ahhh idc what anyone says I love how the diamonds are written, I love how they’re tyrannical fucked up leaders who need to be stopped but also??
I love their depth and how they know how to feel and love and even if their love is completely selfish and terrifying, there’s still so much more to them than “hi we’re big and bad and blah blah get fucked”
Hey guys! Sorry I haven’t been active few weeks again, finals are over last week and I needed to recharge and drawing random stuff after drawing not so long. I don’t really had that much energy to begin with.
Here is crappy pic of the three assistants in swimsuits that I randomly thought of, I’m changing Gogo’s for sure. Also there might be spamming
LOL I CANT COPE WITH SADNESS SO OBVIOUSLY I WROTE UTTERLY MEANINGLESS JAKE AND AMY WEDDING FLUFF INSTEAD OF ANYTHING USEFUL
TITLES FROM TAYLOR SWIFT, DAN GOOR CAN FIGHT ME PERSONALLY, I HOPE THIS SOOTHES EVERYONES SOULS A BIT LIKE IT SORT OF DID MINE
shoutout to @parlegee for proofreading, ur the number one
how much the general universe seems to specifically have it out to ruin his
life, Jake thinks that he’s been having a pretty amazing day so far.
Of course, it is
his wedding day, so it’s inherently supposed to be a good one, unless he’s the
generic fiance from all those rom coms who isn’t right
for spunky Jennifer Garner and Matthew McConaughey is scheduled to burst
through the doors roughly three hours ago yelling I object.
Jake’s pretty sure that that movie doesn’t actually exist, but the concept
of it is kind of terrifying, because what if he is
Random Wrong Fiance No. 23, except instead of Matthew McConaughey ruining
things, the ceiling falls in, or Amy gets abducted by aliens. Or worst, Charles
gets abducted by aliens. Or even worst, Gina’s baby
gets abducted by aliens.
That would definitely be the worst
of all, Jake thinks, because Gina would never let any of them forget that her
progeny was probably the youngest person ever to do space travel.
he thinks, getting back on topic – he should really be concentrating on his
dancing, because he and Amy nearly just crashed into Holt and his mom, which, wow,
that’s making him emotional, look
at the ceiling, Jake – God,
anyways. There’s gotta be a rule, somewhere, is what Jake’s trying to say. A
rule, somewhere in the universe, right, that wedding days are off limits for terrible awful no-good bad stuff to happen. If it’s not a rule
already, he’s making it a rule.
Or like, maybe Amy could make it a
rule, because she’s a Sergeant now, so she has more authority than him.
Something – something like that.
That being said, it’s not like the
universe hasn’t tried to derail this monumentous occasion (yes Amy, monumentous is a word, I didn’t mean
monumental, I looked it up on the dictionary app – yes a reliable one, no, my
voice is not cracking like it does when I’m telling a lie –)
It’s not like there
haven’t already been some hardcore attempts at day-derailing, is all he’s saying, so maybe the rule
thing is just wishful thinking on Jake’s part. Thus far, from eight forty-two
this morning all the way until exactly two minutes ago when Charles burst into
tears over the remains of the wedding cake again, approximately five near-catastrophes
have occurred. At least five. If not more. Jake can’t remember if there
were more or less, so he makes a mental list, just to be sure.
And it’s just like he wakes up at like 1 pm and just-quiznacking turns on salsa music and some Cecilia Cruz and everything, and just makes the entire crew cuban food for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He talks about what his family is like and Cuba and the smell of his house and stuff. Speaks spanglish for the entire day and makes everyone salsa/meringue dance with him (even against their will). And then right before he goes to sleep, he just sits there. Thinking to himself “WTF…” and “Oh god I didn’t think it’d get this bad…”. Maybe he even cries himself asleep untill he finds himself stuck in a group hug beacause, GOD HE’S A LOUD
Bonus: He makes sandwichitos and cuban coffee for everyone and just-mmmm.
Bruce had heard music coming from the studio earlier in the day. They had converted what his mother had always called “The Music Room,” laying down marley flooring, lining the walls with mirrors and barres. All for Cass.
The sun was setting and the house was quiet now: Alfred hadn’t returned from his errands yet and the winter day was quickly coming to a close.
Heading to his study, Bruce passed the studio and was surprised to see Cassandra lying on the floor. The lights weren’t on and the weak remaining sunlight left the room dim. He could hear the white noise of the stereo system, on but not playing anything.
“Cassandra?” he asked, confused, stepping onto the springy floor.
She was lying on her back, her legs stretched out long, with her arms crossed over her eyes and forehead. Her long-sleeved leotard and legwarmers couldn’t be much protection against the chill if she’d been still for very long. Cassandra didn’t move or respond; he saw her throat work as she swallowed.
Bruce crossed the floor in a few strides, only to stop short at the sight of her feet.
He opened his mouth to ask one of many questions, but said instead:
“Cass, you’ve bled through your shoes.”
She went through pointe shoes fairly quickly, they lasted several months depending on how many classes in a week she could attend. But this pairs’ usual wear, grey scuffs on the washed-out peach satin, was eclipsed by the dull brown patches of blood that had appeared in different spots on the toe of each shoe.
Bruce sat by her feet and watched her face for any signs of distress as he gently picked up the leg nearest to him. When she didn’t react, he prodded the ends of the laces out from their bundle on the inside of her ankle and began picking at the knot beneath it. Unwinding the laces revealed deep indentations. She didn’t move or make a sound as he carefully pulled the fitted shoe from her foot and began peeling sticky gel pads, and lambswool, and finally her convertible tights, back from the raw and bloody flesh of her toes.
It made him think of Cinderella’s stepsisters, the old versions, mutilated by their mother in an attempt to fit the slipper and win a throne.
He held her foot in his lap, lightly chafing the angry red marks left on her clammy skin by the laces and elastic band. Not rubbing hard or touching the open wounds. He could feel the barest tremor of her muscles that meant she was exhausted.
“Last night was hard,”
With her arms still crossed over her eyes, she spoke in a whisper.
Bruce hummed an acknowledgement and started on her other foot. Of all his children, Cass was the one he trusted most to patrol alone, though he didn’t like it. It meant he didn’t know when she had to see or do things that he would rather have shielded her from.
Finishing, he piled the bloody detritus of her shoes and padding to one side. As he gathered her up and stood, he felt more than heard a soft “oh!” escape her. He was glad she didn’t protest, even though his back did.
Carrying her to the door, he brushed a knuckle to the switch that cut power to the sound system.