Its amazing when you see how God provides for us in little & big ways in our lives. This morning I was worried I wouldn’t have enough groceries to eat for this week & weekend, and He reminded me of how I had dinner club at a friend’s house on Tuesday night, and He provided money for me to be able to go out to eat with my roommates last night (which was a big treat because I can’t afford to eat out, so I cook all the time), so I have just enough food for this week & weekend. He also has been providing for my heart, I’ve been so worn down & depressed the past month or two, and He’s given me joy through my friends & spending time with them, making my heart feel little by little more whole & healing, and through Todd, who encourages me & gives me strength to keep pressing on and believe the Lord has everything in His hands.
Thank you Jesus for taking care of me when I don’t know how to ask, I love you Lord.
so apparently someone made a survey of favourite destiel fic authors (that someone being @unforth-ninawaters), and somehow i’m ranked as 5th favourite????!?! thaNK YOU people who put my name down????? my mother is gonna be thrilled (and then ask why i’m not #1)
on another note, i’ve spent the last two days of my life painting my room purple after literally 8 years (and i mean literally, not figuratively, or exaggeratively), trying get my health up enough that i could paint a hecking wall. it. is. done. THE WALLS ARE PURPLE
I AM PLEASED
AND DEAR GOD I AM EXHAUSTED IT’S 3AM everything hurts i’m dying i need to sleep
Headcanon about jake helping Amy after a nightmare? Like an extreme anxiety attack after waking up because she thought he died
Amy’s side of the bed is empty, but warm. It’s the first thing that seeps into Jake’s consciousness with the slow stretch of his fingers across the space, worming through the folds in the sheets, seeking the soft skin that is no longer there. He hears a door close - not slam, but far too loud for such a solid, pitch black darkness shrouding their bedroom - and the sound reverberates through his skull for a moment.
It takes a second for his brain to start functioning properly again, but the moment he does he realizes that something had awoken him. A sound, a grating noise, had pricked his senses and lured him out of sleep. He thinks he has a hazy memory of trembling fingers pushing his hair back from his forehead right before the mattress dipped violently beneath him, probably the result of Amy quickly evacuating.
Jake’s eyelids snap open as the pieces suddenly fall together. It was Amy causing the noises that woke him up - it was Amy who’d torn out of bed like the apartment was on fire.
He can hear her now, in the bathroom, her abrasive hyperventilating gasps for air clearly audible over the running sink and the flushing toilet. His heart thumps and throbs uncomfortably in his chest as he quickly disentangles his legs from the sheets, practically falling out of bed in his haste to get to her. He stumbles across their darkened bedroom floor and essentially throws himself at the bathroom door, just to bounce back from the solid surface - it’s locked.
“Amy?” He calls, too tired to remember to hide the desperation in his voice. He raps his knuckles quickly against the surface, hyper-focused on the hitch in her already erratic breathing. “You gotta let me in, Amy, please -”
He hears a shift, a drag of jello-limp legs along the tile floor, and then she’s fumbling with the lock with what he knows to be lead fingers. He waits as long as he can once the door is unlocked, carefully tracking her awkward shuffle away from the door before pushing it open and hurrying inside.
Amy’s pale and sweating, her hair sticking up wildly where it isn’t plastered to her forehead. Her eyes are wide and her face is blotchy and tears are practically spraying down her cheeks. She’s folded in on herself in the tightest fetal position he’s ever seen, and seems to recoil when he drops to his knees before her. “Amy,” he hears himself murmur, pushing her hair away from her face and trying not to take it personally when she jerks her head away. “Hey, hey, sh,” he whispers as chest-ripping sobs begin to tear out of her. Her chest is still heaving but she seems unaware; her dark eyes stay trained on Jake’s face, like she’s incapable of looking away, only fluttering closed briefly when he runs his thumbs over her cheekbones to wipe the tears away.
It’s never been this bad before, never been this visceral. For the first time in the six years he’s known her, he’s genuinely frightened on her behalf. He pushes through it, though; she very clearly needs him. “Focus on me, babe, I’m here and it’s okay now, I promise. You’re okay. Breathe, babe, keep breathing - that’s it, you’re doing great.” She’s leaning into him more now, eyes closed in concentration, and he methodically counts her through her breathing exercise while fitting quiet praises in each pause.
It takes about twenty minutes (six minutes longer than her worst panic attack on record that he knows of), but eventually her heart rate is normal and her eyes are no longer bright and gleaming with panic. He shifts to sit beside her then, pulling her close, leaned back against the bathroom cabinets as Amy quietly folds herself into his side. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, one palm smoothing up her upper arm, the other gently holding her head in place in the dip of his shoulder. His eyes are dry and prickling at the early hour and a yawn is threatening to bubble up his throat, but he ignores it.
“Sorry,” Amy whispers hoarsely after another moment of peace.
Jake clenches his jaw. “Why are you apologizing?”
She sniffles, and he feels her fingers curling around the loose material of his t-shirt down near his ribs on his right side. “I dunno,” she admits, quieter than before.
He turns his head and kisses the crown of her head, letting his lips linger there for a long moment before lifting his head up to rest his chin on top of her head. “I’ve told you before,” he says softly, “you never, ever have to apologize to me for that stuff. Ever. I don’t care how stupid you think it is, you wake me up. I love you, all of you. That includes the chronic anxiety.”
She sniffles again, but he feels her nuzzling a little closer, so he squeezes her arm reassuringly. The bathroom floor is cold and uncomfortable but neither one of them seem to be keen on moving.
The next part of the conversation is never fun. But then again, the whole affair is pretty unpleasant to begin with, so he supposes it’s to be expected.
“D’you wanna talk about it?” He murmurs into her hair.
He can’t see her face, but he can imagine the look of anguish there. He’s seen it so many times, most often in response to that very question; vulnerability has never been one of Amy’s strong suits. He likes to think she’s getting better at trusting him, even if she still shuts him out sometimes after panic attacks.
“Not really,” she mumbles after a long moment. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t press her; he just keeps lightly, steadily caressing her arm. He feels her shift, shuffle closer, roll her shoulders, and heave a sigh. He remains silent. “I just - I had a dream.”
There. The start. “Good dream or bad dream?” He prompts her after a pause.
Shift, squeezed fingers, adjusted head. “Bad.”
Up and down, up and down. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
The longest pause yet. “I…you…you died.”
Well that’s new. His hand freezes on her arm, his grip suddenly firm, and her discomfort rolls off of her in palpable waves. He desperately wants to see her face, but her fingers have tightened even further around his shirt and he’s got a feeling that if he tries to move away from her, she’ll cling to him as hard as she can just to avoid eye-contact. “I died?” He repeats instead, hoping his voice sounds steadier to her than it does to him.
“Yeah,” she rasps. “It just - it happened so fast, but it felt so real - I woke up panicking, and you were right there but - but for a second, it almost looked like -” she pauses, her shoulders and chest jerking slightly beneath his arm, and he realizes with a pang that she’s started crying again. He resumes his caress, more forceful than before, and shushes her quietly again.
That explains why he’d felt her hands on his face, at least. She was checking to see if he was still breathing. “I’m okay,” he reminds her, voice soft. He feels her nod, and then she turns her head until the delicate line of her nose presses lightly against the side of his neck. There are a confusing number of emotions swelling in his chest right now - too many to dissect this early in the morning with Amy’s tears soaking into his t-shirt and her breath warming a little patch of skin over his chest. “Amy?”
Her eyelashes are fluttering against his neck. “Hm?” She hums.
“I love you so, so much. No matter what.”
“Mm,” the hand fisted into his shirt disentangles and skates across his stomach to wrap around on his other side, bringing her even closer than before. Suddenly they’re embracing sleepily right there on the bathroom floor. Amy squeezes him slightly, a quiet, contented hum vibrating softly in the back of her throat, and Jake has to stare up at the ceiling to fight back a sudden wave of tender affection threatening spill out of him at the noise. “Love you, too.” She mumbles, and then her lips press quickly against his throat.
He should get up. He should get to his feet and pick her up and carry her to bed and crawl in next to her. He should pull her close, he should be the big spoon tonight, he should wrap himself around her so tightly while she sleeps that the nightmares can’t find a way back in. He should not fall asleep with her on the bathroom floor, because they’re both in their thirties and while he may still be a kid at heart his body is most definitely not.
He should do all of those things. But instead, he lets his head loll to his right, his lips brushing against her hair. “I got you, Santiago,” he whispers sleepily.
He’s asleep before he hears the quiet, sleep-addled grunt she makes in response.
Please tag this as needed, he turned out pretty gnarly! But this is how I pictured him as I was reading. I wanted to do some scenes from the fic but I ran out of time this morning. I really want to thank you for your writing though. It’s really inspiring!
hey, if its okay, can you tell more about ziggy? im in love with his design ;vvv;
His full name is Zigmund T. Drust, the son of a high ranking government official who was coerced into pursuing technological science over a music career. His greatest ( and last ) achievement in his field was inventing a pair of gloves that essentially harnessed the natural energy that radiates off of his kind and converts it into a pure form of energy that can expel electrical currents or manipulate objects, like this,
It was meant to be an invention to help his race immensely by being able to cut back time on building things and helping with power outrages, but only a prototype was ever made and Zigmund, for one reason or another, went berserk, destroying any information regarding the gloves and kept the prototype pair for himself.
Turning to a life of crime, Zigmund, going purely by Ziggy now, has no real goal to achieve through anything, just doing what he wants whenever and however he wants whilst causing chaos. Though eventually he ends up building his own ‘club’ and forcing anyone who happens to stumble in to be stuck in an endless party that never stops, anyone who tries to leave or “ruin the mood” will be either zapped to get back into the party or completely vaporized…
As an aside, he’s rather tall for his race, here’s an image of him next to Motzi and a generic lady from his race to show that.
I realized I'm a summer child. When the sun comes out beighter than normal, when a single bird chirps louder than usual, I cannot stop smiling. It may be a February but today it's felt like a summer day. I fell in love with 4 strangers: a boy smiling at a rabbit jumping across the lawn, a girl laughing at a book she was reading, a darkhaired boy smiling up at the sun as he ran, & a couple who couldn't stop dancing on the stairs. I feel lighter, like i'm walking on my toes, bouncing off of clouds
I know it’s going to bad again and I’m going to want to drill a hole in my bed that I never want to leave and that those voices will come back to yell, shout, howl and tear me apart alive but a part of me cannot seem to care about that. I suppose it’s these days you live for. You gather your strength from these days and pray that it’ll take you through the next ocean wave of emptiness. I’m going to cling to this feeling for as long as I can.