#and he’s already questioning his psych bc no one else seems to care or notice the staring

[charlotte-family-apologist]

I dunno if it's just me, but I've noticed your designs for Kung Jin and Harumi are super similar! I can only imagine how it would be in-universe!

Takeda just going about his day, and seeing Kung Jin, and suddenly noticing that he looks a LOT like his mom.

I’m assuming you meant Suchin bc I’ve never drawn Harumi 😅

I don’t think I draw them that similar but their noses are basically identical:

Takeda keeps getting an uncanny feeling that something about Jin looks familiar, but no matter how hard he looks he can’t quite seem to place it.

Jin just wishes Takeda would stop staring into his soul. He has not blinked in over five minutes and Jin’s 80% sure he’s plotting his murder.

[totiredtowrite]

Bully

Warnings - cursing, himbo reader (and that means muscles so if you don't got those jus pretend), sorta mean sakusa, extremely self indulgent so reader is shorter, kind of risque sometimes but it's sfw (like everything on my page)

Note: I did it bc mean sakusa and I am down bad for bullies

Cough bakugou cough

Male Reader - Fem Readers DNI like at all, I'll block you. It's not that hard to understand.

It doesn't take much to get on Sakusa's bad side.

Be annoying, be gross, be handsy, and he's already got you in his bad books.

You though. You, apparently, decided to take it the long way. Of course he noticed. It would be hard not to, if you've got a wide eyed, muscular, puppy of a boy following you around. In class, you had your eyes on him. At practice matches and games? There too, in the front row. You always peered at him, watching what he did, wide eyed and innocent.

He's no psychological genius, but he can just tell. He can tell that you want him to look back, that you want him to notice your very obvious pining. He doesn't know why he found it so agitating. Maybe he just didn't like how blatantly you looked at him, if that made sense at all. You, being so airheaded, only seemed to chase after your goals like a dog. Biceps the size of his head, yet not a coherent thought in yours. Maybe you were more complex than that. Still, Sakusa had no mind to find out.

It's like he could see it, the non existent tail wagging behind you.

So, he started small. Why not give you the attention, right? He tried to be nice at first. He really did, but it was just so easy. You'd get ecstatic whenever he even asked you a question about school. (Which is the nicest thing he'd done). He came to find out that any insults he threw your way went right over your head. Why not take advantage of that fact?

"You know Omi, you can't pick on him forever." Komori sighed. You've been admiring him from the second year, Komori knew that. Apparently though, only in their third year did Sakusa notice.

Sakusa scoffed. "I don't pick on him."

"Yeah, you kind of do." Motoya shrugged, throwing the can that was in his hand in the trash. "Why're you so mean to him anyways? S'not like he's doing anything to you."

Sakusa momentarily paused. He wouldn't admit how he doesn't know just why he hates you. He was certain, every time he saw you, that he wanted to be so mean. Push you around, make you look at him with nervousness and shock through teary eyes. So certain, but then he saw you smile or bounce on your heels excitedly, and he'd feel like taking you somewhere far away where you didn't need to be tainted by the world.

Yeah, none of that was very characteristic of him.

So, of course, he just settled with a simple "I dunno."

Knowing not to push it any further, Komori didn't say anything else.

Their walk was short and brisk. They were only headed to the library, needing to pick something up, so the trip shouldn't be too long. Sakusa didn't need anything really, he just wanted to go along. Another uncharacteristic thing for him, but it's not like he had anything better to do.

School let an hour ago and practice was cancelled. He wasn't just going to sit around. (Motoya forbade him from practicing on his own. Some "take a break sometime" or "don't overwork" bullshit). Doesn't mean he won't go out though.

Approaching the glass doors of the library, Motoya tilted his head slightly. "I only need a couple psych books." He explained, absentmindedly opening the door and walking in. Sakusa nodded, following him in. He didn't go to the public library much, settling on what the school had if he needed anything. Still, he found the place rather comforting.

"Go find a table. I'll meet you in ten minutes maybe? Fifteen?" Komori's voice dropped in volume a bit.

"Sure." Sakusa said.

His cousin have him a grateful look, turning and walking off, presumably to one of the upper floors where the school related books were.

Sakusa sighed through his mask, turning on his heel to go find a table. They were in the west part of the library, surrounded by some bookshelves. Finding a somewhat secluded one, he dropped his bag down on the table and slid into a chair. With another sigh, he turned his attention elsewhere.

From where he was he could see two more tables that were farther away from his, as well as more bookshelves.

He let his gaze wander and glaze over in thought. Why was he so mean to you? After all, the only things you've ever done was watch him with stars in your eyes. He knew a multitude of people who would gladly have an admirer like that. Well, maybe not Ushijima, (who was out in college by now), but at least he wouldn't pick on them.

And speak of the devil.

His sight caught on you at one of the two tables in his vision. Along with...one other guy. He furrowed his brows. Has he seen you with him before? Maybe. What were you doing together? We're you...no, there's no way you were even into guys. Well, not that he would know. You were smiling at him. More turmoil brewed in the pit of his stomach.

Your friend, (he hoped it was your friend), patted your head, saying something he couldn't hear. It's like Sakusa could see the folded puppy ears on your head. His air was getting progressively darker and more threatening. Why was he even getting jealous? Some childish notion, maybe. He didn't like that you were giving such adoring attention to someone else.

Your friend, who had taken his bag, was well out of sight by now. Kiyoomi could only assume that he left. You turned away from the door, scribbling a few things down in a notebook. Sakusa's seen that notebook. You used it in class.

He tapped his foot, a hand coming up to his chin. He looked annoyed, if anything. You didn't even seem to notice him there, which further irked him.

Sakusa turned on his phone to check the time. It's only been five minutes. He wasn't sure how much longer he could sit here for. How is it that you only caught his attention when you weren't vying for it? At this point, Kiyoomi was so used to you hovering around him, practically begging for his attention, that when you weren't it was...different. Different and not even remotely okay.

That combined with how you were relishing in the company of some 'friend' earlier, and he was livid. He felt the need to prove that you only wanted his attention, that you only needed his attention. He knew he wasn't acting , or thinking, like himself. He acknowledged it, and he ignored it. Hell, you didn't even know he was there! There was no reason for him to react so intensely.

He checked the time again. Three more minutes have passed.

He shoved the chair out, (rather harshly), to stand up. Upon hearing the noise, you turned your head up to see him approaching you.

"Sakusa-san!" You squeaked.

"(L/n)." He said back. His voice was low, threatening. You nervously watched him slam his hands down in the table in front of you, black eyes focused on your face.

"What do you-uh, want?" You smiled at him, practically buzzing in excitement in your chair. The library chairs were a little tight, your thighs pressed flush together. Sakusa let his eyes wander, eventually landing your face once more. You, noticing his gaze, laughed slightly. "The chairs are a bit of a tight fit, huh?"

"(L/n)." He says again, leaning in further. "Who were you just with?" Why was he asking that? He didn't care. He just wanted to know. Morbid curiosity. You shuffled in your chair again. He moved around the table, a slow, stalking act. You sat rigid in your chair.

"You know him right?" You turned, standing up. You rested your hands against the table, rocking back against it in a nervous, jittery motion.

"No," He said. His hand was on the back of your chair, the only thing separating you. "Mind explaining?" He moved the chair harshly. You pressed back into the table further.

"Just-He's a good friend!" You looked up at him, grip on the table tightening when he moved in closer. In truth, he wasn't sure why he was doing any of this. It was like something possessed him, blowing his minor jealousy out of proportion. He wanted to prove that you only gave him those adoring looks, he wanted to have his hands on you.

Your breath hitched in the base of your throat. He placed his hands by your sides, leaning in a bit closer. "Sakusa-san?" You laughed habitually to take the edge off, wide eyes sparkling up at him. This time, his breath caught in his throat. You looked so...innocent. So open.

You didn't know what to think. You knew you weren't all that emotionally intelligent. Even still, you could tell that something was up. On any normal day, he'd just comment on your lack of sense or bump into you a little too hard. Really, usually he just ignored you.

"A good friend," he echoed. You nodded, watching with uncertainty when his right hand lifted to your head. The butterflies in your stomach felt like a warning, a 'DANGER' written in blaring red lights. It was hard not to melt, though, when he gingerly pet your hair. It was where your friend had his hand.

You leaned into his touch. It almost burnt, but in a good way. A way that made you want to walk right into the fire and stay there. He narrowed his eyes. What was he doing? His grip turned harsh, clutching your hair in his hand.

You let out a startled whimper. He pulled your head back slightly, making you look him in his eyes. His free hand pulled his mask down. "Why do you look so shocked," he whispered. It didn't sound meek by any means, it felt loud enough to you. "You wanted my time right? My attention?"

You nodded best you could, excitement buzzing through you again. He let go of your hair, hand moving down to the base of your neck. Surprisingly, he didn't feel disgusted. If anything, touching you, it felt...oddly good. It's like he could keep his hands on you forever.

His gaze drifted down to your lips. Pretty, soft looking, quivering. Sakusa's hands were big. not big and muscular, no, more lithe. Long. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, other fingers still on the back of your neck. "So pretty," he murmured. "Such a pretty boy." He didn't think to sing the praise. It just slipped out. Not like he was going to make a move to take it back though, not when it's escalated this far.

His hand was warm. Surprising, as it seems like he's the kind of guy to have deathly cold hands. You rubbed your muscular thighs together at his words. Noticing the movement, he let out a shaky breath. You felt it on your lips. His breath, unsurprisingly, was minty. Cold.

You whimpered again, leaning in. You could see every little detail of his face. The moles above his thick eyebrows, the small cracks on his lips. So close. One gust of wind and your lips would connect. His eyes lidded, reciprocating your movement and-

"Am I..uh, interrupting something?"

Sakusa practically jumped off of you. "No! No, you're not." He quickly regained his cool. Motoya nodded, brows raised in suspicion.

"Well I've got what I need. Ready to go?" He said.

Sakusa nearly bolted back to where he had set his things, pulling his mask back up onto his nose. "Yeah. Fine." He pulled his bag on his shoulder. Motoya waved to you. You knew that he saw some of it, at most. He turned to walk away, Sakusa following in suit behind him.

Before he left your line of vision, he shot one last glance your way. You weren't sure how to read it, though you could at least see the lingering desire in his iris.

With that, he left your sight, leaving you disheveled and confused against the table.

~

Do not repost, translate, or copy my work on to other platforms.

[avengersapology-vid]

Avengers: College Edition

Steve: Criminal Justice and Studio Art double major. He doesn't want to torture himself with anything difficult and still wants to study what he loves. He is still an over achiever though. Highkey hates frat parties, saw someone twerking upside down and almost cried but stayed because hes the designated driver (responsible KING). prefers small get togethers with his friends. Roommates with sam and bucky!! Joins Criminal Justice club, jokingly rivals with Engineering (Tonys Club) Everyone on campus loves him including the professors, wins Homecoming king and is very happy. Sam jokingly asks to be his queen, Bucky butts in and says "NO, im his queen". Can be found in the library or art studio, usually with ink or pencil markings on his hands.

Tony: Obvi an engineering KING has physics as a minor. procrastinates to the max "No Bruce I have everything under control" *crams for 46 hours straight on a constant IV drip of Redbull and coffee* Super smart and helps draw the blueprint for the new engineering building. Roomies with Bruce! Tony was in a frat for a bit his freshmen year but hated it and wanted real friends (Throws better parties anyway) met Bruce and all the other avengers during a 1301 intro class. Pulls women like no tomorrow. On the presidents list every semester and tutors math for free on the side. He is basically the Dad in STEM. Tries hitting on Natasha but she is just like :/ nah, when her and bruce start dating tony is surprised because bruce is his "quiet little cinnamon roll." Tony constantly teases bruce and is like "yall fuckin (;" Steve butts in "tONY PLZ I JUST WANT TO WATCH THIS MOVIE" Bruce is thankful for steves intervention. You know how he rivals Steves Criminal Justice club? He butts heads with Business Clubs leader (Pepper) until everyone catches them together at a party. Has a caffeine addiction. Works out with Thor and Bucky one day in the rec and almost dies.

Bruce: Physics and Engineering double major (Hardworking KING) In math club with Vision and Wanda. He loves being roomies with Tony because it helps him out of his shell. Likes to draw with Steve sometimes and enjoys the quiet. Doesn't procrastinate and gets things done in a timely manor. 4.0 icon we all strive to be. Him and Nat already know each other, but bond and get a lot closer while studying in the library and they eventually start dating. He takes her coffee when she works across campus and is always almost late to class because of that (He doesn't care though bc thats his BABY) "Um.. Bruce your class is in 5 minutes" "Okay and?.....Wait I have an ex-" *Sprints to his building* Takes boxing at night with Thor, Bucky, Sam and Steve!!! Loves sparring with Thor and can surprisingly take the big buy on pretty well. Gets his butt kicked by Natasha in a MMA class though.

Natasha: Majors in Criminal Justice and Minors in Psychology. Ballet club AND MOCK TRIAL!! Has a Job at the Criminal Justice Deans office and takes MMA classes on the side. She is on Mock Trial with Loki and they actually get along quiet well once they stop butting heads about the case. Introduces Sam and Wanda to dance and they have so much fun. Coffee dates with Bruce!! Her and Steve become RAs in the following years and are the coolest RAs you know. Prefers night classes, Bruce walks her to all of them. Psychology classes are her favorite and really wants to help children one day. Volunteers at a daycare during breaks. Sis can really out drink Tony and Thor. Puts Wanda under her wing and helps her with fafsa and what not. Her and Bucky get the Russian language credit by simply testing out. Has her sh!t together and while she has a lot on her plate she can take it. She is really the Mom of the group. Can be found dancing or with Bruce. Her and Clint are icons in psychology classes.

Clint: Deaf Studies with education minor! (we stan deaf clint in the comics) In the Archery club and wins nationals for the Uni. Loves to draw with Steve. Helps Bruce ask Natasha out! PRANK ICON! loves to do prank wars with tony, bucky, loki and sam. Was in the same frat with Tony but hated it as well. While he seems to have a more reserved demeanor he is still the life of the party. (Like he knows people at the clubs ya know?) Can get in anywhere and helps everyone rent out a club for the night in celebration of midterms being over. Loves reading in the library and loves morning classes and being productive early in the day. Cracks Tonys netflix and hulu passwords (no tony... tonyr0cks69 is not good enough) Wants to teach at a school for the Deaf. Bruce sets him up with a girl from engineering and that is his future wife.

Thor: Physical Education major and Communications minor! Here on a football scholarship and is in a frat (not the asshole one tony was in) and is a partying ICON. Tries to get Loki to party but Loki just wants to drink wine with the cat he snuck into his dorm. Learns Sign from Clint to prepare for his career in education. Loves working out with Bucky, Sam and Steve. Takes up boxing during football off season and spars with Bruce. Despite being everyones fav himbo he gets really good grades and is a very good writer. Loki dorms across the hall from him. Thor actually rooms with Peter. Peter is the freshman baby and Thor takes peter under his wing and introduces him to everyone and helps him with college stuff in general. Also hooks him up with MJ and brings him to the occasional boxing session. Has a loud booming laughter you can hear in all floors of the library when he sees a funny meme. One time he actually makes a very good point and notices a flaw in one of Tony and Bruces projects leaves everyone stunned. Picks on Loki in big brother fashion. Unironically calls weed the devils lettuce.

Loki: Pre-Law and Criminal Justice. LOVES to argue. (Devils advocate ass) In Mock Trial and Criminal Justice Club. Tony jokingly calls him steves sexy secretary in CJ club. Loves Mock Trial and is the president with Nat as his right hand woman. Sneaks a cat he found at the shelter into his dorm and names it muffin. Stays in the Library writing or going over cases. The one time he was taking Natasha a copy of the Mock Trial case packet and caught her and bruce smooching. (He screeched) "Haha funny joke yall heres the case packet BYE." He automatically texts the group chat "i think nAT AND BRUCE HAVE SOME TEA FOR US HMM". Lets Peter and Bruce come over to his dorm because he knows their roommates can get a little too much sometimes. Loki also becomes an avid twitter user and thats how he gains popularity on campus. (He called the uni out for their awful and expensive parking) Was able to convince the Dean with tony and steve to create a new parking lot. Caffeine addict!!! Him and Tony always bump into each other at the coffee shop. Brings baked goods to meet ups with the gang. Loves to play pranks (especially on Tony) Him and Bucky come up with a genius prank on him and even get pepper involved. Best dressed on campus and is in the fashion club. He is the embodiment of dark academia.

Sam: Criminal Justice Major with Aerospace Engineering minor. Gets introduced to Bucky and Steve during move in and they literally become brothers. Is both in Criminal Justice Club and Engineering Club. In the Historically Black Frat on campus and takes huge pride in that. Parties with tony and thor BIG TIME. Procrastinates by throwing paper airplanes at Bucky until Bucky is like "Um...dude your paper is due in like two hours." At that moment Sam got into work faster than he ever had. Loves gossip sessions with Loki and Wanda. Works out a lot with Bucky, Steve and Thor to get rid of stress. When he and Bucky finish a final they go to loki's dorm and ask "Hey can we see your cat." Helps prep food for friends-giving and decorates the dorm for holidays. HATES 8ams so so so much. Steve promises him pancakes if he gets up and goes. Binge watches shows during weekends and screams when Destiel is finally canon. Loves running and gets a Track Scholarship when Thor gets him to join a sport. Gets Peter to join track.

Bucky: criminal justice major and psychology minor. Buck is also in ballet club with Nat, it really helps him relax and gives him a free space to think (also he runs that shit like no ones business) Criminal justice club as well and LOVES to work out and box. One time Sam accompanies him to ballet and Bucky pushes Sam into a split... the scream was heard for miles. "Sam ballet is good for athletes it helps w-" "Yeah but its not good for my balls" Doesn't willingly procrastinate but once in awhile he will forget an assignment, you best believe his eyes will snap open from his nap and get to work asap. For one of his psyche labs he had to question Steve as if he were Steve's therapist to which Steve responds "Hey bro you dont have to hit a nerve that deep" He also likes to do dance with peter since it helps him get away from Thor for a bit. Not a big partier but once the weight of finals are off his chest you best believe he will go all out. Picks on Nat and says hes gonna steal her man, to which tony interjects and says "Not if I do first" Bucky also has a very comfy dorm, comfy lighting and tons of pillows, the man loves his sleep... and so does everyone else. Sometimes he finds peter, sam, THOR, tONY EVERYONE just napping in his bed before their study time. Overall, bucky is a smart boy and his time in college is kind to him.

Wanda: English Major and Education Minor. After being an orphan Wanda knows what it feels like to not have a parental figure there and she wants to change that for other kids by becoming an english teacher. She volunteers at an orphanage, specifically the one her and pietro were in for a brief moment when they came to the states. She loves to draw as well and takes plenty of art classes with steve. She paints a portrait of the entire gang and gives it to tony as a graduation present (he cried). She loves to do volunteer work for children and also spend a lot of time in the library, She helped Nat calm down before Bruce asked her out. Her and Loki are in constant competition for best dressed. "Loki ill let you win best dressed but you have to let me see your cat" "ugh fine... btw your shirt doesnt match your boots" "hEY" Her and Peter take alot of intro classes together and are constantly running around craft stores trying to get the right stuff for projects. Visits Vision at his Job on Campus and he visits her where she volunteers and eventually they start dating. She is constantly getting visited by pietro at 4am asking "Um do you have milk" "Pietro its 4am what do you ne-" "my OREOS"

Pietro: Track star business major, frat ICON with Thor. poor boy is STRESSED he hates college and is here on a track scholarship, constantly late and running around getting shit done. Queen of late assignments but still gets them graded because he is in Track. Yeah he has alot on his plate but he still parties with thor for hours. When he is drowning in assignments Clint is always there to help him, Bruce also helps him with biology and the more science-y classes. Likes to mess around and race sam at track practice. Not into coffee but will run on all the monster energy drinks you could possibly buy. Seriously is tired of 8 a.m courses, he just wants to nap after practice. Walks into the study room that everyone was in and actually looks more sleep deprived than tony. He gets a lot of tips from steve on how to have an easier time in college and it really helps him.

Vision: Grad student working on a civil engineering masters and a TA. Meets Wanda in the library and she asks him where the biographies are. He mistakenly says they are on the 2nd floor "Uh theyre actually on the third" "Then why did you ask?" "Cause I wanted to talk to you :)" He swooned. Through Wanda he met Tony and Bruce and became their best friend, He helped out a lot with engineering club and got them far. He spends a lot of time doing research for his masters degree, he loves relaxing with the group on weekends and picks on pietro as if he is already apart of the family. Him and Loki bond over intellectual conversations from time to time. Bruce and Nat go on double dates with him and Wanda. Went to a bar once with tony and bruce and had to stop tony from singing Queens entire discography, he had the best night that night. Helps everyone with getting into jobs and into grad school in general while everyone helps him let loose and have some fun.

Peter: Peter is a Physics major and eventually works his way up to biochemistry. (hardworking icon) He is the freshman baby of the group and is introduced to them through Thor. He dances with Buck and Nat sometimes as well. Tony obviously takes peter under his wing and helps him with assignments. One time everyone was in the same study room and him and pietro have a redbull shot gunning challenge. When Peter wins Thor picks him up and almost yeets the poor boy into the ceiling. "VERY WELL DONE YOUNG PARKER YOU SHOULD BE DOING THAT WITH BEER IN NO TIME." "Thor plz" Tony and Thor help him ask MJ out and even spy on them during a dinner date. (Imagine thor with sunglasses and a scarf around his head pretending to be tonys date) He feels so accepted in college because of the gang and gets all his work done on time. Goes out of his way to get everyone christmas presents and is so excited for friendsgiving. Becomes a little stressball during finals and midterms and stays in the library till it closes. He spots loki alot in there and helps loki with science classes while loki helps him with political science classes. He meets MJ through wanda and is obviously blushing the whole time while being introduced. Gets embarrassed when the guys flirt with aunt may. "guys plz stop" This is when Sam earns his "milf hunter" nickname. "Pete hows your aunt?" "She doesnt want you sam i-" its not like that... actually it is like that"

Coulson: Alumni Icon. Is the gangs Intro professor and is the reason why everyone meets eachother. (the class was chaotic indeed) Coulson loved that class so much and he still gets visited by everyone from time to time. He is obviously close with Nick. They were there that night when Tony was signing Queen at the bar and couldnt help but laugh.

Nick Fury: Dean for criminal justice and is heavily involved with criminal justice club and mock trial. He is tired of everyones shit as always. Makes a tiktok account for the criminal justice club and has no idea how to manage social media so gets Loki to help. Has to delete it when Loki commented "hah losers" on the engineering tiktoks page. He looks intimidating but in his office he has a picture with the club and has all the gifts he gets on display. (He even framed lokis comment because it was hilarious afterall)

[narutowtfareyoudoing]

Hello! Welcome to the world of Naruto imagines! Can't wait to see more stuff from you guys, I already love what I see haha ❤ anywho, could we pretty please get headcanons for how the sand siblings would handle falling in love with their best friend(the reader)? Like, maybe they aren't sure if their BFF could ever feel the same way, how would each of them handle that? Hide their feelings forever, or eventually tell them bc they can't take it, or what? Just want your HCs on the topic, thanks!❤

So I assumed it’s implied that their BFF also likes them back. Also I’m so sorry that this request is so old. My apologies.

—

Gaara

Gaara treasures you in every meaning of the word. Besides Naruto and his own siblings you were one of the first people in the Sand Village to accept him, one of the first to congratulate him on becoming Kazekage.

He’s still getting used to his own emotions after years of being practically deprived of them so he was slow to realize his ever growing feeling for you until one day. Boom. Helplessly in love. 

He’s tried to trace back to exactly when this happened but there’s no exact date

It could’ve been all those long hours you’d spend with him in the Kazekage office keeping him in good company.

Maybe it happened when you started bringing lunches to him and you’d have small little lunch dates.

Perhaps it was when you gifted him a small cactus for his birthday. It sat on the corner of his desk and served of a constant reminder that he had friends who cared about him.

Had it been even earlier than that? Could it have happened when you’d given him a hello hug? 

Had it been the telltale love at first sight? 

He’d likely never properly know. 

And he’d certainly never tell you about it. He’d forever hold his peace on the subject. Uncertainty simply being to great of a risk to overcome.

He cared for you too much to ever run the risk of scaring you off. He’d come up with dozens of reasons to justify never telling you his hearts greatest desire.

He was the Kazekage and if you were to be with him that would make you a target, on top of that being the Kazekage ate up his life he simply didn’t have the time you deserved to give to you. He knew next to nothing about the world of romantic love and he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to tend to you in the ways you would need. Emotionally and Physically. 

The only person he’d ever breathed a word of his feeling for you to was Kankuro. He’d opened up to him when he didn’t understand what he was feeling and Kankuro had been the one to tell him he was in love. 

And Kankuro knew something that was clear to nearly everyone else besides Gaara. You loved his back. It was so desperately clear, Kankuro would never understand how you two were so oblivious. 

Kankuro wasn’t about to let the love of his little brothers life slip away and he knew there was nothing he could tell Gaara to convince him confess and certainly nothing he could do physically to make him tell you.

So Kankuro himself just told you. 

Finding out Gaara was just as in love with you as you were with him made your heart sing and before you knew it your feet were moving.

It wasn’t unusual for you to visit Gaara in his office, the guards let you by without so much as a glance but it was however very unusual for you to just go in without knocking first.

The sudden intrusion startled him and left you a little flustered as you realized you’d barged in here without thinking of what to say. 

His first reaction made sense, he stood up from his chair and asked. “Are you hurt?” “No.” “In danger?” “No.” “Do you require something?” “No.”

Every no just confused him even further as he stared at you and settled on being quiet, he sat back down slowly and patiently waited. Surely you’d tell him what was going on if he gave you the chance.

Your face got hot in the quiet as you desperately tried to think but the thumping of your heart weighed out any rational thoughts.

So without a plan you walked over to him. 

He watched you with careful eyes, unsure of what had come over you, nothing dangerous but the look in your eyes and your flushed face left him grasping for answers.

He instead got a question as you rounded his desk to stand beside him.

“Wanna go on a date?” 

It was all you could think of.

He stared at you wide eyed for a moment, for once his monotone stoic voice failing him. You were asking him on a date? Did that mean…?

You offered out your hand as your heart started to beat with panic instead of excitement. 

He slowly reached over and took your hand in his as his answer since his heart seemed to be caught in his throat. His entire body felt warm in a way that was very different than the desert heat. He got up, paperwork completely forgotten and his undivided attention on you. 

A rare smile slowly appearing on his face as you laced your fingers with his…and now maybe he could pinpoint when he’d fallen deeply in love with you.

Kankuro

Year’s of dealing with his once unstable little brother and the harsh demands of the Sand Village Shinobi would make one think that Kankuro was unshakable, that it would’ve given him nerves of steel and in battle there was no question about that. But here? Standing in front of your house? He could be mistaken for a quivering child.

His feelings weren’t new to him. He’d been aware of his ever growing crush on you for a long time now.

He hadn’t even been bashful about his flirting. He complimented and teased you nearly daily.

And every time you’d throw your head back and laugh, hit his arm and tell him cut it out between giggles. 

Every time he’d join you in laughing but there would be a slight sting to his ego as you lightheartedly rejected his compliments.

He knew it wasn’t out of malice, outside of the battle field he wasn’t sure if you even had a mean bone in your body so he never pressed his compliments any further. 

Until today.

He’d been out with Temari when he spotted you. Talking to a couple of nobody low level Shinobi…laughing…hitting their shoulders like you hit his and hopelessness wrecked his stomach.

“How many times have I told you that you’re not the only one who noticed that Y/N is a great catch?” Temari asked.

She knew she had to say something to light a fire under her brothers ass since he’d let all her friendly advise go in one ear and straight out the other. She sometimes wondered if there was anything in that head of his.

Her words turned the hopelessness in his stomach into pure and unbridled jealousy.

Left with no rational thoughts he marched over to you and threw his arm around your shoulders, demanding your attention. 

You were happy to see him but a little wary of the attitude he seemed to be toting. 

“Hey, Y/N I was just looking for you, come on.” He said completely ignoring the people you’d been talking to, trying to pull you away from them.

“Wow, it is important? I was talking to–” “Anything is more important than talking to these two punks.” He laughed.

But you didn’t find it funny at all.

You moved his arm from around you and shoved him off. “What’s your problem?” You demanded.

“My problem?” He scoffed. “I don’t have a problem! These two punks do! Can’t you see the way they’re looking at you? Come on, I know you’re not stupid.”

Embarrassed and angry you didn’t say anything. You just left.

There was that hopelessness. Back in full swing. Making him realize every jealousy fueled word he said was beyond idiotic…oh no, what’d he done? 

“You know that was impressively stupid…did you think at all that entire time?” Temari asked. Making sure her brother got the message in case it had somehow escaped him how stupid he’d been.

It hadn’t escaped him at all.

The entire day his heart was dangling by his feet, any time he started to feel anything else his psyche reminded him of his mistake and a whole knew wave of distress would wash over him.

He tried to distract himself with work but only felt worse when he stumbled onto the puppet he was helping you build. It was crude at best and instead of a menacing face it had a goofy one you’d decorated with his purple face paint.

And as memories of your friendship were brought to the forefront of his mind he knew he couldn’t just sit around and risk losing his best friend.

So here he was, terrified of explaining himself to you. Terrified of not only losing a romantic relationship with you but maybe even your friendship.

He took a deep breath and knocked on your door but when you answered it his deep breath was shot right out of him, his confidence barely standing an inch tall. And all the words he’d thought of were gone.

“Wow, Temari was right, you look terrible.” You teased nodding a little.

“What?” He could’ve hit himself for such a dumbfounded response.

“Temari came by…said she couldn’t stand your loud melancholy moping any longer.” 

And he froze up as he thought of all the things Temari could’ve told you. Was his secret out? Did you hate him?

“You know, usually you just ask a girl out on a date maybe get her some flowers. Being a tool isn’t really the best way to go about it.” And there wasn’t any anger in your tone, it was soft if not a bit teasing.

A smile grew on his face as he realized what you were saying. His heart racing and his confidence sky rocketing as he asked. “So dinner?”

Temari

How had this happened? One day you were her fellow Kunoichi, woman in arms, best friend and now…the love of her life?

It hit her like a kunai to the chest.

You two were just sitting in her room, painting each others toe nails, laughing and enjoying a room that wasn’t filled with testosterone. 

It felt like a safe space where neither of you had to be tough to prove yourselves has hardened Kunoichi. You just got to be yourselves.

And who knew her better than you? No one. 

You’d been best friends for what like felt like forever, you’d been there for her through everything. Someone she could count on and talk to no matter what. You’d just always been there with warm open arms.

All her secrets she knew were safe with you so when you asked the simple question. “Got a crush on anyone?” It shouldn’t have rocked her world the way it did.

She even laughed at the question at first. “I don’t know.” She giggled. “Come on, you’ve gotta have a crush on someone.” You further prodded 

“I don’t even know if I’ve ever had a crush on someone, I’m way too busy with missions.” She insisted.

“So there’s no one that makes your heart skip a beat? No one that when you look at them the world gets quiet and it all makes sense? No one that makes you feel safe? No one you look at and go ‘Gods you’re a gift.’?” You teased.

She froze up as she thought through the questions and all the answers were the same: You.

You saw the way she froze up, words dying in her throat as she looked away from you. “You alright?”

You reached over to rub her shoulder but she hit your hand away. “Don’t touch me.” Her words were harsh and laced with venom. 

“What?” “In fact get out, leave” “What?!” “I said leave!”

And so you left…unbeknownst to her you took her heart with you.

She felt psychically ill, her stomach ached and her head throbbed as she tried to make sense of all the emotions that clashed inside of her.

The clash of raw emotions however never had a victor as she swallowed down her feelings, refusing to be some fussy, dramatic teenage girl. No, never. She refused to be ruled by her emotions

The only way to keep her feelings from overwhelming her was to stay as far away from you as possible. Demanding Gaara change her mission partner from you to anyone else, dodging your favourite restaurant, the training grounds, anywhere you two had memories she refused to go.

But she couldn’t escape her own room. No matter how many missions she went on eventually she ended up at home. Where her heart ached.

She pushed it all down though, letting her stoic and cold shell keep her together…keep her safe from love and all it’s aches.

Or so she thought.

Who would’ve guessed that nail polish would be the rock hurtled at her that would shatter her glass exterior?

Painful tears gave her no choice as they rolled down her face as she looked at the last bits of chipped black polish on her toes. The last thing you two had ever done together.

Without you it felt like there was no one to turn too, no shoulder for her to rest her weary head, no warm inviting arms to hug her pieces back together…no you to speak of.

She couldn’t go to her little brothers. She was the oldest, she wasn’t supposed to break like this, she could never let them see her like this.

But after months of her heart suffering in silence it seemed Hellbent to be heard in the extreme.

It screamed memories at her, leaving her with no choice but to relive them. Memories of you two danced behind her eyelids like a movie she couldn’t turn off.

The time’s you’d put your life on the line for her during missions, when you’d cheered her on at the Chunin exams, the countless hours you’d spent in this very room, when you’d made her a little fan as a joke, your smile and your laughter tormented her aching heart.

But the last straw? The idea that there would be no future memories to make.

She’d lived though so much heartbreak. She’d watched her mother die, her father become a monster, she’d watched as Gaara had gone deeper and deeper into darkness and even as he’d changed and gotten better all this had left scars on her heart…she just didn’t want love to hurt her anymore.

It left her vulnerable and if she was vulnerable she could get hurt.

But where had this plan taken her? Her heart ached in a way it never had before, it cried out so loudly it practically deafened her. 

She left her house, desperate to just make it all stop.

Blurred vision didn’t let her see where she was going but her feet carried her to the one place she knew she’d be able to feel better.

Her body practically slammed into the door as she lost sight of her footing, tears robbing her of any semblance of where she was.

Warm arms wrapped around her and there was no mistaking them, no mistaking your embrace.

You’d been so ready to yell at her the next time you saw Temari, give her Hell for everything she’d put you through but seeing her a crying pile at your door in the middle of the night? That all disappeared and all you wanted to do was hug your best friend.

In your arms her heart finally relented and let her feel what love can truly do: Heal. 

It would be a long uphill battle but a spark of hope warmed her chest. 

Maybe this love wouldn’t break her heart. Maybe love could be for her as long as she was with you.

—

~Admin Coral.

Buy Me A Coffee?

[janiedean]

www(.)slate(.)com/articles/arts/culturebox/2017/02/how_sensitivity_readers_from_minority_groups_are_changing_the_book_publishing(.)html This seriously worries me. Tumblr mentality spilling over real life

... yey.

okay, no rewind. first thing, I’m sad to say but tumblr mentality has spilled over irl a long time ago and at this point the only thing we can do is hoping this historical moment passes a long time ago (it had already spilled over the moment I had to read actual articles about people actually asking to remove Ovid from a ***classic literature*** curricula because there are rape scenes in the metamorphoses). whatever.

now about this, the problem is: I do think that if someone writes about X character that belongs to a minority they should do their research before touching the topic if they care to write a good book (if they don’t then it’s another problem entirely but let’s just assume they do), but it has to be a thing you do before you actually write that shit. I absolutely don’t agree with write what you know only because otherwise we wouldn’t be publishing a damned thing and honestly some people also write so that they don’t have to always rehash what they know, but if you’re doing a socially sensitive theme you have to try and do it right - if I decide I write a book with a trans character I can’t do it before I talk to a sizable amount of trans people and I don’t read more than a bit on the subject, same as if I decide to write a book set during idk the vietnam war where the protagonist is a ptsd vietnam veteran I can’t do it if I haven’t read a ton of lit/history books about the vietnam war and talked with a few psychologists or psych students or read something about ptsd. but that’s a thing that’s your duty as the author, if you want to do a serious book about a serious thing. if you just want to dick around it’s another problem entirely but let’s just say that I want to do that, it’s on me to do it, not on my **sensitivity readers**, and anyway a sensitivity reader (which once upon a time should have been called editor but never mind) shouldn’t have that much power, ie: once I read a tumblr post which basically said ‘white writers couldn’t ever write poc characters because they possibly can’t understand [now what POC meant in that sense is an entire other question that was left unanswered of course, bc poc doesn’t mean just black but nvm] but they have a moral obligation to because poc writers aren’t as popular/are hired less than white writers, and even at their best they will never get it right and they’ll fuck the poc characters up but who cares, they have to do it and take the criticism so they realize how it feels to be discriminated’.

now, I personally would never hear any advice from THAT above person if they were my sensitivity reader, because the concept that if I’m white then I can’t possibly get it right means that they already decided my work is going to suck ass even if it’s a masterpiece, and then... fuck that? I mean, I have no moral obligation to write anything I don’t want and with that attitude you basically make sure that someone is never gonna try to branch out. and where were the sensitivity readers when fifty shades came out, and all the subsequent YA porn books where it looks like your ideal man should be a stalker? we just don’t know, but no one cares to have sensitivity readers on ***that*** shit because guess what, it sells.

like, the problem shouldn’t be that you as a writer might offend someone with your writing because that can be because you’re actually offensive or because you’re nabokov and you wrote lolita and people who don’t get the point of it think it’s offensive and that it should be burned. you can’t start writing shit thinking of whether you’re going to offend someone or not with it because otherwise you’ll never get anywhere and you couldn’t touch one single sensitive topic (and on this, I’d appreciate sensitivity readers when it comes to atheist characters but NEVER MIND THAT XDDD /joking). what people should do is encourage potential writers who want to write socially sensitive stuff to talk to other people first and research their topic if it requires it.

What I mean is, let’s do a practical example: let’s take the basic lady chatterley plot (woman has a husband that neglects her both sexually and as a person and finds happiness with another guy who lives just under the husband’s nose). the original lady chatterly is already socially sensible because it has class issues and whatnot, but if you just want to write your torrid romance novel about the white suburban mom falling in love with the new white hot neighbor while her white husband doesn’t notice her existence and they have all the a+ sex in the world you’re perfectly entitled to and like, just get yourself an editor that will tell you if your porn sucks or not. there, this one’s easy.

but, let’s say that you want to have the white suburban mom being a victim of domestic violence instead of having the husband being just neglectful then you should research something about domestic violence and the effect it has on people. it has already become way more socially sensible, because you can’t just shrug it away and the sex she’ll have with her new guy won’t be the same as the sex she used to have with her husband, or alternatively, if the husband’s neglectful only you can have a difference between quick missionary and hot steamy long fucks with the new guy, if he’s abusive and he abuses her sexually you have to have nonconsensual vs consensual which is already a whole new heap of problems.

or, let’s flip it around: the domestic violence victim is a man, the wife is the one abusing him, he falls in love with the new female neighbor next door. this implies that you have to look into female on male domestic violence and research how frequently men aren’t taken seriously especially if the perpetrator is a woman, so you have the above plus this.

or, the victim is a man, the perpetrator is a woman, he falls in love with the male neighbor next door. in this case you have to make sure you know how to write a guy who has to get out of an abusive relationship and have a sexuality crisis if he didn’t know he was also into dudes.

or, all three are male, or all three are women: you have to look into statistics to see how male on male or female on female abuse works, on top of all of the above, on top of you have to know how to write an abuse victim. and, if there’s children involved? you have to deal with that too and you have to make sure the abuser isn’t a complete stereotype or some kind of boogeyman because that kind of story is effective if the perpetrator is someone who doesn’t look out of a twilight fanfic *cough*. if you make any of those characters trans then you have to look into it, too, if you make any of them not white or not your ethnicity you might wanna look into that too, and so on. and if you wanna throw in the lady chatterley class thing then you have to also think about what it means if some of the characters are rich, if others are poor, if they’re all middle class, if they’re all poor, all rich and so on.

what I mean is that the same plot, with some changes, can require zero research beyond what metaphors to not use while writing porn (example one) to a whole fucking lot of research and it’s on you to find people to discuss it with before and then to possibly proofread it before you send it to any publisher so you at least are sure you have a thing in your hands that doesn’t suck or has glaring inaccuracies. at that point your sensitivity reader should be able to give it a look and maybe give you advice which you should be able to reject if you don’t think it sound - for example, let’s say I write the above book in its most socially sensitive approach. like, dunno, let’s say the abuser is a cishet white man, the protagonist is a white ftm trans person who also can’t/won’t transition because of their abusive husband and the neighbor is, dunno, a black cishet woman. this would require a shitload of research should I try to write it. but then let’s say I do it and then I decide to write it from the pov of the abusive husband. which is a legitimate literary choice and I’m taking it with the entire intent of making him an abusive asshole without trying to justify his actions and to pull a less skilled humbert humbert in the world (because I’m not nabokov and no one is, but one could and should be able to write villains as a POV if they want to) and that I made sure to depict him as The Worst. if my sensitivity reader says that it’s offensive that I would write it from that guy’s POV in the first place and nothing else matters, it wouldn’t matter if I wrote the best book of the last ten years, it would still be deemed offensive. and that is a thing that shouldn’t fly - meaning, that if this is just a background check to make sure you don’t do bad representation (which you should have already done yourself anyway) it could have its usefulness, if it becomes a way to say that you can’t write what you want or problematic characters/villains shouldn’t be a POV choice even if you show them to be terrible then we’re straight into censorship land and that... shouldn’t be a thing.

tldr, you didn’t even ask for this entire rant but tbh I’m worried about that possible outcome (especially since that article mentioned roth which on this website is already hated as the champion of the white old man protagonist who wants to bang his students by people who don’t understand shit about either roth or writing in general) more than about checks on whether a thing is offensive or not, which anyway seems to me like is thoroughly ignored if the book sells (see: every other stalker seen as an ideal dude in YAs post-50 shades *sigh*).

[not-tryin-2-have-a-debate]

i want to keep my original long draft for an essay abotu my Psych Ward Expirience somewhere so i’m post it here under readmore bc its super long

When most people hear the phrase “Psych Ward,” they think of settings in horror movies. They picture 1800’s sanatoriums, dark and crumbling asylums full of dangerous murderers. I don’t know if hollywood or a general societal ignorance towards mental disorders should be blamed more for that, but living with a serious mental illness is one of those things that “outsiders” never really seem to understand. That misunderstanding extends to treatment as well.

    Therapy comes in many shapes and sizes, different types and intensities. There are different amounts of work expected from the patient, different ways the therapist can try to work through their issues, but the biggest range of differences is probably in the environments these sessions can take place in. One-on-One appointments with a therapist, Group therapy that meets once or twice a week, specific support groups, and anger management classes are all things that we in the business would call “outpatient” treatment. Some programs are dubbed as “intensive outpatient” or “semi-inpatient” programs, for when they want to hospitalize someone but aren’t allowed to for whatever reason (usually because they can’t pay for it, or the family in charge of their affairs won’t allow it, or they're actually a good and understanding doctor that sees the problem with taking a mother away from her job and kids from three days to three months depending on the program.)

Group homes, halfway houses, and stays in mental hospitals would all be on the “inpatient” or residential side of things. Some places are specifically “Crisis Hospitals,” a place where suicidal patients go for one or two days until they aren’t considered an active threat to themselves anymore. Depending on the hospital and how much they actually care, the patient may run out the clock of their stay and can sent to a different center or dropped back into society while still in the middle of their crisis. Every psychiatric hospital has protocol for patients on suicide watch and many have specific rooms for it, open cubbies in a big long hall with no doors or front walls, so the staff can be watching you at all times.

When someone’s in treatment for any mental issues extending beyond mild depression or anxiety, being hospitalized is a kind of vague threat always looming on the horizon. If they say something a little too dark, or they fly off the handle a little too often, the question comes up asking if they’re in need of more ‘intense’ care.

Most patients that have been around a while know how to quickly deflect a nervous doctor. We get told our own horror stories; tales of prisons with heavily medicated inmates, friends recounting abuse from their nurses, being locked up in a place that claimed to help them but in actuality just held their lives/times for ransom until they stopped complaining.

I’m asked about my safety every time I see my psychiatrist. I sit in Brian’s office once every three or four weeks and discuss how much of a failure I am at pretending to be a human being. Every time, near the end, he looks me in the eye with an uncomfortable grimace and asks me how safe I feel. We both know it's a strange and impossible question. I could say no for so many different reasons. Realistically I will probably hurt myself before our next appointment. There will definitely be at least a few times I think of dying, go over the details in my head. I could point to my paranoia, or my childhood, and tell him I haven’t felt safe in a long, long time. But he knows all of that, and he knows my honest answer, and we both know that him asking how safe I currently feel is just secret code for whether or not I want to be sent to a hospital. So I shrug and tell him I’ll be just fine.

I guess I was having a pretty rough time at fourteen. I say “I guess” because I can’t remember most of it, but what I do remember wasn’t particularly any worse than two years before or the year after. It was mainly just that when I was fourteen, people were noticing more, and feeling more guilty, and I was saying some wrong things at the wrong times.

I’d already been in regular therapy for years; I’d been through one group until my therapist got transferred and an “intensive outpatient therapy plan” after that.     Every two weeks or so one of my parents would dig me out of bed and drive me to the one small therapy office in my town. I would wait for at least forty minutes past my appointment and then be called back to see the nurse, Mellisa. (Her name was spelled with two L’s and one S; I know about that because she would get very upset with the other staff for spelling it wrong.) Every time I went to that office, Mellisa would have me take a pregnancy test, no matter how many things about me made its results obvious, because when you’re a kid medical professionals will never trust a single word out of your mouth: especially if you’re crazy.     My mother and I would go and sit in an uncomfortably warm room waiting for my psychiatrist go come online. I would study the boring, mass-produced ocean painting on the wall, finding anything to look towards but my mother.     My psychiatrist at the time was an attractive nigerian man that I was only ever introduced to as Dr.O; one time I asked Mellisa what his full name was, because I felt disrespectful not knowing it, but she’d brushed it off as too hard to even try pronouncing. Dr.O lived somewhere else in the state and would see me for our appointments through a computer monitor, setup on a cheap wooden coffee table across from some chairs. My parents always complained about having to drive all the way to the office just to have a skype call; I always just wondered why they bothered setting up the fancy room, since you could hear what everyone was saying through the walls anyway.     Dr.O mainly saw older patients and I could tell that he usually thought I was being overdramatic. I would keep my head down, trying my best to speak up so he could hear me through the microphone on the table (and often being chided by him and my mother to move closer to it when he still couldn’t hear me.) I would stay silent as my mother talked the whole time, giving half of the story with none of the context. I would stiffly and awkwardly be made to stand up and show a man on a screen the words carved into my arms, motion to where the cuts went on my legs. I would look at noe one and try not to think of the mostly-screamed “lecture” that was waiting for me once we were done there, where both of my parents sat me on my bed and stood there with crossed arms, telling me they weren’t angry, they were just frustrated, telling me they just didn’t understand why I did these things to myself. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t just come talk to them.

Dr.O decided once, while my mom was in the middle of telling him her version of what I was going through, that I needed to be hospitalized. I snapped back to attention, stopped picking at the scabs on my arm, asked what I did. I barely remember what the real reasoning was: something about how I was already suicidal and they were going to take me off my anti-depressants which were making me more depressed on top of causing me to gain weight, and I would probably feel even more suicidal when I was in the withdrawal from those so I needed to be monitored, or something. That’s a series of events that I’ve gone through about five or six times with five or six different drugs, and that one (paxil, for anyone wondering) wasn’t the first. I’m still not sure why that time it was any different...maybe those reasons were an excuse for some kind of psychic doctor vibe he was getting from me.     My mother was, of course, completely furious for all the wrong reasons. I was calmly sent out of the room to wait with Mellisa while she screamed, asking if he was really about to lock up a fourteen year old girl with a bunch of “violent drug addicts” because I was having “some issues adjusting.” When I was younger my mother would often refer to my ‘adjustment issues’--i was never sure what it was I was trying to adjust to.

My mother called my father and I thought to myself that this was a really bad way to make me not want to die. He entered the building crying and confused, probably having only been told a vague three word explanation by my mother, leaning down at me chair, caressing my face like I was dying or like we would never see each other again. For all I knew, we wouldn’t; for all the information I’d been given, I was about to be shipped off somewhere for life. We spent probably another hour in that office, me sitting in my chair, watching everyone else argue and talk and come and go and give me weird looks for split seconds and then continue on talking about me like they’d already sent me to the terrifying gate of hell that a mental hospital apparently was. Mellisa tried to comfort me and pointed out that I was crying.  She put a hand on my shoulder and I accidentally, involuntarily, blurted out for her not to touch me. My mouth says a lot of things I don’t want it to. That’s one of the times I’ve most regretted it.     I was eventually told I would go home, pack my things, and drive to the hospital that night. That had set my mother off again right when she’d started to calm down--     “Tonight!?” she’d barked at Mellisa. “We can’t even wait til tomorrow?!”     Imagine what a dinner that would’ve been.     I assume I did as I was told. I remember packing the stuffed animal my internet boyfriend had hot-glued together for me, and a (paperback) Robert Louis Stevenson novel that I was trying to read and pretending I understood more than half of. You aren’t allowed to take a whole list of things with you to the hospital; anything that could possibly be considered dangerous to you or to anyone else is prohibited. No shoes with laces or pants with drawstrings. No mirror, hair brushes, toothbrushes, or soaps either, because the hospital would supply those. At one point I bitterly argued with a nurse that I could shove a sock in my mouth a choke on it if I really wanted to, and she threatened to take all my socks away. I decided to stay quiet on the realization I had that if I got really desperate I could just try to bite off my own tongue.     The drive was two hours long and completely silent. My mother spent the first twenty minutes determined to squeeze as much as she could out of the time we had left til arrival, but I was in a confused haze and she was tired from screaming at doctors...or tired from dealing with her defective daughter. She tried to comfort me, assuring me that this would be good for me, that maybe this hospital would straighten some things out and set me on the road to true recovery after all this time spent struggling. I looked at the moonless sky outside and chose not to tell her that she had finally admitted something was wrong with me. It was almost midnight when we actually reached the hospital; we passed it once on accident since we could barely make out the sign. My body was working on its own again at this point. I took mechnical steps, looking straight ahead, hand held in my mother’s because she needed the comfort.

The sterile white walls and fluorescent lights in the front lobby were blinding coming in from the night. I squinted at the woman who came up to meet us, shook my dad’s hand, my mom’s, glanced at me for maybe half of a second. A man named Jesus took and searched my things while we were guided into a more traditional room for this setting, corporate representations of calming moods. Light blue or green walls, wicker and tweed furniture, mass-produced ocean paintings. I focussed on how much I hated paintings of the beach while my parents filled out forms, until the woman finally turned her attention to me. I was comforted and assured, again, that this would be good for me, and then assured that they legally weren’t allowed to use electro-shock therapy. I was told I would do regular groups and that the security wouldn’t use force unless I posed a violent threat. She explained expressive therapy to me, as if I’d never heard of art, while I signed a form saying I consented to being medically sedated if need be. I asked how they would sedate people. She asked if I was afraid of needles.

After signing my name a hundred times, with one of my parents signing after each, it was time for us to say our goodbyes. I’m sure I cried, but I can’t honestly say I remember.

Jesus reappeared without my belongings, telling me before I could ask that they were waiting on my new bed. He led me about three steps out of the conference room to a set of wooden double-doors, like the entrance to a school cafeteria.     “This is the Ad Ward…’Ad’ stands for ‘Adolescent.’” he told me, shuffling out an ID card to unlock the doors. He quickly ushered me through and it the first door on the left before I could nothing anything other than a hardwood floor. Jesus handed me a paper hospital gown I never noticed him holding and instructed me to put in on, pointing at the spot on the floor on the small empty room where I should put my clothes. He said a woman would come in shortly to search them and me and then took his swift exit before I could ask any questions. I did as I was told as quickly as possible, nervously trying to make out the muffled voices right outside the door.     The second I’d put my clothes in their neatly folded line the head nurse came into the room, making good on Jesus’s word. She went down the line of clothed I had made her, picking up and shaking out every part of my outfit without saying a word. When she was satisfied with them, she turned to me.     For those of you that have never been strip searched, please know that it is every bit as strange and mortifying as you would expect, and that no matter how many times you’ve been through it, it’s going to stay just as weird. As my mostly-naked fourteen year old self squatted and coughed before the eyes of a stern older woman with a clipboard, I wondered again how this place was supposed to make life seem worth living.     After that, and her metal detector being set off by my braces, I was regifted my clothes (but not my shoes) and handed off to my last stop for the night before bed. I finally got a good look at the Royal Oak Hospital Adolescent Ward: one long hallway with a nurses station near the exit, an elevator, and a long line of almost closed doors.     A younger nurse took me into one of them, again completely different from the others I’d been in, and sat me down on an expensive medical equipment looking chair. The girl’s name was Rebecca, she told me sweetly, in the first actual human conversation I’d had in hours. She tried at mostly one-sided small talk with me and she gave me some kind of vaccination or shot. I remember being told it was just a precaution, but I can’t remember what it actually was. The second she was done with the mysterious syringe, though, Rebecca turned on me, bringing out a clipboard and a volley of emotionless questioned that seemed routine to her, but invasive and a little nerve-wracking to me. Asking if I ok with having a roommate or if they had to move my stuff to a different bed was one thing, but at the time I was tired and scared and every question after seemed to strike just the right nerve. She got about halfway down her sheet and asked, casually, what my sexuality was, before I started sobbing. She went back to the good Rebecca and sent me off to bed. We could finish the questions tomorrow.     I wouldn’t get to really get a look at my new room and roommate until the morning, as all the other patients on ward were already asleep (or were pretending to be). I slid into the bed, noting the plastic covering on the mattress and the starched, motel room feel of the blanket. Jesus peaked in the doorway to tell me it needed to stay open at night and that he and another man would keep watch on the hall. He said if I couldn’t sleep I was allowed to come sit out there and talk with them; there was usually at least one kid that took advantage of that at some point in the night.     I thanked him but chose to stay where I was, holding my handmade stuffed animal so tight it hurt my wrists and staring at the cracked door. I listened to Jesus and the other man talking quietly for hours until I finally passed out. I finally drifted off some time after Jesus lamented about how little time he was getting with his daughter after his divorce.     Morning Routine in the hospital was as follows: wake up at 8 a.m. and line up in the hallway for Checks. Roll was taken and an always different nurse that didn’t know our names would check our blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. People who took meds in the morning were given their pills and some water in two small paper cups, and David, the nurse that later became my favorite, would ask everyone who they wanted to call on the phone that day. (Phone time was allowed during a break after lunch; we could only ask to call people on an approved list of phone numbers written during admission.) Then, and only then, were we allowed to cram into the one elevator that led from the ward to the basement, and eat breakfast in the cafeteria. After that our daily routine mainly consisted of therapy, one-on-one conversations with a psychiatrist, and school, if it was a weekday.     My first morning I was greeted with a great enthusiasm by the eight other kids on the ward. Most of them were older than me by a year or two and I was quickly taken under their collective wing as a newbie. My roommate introduced herself (I’ll call her L) and wasted no time in getting to the stereotypical “what are you in for” conversation. Since my answer was pretty much a vague shrug she made up the difference, telling me a fabulous story embellished highly in her favor about how she punched her school’s superintendent in the face and was given the option of juvie or the hospital. We agreed that it was stupid of the school to give her that choice.

L loved to see how far she could cross the line before she got in trouble, but in the middle of testing people’s limits she would get angry and fly off the handle. She bragged to me that by the time I got there she had been restrained twice and medically sedated the second time. Eventually I had to change rooms when she started an altercation with Jesus and had to and was put on restrictions.     There’s an immediate air of understanding and camaraderie between patients on a ward, even between people that kind of hate each other on a personal level. I think it makes perfect sense given the environment, and the fact that in a short time there everyone is going to learn a lot of deep and personal things about everyone else. I remember most of the kids I met there well:     M was a small blond and the youngest on the ward at thirteen. He was extremely proud that he was old enough to belong with the teenagers. He was one of the most adamantly alive people I have ever met. He was very upfront about the fact that he had anger issues. I think I was the only one there who didn’t.

G is a girl that I think about very often, fondly and worriedly. She was such a genuine and lovely person, a heavy and pretty girl with long curly hair that was always smiling and talked with her hands. I worry about her because I was never able to contact her once i was out of the hospital; she didn’t give anyone contact information because she wasn’t sure where exactly she was going to end up after her stay there. Knowing what i did learn from her about her family...I still worry about her. But i also worry that trying to look her up now would be weird, but also only make me sad no matter what i found, even the best answers would feel bittersweet. I think that for now i prefer to just remember G fondly as a very dear friend i only got to spend a precious little amount of time with.     R was nice but was also the most actively angry about being there, and none of us could blame him. From what he told us (looking back on it now I’m still not sure which side was truthful) his parents had forced him into his stay after blowing an argument completely out of proportion. R as I gravitated towards each other magically, drawn by our innate ability to Tell. from my experience there were always two or three kids on the ward or in the group who aren’t straight, and we would always find each other and group together as quickly as possible.     D was the third or the two or three gay kids. I was told she made advances at me but I don’t remember noticing any of them. She really liked naruto and would tell me dramatic stories that I knew were mostly lies but listened to anyways because we were friends.     J was a surprise in a lot of ways. He showed up very suddenly and had the staff scrambling. He was tall and wide and older than most of us, with gauged ears and angry eyes. I feel guilty for the amount of time I spent compulsively strategizing self-defense plans against him before we got to know each other. J had been in juvenile detention before coming to the ward as a way to ease his transition back out into the “real world.”     The only person I didn’t really get along with was K, but I wasn’t the only one; she sat on the ‘normal people’ side of the social rift and didn’t particularly want anything to do with the rest of the group. Her choice.     The rest I don’t remember by name anymore; the teenage mother who got transferred to a different hospital, a boy who would not talk talk about anything other than weed every time I heard him speak. A quiet boy who’s name started with a D and had a nurse communicate things for him.   

The usual length of a stay at Royal Oaks was around a week, so people were usually coming and going every other day, making a rotating list of patients for David complained about because it complicated his job and phone call cataloguing. L left on day four, the weed guy the night before her. We vaguely celebrated when someone was left; we could have done more, but it would have meant celebrating almost every night, and jesus didn’t have enough change for the vending machine. We would say our goodbyes before we went to sleep, and part ways at breakfast. The new kids would be greeted with stories of who they replaced, and would be taken under our collective wing, and the cycle would continue.     I never personally got to see them, but there was a ward for Adults somewhere on our floor and one for “Pre-Ads” (children under the age of thirteen) downstairs, with the classroom, cafeteria, and ET room. The full layout of the Ad Ward wasn’t much more complicated than what I had observed the night before; one mysterious room was the “Lounge,” a baby blue nightmare where we spent free time, and another was a shower--yes, the whole room, that was it. A twelve-by-twelve cube of brown tile from floor to ceiling, with a small drain in the middle of the floor and a sad faucet with the water pressure of slow falling tears on one wall. About a foot in from the door there was a haphazardly installed shower curtain, and right below the faucet was a wall-hanging soap dispenser, like same kind you find in most public bathrooms. I’d heard of 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner before, but never All-in-1 general showering goo.     Every other room in the hall was a bedroom, and most of them looked identical. Blue walls, two beds set in wooden box frames, and a strange storage-shelf-table-sink hybrid on the other wall. Each room also had a small closet with a toilet in it (two of the rooms had actual bathrooms with their own, normal shower, but most of us weren’t as lucky.)     Bathroom doors weren’t allowed to be closed unless they were actively being used. We could only close the door to our room if we were changing clothes, or “with permission,” which meant we could only close the door when we were changing clothes. We were each given a plastic basket of toiletries with our name on it, given it us from a locked space in the nurse’s station after break and before we went to sleep.     At some point in the afternoon we would each be called away separately to go meet with a psychiatrist for a bit; a rotating door of short indian men that usually didn’t introduce themselves. The psychiatrists were nice but impersonal, concerned but not well-informed about your situation, fitting with the general theme the hospital seemed to have going. Once one of them took me outside to have our talk, in a little fenced in area with a basketball hoop but not enough room to really try playing with it. I don’t remember anything we talked about other than how I was feeling, how I felt about the hospital, same old thing again and again.

Every night after dinner, two patients that behaved well were allowed to order 1 soda and 1 candy bar from a vending machine outside our reach in the ward. I got a twix and a coke on my first full day, and all the other kids were simultaneously very jealous and proud.     The art therapy room was, like all walls in my world at that point, blue, but now with past patient’s art hung up and painted onto them all over, which was a welcome change. Art therapy only involved making art about three of the times that I went. Other times We’d have another group therapy session, or try and fail miserably to play ping pong, or be forced to watch the movie “Freedom Writers” and then talk about our feelings on it. My feelings were that it was a bad film with a nice idea.

The hospital had a Classroom right beside the cafeteria that the ad and pre-ad patients had to attend for three hours every school day. We went separately; the wards weren’t allowed to mix, especially after it turned out that a girl on our ward was the cousin of a kid on the pre-ad. Every week a new sweet older lady would be our teacher, a good samaritan volunteering her time to the hospital. Most of us were old enough that we would just work on our own homework from our school; i was lucky enough that my high school didn’t want to work with the hospital at all, and was unwilling to give me any assignments but the one’s I had brought with me. When I finished those halfway through the first day of class I was given general middle school level work packets and left to my own devices. When i finished those i started trying to help the others, usually M with his science worksheets, or I would spend as long as possible with one of the medical student interns going over a graded french test. I told G how to pronounce her name with a french accent, and she excited told every member of staff about her new name for the rest of the day.

The food, unless you were on suicide watch or “Finger Foods.” Finger Foods was the general terms for when someone had their privileges taken away after an outburst or trying to hurt themselves. You could only use crayons to write, couldn’t handle any sharp objects, were out of the running for a night time candy bar, and obviously, good only eat food with your hands in the cafeteria. Suicide watch Included all the rules of being on Finger Foods but with an added element of direct surveillance at all times; there were some people on suicide watch who were still allowed to be rewarded or participate in activities with supervision, because the restrictions were meant more for their protection than as a punishment. For my first two days at every meal a bulimic girl on my ward would be light-heartedly threatened with a feeding tube if she didn't eat. She and the nurses all seemed to think it was funny, so i just accepted it.     At one point we were promised a pizza for our good behavior. We never received that pizza. I’m bitter about that to this day.

Group therapy came in two flavors: there was actual group therapy where we would do therapy, but in a group, and then there was what group normally meant, which was “a nurse is going to come talk about some topic no one cares about for a while.” riveting topics covered in our sessions included personal hygiene and the importance of not doing drugs if you don’t already do drugs, which half of us did. Actual group required more emotional effort but at least I wasn’t going to be bored to tears by the end of the hour. The ward’s main therapist was a nice guy that happened to look exactly like sigmund freud. He also happened to not enjoy it very much when i blurted out that he looked like sigmund freud.     We were told multiple times a day by various nurses that shoes were a privilege and you would earn back your shows after you showed staff you were deserving of them. I never saw a single person earn their shoes, and not for lack of trying.     This was a problem because if a single person on the ward was without their shoes, we weren’t allowed to have time outside. Every time I’ve ever recounted this to someone they’ve seen the Immediate flaw in this system, but it apparently slid past all members of staff on a daily basis, despite continued incredulous whining from a dozen barefoot teenagers.On the fourth or fifth day, I was whisked off with no explanation to get an EEG (a test where they part sticker attached to wired attached to a machine on your head and listen to the electricity in your brain.) i was never told the results on that test or why i was getting it done. The lady washed my hair afterwards, which maybe up for the fact that i had to miss breakfast but didn’t make up for the strip searches before and after i left the building. At the very least it made G jealous i’d gotten to wash myself with anything other than the suspicious shower goo.

At some point i started routinely being woken up about a half-hour before everyone else to a nurse that would take my blood pressure. Then i would lay there, tired and confused, until we all had to wake up and get in taken as a group anyways. I asked about this every time they did it and was never given an answer as to why this was necessary. Honestly I think they might have just been messing with me.

We were supposed to refrain from asking for personal information about each other, and told that if we wrote down another patient's email or phone number whatever it was written on would be thrown away if found. Obviously we all worked around this; one girl secretly wrote names on her stomach an hour before she was processed for release, another kid wrote phone numbers in code. For me it was as simple as just remembering people’s last names so I could find them on facebook.

The hospital existed in a kind of twilight zone half in and half out of reality, where a crisis would occur every other hour but in the between times we were all bored to tears. Surrounded by such an intense atmosphere, staff trying to force an understanding of our lives being in our own hands, and we would just sit there, nodding our hands and coloring with our crayons. In a way the hospital was a sanctuary; no family to get into screaming matches with, no classmates to end up in a fist fight with. An environment meant to be scrubbed clean of all the stressors of day to day life.     Visiting hours happened twice a week; kids with visitors would go down into the cafeteria while everyone else hung around in the lounge. Usually it was just me and M waiting down there for our families; the visits were always entirely uncomfortable. My parents wanted to be sure I was being treated right, and held my hand with a guilty sadness that I didn’t really want to acknowledge. Free time didn’t offer very many options. We would play cards and coloring mandalas printed out on copy paper. I finished coloring about six of the things before a decided it would no longer be a helpful part of my mental healing journey. Our card game of choice was called “BS,” initially because it was the only game everyone who wanted to play cards seemed to know. BS became a highlight of our day, because of M. The hospital had a lot of rules about how to conduct yourself. We weren’t supposed to yell, run around, or touch each other unnecessarily. We also weren’t supposed to curse.     The name of the card game “BS” is short for “Bullshit.” the rules of the game are very simple--cards are passed out and someone decides to go first. In turns, everyone goes around, putting some cards face down on the pile and announcing what value those cards supposed were (someone put down two cards and says they had two jacks, etc.). Multiple cards have to be on the same value, if you think someone is lying, putting down more cards than they had to win faster, you point to them and call out that you think they’re lying. The challenged player turns over their cards, and depending on if they were telling the truth or not one of the players in penalized.     Usually the thing you yell out when you challenge someone is “Bullshit,” but we weren’t allowed to say that and were told to call it something else. M thought that this was a personal affront to him and everything that he stood for as a person. Every single free time, two or three times a day, we got into the routine of playing this card game solely to see this scene play out. We would start out normally and do as we were told, politely pointing out lies. M wouldn’t say anything. We’d go on for as long as we could, before someone would make an obvious play, putting down three jacks after someone else put two or saying they had five aces. Then, ecstatic, M would heave air into his lungs, jumping up and pointing at the other player and yelling as loudly as he could: “BULLSHIT!!”

He stopped being scolded for it around the fifth time because most of the staff thought it was hilarious. We’d stop playing the game immediately after that, our point achieved, all of us having got what we came there for.     We sat in the hall and shared stories about when each of us had lost our virginity, or the first time we’d been punched in the face. He giggled at Jared as he mimicked grasping at his bleeding nose. The nurses didn’t seem to find it as funny.         There was a general, noticeable disconnect between us and them, even the nurses we all likes the most. Not  really because of age, or because they were on the job. It was a feeling of disconnecting, not quite meshing with normal people, that all of us already went through life with separately-- and here, where we had community, that only intensified. For many of us this was the first time that our abnormalities had really been accepted and even admired by others. Being with the other kids in my ward was a time i felt freest, even in our restricted and controlled environment. None of them cares if i’d twitch and fidget, none of them minded my shiness or were caught off guard by the things I’d say. While the nurses would squint at me suspiciously if i repeated that they said or spiralled into babbling from our conversations, my new friends had all accepted these things by the third time they came around. I was allowed to express myself and allowed to not be able to, and it felt effortless to return the favor, because who was i to judge. Little outbursts, conversations that trailed off into blank stares, people needing to go walk around or cry or smack their seat five times before they sat on it, these things were all easy to look past. It was hard, however, not to notice the trouble staff still saw with them, and not to turn on them a bit for that. My friends accepted that i spoke weird, while the nurses would roll their eyes if i stammered. G would nod understandingly when I confided in her about the past while staff would react uncomfortably, their only help in offering to make police reports i didn’t want made. If I told the others i felt like hurting myself, they would show sympathy and talk with me about it; the one time I told a nurse i was “having urges,” like we were supposed to, I was put on finger foods.     This tension culminated in one particular group session. A thin older woman replaced our usual freud impersonator, loitering outside to chat with the nurses as long as possible before having to deal with us. We whispered to each other; no one had met or before, or seen her around the building. That was probably a bad sign. She told us to call her Olivia, I think.     Olivia was the worst therapist I have ever seen in action, and that should be frightening.     She commanded direct eye contact between her and the patient speaking, and that no one else speak until directly spoken to (interruptions are one thing, but discussion is just about the entire point of doing therapy in a group.) She gave us all a question she assumed would be simple enough for our tiny broken minds. “What do you think is keeping you here?”     I started echoing the hard way she said “What” and clamped my mouth shut as soon as possible. Usually I could keep the parrot in my head around doctors, with some effort; being open with my impulses around the others made it hard to start shutting up again. She took my weird reflex as volunteering to go first, and looked to me expectantly.     Its honestly the most stupid and annoying question you will ever be asked in a therapy setting. I never heard it asked in a tone other than condescending, and it's never failed to be ignorant; ‘Why do you think you’re here?’ is therapist code for ‘why are you messing up your life, and can you convince me it isn’t on purpose?’     I had a routine for this question that seemed to be shared with the others; attempt to answer honestly, listing all the things in and out of your control, your life and environment and symptoms, the fact that you are a complex human being with feelings and a past. Then, try not to sigh at your doctor and list some rehearsed line about how you guess you’re just a disrespectful child acting out for attention. I ran through it as quickly as possible, feeling restless and trying not to avert my eyes from hers or change my position too much as she would impatiently observe every movement. Usually I’d have something in my hands to funnel my stress into, but this had to be the one time I forgot to take one of my hoarded stress toys from the pile in my room.     Three more kids went after me, in the same routine, with varying degrees of sass. Then Olivia set her eyes on G. The rest of us shared a silent realization and looked to each other with worry, straightening up, thinking up ways to deflect Olivia onto something else. It was too late when G shrunk, laughing nervously and not meeting the womans eyes.     G’s home situation was truly heartbreaking to hear retold. I love and respect her too much to retell the details of it here, but Olivia spent what seemed like unending years of punishment pulling this story out of the girl, giving us a demeaning hush if we objected. It was surreal and we didn’t know what to do, stuck in a room with one authority figure under threat and tranquilizers, watching the friend we all openly adored the most be forced to recount such a cruel thing in such complete detail. Obviously she was crying, most of us were too. J sat alone on a couch beside Olivia’s, hands in fists, and I focussed on my fear for him instead of my fear of him. I was sitting beside G, being shushed at every concerned whine that forced its way out, unable to think of an escape plan because I couldn’t turn off my ears. It was when she reached a specific point of the story, G cut herself off and let out a sob and my hand automatically went to her shoulder. Olivia barked out, in the coldest tone I think I have ever heard, “No Touching.”     The room exploded, every one of us reacting at the same time with a vicious intensity. The others jumped to their feet, protectively leaning towards G. M pointed and yelled a few choice words hand selected for our doctor, R went for the door to get other staff, someone else just cried out at her hysterically. J lunged at the woman as G slid into my arms, looking away from what was happening and sobbing into my shirt. I put my hand on her hair half to comfort her and half to make sure she didn’t look back.     A dozen staff members crowded around the doorway of the room but only three actually entered; I don’t remember how it felt watching my friend try to choke out an old woman and be pulled away by security, but the picture of it in my head is crystal clear. A nurse, Cecily, had her arms out low but wide, making a barrier between us and the gasping doctor. Everyone was yelling, us at staff and staff at us. The intern that helped me with french came to guide Olivia out of the room and M screeched that he was a traitor, throwing a stack on coloring sheets in their general direction. Olivia said something under her breath as she left-- something about how we were terrible demon children, or how ‘never in all her years in the field’ something like this had happened, I think I forgot because her words aren’t worth remembering. We locked eyes for a split second before the slid out of the room, and I muffled “Occupational Hazard” into G’s hair.

For an hour after we were forced to sit and have alcohol poisoning explained to us until Freud Jr. Appeared. We were happy to see him but still furious, all on the same side against Olivia once we were finally asked what had happened. Everyone recounted the same story, agreeing loudly with each other, stopping to comfort and apologize to G and ask if she was okay. We stayed in that room for another hour, giving our testimony and demanding J shouldn’t be punished, or more begging they didn’t send him back to juvenile. Freud nodded solemnly as he listened to us the way only he and Jesus and two of the nurses did, meaning at all. He told us he’d see what he could do. We didn’t see J for the rest of the day and come morning, Jesus was his new shadow. He was on some kind of reverse suicide watch, with all the restrictions, but the league of nameless psychiatrists and hospital directors had agreed or been swayed to agree that J’s only real crime was being physically violent with staff. After dinner that night, I asked if he could have my candy bar, and threw it in the trash when I was refused.

    I was discharged after nine days on the ward, feeling no more or less suicidal, no more or less recovered, not more normal but not more different. I remember Rebecca calling me into the hallway to ask if i was afraid to go home. Of course I was, I told her! I was leaving friends I had connected to more in a week than I had with anyone in years. I was returning to a town of people like the staff, strangers that didn’t understand and only pretended to want to. I would be returning to my second month of high school, gone for the last week of September, though I’d barely showed up at all before then. I asked her what I had not to be worried about, but then dropped it, because I knew we were only having this conversation in case my answer alluded that my parents weren’t safe to go home to.

    The goodbyes I was given before 8 o’clock lights out were short and sweet and always, turning our attention back and forth between them and “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou!” playing on the television. I only slept an hour through that night, feeling about everything I could think to. In the morning, I was given my shoes while the others were lined up, in the middle of Checks. I waved silently at them and heard M call out “Bring a better book next time!” Before Jesus closed the double-doors behind us.