There’s very little that Annabeth hates more than feeling helpless. She’s never been happy to sit on the sidelines while her friends walk into battle. And here she is, rendered helpless as the person she cares most about fights all by himself.
Alright, he’s not completely by himself, there’s a satyr with him, but this does little to quell the worry in her heart.
“Why did he have to go?” she asks Chiron for the hundredth time.
She’s standing on the porch of the Big House, stance firm, arms crossed over her chest, scowl marking her face. Chiron sits next to her in his wheelchair and patiently explains to her, again, why it was Percy who left the camp to retrieve the lone demigod, unaware of his identity and hunted because of it, traipsing around Brooklyn.
“He’s perfectly capable of looking after himself.”
“I know that,” Annabeth snaps, unable to help herself.
Chiron’s voice remains level, reasonable despite her sharp tone. “He was here when we needed someone, Annabeth. There was no reason for it not to be him.”
You should have called me, she wants to say. I should have been here, she scolds herself.
“They should have been back by now,” she says instead.
Chiron murmurs vaguely in response.
Percy has fought without her many times before. He’s been fighting since he was twelve years old and at seventeen, he’s one of the best demigod fighters Camp Half Blood has seen. But that doesn’t mean Annabeth won’t worry about him. Because she’s seen his very best and worst. She’s seen his spiteful rage reduce him to a whirlwind of fury, only to be reclaimed to himself by her hands and her words. And she’s seen the aftermath of a battle, she’s seen him beaten to his knees, seen him drowning in a river with all hope torn away from him. She’s pulled him back to himself, both in the midst of battle, and out of it.
And now he’s out there without her.
Annabeth feels guilt creep into her chest, heavy and binding, with these thoughts. She hates that she doubts him, hates it with every part of her being. And she knows that she will not always be able to be there, but it’s been merely months since the war, since they dragged each other out of the swallowing darkness, and she doesn’t quite feel ready yet. Ready to trust that he will come back to her every time he leaves.
The other part of her simply misses him. She hadn’t woken up this morning expecting him to be gone and it opens up an old ache, a wound which never truly healed even after he returned to her. Those months had been spent with arms curled around her chest as if to hold it together, with bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep and relentless tears. She just wants him back, safe.
“Annabeth,” Chiron murmurs.
She looks up just in time to see three figures tripping over the boundary line next to Thalia’s tree. Peleus lifts his head and sniffs at them before tucking his head back under his wing and resuming his nap. Annabeth is frozen to the spot. They look fine. Percy’s figure, the tallest of the three, lopes easily down the hill. She watches as he touches the lid of his pen to his sword and it shrinks small enough to be tucked into his jeans pocket.
“Fetch some one from the Apollo cabin for me?” Chiron asks. Annabeth turns to him indignantly and he sighs. “Please, Annabeth. Nothing will happen in the sixty seconds it takes you to run over there and run back.”
She sends a glare his way before glancing again at Percy and his companions’ approaching figures, still too far away to make out any expressions or injuries, and turns her back on them to sprint down to the cabins. Chiron’s right, it takes her less than sixty seconds to run to the Apollo cabin, stick her head inside the door long enough to yell that someone needs to report to the medbay, and sprint back up to the big house.
She’s always been a fast runner.
The young demigod looks startled, his eyes are wide and staring as the satyr half-carries him past the porch of the big house towards the medbay. Annabeth spares them both a glance long enough to notice the bloody trickling down the young boy’s wrist from underneath his jacket sleeve and the bruising on the satyr’s face, and then her attention is drawn away, to Percy. He’s talking quietly to Chiron, rubbing a dark mark on his cheek and spreading it further across his skin. It looks like dirt, not blood, to Annabeth’s relief. He’s frowning until he looks up and meets her eyes, and then his expression morphs from surprise to relief, and then to guilt.
Annabeth surges forwards anyway, grabbing him by the shoulders, firm, wide shoulders, tense and there and alive. He’s alive. She wraps her arms around them and pulls him in close, feeling his breath rush out of him as their chests crash together. Percy’s arms come around her belatedly, and he rubs her back soothingly as if to say, it’s okay, I’m here. She loves him for that.
Annabeth withdraws from the circle of his arms and promptly whacks him on the shoulder.
“That’s for playing hero.”
He scowls at her, rubbing his shoulder and opening his mouth to say something to her. Annabeth grabs his cheeks between her palms and kisses him firmly on the mouth, stopping his words of complaint in their tracks. It’s all tense lips and clacking teeth and quiet moans and it’s over in a moment as they both gasp for breath, foreheads pressed together.
“That’s for being a hero,” she mumbles.
Percy’s answering smile helps her heart settle in her chest. His hands stroke her cheeks, smearing dirt there, and he dips his head to kiss her again, more gently this time.
“I won’t go without you again. Promise.”
It’s a promise she knows he won’t keep, can’t keep; one she knows she can’t expect him to keep, but it makes her feel better anyway. It reminds her of his words as he clutched onto her wrist underneath Rome, the only thing preventing her falling alone into the seemingly endless pit, We’re staying together. You’re not getting away from me. Never again.
And her answering promise, As long as we’re together.
Here’s the finished piece of Nathan Canty Graphic Design’s VW Bora.
Nathan is a rad friend of mine who I met through cars and connected with through art and design.With an upcoming colab underway as we speak, I produced this to coincide with the project. This will be available as a print along with other drawings in the next few weeks so keep an eye out!
A big thank you to Mark at MRKODNGHE for the reference photo, the shoot of Nathan’s Bora is outstanding.
Here’s my 20-21 week progress with being PT’d by @CS__Fitness!! I keep thinking there’s some illusion, but other than the house move the mirror and stance etc are all the same.
I’m also sharing my weight loss graph from the SW website—I started Slimming World when I was 191.5lbs (I originally started at 193.5lbs)—So you can see my progress on weight loss/gain. I’m constantly seeing progress in pictures than, of course, the scales. So I urge anyone who’s trying to lose weight to concentrate on your body and not the number on the scales (although it does help sometimes).
Back in the day, the BBC had a bit of a problem with the idea of the Doctor being romantic with his companions. They made up an actual official rule stating “no hanky-panky in the TARDIS”. Some writers ran with it and intentionally wrote the Doctor as asexual — in some cases citing his Time Lord heritage as the reason, others making his orientation part of his character.
Some other writers (and actors) didn’t care for the idea at all, and portrayed the Doctor as someone who’s not at all averse to getting physical with his friends. This idea especially took hold when Paul McGann was cast in the part and, after those first couple of snogs with Grace, he spent much of his time in the novels kissing (and being kissed by) everyone under the sun.
So the short answer is, it depends on the writer. And even then, it depends on when the story is written, since writers are just regular people who can change their minds over time. For example, Paul Cornell explicitly used the word “asexual” when describing his Shalka Doctor — and can also talk your head off at conventions nowadays about how much he loves the idea of the Doctor and the Master doin’ it.
Marc Platt rather infamously came up with the looms, as a way for Gallifreyans to reproduce without the BBC getting all angry about it. What a lot of people don’t realise is that looms and sex are in no way mutually exclusive. Looms were created because the Time Lords were cursed to be infertile. Infertility led to a distaste for the physical, the biological. But when Lance Parkin writes about looms, he also writes about illegal brothels in the Citadel lowtown; when Lawrence Miles discusses looms, he elaborates on how the War eventually forced the Great Houses to re-evaluate their stance on natural reproduction and to create biological children again, the old-fashioned way. Much of Who lore points to Time Lords being culturally asexual
innately, and simply really, really out of touch with physical pleasure.
We’ve seen plenty of characters with Gallifreyan genes — Iris Wildthyme, Robert Scarratt,
River Song — who are intensely sexual. We’ve seen the Doctor being
attracted to his companions, and perhaps romantically or physically as well. For the moment, no, we don’t know if he’s asexual or not. We don’t know if he’s aromantic or not. It’s all still left for the fans to interpret. And if he’s ever revealed to be one thing or another, we will always have the freedom to say: but that’s only in this regeneration, or in these circumstances, or in this timeline for these reasons.
So, yes, I believe the Doctor can be seen as asexual and there’s nothing in canon to contradict that. I also believe that the Doctor can be seen as pansexual, panromantic, polyamorous and a little bit in love with just about everyone he meets, and there’s nothing in canon to contradict that either.
Because in the end, that’s what Doctor Who is about — it’s a series so malleable that no matter what happens, everyone can see aspects of themselves reflected and represented by the characters. And the show will never stop changing. And it’s all good.
For decades rumors have swirled of an alarming trend taking place at Disney theme parks – that some people were dumping the cremated ashes of their dead relatives during some of the darker, indoor attractions. While there’s no official confirmation that this phenomenon is actually taking place, plenty of former employees allege that it’s a relatively common occurrence. And some of them have even pleaded online for the perpetrators to cut it out, since they’re basically dooming their departed loved ones to a final destination of getting sucked up into a shop vac and unceremoniously tossed in a dumpster.
In 2007, a brief ruckus ensued when a woman was reported to be sprinkling an unidentified substance over the side of the Pirates Of The Caribbean boat she was riding in. Though panicked staff immediately shut the ride down, neither the substance (described as a powder that dissipated quickly in the water) nor the culprit were ever found. Disney disputed any possibility that whatever it was that got dispersed could be human remains, because of course they did. This was relatively easy to do, seeing as how the police declined to even investigate the incident due to lack of evidence. In fact, The House Of Mouse’s official stance is that nobody has ever scattered ashes at the park, despite the fact that they get requests for it on a regular basis and allegedly have a specific protocol in place to deal with the aftermath.
You ignored it and growled out, “Who the hell are you?”
“Woah, love, put the knife down. You know you don’t wanna hurt me.” He said cockily and smirked– almost as if he knew something you didn’t. He then looked at you with adoration and kindness.
“Why does he have to be so attractive?” your whined to yourself. You stomped your foot.
“Get the hell out of my house.” you made a ready stance and pulled the weapon in a little so you could jab him if he came near.
“No,” he spat. He wasn’t gonna go away. You thought about a few moments ago– specifically about his gaze.
In a flash, you pulled the knife to your throat. You knew you wouldn’t do it, but he didn’t know that.
“Stop! Put it down!” he screamed and tried to come closer. You panicked and pressed it more firmly, causing it to nick your throat, a large cut at that. You whimpered and felt the blood start to trickle. Your head began to pound and your grip on the knife loosening. Your knees locked and your eyelids began to droop. You heard the blade clatter against the floor and your knees gave out, not wanting to support you anymore. You felt the tingles encase your body once more.
He was holding you.
Then you couldn’t see nor feel anymore.
Michael ran and grabbed something to stop the bleeding.
Michael worriedly carried you back to his house. He walked onto the property and heard people talking. He softly set you on a part of grass and walked into his home.
“Shut up! I’ve brought a girl, she’s asleep…” he yelled. He hurried outside grabbed you. It was fairly late, so he put you in his bed and let you unconsciously cuddle yourself into his sheets. He quickly took off his shirt and his pants and flung them somewhere in his room. He got under the sheets and pulled you to him. You snuggled into his chest, and he sighed deeply.
He knew nothing could ruin this moment. He also knew that nothing lasts forever because there was always something holding someone back.
You woke up with a gasp. You wanted to get up, but something was holding you down. You looked over to see the man who had kidnapped you and froze. He had a smile on his face and looked happy. To be honest, he kinda creeped you out.
“Get out!” you told yourself, but then it told you to “stay…” You lifted his limb and rolled stealthily out of the bed. You turned around to see him frown and reach out for a stuffed lion figure. You tip-toed out the door and down the hallway. You snuck down the stairs, but stopped when you smelt something glorious. Food. You walked strait to the source, which would be the kitchen. You saw a few girls sitting at a table, and some people cooking while wearing uniforms. You poked your head in and went to turn around when you heard a voice.
“Why do you smell like my boyfriend?” a high-pitched voice asked.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’m just leaving…” you nervously laughed.
“Are you a prostitute? Are you that desperate?” she sassed.
“I’m sorry, I– I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“You’re not dumb, I can tell. But do you know what is dumb?”
“I– I don’t–”
“Sleeping with my boyfriend! I’m going to be luna, and don’t you dare think that you can take that away from me.”
“W–What’s a– a luna?” you stuttered, confused.
“Oh, the bitch is human.” she spat with fake sympathy. “Michael must have been shit-faced wasted to consider you.”
“I am Michael.” You two both averted your eyes to see a tall figure with unnaturally blonde hair. “Amber, what have I told you?” he rolled his eyes.
She slinked up to him and put a hand on his chest, and the other on his arm. You felt something pang in your chest, but you ignore it. “Baby, you told me that you loved me an you were going to make me your luna…”
He quickly removed her arms and took a step away from her. “Amber, I have told you none of that, so get it in your sick mind that I am not in love with you. Never have been, never will be,”
Amber stomped loudly and pouted unattractively, “Then what about her?” she whined, pointing to you.
“Her?” Michael laughed. “That’s my mate!” Amber gasped and growled.
You opened your mouth, you had no idea of what was going on.
You cleared your throat, “Um, excuse me?” Both heads turned to you. One eyes filled with hate, while the others were filled with love. “What’s a mate?”
For my fiancée, and the other half of LikeHell Design, I surprised Jordan with a drawing of her Mini Cooper S for Christmas.
She’s real pleased with it, as I am too. Drawing black cars requires a different approach with using fills of colour and focusing on the shines and reflections to stand in replacement of hard key strokes.
Its been a tough one but I’ve learnt a lot for future black cars.
Shout out to Ben at Ben MacRae Photography for the reference photo to draw from.