mind over miles

3

My favorite kind of fitness.  Also my excuse for wanting to curl up in bed extra long in the morning :-)

(Tried to make them big enough for you all to read.  Someone let me know if they aren’t, por favor).

Bad Addictions // Jackson Wang

Originally posted by got7jacksonwang

Pairing: Jackson x Reader

Genre: Angst // Fluff

Summary//Request: Anonymous said: Jackson finding out you have serious drinking problem by walking in on you in really bad shape. Super angsty with some fluff please.

A/N: Please be aware that this scenario contains mentions of depression, suicide, alcohol and drug abuse.


Jackson left the restaurant feeling let down and frustrated before he flagged down a taxi to get to your apartment. He had been waiting for over an hour for you to turn up, calling both your mobile and landline only to just hear your voice on voicemail. He had thought about just going back to his dorms and forgetting about you – since this was the second time in a month that you had stood him up, leaving him waiting like an idiot for you to never show up. But he had decided that he would go straight to your apartment and find out just what the hell was going on.

You and Jackson had been dating for the past 5 months. Everything was like a dream – he was your perfect guy. You both lived very physically and emotionally demanding lifestyles, but you both always found the time to be together somehow. But what Jackson didn’t know, was that you were hiding a dark secret deep within you, and you really didn’t know if, or how you could ever tell him.

You used to suffer from severe depression after your close friend committed suicide a few years ago, and you turned to abusing alcohol and drugs. Now – after many years of therapy and controlled medication, you were doing much better. And of course, a huge thing that had helped you get rid of your depression was Jackson. You called him your rock, your angel sent from above to lift your spirits and help you become the person you once were.  He was everything you could have ever dreamed of, the way he would be so soft and gentle with you, his tender heart and love healing your broken one with every day that passed. But recently, you had gotten back in contact with a ghost from the past which had completely triggered you and pushed you back into the deep, dark hole that is depression.

The call was from one of your old friends, Mary. She lived in your hometown and you went to school with her and your close friend who passed away. She called you out of the blue and began talking about “the old days” and talked about how much she missed your friend and desperately wished she was still here to talk to you both. You didn’t know how much this conversation would affect you in the beginning, but over the past 2 months you had started to slip. You didn’t mean to make a stop at the liquor store, you just kind of found yourself there. You weren’t intending on buying a bottle of wine, but you walked towards it and picked it up and bought it without even thinking about it. You didn’t even wait to get home to begin drinking it, as you sat in your car and took thirsty gulps, finishing the bottle fast. Now, two months later; you were drinking more than 2 large bottles of alcohol a day, not showing up to work, not showing up to class – and now; you weren’t showing up to your dates with your own boyfriend.

You had every intention of getting ready for your date, but you were a bottle hider (a name they called you in therapy when you would hide bottles of alcohol in your house). You were in the bathroom, applying your makeup and getting ready to style your hair; and that was when you found the litre of vodka underneath the sink. One thing led to another and now, here you were – laying in your bathtub, fully clothed and passed out from drinking the entire bottle. Even if you were sober, you wouldn’t have been able to hear Jackson calling your phone over and over as it was in the other room.


Jackson arrived at your apartment complex, paying the driver before walking briskly to the stairs and taking them 2 at a time ‘till he reached the 4th floor. He had no idea if you would even be here – but he had a spare key and he planned on waiting if you weren’t home anyway. As Jackson approached your apartment, millions of thoughts flew threw his mind over a hundred miles an hour. “Is she cheating on me? Doesn’t she care about me? Why is she doing this? Am I not good enough? Am I that easily forgettable? Why excuse will she make this time? Why am I still bothering with this?”

He knocked first, politely – waiting a few seconds. He then proceeded to knock heavier, this time a little more impatient. After pressing his ear to the door and trying to look through the letter box, he decided that enough was enough. Jackson slid the key into the lock and turned it, before stepping in and closing the door behind him.

The first thing he seen was your handbag and shoes laid out beside the door, your silk scarf that you always wore just peaking out of the top of your bag. Jackson scrunched his eyebrows together as this was an obvious indication that you were in fact home. The TV was still on – he knew that you always had it on when you were home alone because you didn’t like the silence. He turned it off, before listening carefully to his surroundings.

“(Y/N)?” he called out.

“(Y/N) I know you’re here. Can you come out so we can talk?” he called out again to the four walls. Jackson had all but lost whatever patience he had at this moment, as he began walking in the direction towards your bedroom – opening the door and seeing your pyjamas lying on the bed, your makeup sprawled out over your vanity, and the smell of alcohol and vomit. Jackson’s eyes drifted over to your bathroom door which was ajar, seeing the bright, unforgiving light peeking out. He walked straight in, only to be met with one of the most terrifying sights he had ever seen.

“Jesus fucking Christ (Y/N)” he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mixture of confusion and worry as he took in the sight that lay before him. You lay in the empty bath wearing what you knew was his favourite white and black dress – your hair in soft curls around your shoulders and your makeup which was now dewy and a little smudged. In your drunken state, you had fallen asleep and ended up vomiting all over yourself – hence the smell. Jackson rushed straight over to you, lifting you out of the tub in one scoop and placing you on to the floor. He gagged at the smell of your vomit, wiping it away from your mouth with his bare hands and raising your head up to clear your airways. He then fumbled for a facecloth, wetting it with cold water from the tap and squeezing it over your face while simultaneously shouting your name and begging you to wake up.

You woke up, gasping for air and clinging on to Jackson, looking straight into his eyes and completely forgetting where you were. You immediately began crying as Jackson – not caring that you covered in your own sick, pulled you into his chest tight, his hand running through the back of your hair as his heartbeat raced and pounded through his ribcage. As he cradled you in his arms, he then noticed the empty bottles of alcohol littered in the shower – and the one you had just drank sitting beside the tub.

“Jack…son…” you mumbled, your cries dying down a little – becoming much more sober as you came to your senses and realised what was happening. Your head was pounding, your throat was dry and painful, and you could tell by the look on Jackson’s face that he wasn’t going to ever let this drop until he got to the bottom of things.

“Baby…what happened? Why are you drinking? You’re not supposed to drink sweetheart, you know you can’t.” He murmured into your ear, his tone becoming soft and tender. You hadn’t told Jackson your entire history and dealings with alcohol and your depression, but you had told him that you couldn’t have a drink because you developed a dependency on it due to a friend passing away a few years ago. He never pushed you on the details, but because of it – he never drank, period. He never wanted to trigger you, and he never wanted to make you relapse. He cared too much for your health and recovery to ever put you at risk.

“I…I just…found some and I…you know” you said quietly, feeling incredibly ashamed and sorry for yourself. You hated that Jackson seen you like this. You hated that you had pulled him into your mess. It was then you realised that with Jackson being here, that meant you never even made it to your date. You pushed yourself back and looked into Jacksons face, woe and regret sweeping across your soft features as you broke down in tears once again.

“Jackson…how long did you wait before you came here?” you asked feebly.

“About an hour and a half. I tried calling both of your phones but…you wouldn’t have heard them.” His voice dropped into a whisper as he sighed, looking at your clothes and hair that were all covered in vomit.

“Let’s get you cleaned up first, then we’ll talk. Okay?” he said, taking your hand and pulling you up, steadying you on your feet and supporting your weight at the same time. Jackson helped you out of your dress, flinging it on to the floor before removing your undergarments. Even though Jackson had seen you naked many times, you felt shy and exposed now. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the embarrassment of him finding you like this – but ultimately it was the guilt of not being the type of girlfriend that you wanted to be for him. He put you into the shower under the warm water, before leaving the room and putting your dirty clothes in the washing machine.


You finished your shower, stepping out carefully to be met by Jackson holding a large, pink fluffy towel. He enclosed you in it, wrapping it around your body and rubbing his hands over it, before tickling you a little, eliciting a small giggle from your lips as he looked down at you, smiling gently. Even though he was a little angry and disappointed with your actions, he loved you. He loved you more than anything in the world, and he wanted to help you with everything he had.

After getting you dried off, Jackson took off his sweater and pulled it over you – a look that he was so very fond of, before taking you by your hand into your bedroom, both of you sitting on the bed facing each other. You looked down at your knees, criss-crossed underneath you as Jackson thought very carefully about what to say.

“I bet you hate me for this. You don’t deserve any of this or any of my problems. I thought I was doing well, but I let the past creep up on me…I’m-…I’m sorry Jackson.” You squeaked, not being able to function at the thought of losing Jackson. But you loved him, and you couldn’t watch him suffer along with you. You knew that you would rather die than to pull him down with you. Jackson let out a small sigh before placing his hand over your cheek and caressing it gently, smiling at you with the smile you had fallen so deeply in love with in the first place.

“I could never hate you (Y/N). Of course, I’m a little disappointed, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. Stop thinking that you’re dragging me down. I’m here to pull you back up, okay? We’ll get through this together, but you need to do something first.” He said in a loving but serious tone, looking at you directly in the eye. You knew what was coming next, and you didn’t want to comply at all.

“Jackson, I’m not saying it. I already know it so I don’t need to-“ you began but not being able to finish as Jackson cut in.

“I’m sorry (Y/N), but if you truly loved me and cared about me, then you would. It’s as simple as that.” Jackson replied solemnly, never taking his eyes off you. You knew that he wanted to hear you say it, you knew this all too well. It was something you struggled with way back when at the therapy group. It made you feel ashamed, guilty and stupid saying it out loud. But you knew that Jackson wasn’t going to let this drop and you weren’t about to risk losing him.

“Fine, Jackson. If you want me to admit it to you…fine.” You took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling and wishing that none of this had ever happened as Jackson took your hands in his and gave them a loving squeeze.

“I’m an alcoholic. I have an alcohol problem and I hide bottles. Happy?” you finished, feeling defeated and more ashamed of yourself than ever. Jackson pulled you into him, nuzzling you into the crook of his neck and rubbing small circles over your back.

“Thank you baby girl. Thank you for being brave and saying it for me. Now I want you to listen to me, because I don’t think you realise how much you actually mean to me. In the morning, we are going to go and get an emergency appointment with a therapist to get you on to a programme and stop this before it goes any further. And…I’m going to be moving in with you, starting from today.” He said simply and softly. You however, widened your eyes and pulled back a little.

“Jackson…don’t you think it’s too fast to move in? What will the others say? What will JYP think? You can’t just move in to babysit me and make sure I don’t have a drink. Those are the completely wrong reasons to move in.” You looked at him seriously, thinking he was totally out of his mind.

“It’s not the only reason that I want to move in with you. I want…I want to move in with you because I love you (Y/N). And yeah, maybe most people don’t move in after 5 months of dating. But let’s be honest, we’re not most people…are we?” he let out a hint of a cheeky smile, making you involuntarily smile back at him – but then again he was always able to do that. No matter how you were feeling, Jackson could always make the feeling ten times better.

“And who cares what other people think? The boys know how I feel about you, as does JYP. I don’t care how other people view our relationship. All I care about is you, and I have to take care of you, okay? You’re my girl. You’re the only woman besides my mother who I would do anything for. And I will do anything to see you happy and healthy.” And with that, Jackson pressed his lips on to yours, tenderly kissing you and pulling you right on top of his lap. You gave into him, feeling all sorts of emotions but the biggest one was humbleness. You were grateful to Jackson for accepting you for who you are, the good and bad parts of your life and who you were as a person. You broke the kiss, rubbing your nose against his, making him smile and put his arms under yours, and holding on to you tightly.

“Thank you for being here. I…I really want you to move in with me. I want to get better. I want to show you and myself that I’m better than it. I just – I just need some help.” You sighed, not being afraid of admitting anything anymore. Jackson gave you another chaste kiss on your lips, before looking up at the clock and looking back at you.

“Well, it’s too late to go anywhere now, so how about we order food, watch some TV, and then get up early in the morning to call the doctor to get you referred for a therapy appointment?” he asked, his brown eyes swirling with nothing but love and genuine adoration for you which made your heart flutter.

“Sure. That sounds perfect. You’re perfect Jackson” you giggled, knowing that things would be difficult for you to get off the drink again, but it would all be worth it when you could see the way he looks at you like this every day.

“I know~ I’m so perfect right?” he replied, pulling one of his derpy faces as he stuck his tongue out and licked your cheek, leaving behind a sloppy mess as you squealed and playfully smacked his chest. Jackson got up from the bed, switching on your TV before stopping at the door.

“I’ll go call for some pizza and chips. You want garlic dip?” he asked, to which you nodded, your stomach starting to growl with hunger. He winked at you and smiled, before leaving the room to call the nearby takeaway, leaving you with the thoughts that you knew that everything would work out. That you had him to support you, and that he would be there to pick you up when you fall.

Things you said when we were 70

When she thinks about it, it seems almost inevitable that cancer should eventually make a reappearance in their lives.  It’s almost as though she expected that, one day, she would sit in an office like this, across from a doctor who would impart this news wearing this exact expression (a mixture of sympathy and trepidation, overlaid with an aura of “I’ve done this ten times already today”- do they learn this look during their oncology residency?).  Cancer rearing its ugly head again is hardly unanticipated.

What she failed to anticipate, however, was that this time, it would strike Mulder.

Normally, during doctor’s visits, Scully is the one who gathers all of the initial information from the doctor, asking complicated technical questions, breaking down the responses to explain everything to Mulder.  But this time, her brain hiccups at the word “cancer,” begins to shut down at the word “pancreatic,” and ceases to function all together at the words “stage four.”  She sways slightly in her seat, holding the base of the chair to anchor herself to the world, an ill-defined buzzing filling her ears and a fog creeping in at the edge of her vision.  She dimly hears the doctor outlining the options for chemotherapy, for radiation, for palliative care, but it’s Mulder’s voice that finally snaps her back into the present.

“No.  No, I don’t think so.”  The doctor frowns.

“Which part, Mr. Mulder?”

“All of it,” he responds calmly.  "I’m not interested in treatment.“

"Mulder,” says Scully, her voice a strained croak, “you can’t be serious.”  He turns to look at her, his face kind, but already stubbornly set.  He has made up his mind.  Made it up weeks ago, probably, running over worst-case scenarios between doctor’s visits and tests.

“Scully, I’m seventy-eight years old,” he says gently.  "Be honest- did you ever think I’d live past fifty?“  He smiles at her, but she cannot find it in herself to return the smile, not while he is tearing her heart apart.  "But I did, and I got to spend most of that time with you.  I’d call that a win, wouldn’t you?”

“But we could have longer, Mulder,” Scully protests.  "With treatment-“

"How much longer could chemotherapy give me?” Mulder asks the doctor.  "Two years?  Three?“  The doctor clears his throat.

"Three years would be optimistic,” he concedes.  "In my opinion, a realistic estimate would be a year with treatment, three to six months without.“  Scully feels a sob threatening to rip its way out of her throat, and she stifles it.

"And on chemo, I’d be sick the whole time, from beginning to end,” says Mulder.  "Scully, would you make that decision for yourself?“

"We’re not talking about me, Mulder,” she protests weakly.

“But you’ve been through that.  You’ve been through the chemo and the radiation, you’ve been through the vomiting and the exhaustion.  Would you really go through that again if you knew it wasn’t going to get you much time?”  

“Why don’t the two of you take a few days to discuss this?” suggests the doctor.  "Talk it over with each other.  You do have a valid point, Mr. Mulder.  You wouldn’t be the only one of my patients, at your age, to make this kind of call.“  He stands, ready to usher them out.  "There’s no right or wrong answer here; only what’s right for you.  Take some time and decide what that is.”

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Turned Tables

[Summary: pastel!Dan and punk!Phil hate each other. They always get into fights and pick on each other for no reason other than the fact that they hate each other. But, things will change when one of them wakes up with feelings for the other.]

this one is a bit short and crap, im sorry i just wanted to post something for you guys :c (but i think the title is clever oops) tell me about mistakes!

most used phrase: “the man[…]” dont even worry about it though its only for the ~mystery~

[Contains: pastel!dan (cute!cute!cute!), punk!phil (hot!hot!hot!), fighting, choking (and not in the sexy way oh no), angst (ow), smut (yeeeeees jeeessuuussss), a bit of fluff at the end]
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Lord help me.

I’m trying to get up in the mornings to run before the day starts.

The only tiny, little bitty, teeny tiny snag in this plan…I loathe mornings.

I mean I am not a morning person AT ALL.  

…Wish me luck.

Change of Perspective

I used to scroll through my posts and wonder if anyone was even reading them, considering they only were getting maybe a like or two, and a reblog if I was lucky.  

Now I’m like, duh, stupid.  You were getting followers, not likes.  And followers are better than likes, because a like means you did good on one post but followers mean, “Hey, I like the things you write in general, let’s see some more of that stuff.”

And that’s pretty cool.  And now there’s 750+ of you!  That’s even cooler!

Holla to you all :-)  and happy and healthy whatever you are doing :-)

Running Myth BUSTED #3

You have to have a certain body type to run.

Okay, do I really need to source this or make an argument on why this is bull?  Just get out there and run, people :-)

Originally posted by transparent-gravity-falls-gifs