the edge of his desk. “You can take a look at that on the way. Ready?”

Di Angelo’s eyes are bright. He looks a little manic. It suits him.

::

A car has already been requisitioned, apparently, and Will follows di Angelo to the parking garage.

“Who’s driving?” Will asks, surveying the line of monochrome sedans and hatchbacks.

Di Angelo stops in his tracks, his gaze a little over-intense. “I drive.”

Okay, then. Will’s a decent driver, but he grew up in a house with too many teenagers and only one vehicle, so he never got into the habit of doing it regularly. That, and he still finds the freeways around DC a little daunting.

“Did you grow up around here?” Will thinks to ask as di Angelo turns off Ninth Street and angles the car towards the freeway entrance.

A brief glance to Will, guarded. “Yeah. Sort of.”

When it seems no further information is forthcoming, Will supplies, “not me. I’m from Texas. Little town with one traffic light. My mom lives near Fort Worth now.”

There’s no response to this. Will decides not to take it personally. He reaches across the dashboard for the newspaper di Angelo handed him earlier. Deaths Shock Small Town reads the cramped headline under the fold.

“Three deaths this year,” Will muses, half to himself. The rest of the article is on page six, just a few short paragraphs. “Seems as if something like that would be bigger news in such a small place. Do they get a lot of murders out that way?”

Di Angelo raises an eyebrow. “I’m willing to bet they don’t.”

Will reads further. “New housing development encroaching on the forest… bodies found with limbs ripped off –” he frowns. “Couldn’t these be animal attacks? This place is right on the edge of a national forest. If this housing development is pushing into established animal habitat…”

“That would be the most logical conclusion,” di Angelo says slowly, eyes on the road.

“But?”

“But…” di Angelo lets it hang for a moment. “The bodies appear to have been gnawed on by human teeth.”

Will grimaces, glancing back to the newspaper. “The article doesn’t mention that.”

“No,” di Angelo allows. “But I have other… sources.”

“The librarian?” Will asks.

There’s a pause as di Angelo changes lanes, passing a slow-moving RV. “It can be helpful to keep an open mind when gathering information,” he says cryptically.

Will glances over the article again, then at the other man. “Local law enforcement asked for FBI assistance?”

Now di Angelo looks a little guilty. “I’ve found, in this job, that often it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” he says carefully.

Will snorts.

“The case sounded like it had potential,” di Angelo says, not quite apologetic. “I figure we’ll drive out, have a poke around, talk to a few people. If nothing pans out, no harm, no foul.”

“Sure,” Will agrees. It’s not as if he’s an expert.

Di Angelo clears his throat. “Have you ever heard of the Shenandoah Strangler, Agent Solace?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “No, I have not.”

“There are some legends in this area – a being only ever seen in the forest. People have reported a creature with horns or antlers, the upper body mostly human, lower half more like a goat.”

There’s a brief silence in the car.

“That sounds… unlikely,” Will says evenly. “Is that what you think is going on here? Some kind of cryptid?”

A shrug. “Only one way to find out.”

Will watches the other man out of the corner of his eye for a moment. He reminds himself that this is his second day on the job. And he does always try to keep an open mind. “Have you encountered other reports of… cryptids? In your work?” Will asks.

Di Angelo doesn’t respond for a moment. He reaches up to nudge the rearview mirror, the tiniest adjustment. He flicks a glance at Will, hesitant. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes,” Will says, decisive.

Di Angelo’s lips twitch into a grin, eyes bright.

::

An hour later Will has learned more about cryptids of the Southeastern and Mid-Atlantic US than he ever would have thought there was to know. The more he listens to his new partner, the more he’s surprised how easily their views align, or at least complement each other. Di Angelo doesn’t come across as gullible, or guileless. He’s sharp and thoughtful. Knowledgeable, but more impartial than anything else. Open to possibilities. And who could argue with that?

The further they drive, the more Will finds himself warming to the other man. The idea of acting as a snitch is repellent in itself. As they begin to pass the exit signs for Thornhill and the impromptu cryptid lecture draws to a close, Will feels a wash of relief that maybe, really, he won’t have to.

They arrive at a trailhead just outside of town, miles of forest stretched out before them. The sun’s been up for a few hours but the air still feels cool here, misty. They’re set to meet someone from the Parks department, reportedly. Will trails behind his partner as di Angelo scopes out the area. Before long, a battered-looking red pickup pulls up, kicking up a cloud of dust in the parking lot.

Di Angelo walks back towards the lot, Will following. An older man exits the truck and begins making his way up the path towards them.

“Morning,” di Angelo calls. “Ranger Blanchette? I’m Agent di Angelo, this is Agent Solace.”

They both shake the ranger’s hand. He’s got thick gray hair and a thicker mustache. He’s shorter than Will, and solid-looking.

“Surprised to see FBI out this way,” says Blanchette, gruff. “From what I understood, sheriff’s office had this investigation all wrapped up.”

Di Angelo chooses not to respond to this. “Thanks for meeting us. Do you mind showing us where Sarah Wilton’s body was found?”

The three of them troop into the woods. It’s not far, just a few minutes down a narrow, uneven dirt trail and then a few yards into damp, mossy forest. Blanchette seems in no particular rush; slow, measured steps down the path. Though they’re not moving at any great speed, Will still manages to stumble several times, and reminds himself to keep all-terrain footwear at work. Di Angelo seems light on his feet somehow, even in dress shoes.

Will has spent most of his life feeling clumsy, too big for his body. Di Angelo and Blanchette are both noticeably shorter than he is, and it makes Will extra aware of all the extra space he occupies, as unreasonable as he knows that is. He grimaces to himself.

“You okay?” di Angelo asks. He’s slowed his own pace as the path widens a little, falling into step beside Will.

“Yeah.” Will shoots him a smile.

Blanchette leads them into a small area bare of trees. “This is where they found her. Not much to see. They cleared the crime scene pretty quickly.”

The ground in the little clearing is more trodden than one might expect, but aside from that, there’s nothing of note. Di Angelo crouches, running his fingers over a patch of flattened moss. “Third death in these woods this year, right?” he says, glancing up at the park ranger.

“Yeah.” The older man pauses, thoughtful. “You see some weird stuff out this way. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“You ever see anything weird?” di Angelo asks. He sounds cool as anything, but Will can tell he’s dying to hear something juicy.

“Hard to say,” Blanchette hedges, a shifty glance at di Angelo and then Will. “There were some similar murders, a few decades back…”

“One case in 1947, right?” di Angelo says. “Man wandered off the trail, body was found a few days later with a leg gnawed off.”

Blanchette nods slowly. “Yeah, and then a couple of other deaths the following year. Folks say it wasn’t a human that killed them. People seem to think it was some kind of… creature.”

Will stays carefully quiet, taking in this exchange. Di Angelo’s face is impassive, but not judgemental. He’s clearly had similar conversations in the past.

“I thought I saw something, a few times,” Blanchette continues, gazing beyond the clearing where the trees thicken to a nearly-solid wall of lush green. “Something almost human but not quite, you know? Thought I saw it come out of the trees once, near sunset. Long, scraggly hair. Looked like it had horns. It kind of sniffed the air, like a dog would. And then it went back into the woods. Scared the crap out of me to be honest.” He glances at Will who nods sympathetically. “After a while, I figured it was just some kids messing around.”

“That’s interesting,” di Angleo says. “How long ago was that?”

“Couple years.” Blanchette rubs the back of his neck. “Everyone’s got their own weird story out here. Something they’ve seen. My brother swears he once found a dead rabbit with a human tooth in it.”

“Whereabouts?” di Angelo asks.

“All in this general area. There are some caves down over yonder.” Blanchette jerks his chin in the direction of thick brush. “People ‘round here tend to give them a wide berth. These murders’ve got everyone nervous. I’d advise you gentlemen to stay armed, if you’re planning on wandering around out here.”

Will has no argument with this. And he has very little desire to go wandering into caves, mythical creatures or not.

They don’t spend any longer in the woods. Apparently di Angelo has already secured an appointment with the county coroner. Will’s privately impressed that he managed to line all this up before the sun had even properly risen this morning.

“Mind if I put on some music?” di Angelo asks as they return to the car. The radio is on, something mindless and chattery, the volume too low to get the gist of the program.

“Sure, go ahead,” Will agrees, remembering Kayla’s comment about di Angelo’s music choices. He smiles to himself. “Got anything good?”

The other man huffs. “Anything good, he asks,” he mutters to himself, pulling a zippered sleeve of CDs from his bag and popping one into the player.

There’s a sharp buzz of electric guitar and then a hum of bass. Well. Kayla’s right about at least one thing.

“Nine Inch Nails,” di Angelo says, glancing over at Will.

Will grins. “Yeah, I’m familiar. A little emo, don’t you think?” he asks the other man – because he’s quickly realizing that there’s something about di Angelo that makes Will want to tease him mercilessly. He won’t, though. Probably.

“Emo,” di Angelo rolls his eyes. “And what do you listen to? Top Forty?”

Will laughs. “Rude. And yeah, sometimes.”

“Should’ve known.” Di Angelo’s eyes are on the road, a smile playing on his lips.

Will shrugs. “I listen to a bit of everything.” With five kids in a small house, there hadn’t been much space to be picky about music choices. “Lots of show tunes lately. A few Disney soundtracks,” Will adds, nonchalant, glancing over for a reaction. He’s not disappointed.

Di Angelo’s brow creases. “Show tunes,” he says, flat. “Like Cats?”

Will shrugs. “Not recently. I’ve been listening to a lot of Rent. And the score from The Little Mermaid is pretty flawless.”

Di Angelo shakes his head, slow. “I’m requesting reassignment as soon as we get back to DC.”

Will laughs, loud. “You could. You might just end up with something worse, though.” He gazes out at the woodland flashing past the window, weak sunlight just starting to catch the bright yellows of the changing leaves. “It’s my turn to choose the music, next road trip,” he adds. He enjoys di Angelo’s cringe immensely.

::

Will’s been feeling a little lost all morning, wanting to make a good impression, eager to prove he’s more than just a tagalong. It’s a bit of a relief to get to the coroner's office. Here, at least, he’s in his element.

The coroner is a tired-looking, bespectacled man. He’s probably only about a decade older than Will, but with the posture of someone who’s been carrying the weight of the world for a good few years. “They say animals can develop a taste for human flesh, but this was no animal,” he tells them, pulling on gloves and reaching for the sheet covering the body.

Will moves closer. White female, 20s, healthy-looking aside from being dead and missing most of her right leg and a portion of flesh at her shoulder. He glances at di Angelo, who’s standing several steps back, paler than Will’s seen him. “You okay?” Will asks under his breath. The other man nods, tight.

“You see these teeth marks, just below the clavicle?” the coroner asks. “Those sure look human to me.”

Will inspects the marks, a semi-circle of dark red imprinted into ghost-white flesh. “Yeah, that’d be my conclusion, too. What was the cause of death?”

“Blood loss, as far as I can tell,” the coroner says. “She was likely still alive while her leg was eaten off.”

::

They pause outside the coroner’s office, neither of them rushing into conversation. Nico leans back against the warm brick of the building, closing his eyes and taking in a deep lungful of fresh air. He’s lightheaded, clammy.

The smell of morgues, the artificial chill in the air – no matter how many times he revisits these scenarios, even years later, his mind always goes right back to Bianca, identifying her body after the crash. His body remembers, even when his mind tries to push it down. It doesn’t help that this victim was a young woman, close in age to his sister when she died. He takes another breath, trying to force himself to feel less like vomiting. Or crying.

“Not crazy about corpses?” comes Solace’s voice.

Nico attempts to unclench his jaw enough to answer. “Morgues, mostly. Can’t get used to them.”

There’s kind concern in Solace’s blue eyes, a crease to his brow. And the sentiment isn’t unappreciated, exactly. Solace seems like a decent guy. But the fact of the matter remains that everything is so much simpler when Nico works alone. When there’s no one here he needs to explain himself to.

Solace’s gaze lingers. “You’re definitely not the only one. Anyway, that’s what I’m here for, right?” He offers Nico a shadow of a smile that Nico can’t quite return.

Solace turns his gaze to the street before them, propping himself up against the wall next to Nico without further comment, not making any move to rush them back to the car. After a long moment, Nico levers himself upright. He scrubs a hand over his face. Solace follows, unhurried.

“You know, I think I’d be willing to gnaw someone’s leg off in exchange for a coffee right about now,” the taller man says thoughtfully, and Nico barks out a laugh, surprised. Solace turns, a sunny, toothy grin.

“Or at least chew on a clavicle,” he amends.

Nico feels his own face relax into something that’s almost a smile, feels the ache of grief fading into the background again. Solace has really nice teeth, Nico thinks suddenly. White and straight, except for one slightly crooked lateral incisor. Nico’s struck by the bizarre thought that those teeth look like they probably could gnaw on a clavicle. He finds himself horrified and intrigued in equal measure.

“Coffee sounds good,” he says.

::

“So what’s next?” Solace asks as they make their way back to the car, coffee in hand.

“Not sure.” Nico unlocks the doors, settling his coffee in the cup holder and flipping his phone open. No new messages. “I tried calling a couple of the previous victims’ families this morning, but I couldn’t get a hold of anyone. I guess we could try going by their residences.”

He reminds himself, not for the first time today, that he’d better play this one by the book. He has a feeling Solace’s field reports will be scrutinized more carefully than he’d like.

There’s quiet as they both buckle in. Solace looks like he’s chewing on something. “You’ve got copies of the police reports from the victims this year,” he begins, sounding hesitant. “Do you think the sheriff’s office would have the autopsy records for the historical victims?”

Nico shoots Solace an approving look. “That’s an excellent idea.”

A tentative smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nico agrees, anchoring his hand on the back of the passenger seat as he reverses out of the parking spot. That’s perfect, a logical next step. And he didn’t even need to plan it out himself.

Nico glances at his new partner. That look on his face, it’s… relief.

Nico merges back into traffic, taking a moment to make sense of this. It’s almost as if Solace is worried about what Nico thinks of him.

That’s surprising, somehow. Unexpected, at least. Solace is smart and easy to talk to and he wants Nico’s approval. Is it possible Reyna sent the wrong agent downstairs?

Logically, Nico should be suspicious. It’s not an act, though, he’s pretty sure. Nico doesn’t love putting his profiling skills to work on a personal level, but Solace is an open book, emotions painted clearly across his freckled face. And Nico hasn’t exactly conducted extensive polling, but when he ran into a buddy from Violent Crimes in the cafeteria yesterday, the guy had nothing but good things to say about Solace.

Nico finds, occasionally, that friends and acquaintances will expect him to have particular insight into their psyches. It’s so far from the truth that it’s laughable. Nico’s much more adept at piecing together the motivations of serial killers than navigating the complexities of the people right in front of him. And he’s even less interested in examining his own interiority.

Solace told him, yesterday, that he just wants to do good work. Well. That’s something Nico can help with.

“You’re already thinking like a special agent,” he tells Solace, his voice coming out warmer than he meant it to. He clears his throat.

Solace huffs, looking pleased at this. “I’m not feeling very special yet.”

Nico shrugs. “That’ll come.”

::

The ease of their day ends at the sheriff’s office. Deputy Tait is another sturdy old white guy, unfortunately possessing none of the chill of the park ranger they met this morning.

“You don’t have any jurisdiction here,” Tait says, impatient. His face is several shades redder than when they arrived, Nico notes with some interest. “No one contacted the Bureau. I don’t even know how you heard about this incident, but there’s no reason for the FBI to be involved. Woman wandered off a trail at night, got mauled by a panther. I don’t know what you two think you’re going to find here!” His voice rises, and several heads turn in the vicinity.

Solace seems to shrink in on himself a little, but this is familiar territory for Nico.

“Look,” Nico says, still as calm as when they walked in twenty minutes ago, “I’m sure you’re right. We’re not looking to cause trouble. Just let us take a look at the case files and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Nico waits patiently as the sheriff regards him with acute exasperation. Finally, the older man lets out a noisy breath. “Fine. Come back in an hour and I’ll see what I can do.”

Nico glances towards the empty file room and the woman sitting at the desk inside with a crossword spread out in front of her. She meets Nico’s eye and shrugs.

“Thanks so much for your help,” Nico says, trying hard not to roll his eyes.

“And don’t go making a spectacle of yourselves around town,” Tait adds irritably. “We got tourists coming from all over the county this weekend and we don’t need FBI poking around and scaring them off.”

::

Nico’s still hoping to speak with the previous victims’ families, but no one answers when they try knocking on doors. He hasn’t been able to obtain contact information for anyone who might have been acquainted with Sarah Wilton.

Some time later, Nico’s seated beside his partner on a park bench near the center of town, both of them having acquired canned drinks and hot dogs from a cart nearby. The sun filters through the trees above, dappling the yellow leaves beginning to pile up on the grass at their feet. The smell from the hot dog cart is mouth-watering, and the hot dogs are perfect; lightly charred and nestled in fresh, fluffy buns.

Solace groans in appreciation around his first bite. “Oh my god this is so good.”

Nico nods in agreement, mouth full. He shoots a glance to his partner, who’s looking blissful, still chewing. “Um. You have mustard on your nose,” Nico says.

“Oh. Fuck.” Solace grimaces, fishing in his pocket for a paper napkin and then scrubbing at his nose. He turns, looking mildly abashed, freckled cheeks and nose tinged pink. “Better?”

And it would be overwhelming looking at anyone at such close range, wouldn’t it? Nico glances away quickly. He nods. “Yeah. Got it.”

“You still thinking cryptids?” Solace asks. He cracks open his Coke and pops a straw into the can.

Nico glances over, still half-expecting to see disdain or impatience on the other man’s face. But there’s only curiosity. It’s unnerving. Nico finds himself relaxing a little more each time it happens.

He shrugs. “I’m open to the possibility.” He gazes off into the distance, cars zipping by on the street ahead of them, a whole town full of people going about their business as if there isn’t a potential murderer lurking in the woods.

“It’s a nice little town,” Solace says.

Nico nods in agreement. Red brick buildings, a pretty town square edged with well-tended flowerbeds. People lunching on patios and on the grass in the afternoon sunshine. The kind of quaint little place city people like to escape to, especially at this time of year when the leaves are changing. They’d seen several signs advertising harvest festivals and craft shows on their drive out.

“Reminds me of the place my little brother went to college,” Solace offers.

And Nico knows it’s not meant as anything more than an offhand remark, just idle conversation, but he feels his jaw tightening.

“Those files should be ready by now,” Nico says, standing and crumpling the foil from his hot dog.

Solace stays seated a moment longer, blinking up at him. Then he follows. “Yeah. Lead the way.”

::

The files aren’t yet ready, as it turns out, and they pause outside the sheriff’s office.

“Looks like this might be a little more than a day trip,” Solace comments with a glance at his watch.

“Yeah,” Nico agrees. “Not sure why they’re making us wait if they’re so eager to get us out of town. Might be an overnight stay, though. Are you okay with that? If you’ve got someone expecting you home, you could always head back,” he says, suddenly realizing he hasn’t the vaguest idea what the other man’s personal life might entail.

But Solace shakes his head. “No, I’m good. I’ll give my sister a call later and let her know. We share an apartment.”

Okay. He has a sister. And an apartment. And the brother he mentioned earlier. That’s… useful information to have, Nico supposes.

“What about you?” Solace asks. “You have someone at home? A girlfriend?”

Nico snorts. “No.” He unlocks his door, then reaches over to pop the passenger side lock.

And Nico doesn’t know why he feels the need to elaborate, but the words are out of his mouth before he has a chance to overthink it, tumbling into the sun-warmed car as Solace reaches for his seatbelt. “I um. I have fish,” he says.

Solace pauses, seatbelt pulled halfway across his chest. “Fish?”

Nico feels his face warming, the embarrassment and discomfort of being known, even a little. He knows it’s stupid, but that’s what he is. “I have pet fish. At home.”

“Oh. Nice.” Solace looks unreasonably pleased at this.

“I get my sister to feed them if I’m going to be out of town for a while,” Nico continues, for some unknown reason still talking, “but they should be fine for a couple of days.”

“You have a sister too,” Solace says, far too curious.

“Yeah.” Nico turns from the other man abruptly, puts the car in reverse and backs out of the parking space. For good measure, he turns the CD player back on and bumps the volume up.

::

With no luck in contacting the victims’ families and without any joy from the sheriff’s office, di Angelo suggests the library – a scan through old newspapers on the off-chance there’s some insight to be gained there. Will agrees easily. He slowly feels as if he’s getting his legs under him, checking off boxes, following the trajectory of the mystery. He’d been worried he’d feel like he was in the way – di Angelo is surely accustomed to working alone – but the other man doesn’t seem to mind the company, as long as Will refrains from asking any personal questions.

Di Angelo pulls a film sheet off the microfiche reader, sliding it carefully back into its envelope.

“No luck in January 1948?” Will asks. He leans back, rubbing at tired eyes.

Di Angelo shakes his head, pressing a hand to his mouth. Will raises an eyebrow and the other man grimaces. “These things make me queasy,” he mutters.

“Take a break,” Will says, firm. “Pass me the next month and if I find anything, I’ll read it to you.”

But aside from the few short articles di Angelo had in his archives back at the office, there’s nothing. Most of the news from February 1948 is about new, post-war housing being built at the edge of the town. It’s strange.

Di Angelo’s phone buzzes, and he stands, digging in his coat pocket. He glances around at the other library patrons, walking quickly out into the hall as he answers, his voice low. He’s back only a minute later, looking frustrated.

“Everything okay?” Will asks.

“Reyna,” di Angelo mutters. “She’s not happy that we came out here without prior authorization. Sheriff called the Bureau. Reyna wanted us back immediately. I convinced her to let us stay until tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Will says, taking a moment to process. “Reyna. The assistant director. You’re on a first name basis with her?” Ramirez-Arellano hasn’t struck him as the sort of person who’s on a first-name basis with anyone.

Something shutters in di Angelo’s expression. “Oh. I guess.” He turns back to the case of film sheets on the table beside them.

“Care to elaborate?” Will asks, curious.

“No.”

Will resists the urge to tease, though it’s a close thing. “Are we in hot water?” he asks instead.

Di Angelo scrunches his nose.

Cute, Will thinks, involuntary, then inappropriate his brain tells him, louder. What is with him. All he can think is to blame it on Kayla. He never would have considered this man in anything but a professional capacity without her interference.

“Probably not,” di Angelo says slowly. “Reyna’s under a lot of pressure from her bosses. She knows my hunches usually pay off. And I solve cases. Besides, you should be okay.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re new.”

Will bites back a smile. “I’ll just tell her you’re a bad influence.”

Di Angelo shoots him a grin. “Exactly.”

::

There’s a young man waiting near their car when they exit the library, and the two agents exchange a glance as they approach him. He’s thin, mouse-brown shaggy hair brushing the shoulders of a threadbare checked shirt. He watches the two men as they approach, looking like he might run if they get too close. Will’s struck by the thought that the guy looks like someone his father would cross the street to avoid.

Apollo’s mouth, twisted in distaste: “don’t give them any money”. The thought makes Will’s jaw clench and his stomach ache. He has no desire to examine that any further at the moment. Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

“Are you the FBI agents?” the man asks once they’re close enough for conversation.

Di Angelo nods. “We are. I’m Agent di Angelo and this is Agent Solace.”

“I’m Billy Wilton,” he says, holding out his hand. “Sarah Wilton’s brother.”

Billy looks as if he could use a good meal even more than di Angelo, Will thinks. Di Angelo must be thinking along the same lines, because ten minutes later he’s led them to a nearby diner, and the three of them are seated in a red vinyl booth. Di Angelo waves off the younger man when he tries to reach for his wallet.

“Thanks for taking the time to talk to me,” Billy says. “The police didn’t want to. They told me the case was closed, it was an animal attack. I just want to make sure someone knows about Sarah, you know?” He drops his gaze and Will feels a surge of sympathy for the young man.

“Why don’t you tell us about her,” Will says, gentle.

“Sarah was my big sister. She loved the woods,” Billy begins. “When we were kids, we used to go exploring there all the time. She used to tell me ghost stories, stories about half-humans living in caves there.”

Will glances over at his partner, half-expecting the cryptid-fervor back in his gaze again. But there’s only sadness there.

“She was a good sister,” Will says softly.

“Yeah. She was. Our family lived out in the trailer park – until they closed it down to make room for the new housing development, anyway. In high school… well. Our family never fit in. There’s a lot of money here, and we didn’t have that. But Sarah always made me feel like I fit in,” Billy continues, twisting a paper napkin in his fingers. “We were always a team. Then after high school… she kind of got mixed up with the wrong crowd, I guess you could say.” He glances up, looking guilty. “You might have seen that, if you read the police report. She was a good person, though.”

Di Angelo nods. “She’d gotten involved in drugs. Sex work. Is that right?”

Billy nods, his gaze darting back to the table. “Maybe she was killed by an animal, I don’t know. But I couldn’t help feeling the sheriff just wrote her off. Because…” he trails off.

“Because she didn’t act the way she was supposed to,” Will says quietly.

Billy nods.

“Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Sarah?” di Angelo asks.

Billy lets out a long breath. “Honestly? We hadn’t been in touch as much over the last year or so. But no. I don’t think so.”

::

“Poor kid,” di Angelo says, gruff, as they get back into the car.

“Yeah,” Will agrees. He thinks about the shadows under Billy’s eyes, the way he’d cleaned every crumb from his plate.

Di Angelo puts the key into the ignition and then pauses, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s the hardest part of this job. All the people left behind. Sometimes I can find answers for them, and sometimes…” he shrugs.

“All you can do is your best, right?” Will says, soft.

Di Angelo nods, gazing out the window. “You never really forget any of them. Not the ones we help and not the ones we don’t.”

There’s a long pause wherein Will tries to piece together the right kind of reassurance. He comes up empty-handed.

“Anyway.” Di Angelo clears his throat, starting the car, “we should go see our good friend Deputy Tait.”

Finally, the historical files are waiting for them, but they’re frustratingly sparse. Bare-bones, autopsy reports nowhere to be found. There are a few witness testimonies, really not anything more than what they already learned from the park ranger, vague reports of sightings of a creature in the woods near where the bodies were found.

An hour later, squinting in the low light of the small office they’ve grudgingly been provided with, and di Angelo sighs, pushing his chair back. He turns to Will, looking tired and a little regretful. “I might’ve dragged us all the way out here for nothing.”

Will shrugs. He’s not going to start complaining on his second day. “It’s not a problem. You never know unless you try, right? Besides, I need to get my field legs under me,” Will adds. “Probably better with something like this than a super high-stakes chase through the city. You know, scaling brick walls, running after perps.”

Di Angelo huffs. Will shifts in his chair, the gun at his hip digging into his skin. His hand drifted to it, almost subconsciously.

“You don’t like the gun,” di Angelo states, a bit out of nowhere.

Will makes a face, twitching his suit jacket back over his hip. “I don’t love it,” he admits.

Di Angelo nods, thoughtful.

“I do know how to use it,” Will feels the need to add, and the other man offers him a faint smile.

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”

“I’m trained in medicine,” Will continues, feeling as if he needs to defend himself, though he’s been given him no indication that this might be necessary. “I spent a lot of time learning how to save people. Sometimes from this.” He gestures to his hip where the gun is hidden by his jacket.

“Makes sense.” di Angelo gazes at Will for a moment, contemplative. “I don’t love it either, I guess. But it’s a tool. It’s good to have when you need it.”

Di Angelo’s gaze lingers on his face for just a moment longer, a quiet intensity, and Will looks away, feeling his cheeks warm. He reminds himself that di Angelo is experienced in psychological profiling, one of the best in the business. He suddenly feels too exposed.

“So what’s next?” Will asks, eager to change the subject.

::

They both settle into their motel rooms after bidding each other goodnight. Nico pores over his notes. Something isn’t adding up. The sheriff seems way too eager to sell this as a simple animal attack. And then there are the missing autopsy reports. Tomorrow they’ll head back to DC, and the mystery will be lost forever.

He pushes away from the small table, restless and twitchy, not nearly tired enough to sleep. He glances at the TV. He could find something to watch. Or go for a run.

Or he could head back into the woods.

Nico gathers his things quickly, pulling his coat back on and closing the door behind him. Then he stands in the near-dark, conflicted. Because there’s no need to bother his new partner with this, right? The work day is long over. Solace is probably asleep anyway. And Nico’s made similar excursions on his own countless times.

Nico heaves a sigh, stepping a little further from the moths fluttering around the exterior lights of the building. Plans for wandering alone into possibly-creature-infested woods are the kind of thing one should probably share with a partner, when one has had a partner assigned.

It’s late now, almost eleven. Nico decides that he’ll leave a note, if Solace has already gone to bed. But as he nears the door, he can see light filtering through gauzy curtains.

A soft knock at the door and Solace answers just a moment later, surprise on his freckled face. He’s got glasses on, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His blond curls are mussed, a frizzy halo in the half-light seeping from the motel room. He looks taller in the near-dark, if that’s even possible. It shouldn’t be. He’s not even wearing shoes.

Nico shakes himself internally. Focus. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, I was just writing up my field report. Should have gotten to it earlier, but there was a good episode of Star Trek on,” Solace grins, easy. He seems like the kind of guy who’s easy with everyone. He’s even easy with Nico. Nico’s never been easy for anyone. He’s certainly not about to start now. Not for all the six-footedness and blond curls and toothy grins in the world.

“I just wanted to let you know, I’m gonna head back to the woods where we met the park ranger,” Nico says.

Solace blinks, owlish behind his glasses. “Right now?”

“Yeah. I can’t sleep. I just want to go take another quick look around before I turn in.”

There’s a beat, and then Solace says, “I’ll come with.”

“No, you don’t have to. I just wanted to let you know where I was –”

“What, in case you turn up missing a leg tomorrow?” Solace asks over his shoulder, dry. “Let me grab my coat.”

::

The drive back to the woods is quiet; no music playing, di Angelo not offering much in the way of commentary. Will gazes out the passenger window at the darkened houses. There’s next to no traffic at this time of night, especially once they leave the town limits and head into rolling hills and woodland.

“So, what are we looking for?” Will asks as they step out into the cool night air.

“Maybe nothing,” di Angelo says, “but most of the sightings of this creature have occurred around this time of night. It can’t hurt to take a look around.” His eyes are serious as he turns to Will. “Just stay alert.”

Will doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s got his gun holstered and his flashlight lit as they walk towards the trailhead. The crunch of leaves and gravel underfoot seems unnaturally loud.

It’s weirdly quiet and still, and it remains so as they make their way through the woods to the place Sarah Wilton’s body was found. It puts Will on edge, like the trees are closing in on them. They pause in the small clearing they visited earlier in the day.

“I don’t think I want to go too much further into the woods. We’ll lose the trail,” di Angelo murmurs after a moment. Will is privately relieved. He’s glad di Angelo hadn’t decided to come out here alone, but before the other man had shown up at his door, Will had been making important plans involving a hot shower and the vending machine he’d seen beside the reception desk.

They wait, flashlights trained on the ground in front of them.

“Flashlights off?” Will says after a moment, quiet. “We’re not going to sneak up on anything like this.”

Di Angelo nods, and they flick the beams off. The silence is eerie, pressing in on Will’s ears, but at least the moon is bright, and after a few moments Will’s eyes adjust and he can see the contours of the landscape. Trees loom over them, moonlight filtering into the small clearing.

Will glances at di Angelo. He’s alert, watchful, scanning the trees around them. But as time passes, even his fervor starts to fade.

Will is just about to suggest that they head back when there’s rustling off to the left. Will resists a gasp at the sudden noise, his heart picking up speed. Both men turn in unison, silent. Will’s hand goes to his gun, a similar motion from the man next to him.

Will’s barely breathing, primed by the stories of cryptids di Angelo shared on the drive out, and honestly off-balance from being in this situation at all. Most of the fieldwork he’s been involved in have involved people who were most certainly already dead. Not… potentially going to be murdered very shortly.

There’s movement among the trees. Will’s definitely not imagining it, nor the way his partner tenses beside him. Will’s hand tightens on his gun, his eyes straining into the darkness.

There’s still and quiet again, long enough that Will feels he’s finally able to take a full breath – but then there’s the distinct snap of a twig and the movement of branches, too close.

Whatever’s moving in the trees looks human, but… not. Will feels a shiver run down his spine at the unreality of it. It’s walking on four legs, but it doesn’t look like any animal Will’s ever seen. It moves parallel to them, loping through the underbrush, a weird, uneven gait. Then it stops to sniff the air and torturously slowly, turns to face them where they stand in the clearing.

Will’s mouth go dry. Di Angelo’s still as a statue beside him, the three of them motionless in the moonlit woods. For an interminable moment, they gaze at each other.

The creature slowly stands, rising to two legs and looking much more human now, except the short, curly horns growing from the crown of its head, just barely visible in the cool moonlight. It’s head has an odd shape, distinctly not human, and the dissonance makes Will’s skin tingle.

The creature surveys the two of them for a long moment before continuing on its path, moving deeper into the woods.

Will let out a long breath. He and di Angelo turn to each other, and Will thinks that his expression must mirror the other man’s – half terrified, half amazed.

“Seen enough?” Will asks weakly.

Di Angelo beams at him. “Holy fuck. Yeah.”

Will laughs, mostly at the expression on the other man’s face, feeling more than a little awestruck himself.

“Did that look human to you?” asks di Angelo once they’re back in the safety of the car.

“I don’t know what to think. Whatever – or whoever that was… they certainly match the description from the park ranger.” Will shakes his head slowly. “So what now? We alert the sheriff’s department?”

Di Angelo nods, his eyes on the road. “Yup. They’ll want to search the woods and surrounding area again.”

It’s nearly three in the morning by the time they pull back into the motel parking lot, and Will decides to forgo the shower in favor of a bag of Hickory Sticks and then bed. He sleeps hard and dreamless, waking to a brisk rap on his door and sunlight already pouring in the window.

Will stumbles across the room and squints into the peephole to see di Angelo fully dressed and looking tense.

“Give me a minute,” Will calls, quickly shedding his t-shirt and sweats in favor of the same dress pants and shirt he wore yesterday. It’s a good thing they’re planning on heading back today, because he really hadn’t packed for a prolonged stay.

Will unlocks the door. Di Angelo is pacing on the walkway. “They shut us out,” he says, before Will can open his mouth to speak.

“They – what?”

“They shut us out,” the other man repeats, angry. “Fucking NSA. They’ve got the whole area barricaded, I couldn’t get in there, couldn’t even get anyone to talk to me. They threatened to arrest me and they gave me an armed escort back to the main highway.”

Will frowns, bewildered. “But - why NSA? Do they think this is some kind of threat to national security?”

Di Angelo throws his hands up. “Beats me. No one’s talking. I’ve got a call in to Reyna and I’m heading to the sheriff’s office now. You coming?”

Will’s already nodding. “Yeah. Of course. Can – can I brush my teeth first?”

Di Angelo’s expression softens, marginally. “Yeah. Of course.”

They gaze at each other for a beat. “Here. Come in.” Will opens the door wide, stepping back. The other man enters, dropping into a chair. He’s still there when WIll exits the washroom, feeling a little more human after having taken the time to shave and splash some water on his face.

“Sorry,” the other man says. “For barging in –”

“No, it’s fine, I was…” Will hesitates. “Okay, I was sound asleep, but it’s fine.”

Di Angelo huffs out a laugh. “Coffee? To make up for waking you?” He holds up a styrofoam cup, clearly from the coffee maker on the desk.

Will’s face must betray his relief, because di Angelo laughs. “What do you take?”

“Oh, um. A sugar and a creamer. Thanks.” Will stands there awkwardly as the other man prepares his coffee. Di Angelo takes care to secure the white plastic lid before handing it to Will.

“Cheers,” Will says, and they awkwardly bump their styrofoam cups together. Their fingers brush and the swoop in Will’s stomach catches him off-guard. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again as he realizes he has no idea what he was going to say.

Then di Angelo gives him a nod and leads the way out to the parking lot. Will follows, giving his head a shake.

::

Deputy Tait meets them at the front desk of the station. “I had nothing to do with this,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, maybe taking in di Angelo’s fierce expression. “I reported what y’all saw last night, and next thing I know we’re overrun with feds.”

In this instance, Will’s inclined to believe the sheriff. If anything, he hadn’t wanted more attention drawn to the matter.

Di Angelo nods, deflating. “What can you tell us?”

“Not much,” Tait admits. “They’ve been searching the woods for a few hours. Last I heard they were gonna blow up a couple of caves on the north angle.”

Will isn’t the only one surprised with the fact, and di Angelo sounds aghast. “They’re blowing them up?”

“Seems they got a hold of whatever animal’s been causing these deaths. They killed it on sight, and they want to make sure there aren’t any others.”

Di Angelo curses under his breath, then turns on his heel. Will thanks the deputy before following the other man back out to the car.

Di Angelo is standing beside the sedan, eyes on the mountain range, his jaw tight. There’s smoke rising in the distance, silhouetted against a haze of green forest.

“Fucking cowboys,” he seethes. He turns to Will. “You saw what I saw, right? That wasn’t any kind of animal.”

WIll hesitates. “It was dark, and I didn’t get a great look at it, but… no. It didn’t look like an animal.”

Di Angelo scrubs a hand over his face. “What happened to discovery? What happened to curiosity? Living in harmony with nature? No. Instead we have to blow up what we don’t understand.”

Will stays quiet, eyes on the horizon, an ache in his chest.

Di Angelo’s gaze flicks over to him. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, quieter. “I get that they had to do something. But is this the solution?” He waves a hand towards the woods, frustrated.

“It’s not as if this creature, whatever it was – was coming into town looking for victims,” Will agrees. “The deaths only happened once humans started invading its territory.”

“Yeah.” The other man regards the smoke in the distance for another moment. “Reyna’s expecting us back,” he mutters after a long moment. “We should pack up.”

They return to the motel, retrieving their few possessions and preparing to leave town. Di Angelo looks truly defeated.

“Hey,” Will says over the top of the sedan, “I can drive, if you want.”

Di Angelo regards him, inscrutable. “No. That’s okay. Thanks, though,” he says, finally.

Will watches the other man as he hefts his bag into the back seat.. “Why don’t we make one more stop before we head out?”

::

Billy WIlton’s place is on the way out of town anyway, as it turns out. The mansions and wide lawns gradually fade to smaller, post-wartime houses, close together, sagging roofs and crumbling staircases.

Billy’s sitting on his front porch when they pull up in front of the house, and he rises to greet them. He’s already heard the news, or at least some of it.

“I’m so sorry,” di Angelo tells him, “NSA’s shut us out now and the Bureau wants us to leave it alone. There’s really not much else we can do. But whatever killed your sister, it’s gone. I hope that brings some closure, at least.”

Will thinks Billy looks calmer than he did yesterday, something settled in his expression. So there’s that.

He nods in understanding. “I’m glad you came by. I wanted to thank you again.”

Di Angelo shakes his head. “We really didn’t do anything.”

Billy shrugs. “You let me talk about Sarah. It helped. I appreciate your time.”

Will thinks his partner looks almost tearful for a moment. Then he seems to collect himself, reaching out to shake Billy’s hand. “Take care of yourself,” he says.

Billy nods, reaching out to shake Will’s hand, too. “Safe drive.”

::

Will gazes out the window as di Angelo guides the car onto the highway. The day’s turned wooly and overcast, iron-grey clouds hanging thick and low over red-yellow foliage.

“That was a bust,” di Angelo says after a long silence. He sounds exhausted.

“I wouldn’t say that. Billy Wilton was grateful. We helped at least one person.”

“Maybe.”

“You showed me my first cryptid,” Will offers.

Di Angelo glances over, almost smiling. “Yeah? Is that what you’re gonna write in your field report?”

“Something to that effect. Apparent humanoid creature, didn’t resemble an animal, horned, oblong head, four-legged gait.”

“Well sure, when you put it that way,” di Angelo mutters.

Will laughs.

They ride in silence for the next few miles, a far cry from the treatise on cryptids Will was subjected to on the drive out. He glances over at the other man.

“So, Agent di Angelo. How’d you get interested in this field in the first place?” Will asks, fully expecting not to have to say much for the next twenty minutes.

The other man lets out a long breath. “It was a bit of a hobby, when I was a kid. You know. Paranormal… stuff.” There’s a long pause. “And then I became aware of the X-Files when I started at the Bureau. Transferred over from Violent Crimes when the opportunity presented itself.” He falls silent.

“That’s a good story,” Will says, when the silence continues to stretch and the road continues to disappear under their tires. “Detailed and compelling.“

Di Angelo huffs. “How about you?” he asks after a long moment. “You were in med school, before the Bureau snagged you. How’d you end up there?”

Will takes a second, considering his answer. “Hard work. A few scholarships, too many part-time jobs. Lots of sleepless nights and no social life to speak of. My dad could have helped a lot more than he did, but…” Will shrugs.

Di Angelo shoots him a sympathetic look.

“It’s kind of the family business, I guess. My dad’s a doctor. His dad too. It was what everyone expected. I kind of found myself in the middle of it before I’d properly thought it through.”

“Those things are hard to back out of, once you’re committed,” di Angelo says, quiet.

“No kidding,” Will sighs. “I did think I wanted to practice medicine, for a while. And then I didn’t. And then the FBI came calling, and that seemed like a good opportunity. Two years at Quantico, and then I got shuffled over to sit in a car with you listening to –” Will grabs the CD case from the dashboard. “Green Day.”

Di Angelo huffs. “At least you got the last part right.”

Will laughs. They fall back into silence, though it’s briefer this time, maybe lighter.

“You grew up in Texas,” di Angelo says, out of nowhere.

“Yeah, I did,” Will says, surprised at the unprompted query. “Carleton. Sixty miles from just about any kind of civilization. Three brothers, one sister.”

“That must have been nice,” di Angelo says. His voice is almost wistful “Growing up in a big family.”

Will shrugs. “Yeah, for the most part.” It was a big family… until it shrunk by almost half. But there’s no need to get into that right now. “There were too many of us and not enough space,” he settles on, instead. “Lots of good memories, though. How about you? You mentioned a sister?”

Di Angelo doesn’t immediately react, and Will wonders for a moment if the other man didn’t hear him.

“That’s Hazel, that I mentioned,” he says finally. “My half-sister. She lives in Baltimore. But Bianca. She was… my other sister. She died. A little over ten years ago.”

“Oh,” Will says, suddenly feeling as if he’s completely put his foot in it. “That must have been… I’m really sorry,” he says, softer. And for a second he wants to mention Michael, and Lee, but at the closed-off set of di Angelo’s face, he thinks it might be better to move on.

“Thanks,” di Angelo says after a moment. “It sucked. Still does, to be honest,” he laughs without humor.

“Yeah,” Will agrees, his own voice hoarse. He has a stupid impulse to reach out and squeeze the other man’s hand where it rests on the gear shift. Instead he diverts and distracts; much as therapy has taught him it’s not his job to raise the spirits of everyone in the room, old habits die hard.

At least he’s successful, pointing out a Krispy Kreme sign at the next exit and drumming up some excitement about coffee and doughnuts. They get back into the sedan after the brief stop, di Angelo pops in another CD, and there’s not much conversation aside from the occasional “sorry” or “oops” when their fingers bump as they reach for the cup holders.

Traffic is heavier as they near the DC city limits, and the CD cycles back to the first track.

“Want me to change it?” Will asks, reaching for the zippered case between them.

“Sure. You can choose one. Or just stick in whatever’s next.”

Will flips through the discs, trying and failing to find anything he’d choose to listen to voluntarily. There’s a CD at the back of the case with the title written in Sharpie on the disc.

“The Early Years?” Will asks, holding it up.

Di Angelo glances over. "It's Tom Waits. You might like it."

Will’s not entirely sure about that, but he goes for it anyway, surprised at the gentle acoustic guitar that flows from the speakers when he pops it in. They're three tracks in when he catches the dark-haired man smiling, truly smiling at him, and Will laughs. "It's good," he says, surprised.

Di Angelo just nods, looking pleased. He turns his attention back to the road, one hand loosely gripping the top of the steering wheel. Will leans back into his seat, lulled by the quiet melody and hum of the car. He sneaks a glance sideways. Di Angelo looks just as relaxed, Will thinks, the tension of the case in Thornhill drifting away in the hum of the highway, the miles under their tires.

Di Angelo drives the way he moves around his basement office, Will thinks. Languid and graceful, like he belongs in the space. Like he’s a part of it. It’s not… unattractive.

There’s a pause and another track begins, a soft progression of chords in a major key. Di Angelo begins singing along softly, under his breath, then a little louder with the chorus.

Will watches him out of the corner of his eye, something warm and unexpected blossoming in his chest. The other man has a low voice, well suited to hitting the lowest lows of the song. Will grew up in a house full of musicians, and he’s a quick study. When the second chorus begins, Will joins in with a light tenor harmony.

Di Angelo shoots him a smile, not faltering in his melody as they begin passing exit signs for DC and as the chorus slips back into the verse.

The song ends and Will grins. “You have a nice voice, Agent di Angelo,” he tells the other man.

Di Angelo huffs out a laugh. “You’re not so bad yourself. Maybe we can have a second career as lounge singers, if this FBI thing doesn’t work out.”

Will laughs. “Sounds like fun.” He tilts his head. “I’ll bring my Disney soundtracks along next road trip. We can sing the Aladdin duet.”

“Oh my god,” di Angelo mutters. He’s fighting a smile. “Next road trip, I’m requesting separate cars.”

Will laughs. There’s a moment of quiet as the CD continues to play and di Angelo smoothly changes lanes. “You know,” he glances at Will. “You can call me Nico.”

Will grins, somehow feeling like he’s won something, like maybe this whole case wasn’t such a bust after all.

“Nico,” he says, trying it out. Stupidly, it makes his cheeks warm. He carefully turns his face towards the passenger side window.

::

Three weeks later

Reyna pauses in front of a filing cabinet in the basement office, surveying the mess on its surface. Most of it is unremarkable - books, files, newspapers, overdue expense reports. She peers at a framed photo sitting atop a box of envelopes.

Then there’s the slam of the stairwell door and a voice in the hall. Reyna turns, brow furrowed. It sounds like Nico’s voice, but the voice is singing. Not only that, but Reyna’s quite sure she recognizes the song, because it’s from the animated mermaid movie her nieces are obsessed with. So perhaps it’s not Nico? But who else would be in the basement, particularly after five pm?

The office door opens and it is indeed Nico, still singing to himself, eyes on a sheaf of paper in his hand. He crosses to his desk, completely unaware that he has an audience.

Reyna clears her throat.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Nico jumps about a foot in the air, clutching at his chest. Reyna’s gaze follows the trajectory of the papers he was carrying as they flutter to the floor.

Nico slumps against his desk, breathing hard. “What the fuck, Reyna – what the fuck are you – Jesus Christ.”

“Whose fish?” Reyna asks.

“Whose – what?” Nico asks weakly.

Reyna turns back to the filing cabinet, plucking the framed photo from the top of it - four tropical fish in a tank, an array of plastic tropical plants anchored in colorful gravel, a skull sitting in the corner. “Whose fish?” she repeats, holding the photo out to Nico.

“They’re – they’re mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah –”

“You have a framed photo of them. In your office.”

“It was a – stupid Christmas gift from Hazel. Reyna –”

“But you brought it to work. And put it in your office.”

“Reyna, what the fuck are you doing here?” Nico bursts out, exasperated.

Reyna carefully replaces the photograph. She turns and watches Nico for a long moment. “I wasn’t aware you were a Disney fan,” she says.

“I’m… not?” Nico says, looking completely lost.

“Part of Your World? The Little Mermaid?”

Now there’s a trace of something other than irritation on Nico’s face – recognition, or embarrassment. Interesting.

“That’s not me, that’s my idiot partner,” Nico mutters.

“You know all the words.”

Nico frowns. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Reyna –”

“Speaking of which, how are things progressing with Agent Solace?”

Nico’s posture softens. “He’s – fine. I mean, he’s got garbage taste in music. And he thinks he’s funny.”

“You seem to think he’s funny as well.”

“I – what?”

“I saw the two of you walking back into the building this afternoon. I would have said hello, but you were busy laughing at something Agent Solace had said.” Reyna quirks an eyebrow.

Nico sighs, finally dropping into his chair. “Is there a reason for this visit, or did you just come down here to antagonize me? Because I’ve spent the last two days in a car with Solace, and honestly I’ve had my fill of that.”

“Fine.” Reyna clears her throat. “I came to speak to you regarding your investigation in Thornhill.”

“Oh.” Nico sags in his chair. “Look, I know we went down without prior approval, but –”

Reyna raises a hand to quiet him. “That is not what I came to speak to you about. I had a meeting with Octavian this afternoon.”

Nico grimaces. Honestly, Reyna can relate.

“He was initially quite unhappy with what he considers a misuse of resources to chase down a lead that didn’t pan out, especially one he deems outside the purview of the Bureau’s mandate. What I most wanted to impress upon you, however, is that Agent Solace’s field reports were flawless. He was able to outline your investigation in a way that even Octavian was unable to find fault with.”

Nico blinks. “Oh. That’s…”

“Yes, it is,” Reyna agrees. “Agent Solace was also able to delineate your role specifically in a manner that cast you in the best possible light.”

Nico looks a little stunned.

“And, purely as a matter of interest,” Reyna says pointedly, “Agent Solace’s reports were typed, submitted on time, and scrupulously proofread.”

At that, Nico rolls his eyes. “Do you want Solace to take over down here? I can go upstairs and do autopsies if you like.”

“What I am saying, Agent, is that it may be very much in your best interests to be nice to Agent Solace. If you’re very lucky, this partnership could be a significant factor in helping you keep your department.”

Nico scrubs a hand over his face. “I let him play his stupid CDs in the car. What more do you want from me?”

Reyna watches him and he sighs, watching her back.

“Fine," Nico says grudgingly. "I’ll be nice. He’s – he’s not so hard to be nice to. As it turns out."

(chapter 3 here)

Notes:

1. I have done a LOT of work on this chapter and tbh it's still probably my least favourite. I found it really hard to write these two as complete strangers, not to mention this was the first ~case chapter I wrote and I felt entirely out of my element. Not looking for sympathy, just sharing because I like to hear about people's writing processes :) Incidentally, writing casefic got MUCH easier with some practice. 2. On a related note, I wrote this chapter completely cold turkey, no planning, the way I'd usually write a one-shot. DO NOT RECOMMEND. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what was going on when I got to the editing stage. 3. At some point I realized I could just make up town names and it made my life so much better. 4. Thanks a ton to @rosyredlipstick for the beta & to @anything-thats-rock-and-roll for random troubleshooting :)

[ch4singchase]

The Ballad of Moths | LUKE CASTELLAN

Summary: The group of demigods face Thalia's injury, should they continue their journey or look for a way to remedy the girl's condition?

Word count: 4.3K

Warnings: Mentions of blood and Injury, mention to violence, description of emotional distress and description of medical situations (treating injuries with antibiotics and bandages etc)

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three | series masterlist

chapter 03: Sometimes, People Are Just People

When I opened my eyes, I found myself in the backseat of my mom's car—an old black Impala that carried the lingering aroma of spilled coffee. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the steady motion of the vehicle hinted at our journey.

Before fully waking up, I stole a glance at the front seat, where my mother navigated the route with a map by her side. The details of our destination eluded my groggy mind, another day unfolding in the tapestry of our lives.

"Is everything okay, ma?" I asked, rubbing my eyes to dispel the remnants of sleep.

Caught off guard by my voice, my mom turned to look at me through the rearview mirror, weariness etched across her face.

"Yes, mausi," she attempted a smile, though it failed to reach her eyes. "Sorry if I woke you up; you can go back to sleep."

"No, no, I'm good," I stretched my arms, shaking off the fatigue. "I woke up on my own."

"Good to hear that," my mother nodded, redirecting her gaze to the road while stifling a yawn. "We still have a fair distance to the hotel—probably another hour or so."

Surveying the quiet highway, devoid of much traffic except for the occasional weary traveler, I suggested, "If you want, I can take over for a while, and you can rest."

My mother cast a puzzled look at me through the rearview mirror. "This isn't a parking lot."

"I know," I pressed my lips together, "But you're tired, and the road is nearly empty. I can follow the map until you feel more rested. I've been observing you drive, you know…"

Mrs. Gaumont sighed audibly, as if seeking approval from the powers above for her impending decision. Whatever doubts she harbored, she decided to proceed.

"Okay," she relented, pulling the car over to the side of the highway. "But if anything goes wrong…"

"You come back to the driver's seat, got it!" I grinned, hopping out of the car, prepared to switch places.

Mrs. Gaumont wore a frown as she settled into the backseat, where I had been. Observing me carefully, she watched as I adjusted the rearview mirror to keep an eye on her and the road behind, and positioned the map in a way that allowed me to glance at it without distraction. All the little rituals she followed before hitting the road—she noticed that I wasn't kidding when I mentioned I had been watching her.

Her smile this time was genuine, reaching her eyes. It might have hinted at the wish that someday, I could navigate life on my own. I'll never be sure, but I like to think that's what her smile meant.

"You can rest now, ma!" I called out, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror as I merged back onto the highway. "I've got this."

And deep down, she knew I would. My mom always knew that I was capable of taking care of myself without her constant guidance. Perhaps, that's why she let go so willingly.

So peacefully.

“You’re really good at this,” Luke finally commented after a while, snapping me out of the reverie.

Glancing at the backseats through the rearview mirror, I noticed Thalia trying to stay awake by gazing out the window, while Annabeth observed my actions with keen interest—from the way I alternated my gaze between the road and the map Luke held for me or shifted gears in the car.

Swallowing hard, I met Annabeth's eyes for the umpteenth time. Unlike before, I wasn't frightened; instead, I was taken aback by her genuine interest in my presence.

But who could blame her? According to Thalia's explanations, they had been traveling together for a considerable time.

“Let me see if I understand,” I furrowed my brows, recalling everything the trio had shared with me. “You’re also connected to these Greek gods…”

“Yes,” Thalia muttered from behind, narrowing her eyes at me, mirroring the curiosity of her smaller companion.

“You're the daughter of the thunder god, one of the Big Three, and because of that, you're pursued by a plethora of monsters,” I reiterated their explanation word for word.

The three of them nodded, awaiting my next words.

“You’re the daughter of Athena…” I turned my gaze to Annabeth. I chose not to delve into the more peculiar aspects of her origins—born from an idea of her mother as a gift; the more I tried to comprehend, the stranger it sounded.

“And you,” I looked at Luke, who raised a brow at me, “You're the son of Hermes, which makes all of you like me, as I'm also the daughter of a god. Everyone inside this car is a half-blood.”

My last statement carried a hint of uncertainty.

“Or demigods,” Luke shrugged, brushing a black curl out of his eyes. “More commonly, we're called demigods.”

“Got it…” I squinted my eyes, doing my best to concentrate on the road rather than the knot forming in my head from all this information.

Once again during that journey, I caught the gaze of the boy with black curls alternating between my face and the leather wristband I wore. I couldn't discern if he was equally intrigued by my magical weapon or if he still found amusement or confusion in the fact that it took me more than a minute to transform the sword back into the wristband.

Honestly, I hoped it was the former. Yet, given the number of times he repeated the same eye movements and subtly moved his lips, it seemed to be the latter.

“Where are you from?” Thalia inquired, her voice betraying a hint of weakness that she tried to conceal.

“Hmm,” I frowned, glancing at the map again, “I'm not sure, maybe Missouri?”

“You're American?” the girl with two electric blue eyes asked, her surprise leaving me bewildered.

“As far as I know… Yes? I’m American.” Seeking an explanation for the sudden question, I looked into the eyes of the others, but each of them appeared surprised by my responses.

Here we were, children of Greek gods, fleeing from monsters that sought to harm beings like us, yet what surprised them was that I identified as American?

Noticing my confusion, Luke snorted, shaking his head.

"You have a different accent, that's all," he answered simply.

But that only deepened the crease in my forehead.

“Well, most states have different accents,” I tried to explain. Since when did I have such a strong accent?

“Yes, but we had been to most of the states,” Thalia reasoned, raising her brows. “Yours doesn’t sound like any accent from here.”

I remained silent, trying to remember if my mother had already commented on anything. When I asked her about my father for the first time, she had told me that she had met him in Missouri, so I ended up deducing that both she and I were also born in Missouri.

But if she met my father here, then I was born here. Which meant that maybe my mother wasn't American. Maybe that explained why I had never met or seen my grandparents. They might not even be here in the United States.

It also explained the many times that my mother had to show her passport to a guard or police officer in addition to her ID. There were also some curious looks that I had recently noticed every time I opened my mouth.

Did my mother have an accent? Probably, because I grew up with her presence always present, hardly talking to other people, I never found it strange. For me, it was normal.

In fact, everything in my life before, at the time, seemed normal to me.

This was just another detail at the tip of the iceberg.

"I didn't ask badly, I was just curious." Thalia commented due my silence, "Sorry"

“No, it’s alright” I shook my head, “I just hadn’t-”

Noticed. But I was interrupted before I could say that.

Thalia squeaked in pain, her face retracting into a grimace and her hand instinctively went to her leg.

“Hey, Thalia,” Luke shouted, looking back from his seat, “Stay strong, we’re almost there. Take the next turn.”

I followed his order, watching Thalia quickly, she was way paler than before. I had no idea what I could say or do to help them, so I just continued to drive.

Viola’s pale skin tainted with her own blood jumped into my mind.

“She’s having a fever,” Annabeth bit her cheeks after resting her hand on the forehead of the daughter of Zeus, “I can try to make it better but it won't bring down the fever completely.”

Annabeth retrieved a cloth and a bottle of water from her bag, carefully dampening the cloth before placing it on Thalia's forehead. The gesture was a stark reminder of the mystical and perilous world they lived in, where even a fever could have otherworldly implications.

Just as dangerous as a monster.

"My backpack in the back has some water bottles. You can offer them to Thalia, Annabeth." I suggested, looking toward the two girls in the backseats. The daughter of Athena promptly followed my instructions, but Thalia declined, her voice weak, conveying, "If it's truly an infection, you need to stay hydrated."

Luke glanced at me, surprise evident that I was offering all my water to their friend. If he had suspicions, I was aware he wouldn't be unjustified. Until now, my association with them was mainly due to being a demigod and the sole driver among them, and I was fine with it.

To reinforce or challenge his surprise, the boy with dark curls turned to me. "You don't need to do that. After the next city, it'll be ten minutes until we reach my mother's house."

His mother's house—his designated resource and medical help hub. I mentally noted that, sensing I wasn't the only one doing so.

"But I'm going to," I asserted, meeting the boy's gaze with determination.

While I didn't know them well, and it might not be wise to offer all my water without knowledge of our future path after Thalia's recovery, I knew I couldn't bear witness to someone else dying on my watch.

I wouldn't let that happen.

"And also," I took a glance at the map for confirmation, "maybe it's best if we try to stop at a pharmacy. We can get some inexpensive medicine to take care of the infection and try to prevent it from worsening or recurring soon."

"That's not a good idea," Luke shook his head, reclaiming the map to identify which nearby pharmacies gave me that nonsense ‘enlightening’. "We don't know if it would actually help, and it could delay us getting to my mother in time to get Thalia's real help."

"The pharmacy closer to us is on the way to your mother's house," I pointed out. "Some medicine could at least buy your friend some time before we get there."

“But we don’t have any money,” Annabeth interjected, unsure for whom she should side. She knew Luke for a longer time, but she was also worried about Thalia and wanted to take any chance they had to help her.

And, well… She had a point. I didn't have enough money, especially for antibiotics or antiseptics.

My eyes shifted between Luke and Annabeth, but Luke simply shook his head in refusal. Resigned, I returned my gaze to the road, sighing. There wasn't much for us to do but hope—always hope.

Luke kept his eyes on me, puffing and huffing as he pondered something to himself. Finally, he puffed one last time and retrieved a leather wallet from his pocket.

"Actually," he admitted, holding up the wallet, "we have."

I furrowed my brows, contemplating the oddity of a teenage boy carrying a leather wallet. Such accessories were typically associated with adults.

“Weren’t you against the idea?” I chose to veer away from the wallet's origin, delving into another question from my growing list. This list, I suspected, was only at its inception.

Luke avoided eye contact, placing the map back in my view. "Don't make me change my mind. I'll only agree if I'm the one at the pharmacy. You two stay with Thalia and keep an eye on her."

The unexpected response left both Annabeth and me speechless.

Luke emphasized, "Don't let anything happen to her”.

"Of course," I assured him, stealing a glance in his direction.

"Always," The little girl agreed, fiercely.

Heading towards the pharmacy pinpointed on the map marked a brief pause in our hour-long journey. Already navigating through an extended route to avoid law enforcement and bustling streets, sacrificing a bit of time seemed a worthwhile trade-off to secure additional aid for Thalia to withstand the remainder of the trip.

The pharmacy sign was discreet, sunlight still reflecting off the windows that morning. I wondered about the time—was it around 9 or 10 in the morning?

Luke directed me to park on a nearby street, concealing the car within the shadow of an alley. As I parked, Luke swiftly exited the car, sporting a less-than-pleased expression with narrow eyes and pursed lips, reminiscent of someone who had tasted something sour.

I stifled a snort, speculating if it was his ego at play. He fit the mold of Olympic heroes perfectly.

"I'll be right back," he informed us, tucking the leather wallet back into his pocket before closing the car door.

My gaze trailed after him until he reached the pharmacy entrance. Sensing my watchful eyes, Luke turned towards the car, flashing a smile. Although it was hard to confirm from our distance, the sunlight glinting off his teeth and the sparkle in his dark eyes hinted at its being a showoff move.

Sighing in dissatisfaction, instead of vocalizing my frustration or offering an obscene gesture, I unfastened my seatbelt and turned towards the back seat.

Annabeth stared at me with wide eyes, assisting her friend, who was in a cold sweat, in drinking more water.

"How many days since she was attacked?" I inquired, recognizing that for an infection to manifest, the wound couldn't have been inflicted today.

"Two days ago," Annabeth replied, swallowing nervously. "We've been pursued by Furies; they're the ones responsible for her leg injury, but we managed to escape them."

Escape, not eliminate. There was a clear implication in those words.

"Okay, so it's definitely an infection," I affirmed, a realization I had harbored before, now underscored by the urgency imposed by our limited time. "Raise her leg; we need to help with her blood circulation."

Annabeth furrowed her brows but complied with my instructions, despite Thalia's groans. "How do you know that?"

"Ah, my mother," I admitted, mindful about the way words sounded out of my mouth, "She taught me a thing or two about what to do in emergencies."

Reaching for my bag between Annabeth's feet and my seat, I positioned it under Thalia's elevated leg. "Now you can let it down; my bag will assist with improving her circulation."

The little girl nodded, taking this moment to water Thalia’s cloth again before returning it to her forehead. All we had to do was wait for Luke to return from the pharmacy.

The tension in the car lingered, and I didn’t dare to turn my back to the two girls, my eyes fixed at Thalia’s state. She was still awake, just too tired to say anything. When she noticed my eyes upon her, she gave me a short smile and a quick thumbs up.

Noticing that, Annabeth smiled at me and Thalia, gripping her friend’s hand as she whispered something to her. Slowly, my eyes drifted back to the pharmacy.

Thinking back at our little discussion, I couldn’t help but think if Luke had resented me. We have been in this car for less than forty minutes together, the longest I have been knowing them so far, it wouldn’t be great if I had already managed to have someone I wished to befriend resent me instead.

I stopped my thoughts in their tracks, befriend? I flinched at myself once I realized my own words, how long since I had the opportunity to make friends?

I knew the answer to that question.

It had been a long time since I knew people around my age that I felt click so fast, at least, on my side. A longer time since I wished I could make friends that were like me.

However, that had been the first time I was doing everything on my own, even friends. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had already screwed this over.

I sighed, biting my lips. Perhaps, it was for the best; I needed to head to Long Island once I could be sure that Thalia was alright and not at risk of dying.

Annabeth's demeanor changed once she put her eyes on me, uncertainty running through her eyes, but she locked eyes with me and began to speak.

“Look,” she started, “Don’t mind Luke, he doesn’t hate you or anything, he just… It isn’t used to it.”

My eyes widened before turning to the small figure, my thoughts were as plain as the noise in my face?

"How long have you known Luke?" I asked, attempting to avoid any uneasy silence.

"I've known them for quite a while.” Annabeth sighed, “We've been through a lot together."

That, I could figure. I was on my second day as a demigod, everything continued to feel new and surreal. As if I was trapped in my childhood dreams.

But no, that was reality, I just needed to adjust. Even if it meant that my life would be complicated from now on.

I nodded to Annabeth’s words, noticing the guarded tone in her voice. “I don’t mean to get in your way, when Thalia gets better, we can say our goodbyes”

I knew too well how it felt to be tolerated, even if most of the time it was a feeling my mind created from no evidence. But, either way, I didn’t wish to go through it again.

“What? No,” This time, Thalia was the one to exclaim, her voice low and rough. Annabeth had to move the water bottle away from her face, “Who said we don’t want you on the team?”

“You’re also a demigod, we have to stick together,” Annabeth stated, her determination slipping at every word.

I shook my head, “We met less than an hour ago.”

“Everything becomes more dangerous when you’re a demigod alone in the world,” Annabeth told me, her voice turning to a careful tone, “Luke told me that once, we can’t leave any of us behind.”

I felt a mix of surprise and gratitude. It warmed a part of me that had been cold and isolated for a long time to know that someone wanted me to stay.

They were strangers at the time, but for a bunch of strangers, I had never felt so welcome.

"Thanks," I mumbled, my voice carrying a subtle sincerity that even surprised me.

“And if you’re worried about Luke,” Annabeth shrugged, “I’m sure he likes you, he is… Protective, it’s hard for him to let people in. It's a survival instinct, I suppose."

Survival instinct. The words hung in the air, resonating with the inherent dangers of our existence. Demigods, pursued by monsters, bound by the whims of gods—we lived in a constant state of vigilance.

Luke wouldn’t be wrong for holding on to it.

“I get it," I replied, empathizing with the complexities of their reality. "It must be tough."

Annabeth nodded, her expression softening. "We all have our struggles. Luke just… carries his differently."

As our conversation reached a natural pause, the car door creaked open, revealing Luke’s silhouette.

Luke returned from the pharmacy with a small bag in hand, his expression more neutral than before. As he slid back into the car, he handed the bag to Annabeth.

"Here, this should help for now," he said, his voice carrying a mix of concern and urgency. Annabeth took the bag, and I couldn't help but notice the worry etched on her face.

"What did you get?" I asked, glancing at the bag.

"Antibiotics and some bandages," Luke replied, his gaze shifting between Annabeth and me. "It's not much, but it's all we could manage for now. Thalia needs proper medical attention, and we're not far from my mother's place. We'll get her the help she needs there."

As Annabeth carefully assessed the medications, she turned to us, "Can you give me a couple of minutes before going back on the road? I need to manage it without worrying about speed bumps."

There was a collective understanding of the gravity of the situation. Thalia's condition required more than a quick pharmacy stop, but the interim measures were necessary. Luke and I exchanged glances, both realizing the priority at hand.

"Take your time," Luke reassured Annabeth. The car fell into a temporary stillness as we awaited the next steps.

Then, with a subtle shift, Luke turned his attention back to me. His eyes held a different intensity, as if he had something important to convey.

“Everything alright?” he asked, taking the leather wallet from his pocket and storing it in the glove compartment of the car.

“Yes,” I answered, “nobody bothered us while you were out and Thalia didn’t get worse.”

“Good, good,” Luke darted his eyes to the outside before looking at me again, “How did you know about the infection or the antibiotics?”

He might as well have noticed how Thalia’s leg was resting above my bag, but he didn’t address that point.

I gulped, scratching the nape of my neck, “My mother taught me a lot of things, how to treat injuries, name of medicines, how to get money… I think she knew that I would have to survive by myself one day”

That twinkle was back to Luke’s dark eyes, his lips twisted in a way as if repressing something.

“You can ask, you know,” I tried to encourage him, “A lot of strangers and the police had already asked me before, I’m used to”

“What happened to her?” finally, Luke asked, the known curiosity waltzing in his eyes.

“A cyclops found us,” I worried my bottom lip, forcing a smile on my face as I explained, “We were shopping for resources until I lost her from sight and heard her voice from afar, I could swear it was her…”

I didn’t need to continue, Luke understood where that story ended. Perhaps, being a demigod for a longer time than me, made him understand exactly how things would run in our lives.

“You must miss her,” that wasn’t a question.

In fact, the boy's tone of voice made me believe he understood the feeling very well.

“I do,” I agreed, rubbing my eyes before tears could show up again, “A lot.”

Luke fidgeted with his fingers, nodding again, but it felt more like a gesture to himself than to me.

"I'm sorry about earlier,” he managed to spill the words out, the thing he really wanted to say since he had sat down, “I just… Your idea helped a lot, I knew your idea would actually work.”

I raised my brow at that. I was still shocked by the fact he had apologized in the first place.

“It's just…” he sighed, shaking his head, “I don't know how to explain it. I'm usually the one who gives the ideas, and in less than half an hour, this awesome person came up with a plan to help my friend. It is complicated."

The sincerity in his words caught me off guard, definitely. I hadn't expected my suggestion would have that impact on him. I almost felt bad for doing so.

A hint of vulnerability surfaced beneath the layers of his guarded demeanor.

"Wait…” I stopped for a second, thinking back to his apology, “Do you think I am awesome?"

"Of course I do," Luke furrowed his brow, “What person who has just learned that he is a demigod goes face to face with a monster without knowing how to use a sword?”

Someone who isn’t afraid of death, but mad at it—I guessed.

“A pretty stupid one,” I said instead.

He simply shook his head, almost laughing at my answer, “I think a brave one would, and you did.”

I pressed my lips into a thin line, uncertain about what to say to that. Rarely, I was shy, and at the time I was stubborn enough to admit to myself that I was, in fact, shy.

“Ahm, you’re brave too,” I stared back at him, “You know, hitting monsters with that golf club.”

“I try my best,” he shrugged, darting his eyes to the golf club that rested next to his feet, “I kinda lost my sword, so now all I have is that thing.”

"You still do fine, hero," I smiled, fastening my seatbelt.

Caught off guard, Luke mirrored my movements. "Do you think so?"

"Of course I do," I echoed his earlier sentiment, and a genuine smile tugged at his lips.

As Annabeth seamlessly reentered the road after completing her task, a warmth settled within me. The connection forged in adversity lingered, leaving a scar on my heart—a good kind of scar.

The road stretched ahead, and in the comforting hum of the car, Luke's voice cut through the air, altering the course of our shared journey.

"You're part of this team now," Luke stated, a reassuring smile playing on his lips. "We stick together, demigods looking out for each other.”

Surprise registered on my face, and I searched his eyes for any hint of insincerity. Instead, I found a genuine invitation—an offer of companionship in a world that often felt isolating.

“What do you say?" he asked a final question.

The weight of the decision hung in the air, and for the first time in a long while, the prospect of not facing the world alone felt like a genuine possibility.

Taglist: @2hiigh2cry

(if you wish to be add to the taglist, let me know in the comments!)

[kamenridergotchard649]

You're Tuned To Crash FMWelcome back to the world of burning. It's time! Everyone's out for revenge. It's taken event organizers over a year to find the ultimate locations to fight and crash. Competitors will be charging hard through those newly scouted routes. You're going to have to stay sharp, because this time they feature alternate shortcuts and big air opportunities.We'll be going coast to coast in North America, heading east for Velvet Valley, then swinging by the technical back roads of Lone Peak and the industrial landscapes of Motor City. Make way for the super fast freeway at Sunshine Keys.It's a Revenge World Tour, remember, so we get to rip it up right through the heart of Europe. Dangerous curves of White Mountain make way for the cobbled streets of Eternal City. Buckle up, people. And of course, we get to go long haul, where the right side of the road is the wrong side of the road through the neon-filled nighttime Eastern Bay. Then tear through the urban hills of the awesome Central Route.Without a doubt, abilities will be pushed to the max on the Revenge World Tour. Now, for the first time in Burnout competition, stationary traffic is there to be nailed. We call it Checking Traffic. It's not just the rules and events; all the rides are different too. Gentlemen, start your engines!New competitors have entered the Burnout circuit. Local town will mix it up with the hottest burners from last year. Check out the hot new GP action. We have the very best of the hometown racers duking it out with those from out of state.Brand new to the racing action this year is the destructive Crash Breaker event. If you get taken out, detonate your vehicle for explosive revenge. This year, we have the new Eliminator format. Don't get caught in last place when the timer gets to zero.Road Rage, the crowd favorite, is back and even better than before. We'll be pitting competitors up against Rage Rival with some surprises thrown in for good measure. You better be prepared!One-of-a-kind custom-designed crash courses for the ultimate in destruction. Drivers are going to have to blow it up huge to win these new events. Survey the landscape, master the long control, conquer the wind, and power up your crash breakers. If you're lucky, you'll take down the bonus target car in a devastation. You gotta love it.The newest competition on the world circuit is a thrash through the traffic-filled streets. Check the traffic and get your revenge on rush hour. And remember, the clock is ticking. Enough talk. Time to drive!Keep it locked at Crash FM!

[furiousstarfishphilosopher]

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[tektronixtechnology]

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Road traffic counting surveys are conducted to gather data on the number and types of vehicles that use a particular road section or intersection. The traffic data collection usually includes details such as the number of vehicles, their speed, and direction of travel. This data can be used to develop traffic management plans, identify areas that require improvement, and estimate future transportation needs

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[cecilysass]

Shine On (6/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 6: Aches and Pains

Outside the Harvest Moon Cafe Arlington, Virginia February 22, 2015 3 pm

Scully crosses the street, surveying the sidewalk in front of the cafe to try to spot Mulder arriving. He could already be sitting inside, although she doesn’t see him sitting at any of the little tables visible through the front window.

The wind gusts abruptly, and she shivers, digging her hands into the satin-lined pockets of her blue wool coat. She can’t help but notice her heart rate has picked up, and she’s not sure why she’s so nervous. This conversation with Mulder is probably going to end up being frustrating. Really she should be bracing herself for that.

She stands just outside the front door and lightly hops from foot to foot to keep warm, looking swiftly up and down the stretch of sidewalk again. Maybe she should just go inside. If he’s not in there, she can at least sit down, warm up, and get a latte while she waits.

She’s turning to go in when she hears her phone buzzing, and she pulls it anxiously out of her purse.

Mulder. Of course.

She lets out a preemptive sigh and answers.

“Mulder, where are you?”

“I’m a half block away. I can see you,” Mulder’s voice replies. “I’m going to pull up next to you and you’re going to get in the passenger side, okay?”

“No, that’s not okay,” she replies, annoyed, trying to see his car. “That’s not what we said. We were going to meet at the cafe.”

“We can’t. Listen, I can explain once you’re in the car. We have to talk somewhere more private.”

“Am I being kidnapped, Mulder?”

“No, of course not,” he says. “Well, benignly kidnapped. I’ll return you. I don’t think you’re going to regret this though, Scully.”

He hangs up.

She wonders if there’s any chance she was right—that this is a birthday surprise. He did sound excited, almost breathless—something she hadn’t heard in his voice in a long time.

His car, now visible, weaves its way through the traffic that always seems to choke the roads around the hospital, even on the weekends. She can see him waving manically at her through the windshield. She allows him a half-hearted wave in return, pressing her lips together disapprovingly.

She should have asked more questions about this.

He pulls directly into a delivery zone in front of her, rolling down his window. “Come on,” he calls. “Hop in.” He’s surprisingly clean shaven and high energy. Something is definitely afoot.

“I’m not getting my latte?”

“I’ll stop and pick one up for you somewhere else. Come on, Scully.” He makes an urgent beckoning gesture with his hand.

She walks unhurriedly around the front of his car, feeling his eyes watching every leisurely step she takes. She opens the car door and slides into the pleasantly warm passenger seat. She throws Mulder a wary glare.

“Thank you,” Mulder says, exhaling, beginning to turn the wheel to steer them back onto the street. “Jesus, Scully.”

A movement in the back seat startles her, and she whirls her head around. There is a boy in sunglasses hunched down low in the seat, as though he’s avoiding the windows.

“Hello,” Scully says, uncertainly. She turns more fully to see him better. “I didn’t see you back there.”

“Hi,” the boy replies, his voice flat. He’s dressed in too-big clothes that seem to swallow up his slender frame. He’s dressed in Mulder’s old clothes, she realizes. Even the prized Yankees cap.

She turns to look questioningly at Mulder. He gives her a mysterious look before being required to devote his attention to the road again.

“What’s going on?” she asks. The boy’s presence causes her to speak more politely than she might otherwise. “Are we investigating an X-file, Mulder?”

“This is Jackson,” Mulder says, cryptic as ever. “Jackson came to me for help.”

“For help. Okay.” Scully twists around again to face the boy, who is uncomfortably adjusting his hat and sunglasses. “Jackson,” she says, “I’m Dana Scully.”

He lowers his sunglasses to look directly at her. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

When she sees his face, Scully’s breath catches.

“What?” Mulder says immediately. “What, Scully?”

She isn’t quite sure how to handle this. “I recognize him.”

“You do?” Mulder’s voice is sharp.

“From the news story,” Jackson’s voice cuts in. “She recognizes me from the news story.”

“He’s wanted by police for a serious crime.” She throws Mulder a significant look. “You know about this?”

“Yeah,” Mulder says, swallowing.

“I didn’t do it,” Jackson’s voice says quickly from the back seat. “I didn’t kill my parents. That’s what I need help with.”

What on earth has Mulder involved himself with? Scully thinks wearily. He’s not an FBI agent any more, and this is serious, a private citizen aiding and abetting someone accused of a crime, juvenile or not. She worries that Mulder is so depressed and rudderless that he could believe anyone with a compelling story. She certainly hopes he’s been alert enough to confirm the boy isn’t armed.

Scully turns around to look at Jackson directly again, adopting her placating, sensible doctor voice. “Did Mulder explain that sometimes the best, most practical thing to do is to turn yourself in?”

The boy only impassively stares back at her. It seems at first that he is unaffected by her question, but then his mouth begins trembling.

Scully scowls faintly. “Jackson, I’m only saying. Sometimes speaking with an attorney is the best… the most ...”

She loses her train of thought. A fat tear has sprung from the corner of his eye. Seeing it troubles her more than she expects.

“Okay, Scully, listen,” Mulder says. “Just back up for one second.”

But she’s stopped listening to Mulder, because she’s become preoccupied with the struggle happening on the boy’s face. The way he’s trying to set his jaw and harden his look. He’s trying to keep his expression indifferent—to look like he doesn’t care—but this only makes him look more vulnerable. Like what she’s said has badly hurt him, and like he’s scared she is about to do it again.

His expression reminds her of something. She stares at him openly, not bothering to hide her interest, trying to pinpoint it.

A part of her chest begins to tighten.

His wobbling bottom lip, which he’s now biting hard, is round. His eyes are green, the cool grayish green of sage. Not a common color, but one she knows well.

“I want to get us to a quiet spot. Let me drive out of Arlington,” Mulder continues. “Then we can talk. We need to talk.”

The boy abruptly breaks eye contact with her. He furiously wipes the moisture on his cheek with the back of his hand, scoots over to the window, and turns to look out.

“You’ll understand all of this once I have a chance to explain,” Mulder tells her. “I promise, Scully.”

Scully continues to stare, knowing she’s making the boy feel self-conscious. He hunches down lower, adjusting the baseball cap over his eyes.

He’s wearing Mulder’s hat. Mulder’s given him his Yankees cap.

She can hear the steady build of her heart pounding in her ears.

“She already knows,” Jackson announces gruffly to the window, almost like he’s talking to himself. “She’s figured it out. She doesn’t want to let herself believe it.”

Scully can only shake her head wordlessly.

Mulder’s eyes are now rapidly bouncing between Scully, the rearview mirror, and the road. “Is he right? Did you?”

“It’s … true?” Scully manages, her voice broken. Her eyes don’t leave the boy.

She feels Mulder’s hand rest on her leg for a beat, warm and steady. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s true.”

There is a pause. Scully’s eyes fall on Jackson’s attire.

Jackson looks down at the sweater he’s wearing, pulling it out in front of him to examine it. “She’s wondering if you gave me this sweater to wear on purpose,” he says to the back of Mulder’s head. “Because it was the shirt you were wearing when you held me for the first time.”

Scully can’t quite process how he’s knowing all of this. She finds herself gripping the edge of the car seat as though it’s going to keep her from falling. She tries to pull her thoughts together.

“Did you?” he asks, arching his body to see Mulder better. “Give it to me on purpose?”

“No,” Mulder says. His voice seems so bizarrely calm. “God, no, I didn’t. I remember that moment well, but I honestly wouldn’t have remembered what shirt I was wearing.

“Well, she does,” Jackson says. He slumps back down in his seat, stealing fast, furtive glances at Scully.

Scully sifts through all of the questions and holds on to the one that is currently most important to her.

“You’re sure?” she says to Mulder in a low voice. “You’re sure that it’s him?”

“Yes,” Mulder says. “I’m sure. I asked Skinner to run the DNA through the FBI labs.”

“I’m sure, too,” Jackson says. “In case you were wondering.”

She turns back to him, and she’s met by those burning resentful eyes so much like Mulder’s.

Startled, she tries to think of something meaningful to say to him.

But all she wants to do is look at him. She wants to drink every single detail of him in. She can’t help comparing him to what she remembers. That hair, so dark now, had been lighter and redder as a baby. His eyes had been bluer. His face had been so much rounder. Now it has the early adolescent beginnings of a pronounced jawline, one a little like Mulder’s.

And yet it is him. It’s him. The corners of her eyes burn and prickle.

“I recognize you now…” she says, unable to marshal the right words into a sentence. “Your face is …. I recognize your face.”

Jackson’s eyes meet hers for a moment, then shift to look back out the window again.

“How long have you…” She stops, trying to think what she’s trying to say. “How long has he been here?” she asks Mulder.

“Since right after you left on Friday. He came right after that.”

“That long,” she says, stunned. “You didn’t call.”

“I know. We were trying to figure it out. I wanted to be sure,” Mulder says. “I thought it would be… well. I just wanted to be sure, Scully.”

Scully nods robotically, more shocked than angry. Something occurs to her.

“He’s like Gibson Praise,” Scully murmurs to Mulder. “That’s how he …. knows what I am thinking. He’s a telepath.”

“Yeah,” Mulder agrees heavily.

“Gibson Praise?” repeats Jackson in the back.

Scully doesn’t answer, but leans back on her seat again, thinking in a panic of the considerable trouble Gibson had in his young life. Were Jackson’s parents murdered because of his ability? So someone could get to Jackson? How many people already are aware of what he can do?

Behind her she hears the sound of the boy restlessly squirming around. “You knew another kid with my abilities?”

“I told you we knew other people with your abilities, Jackson,” Mulder says gently.

“A kid. Younger than me. A chess champion. Who was in danger constantly?” he asks. “Where is he now? Were his parents murdered? Was he?”

“We can explain it all, but let’s just try to calm down,” Mulder replies.

Jackson’s head thumps back against the seat. He places the heels of his hands on his forehead.

“I can’t,” Jackson says tightly. “I can’t calm down. It’s not that easy.”

“Everything is going to be fine,” Mulder begins. “Just be—”

“No, no, you don’t understand. It’s coming at me so much… I can’t do anything, and it hurts.”

“What’s coming at you so much?” Scully asks sharply. “What hurts?”

“You,” Jackson says in a low voice. He covers his face with his hands, as if trying to block out daylight.

“Are you okay?” Mulder’s eyeing him.

“I need a second,” mumbles Jackson from beneath his hands.

Scully sends Mulder a quick, desperate look. Please help me understand.

“He can tune into everyone’s thoughts,” Mulder explains to her, his voice still maddeningly steady. “And usually he can control it. More than Gibson could, I think. But he seems to tune into you especially … clearly. It’s like an extra loud, powerful frequency. He, uh, noticed it the other day when he saw you leaving the house.”

“He saw me leave the house?” And he was listening to my thoughts? Scully tries to remember all she had been thinking. She had been so upset, so angry. She could have been thinking any number of nasty things in the heat of the moment, things she didn’t mean.

“Yeah, you were,” answers Jackson’s muffled voice. “All kinds of things. All kinds of feelings. Every kind of feeling out there. And everything you could feel, I could feel, too. But it’s even worse right now.”

Scully feels her chest tighten further. How is she supposed to think anything knowing he can hear everything? If her feelings hurt him physically, how is she supposed to stop herself from feeling them?

“What can I do to make this easier?” she asks, practically begging. “Can I shield my thoughts in some way?”

“Even if you could, it wouldn’t stop the feelings,” Jackson’s voice replies raggedly. “Maybe you could just try to stop your memories?”

“How do I do that?” Scully asks Mulder anxiously.

“Your memories are … “ Jackson gasps abruptly. “They are just so … Like there’s the baby. I keep seeing the baby. And Mulder. It’s… Oh. Fuck.” Jackson’s face seems to change color, and he begins to pitch forward and back. “It’s too much. I’m going to—” He taps urgently on Mulder’s shoulder. “Can we… can we pull over? Like really quick?”

Mulder nods grimly, starts to steer the car into the parking lot of a shopping area.

“What’s wrong, Jackson?” Scully asks him. “I’m a doctor. I might be able to help.” He just shakes his head, pressing a palm over his mouth.

Mulder finds a spot and pulls in. Immediately Jackson throws open the door and staggers out. He stumbles a few steps away, taking off the Yankees hat and bending over at the waist, his hands on his knees. Mulder and Scully exchange bewildered looks. Scully scoots to the door of the car, considering whether to go out after him.

Jackson throws up explosively on the pavement.

Mulder leaps out of the car and is at his side at once, placing a hand on his back. “Okay, all right,” he says gently. Finished, Jackson coughs, and his body seems to wrack with something like a sob. Mulder’s hand pats his shoulder soothingly. “You’re all right. We’re going to figure this out.”

He’s so good with him, Scully thinks before she can stop herself, her feelings mutinously ambivalent. She had always believed Mulder would make a good father, she wanted him to be a good father, but her fantasies about getting William back had always centered on her. Her reunion with her baby. She’d been the one who’d known William as an infant. Yet here Jackson and Mulder are, seemingly already in some kind of simpatico. She knows it’s wonderful, a miracle, but it also makes some part of her ache.

“Is this making your head hurt?” Mulder questions Jackson, trying to meet his eyes. “Is that what’s happening?”

She wonders if Mulder is remembering when the crushing weight of other people’s thoughts made his own head hurt. Jackson looks so pale, so overwhelmed. Right now, he reminds her eerily of Mulder in those days, back when she thought she might lose Mulder to his telepathic ability.

The boy doesn’t answer Mulder’s question, but instead slowly rotates over towards Scully. Too late she remembers. He can hear what I think.

Jackson blinks at her, his eyes rimmed with red. He then turns back to Mulder. “You were telepathic, too,” Jackson accuses him in a dull, scratchy voice.

“Yeah,” Mulder agrees, glancing over at Scully, too. “For a short while.”

“She’s remembering it now.” Jackson gestures to Scully. “You touched some old artifact. Then you could read minds.”

Mulder and Scully meet eyes for a moment from over Jackson’s shoulder. Mulder looks pained. “That’s right. It didn’t last. But I remember what it was like.”

“She’s wondering if that has anything to do with what I can do. It happened not that long before I was born.” Jackson stands up again, tugging at his oversized shirt. Scully can’t help but notice as he straightens up that he’s lean and tall, already taller than her. “Do you think it might?”

“I don’t know,” Mulder says. “I don’t know what exactly you can see in Scully’s mind. But there are a few reasons you could have these abilities. Both Scully and I were exposed to artifacts with… some kind of potency shortly before you were conceived. That could be it. But we also both had been infected with a virus that is probably extraterrestrial in origin. Hell, we had been exposed to a giant fungus that caused us to have a telepathic link within the year. It could have been several things.”

“Okay,” Jackson says wearily. “Yeah.” He puts his hands on his face.

“Are you good?”

“Yeah. No. Of course not. I mean … for one, I’m wondering what the hell your life is,” mumbles Jackson. “You just brought up so much crazy shit.”

“That’s something I do,” Mulder says. He smiles at Scully. “Ask her.”

Jackson doesn’t smile. “When you were telepathic, you were … sick. In the hospital. In a white room.” He swallows, gesturing again at Scully. “She was really scared.”

“Yeah,” Mulder agrees somberly. “I didn’t know how to control it. It was like tuning into every radio station from everyone’s mind at once. It wasn’t anything like what you can do right now.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t know how to control it right now.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Mulder says emphatically. “You’re just getting used to something new.”

Jackson again runs his hands through his hair, in what is maybe a self-soothing habit. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He takes a few steps back and forth, then turns back to Mulder. “But I think I need a break. Please. Can I have a break before we drive again? Just a few minutes?”

Scully can see Mulder’s indecision in his body language, on his face. She grips her own leg in anxiety, wishing she could contribute to the conversation, but she doesn’t want to make things worse for Jackson.

“Whatever we do, you definitely need to get back in the car,” Mulder says to Jackson. He looks around, setting his jaw. They’re standing in a small parking lot along a busy road, within eyesight of a shopping center with a phone store, Chinese takeout, a pharmacy, a bakery. It’s mid-afternoon and there are other people walking to and from their cars, although the three of them seem to have avoided direct attention for the moment. “I don’t want you to be noticed,” he adds quietly. “I’m already worried about security cameras in the lot. You don’t think you could make it if we just drove back to my house? You could have a break there.”

“Maybe.” Jackson’s tongue darts out and nervously licks his lip. “But maybe I could lie down in the car for like fifteen minutes and you guys could go somewhere else, maybe get coffee or something? I just need to be away from all the feelings … for little while.”

His eyes snap over Scully again, and it hits her like a swift slap: she is “all the feelings.” It’s her he needs a break from.

Mulder dips his head up and down in a slow nod. “Okay,” he says in a measured voice. “That seems reasonable. In the car.” He looks over towards her. “We can go see if the bakery has lattes. Right, Scully?”

She hesitates. “All right.”

“The bakery is … far enough?” Mulder asks carefully.

Jackson looks around the shopping center, squinting at the store fronts. “Yeah,” he says. “I think so. Enough to make it easier. I haven’t really had this happen before.” He avoids Scully’s gaze. “But I think even a little farther is better.”

She tries not to react to that. She draws upon every bit of the professional armor she’s amassed over the years, and she slides out of the car, smoothing her pants and coat with a stoic expression.

Jackson watches her, then, pausing to pick up the Yankee hat, climbs into the back seat of the car again.

“All right,” Mulder says. “Just be careful.”

Jackson scrambles over the seat and immediately lies on his side, curling up, folding his arms over his chest in a too-familiar way that makes Scully’s heart ache again. He looks exhausted.

She spins around abruptly and begins walking quickly and determinedly through the parking lot. It will give them both relief, she realizes, if she moves herself away sooner rather than later.

Mulder lingers behind to say a few more words to Jackson, then jogs to catch up with her.

“Scully?” he says as he reaches her, cupping her elbow. “You okay?”

She throws him an incredulous look. “I don’t know … how I could possibly answer that question.”

“I know,” Mulder says. “I know that his not being able to be near you … is painful. We’re going to fix it. I know we are.”

She turns to face Mulder. She knows the signs of when he is excited, energized, and she sees them now. His eyes are intensely bright; his mouth is moving, twitching, like it is searching out a sunflower seed to latch on to. Mulder is so unbelievably happy, she realizes with a sharp shock. She can’t remember the last time she has seen him so unequivocally ebullient. It may have been the time he wore the shirt Jackson is wearing and held his newborn son.

Suddenly, Scully feels churlish. Mulder’s reaction is probably much more appropriate here than her own self-centered hurt feelings.

“It’s a dream come true to see him,” she acknowledges quietly, beginning to walk again.

“I know,” he exclaims quickly, keeping pace with her. “I know! Isn’t it? He’s great, too, Scully. He’s so smart. He’s a math guy. And when he was organizing my books for me—he reminded me so much of you. He sounded exactly like you.” He shakes his head. “I just wish he hadn’t had this shit happen to him. With his parents.”

“Mulder, I–” They are standing in front of the bakery now, and she turns to stare back across the lot at the car, wondering how well Jackson can read their thoughts from here. “Mulder, do you think it’s wise to leave him in the car like this? Is it possible he would try to run?”

Mulder follows her gaze. “No. No way,” he says. “Not possible.”

“He seemed rattled,” Scully points out. “He might not be thinking clearly. I clearly distressed him. You don’t think he might … be overwhelmed and decide to go?”

“He wasn’t considering running at all, Scully. He wants to get to know you. Or actually, he wants you to know him. He wants it really, really badly,” Mulder says.

Scully makes a little exasperated hiss. “Mulder,” she says. “I appreciate you putting a nice spin on things, but I don’t think the evidence points that direction. And it’s fine. He’s a young teen, and they’re not always rational or empathetic. I don’t need him to like me. We just have to protect him.”

Mulder sighs heavily, and looks around the parking lot as if carefully weighing his next words. “Scully,” he says. “I’m not putting a nice spin on things.”

“Mulder, I don’t know what you—”

“I know he wants to get to know you. With certainty.”

“He told you?”

“Not exactly.”

Scully blinks at Mulder, losing her patience.

“Let’s go in and have some coffee,” Mulder suggests. “Because there are a few more things I need to fill you in on.”

***

[nuri148]

Distances in AoT

Or: Yams has no idea of geography and the relationship between distance and travel times in AOT makes no sense.

PART TWO: GEOMETRY AND PONIES

In the first part, we’ve seen how freaking huge the distances between the main districts of the Walls are. Here is a summary:

Center-Sina: 250 km

Sina-Rose: 130 km (Center-Rose: 380 km)

Rose-Maria: 100 km (Sina-Maria: 230 km; Center-Maria: 480 km)

To go from a District to the next on the same wall:

Along wall Sina: 393 km (352 if cutting in a straight line between the two)

Along wall Rose: 597 km (537 in a straight line)

Along wall Maria: 754 km (~720 in a light curve, as straight line not possible)

Here’s a summary of the shortest distances (combining radius and chords) between districts:

(I’ve only put the most frequently mentioned in canon)

Throughout canon, we see the characters moving between a handful of Districts. To the iniciated it may look like said travels are a tad too fast considering the means of transport that they use. It’s okay. The insta-travel effect has been seen in every other epic fictional world, be it the Middle Earth, Westeros or Narnia. And we’re willing to suspend our disbelief. But AoT has a crucial difference in that sense.

We’ve been told the exact distance between the walls. In kilometres, not some fictional or obscure, ancient measure unit. Suspending disbelief does not come easy when the numbers are exact.

It’s like when you’re watching a movie, and the hero has only 10 minutes to get to the bomb before it detonates, so he races through the streets of, say, Paris, and they go from the Louvre, to the Arc de Triomph, wreck havoc on a market along the Seine, rush through Montmartre, around the Eiffel Tower and skid to a halt when the car crashes in front of the Opera. And most people will be ok with that, but the few millions who live in or know Paris are like... Nope. That’s not possible. Not even with 007’s Aston Martin or the Batmobile. That makes absolutely no sense. It’s ten times worse if the hero is running.

Well, guess what, the Survey Corps do not travel in the Batmobile.

The Survey Corps travel by horse. On longer expeditions, they also have horse-drawn carts.

Now, if you fill up the tank of your BMW and pad your butt, you can drive the 480 km (road distance) from Berlin to Ansbach in about 4:40 hours without traffic. That’s not stopping for anything other than traffic lights, and using some of the best highways in the world. That’s an average of 102 km/h. With normal traffic, you could do that in 5:30 hours, averaging 87 km/h. That’s how long a badass modern car would take to go from Mitras to Shiganshina.

But, and this may come as a shock, a horse is not a car.

First and foremost, a horse cannot ride as fast as a car. As per the Publicly Available Information from canon, “The stable horses used by the Survey Corps are selectively bred (...) and travel for many hours without complaining. (...) Their top speed is between 75–80 km/h, and they can maintain a swift 35 km/h gallop. The horses are tenacious, able to maintain a fine speed of 20 km/h even when pulling a carriage.”

For one good thing in all this mess, numbers are in accordance with real horses. And I have no problem accepting that the SC horses are the cream of the crop when it comes to speed and resistance, like our fastest horses and most resistant horses combined. But horses, I repeat, are not cars.

Cars are machines. Horses are living, sentient beings. They cannot fill their stomach like a car a gas tank and run at top speed until it empties, rinse and repeat. They need food and water. They need shoes. They need bathroom stops (they can shit while walking, but they need to stop for pee). But mostly, they need rest. Horses can and do die of exhaustion. (And given that SC horses are super expensive, you don’t want to work them to death.)

A horse can maintain its maximum speed for only 3 km—4 for a race champion. That’s the maximum length of horse track races, actually. After such a sprint, they need to rest for a while. So even when dodging titans, you won’t do so at top speed – you just need to be faster than the enemy. Obviously, the slower the gallop, the longer the time it can be maintained, so sprinting at less-than-top-speed will allow to dodge more titans.

When you’re just travelling from point A to point B, then, you won’t waste the precious energy of the horse in a sprint. Those journeys would be made at a lower speed, for the faster you make the horse go, the more, longer stops it will need to rest, catch its breath, eat and drink. Likewise, if the horse is carrying weight, it will go slower and need more rest. Long distance horses can only cover 50–60 km per day—And before someone says endurance competition horses can run over 100–160 km in a day... that is not the same as 100 km per day, in the same way marathon runners don’t do 42 km per day; they do them in a day. The day of the race. After training specifically for that race. Then they rest for a few days. Horses are the same. Moreover, long distance endurance races have mandatory vet checks along the way to see that the horse is able to keep going. And if you have an expensive horse and no vet every 20 km to check it, you will take care not to push it, lest it collapses midway and the titans eat you.

So, considering SC horses are specially bred for endurance, we can safely equate them to long-distance working horses of our world; I’ll assume they’re the GOAT and can cover 60 km per day.

But wait! I hear some of you say. If they can go at 35 km/h, they can cover much more than 60 km a day! Er... no. Because they need to rest. They cannot trot at 35 km/h for 8 hours straight. They can’t even walk for that long without stopping to rest. Same as like Marathon runners never reach the same speeds as sprinters and middle-distance runners. 

Please note that this numbers refer to a single horse. You can cover longer distances, or cover a given distance faster, if you change your horse for a freshly rested one at given points. This is not an instant process: the new horse will have to be tacked and you’ll have to transfer the cargo, if any, from horse A to horse B (in AoT world, they cannot text the next station to have the horse tacked when they arrive). A convoy of several horses will be slightly slower and, I repeat, if there are carts, the whole convoy will be conditioned to the slowest cart (the horse/s will be slowed by the cart in the same way a car is slowed if you attach a trailer to it). In every rest station, the horse needs to be untacked and then re-tacked before continuing, same as hikers will put down their backpacks when taking a break.

For reference, The Pony Express, the fastest horse dispatch system ever, could cover 300 km per 24-hour day (they rode day and night). They managed to cover that much that by having a huge infrastracture that allowed the rider to change horses every 16-24 km, and pass the dispatch to another rider every 75 km or so. That’s 4-7 horses every 100 km.

So either AoT horses are more magical than My Little Pony ones or Yams cannot distinguish between a horse and a Ferrari.

Guess which one I’m betting on.

Side Comment: The Ferry

Talking about this with one of my fandom friends, she mentioned her bafflement that they didn’t use the ferries that we see in the first chapters evacuating people from Shiganshina to transport  themselves quickly from place to place. I thought she had a good point, so I looked into it. Thankfully for Yams though, I looked into this and it’s not really an option.

The steam engine is unknown in Paradis, so the ferries would have to be operated manually. (The publicly available info panel on the subject comes from the Lost girls OVA, so its canonicity is questionable, and it has contradictory info saying they are moved via wires along the river (as manual ferries do) but also that they are powered by the same gas as the VMG – which make little sense bc then you don’t need the wire and why not have a railway as well?). And the maximum speed a manually hauled barge can attain is not better than that of a horse. For a RL example, the fastest that horse-drawn barges travelling the Canal du Midi in the 19th century could reach was 32 hours for the 240 km ride... changing horses every 10km. Before that, it took four days. That’s 13 hours for 100 km – basically the same time it took the SC to go from Trost to Wall Maria in RtS, but without the possibility to change course if the road’s blocked or to dodge titans if they attack (and provided they had the fresh horses every 10 km, which they wouldn’t in RtS).

That said, I do think Yams totally forgot about the ferries.

Part 3

[female-malice]

Women's freedom of movement and freedom to cycle have been at the heart of feminism for 130 years

And men know this. And that is why they harass female cyclists. They want to intimidate us and keep us from claiming our freedom through cycling.

The most recent counts by the City of Portland estimate that only three out of every 10 bicycle riders are women and the gender split hasn’t budged since counting started in 2006. In east Portland, the City tabulated just 17% of all bike riders as women. As we ponder the reasons for this disparity, a survey has revealed one factor that’s causing it: the high rate of demeaning interactions and aggressive behaviors some women experience while riding.

A survey conducted in February by nonprofit BikeLoud PDX asked women to describe the worst or most common incident of abuse they’ve experienced while cycling. A shocking 311 out of the 329 women who answered that question reported some level of traumatic incident. The woman who led the survey project, Cathy Tuttle, analyzed the results and found that 229 respondents experienced a Level 3 Trauma (swearing, honking, catcalling, rolling coal, etc), 53 experienced a Level 2 Trauma (deliberate close pass, tailgating, menacing, etc), and 29 experienced a Level 1 Trauma (hit and run, throwing projectiles, aggressive stalking, etc) — the most severe category of abuse.

The vast majority of these aggressive behaviors came from people driving cars. Respondents said 88% of the aggressors were in cars, 7% were identified as homeless people and 5% were other bike riders.

In a summary of the survey results made public Monday, Tuttle shared several examples of the responses. I’ve pasted a few of them below:

A man screaming “get the f*ck off the road” repeatedly while I was cycling on a low traffic route downtown, revving their engine constantly and pulling up too close behind me. I finally got off the road, shaking and crying and called 911. The dispatcher told me there was “nothing we can do, it’s not illegal.” She didn’t want me to report the behavior, even though I had the license plate.

I had a driver stop to tell me that I needed a rear bike light so they could see me. I didn’t respond so the continued to verbally harass me. When the light changed they followed me and kept trying to yell at me. Eventually I came to park and biked into it so they couldn’t follow me. I was scared to bike for a while after that.

A woman yelling out her (passenger) side window “hit the bitch” after I pointed to the stop sign that they were rolling through when I had right of way.

Tuttle also included a longer response from someone who took the survey that is worth reading (edited slightly for brevity):

After he physically threatened me with his car, and after honking, I was told by a man, “I’m going to kill you the next time I see you” while I was biking — legally — on a typically busy (but not at all busy right then) 3 or 4-lane one-way road that has no cycling-specific infrastructure and doesn’t see much bike traffic, but which was at the time a crucial connector that I needed to be on to get across a freeway without going extremely far out of my way…

He didn’t yell it. He said it slowly, deliberately. I’ll never forget it. It wasn’t inflamed reactive rage; it was a slow, methodical, simmering threat. He looked right at me. I can still hear it many years later: I’m going to kill you. I’ve had men in SUVs and trucks deliberately swerve into me, almost, but not quite, hitting me more times than I can count. This is a cross-Oregon problem, in urban, suburban, ex-urban, and rural areas, all of which I’ve biked in extensively. I’ve been called a dumb c—, a stupid b—-, and other misogynist slurs, again, more times than I can count. I’ve also been treated to yelling misogyny from male street joggers, who run in the street against traffic all the way to the side of the road, right where cyclists typically are… This is weirdly common in Portland, and they are often very rhetorically and even physically aggressive. I’ve also been in collisions with street joggers, and their dogs, and I, the cyclist, have always been the more injured person, so it’s a real problem actually. I’ve encountered groups of 3 men jogging with 2 or 3 huge dogs who are taking up literally the entire street and are very aggressive when confronted with a cyclist — me, one woman — trying to get to work. Once I was biking to work in Portland with a male cyclist who was behind me, and a truck deliberately swerved into me at a high rate of speed to threaten me or worse, and the man who was biking behind me chased the driver down and yelled at him because he saw it all happen in a way I did not have the vantage to and he was pissed. The truck driver was likely annoyed by my male companion, who he encountered first, but didn’t do anything. Then when he encountered me, he became enraged and deliberately tried to intimidate me by swerving into me. If anything had “gone wrong,” I’d probably be dead now, due to the speed of the driver. Still have a pretty visceral reaction to light blue Leer-brand pick-up truck toppers to this day because of this decades-ago incident. None of these described incidents are rare, aberrant, unusual, or even, really, worthy of note anymore, but they’re the specific ones that come immediately to mind with no thought at all, but that are representative of a whole problem. They happen ALL THE TIME, for seemingly no reason often. The misogyny comes out almost immediately, reflexively. I feel that if a female cyclist doesn’t preemptively display deference to motorists — of any sex, but especially male — they will be targeted, and if we’re assertive, then all the more so. But cyclists need to be assertive to be safe. Male cyclists too often seem like they’re not our allies (aside form the aforementioned male cyclist — this was actually a rare instance in my experience). The dismissive ‘male glance’ is real, on the bike as in all of life. I can distinctly recall men realizing another cyclist (me, almost 50) is behind them, at a red light or whatever, and looking back, only to discover a woman who is older than he is, on a not-interesting-to-him bike, with no interesting blingy gear on it, and have him turn away, barely able to acknowledge I was there at all. What was he expecting to see? A sexualizable object young enough to be worthy of his attention? Men are far more sexist than they can admit. As many jobs become more gender-integrated, men find new ways to assert their male supremacy. There seems to me to be a distinct strain of “biking everywhere with no infrastructure makes me a man” in the Portland bike ecosystem and it’s detrimental to a lot of folks, not just adult women. We live in a deeply sexist society and misogynist backlash to feminist gains is observantly real across both dominant culture and most if not all subcultures. Women already experience this whether they have the interpretive lens to see it or not. Many women I know just don’t want to be extra-burdened by the physical and emotional danger of biking routinely for transportation, because they’re already burdened enough in a way men just aren’t.

The responses to this survey give us all a lot to think about and should add urgency to create a better cycling environment in Portland.

Tuttle based her survey on one conducted by the Women’s Freedom campaign in London. She said after hearing similar responses to their survey, bike advocates in London built an entire campaign around it with rides, petitions, letters to city council, etc.

What should Portland do to address this problem?

— Read the survey summary here.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

Defund the police blamed for post-covid cognitive decline, apparently lmao. Since when has a citation ever stopped a traffic accident? This is like blaming 2020 "lockdowns" on children still suffering learning losses (e.g. "Not having an exponential increase in test scores for the 20th year in a row) in 2024.

By TJ Martinell

The number of annual traffic fatalities in Washington state has jumped from 528 in 2019 to 810 in 2023, a 51% increase since 2019, according to the Washington Traffic Safety Commission.

The reasons given for the increase vary, ranging from fallout among law enforcement staffing via the defund the police movement in 2020 to increased substance abuse amongst drivers.

Both the WTSC and the Washington State Patrol last year made public statements about the rise in traffic fatalities that made 2023 the deadliest since 1990. At the time of the statements in August 2023, there were 417 traffic fatalities, a little more than half of the annual total.

While deaths by police pursuit in the past have hogged the political spotlight despite being statistically insignificant in comparison, commission staff have described the state’s traffic fatalities as a “safety crisis.”

WTSC Director Shelly Baldwin noted at the WTSC’s Thursday meeting that “our increase is kind of across the board,” but also “Washington is … kind of really an outlier by itself” among the states.

“Motorcycles [fatalities] has reached a high that they've never seen before historically,” she said.

Speculation as to why traffic fatalities increased varied. Mason County District Court Judge George Steele, who represents the District and Municipal Court Judges' Association on the commission, told colleagues that “a lot of pressure on policing started in 2020. Police departments had trouble filling their ranks. In my county … there was a period of time almost every DUI case that came across my bench was responding to an accident. Driver went off the road. sometimes joke with people if we just get rid of ditches, we wouldn't have any more problems. Ditches seem to be catching a lot of drunk drivers.” He added that “there's not enough people out there. I think it's pretty clear that enforcement has suffered during all this time. Lack of people are available to take the jobs, fill the, fill the ranks of what had to and, as a result, in case they're not being enforced, you're going to get more of the behavior. If you don't look at that part of it, you're not to be having a whole lot of success and making inroads into that problem.” WSTC Distracted Driving Program Manager Janine Koffel remarked that “I think a fundamental challenge that we face with speed management is the lack of perception of risk by drivers, perception of risk that they're going to get a ticket. If they're going to get stopped for speeding and that they'll get a ticket, they have a low perception of risk for serious injury or fatal crashes.” She said a statewide survey they conducted found that 78% of drivers admitted driving at 10 miles per hour or more over speed limits within a month’s time. “We need to work cooperatively to determine strategies and messaging that…really pivot the perception of risk in relation to speed risk,” she said. “That's where enforcement plays a critical role. We need citations for everyone, soccer moms, and all.” Another fallout from 2020 has been increased use of substances such as alcohol or cannabis by drivers, according to WTSC External Relations Director Mark McKechnie. At the same time, he said there are a lot of drivers who are able to get a license without going through a driving education course. “If they haven't had that basic education as their foundation on what the rules of the road are and how to drive safely and how to understand those risks from speeding and other behaviors, then it's hard to remind them of something that they may not have learned well in the first place,” he said. He added that “we need more sidewalks and protected bike lanes and we need infrastructure that encourages people to slow down.”