#concussion

[thetragicallynerdy]

Reminder from someone with actual literal brain damage from a brain injury to stop fucking using "brain damage" and "brain injuries" as a means of describing someone whose opinions you don't like or deem as stupid.

It's ableist and offensive as fuck, and for some reason a lot of leftist people think it's okay to use. I've seen posts replying to right wing racists calling them "brain damaged if you believe this" and "do you have a brain injury? do you not understand X?". Just now I saw a beautiful post about fat people throughout history that was absolutely ruined by opening with "How do we break it to boomers with actual brain damage and nostalgic brainrot..." before continuing to say that fat people existed throughout history.

Brain damage does not make you racist. A brain injury doesn't make you stupid, or fatphobic, or unaware of history and politics. Stop fucking using my disability as a catch all to describe people you think are shitty. Y'all use it like it's a replacement for how people used to use the R-slur, which shows you learned absolutely nothing about why the R-slur was wrong to use and decided to throw in other disabilities instead. Fuck off and stop doing it.

(And don't do it with other disabilities either, because I know y'all do.)

I know a lot of people with brain injuries. They're smart, and funny, and compassionate. They learn about the world and care about social issues and wish they could go to protests if their disability won't allow them to. Are there right wing people with brain injuries? Sure, absolutely. But they are not right wing because they have a brain injury, and using any disability as an insult is still fucking ableist.

Tldr - stop using brain damage and brain injury as an insult. It's ableist and incredibly offensive.

Love, your local brain injured/brain damaged pal

#brain injuries #ableism #disability #makes me so fucking angry #brain injury #brain damage #tbi #concussion

[watercolourcritters]

thirty-four

bday comics: thirty-three

AN: I have an acquired brain injury, and always have a lot of feels about it on my birthday! so, disability bday comics are now a thing :)

[ID: a ten panel comic drawn in simple black ink with messily drawn borders.

One - I sit cross-legged on a sofa with an open laptop in front of me. Text reads: "And what do you do for work?" "I'm on disability." "Oh. And is it permanent?" "I mean. It's been over four years since my mTBI."

Two - Frame zooms in showing just my torso and chin. Text: "So yeah, probably."

Three - I sit forward on the couch with elbows on knees and chin resting on folded hands and sigh. It shows my whole body. I am a white non-binary person with a curly mullet, glasses, and wearing a t-shirt and ripped jeans. Text: The doctor calls me "dear" as she ends the call. It's been a long year."

Four - I stand and walk away. The image shows just my legs and the couch behind me. Text: When I first got injured, permanency was the scariest possibility. The idea of a lifetime of pain and fatigue made survival feel impossible.

Five - I stand holding a cupboard open, my back to the viewer. The open cupboard shows that it's very full of mugs and tea supplies. Text: It's not so scary, anymore. And it no longer feels just like surviving.

Six - A close up shot of a kettle steaming. Text: There's still grief, trapped under my ribcage. But I think there always will be. I've had to put away so many dreams, said goodbye to who I once was.

Seven - Close up shot showing hot water being poured from the kettle into a handmade mug. Text reads: But in the space left empty, new things have grown. New hopes. New dreams. New understandings of myself.

Eight - Close up shot of my hands holding a steaming mug of tea. Text: This injury might be permanent - but it might not be. No one really knows for sure. I love my life. I love my body, and my brain, all the messy disabled parts of it.

Nine - A full shot showing me sitting on my sofa again, and holding a large blanket out in front of me, as if getting ready to wrap it over my legs. Text: If this is the rest of my life, then what a gift to live it. I'm not done growing, hoping, grieving, healing. Still trying, and trying, and trying.

Ten - I sit on my sofa with the blanket wrapped over my legs, leaning against a cushion. I am sketching in a ringed book held on my lap, and my tea mug rests on the blanket beside the book. I am smiling slightly and look content. On the wall behind me is a quilted progress pride flag. Text: It's messy, complicated, and beautiful. But isn't that what life is?

The comic is signed h. graves '23. End ID.]

#comic #disability #concussion #brain injury #watercolour critters art #this is a follow up to last years comic! #might be a yearly thing now #i didn't get injured on my birthday but it always gives me more feels about my disability than the anniversary so #long post #post concussion syndrome #brain injury comics

[sleepymccoy]

What would you do faced with a concussion? This is for writing purposes to see how much an average person would know to do. This is not advice, I'm not healthcare

Someone has hit their head. They say they're fine, but seem a bit wobbly and confused.

#concussion #nanowrimo

[awyeahitssam]

“Expulso!”

The force of the magic slammed him through one wall and into another, and Harry could not breathe. It felt like the time Dudley sat on top of his chest, pressing all of the air from his lungs. He gasped and choked to no avail, the sensation of breathlessness more distressing than the stars dancing before his eyes and the ringing of his ears. 

He was dying, dying, dying.

After a too-long moment Harry managed a shuddering inhale, getting a lungful of concrete dust for his troubles. He doubled over, coughing violently. His wand. He needed his wand.

His right arm was screaming in pain, and Harry squinted through hazy eyes to find a bone sticking out of it at a decidedly odd angle, having ripped through his shirt and robes. Harry had a half-hearted thought of relief that Lockhart wasn’t here to vanish all the bones, which was strange because he should be focusing on the fact that he still couldn’t breathe properly. 

He blinked blearily and twitched his left hand with a desperation that had his wand—blessedly whole—slapping into it. Harry wasn’t used to casting with his off hand, but he was still able to twist it enough to cast a bubble-head charm. 

The spell was silent, because he had no breath for words and no time to think that he couldn’t manage. He had to.

Harry gasped again, this time into a clean pocket of air, and the panic receded a little more at the hard-won oxygen. The pulsing of his temples began to ease on his next breath, but the world still looked too-bright and decidedly crooked. 

“My Lord,” came a smooth, even voice, “shall I take his wand?”

Harry’s eyes focused slowly on the two figures in front of him as his fingers tightened almost compulsively around his wand. His.

“Let the child learn his lesson in full first,” said Lord Voldemort generously. 

Harry swallowed around a dry mouth, glad to taste no blood. At least he hadn’t bitten his tongue or gotten any teeth knocked loose. He inhaled deeply again, revelling in his ability to do so, though the motion made him notice an ache in his sternum as well. Bruised ribs, maybe?  

‘Lesson?’ Harry wondered blearily, a few beats too late. 

Though perhaps he said it out loud, because Voldemort replied, “That you are no match for Lord Voldemort.”

Of course he wasn’t. What a stupid point to try and make. He was fifteen. He barely knew any magic at all. Voldemort had been given decades to learn, versus Harry’s five years. Any competent adult—and wasn’t that an oxymoron—could easily outmatch him, nevertheless a Dark Lord. 

“Well,” Voldemort’s voice came dryly, “you have more sense than I expected, having been raised on Dumbledore’s knee.”

Harry let out a vague approximation of a laugh. He hadn’t known Voldemort had a sense of humour. Dumbledore couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as him. They’d spoken—what, six times since he was eleven? Dumbledore hadn’t so much as looked his way the entire year. 

Not that Harry exactly wanted his attention. He was still angry with the Headmaster for that stupidity with the Triwizard Tournament, and his assault after returning from the Graveyard, and the resulting announcement made (on Harry’s behalf, as if he had any right to speak for him) that Voldemort was back. Really, Harry could have avoided a year of carving ‘I must not tell lies,’ into his own hand if it wasn’t for Dumbledore deciding to tell the world about Voldemort’s resurrection. 

Or maybe not, if Umbridge was one of Voldemort’s and he’d told her to torture Harry for revealing his return. Who knew? That would certainly have been a neat, simple solution. The woman was prejudiced enough to be on par with Malfoy, and he was a Death Eater. But if being prejudiced was the only qualifier to being a part of Voldemort’s army, or movement, or whatever the hell it was, then everybody would get an invite. Dudders could be a Death Eater; make his parents proud. 

“He has quite a mouth on him, My Lord.”

Wow, how observant. Snape would love this guy. 

Was Harry concussed? That was weird. Normally if he was concussed he stayed very, very still and quiet until he was able to sleep and his magic saw him to rights. If he got talkative with a head injury, the Durlsey’s would’ve probably dropped him at an orphanage like they always threatened, or maybe just left him in the middle of nowhere in hopes that he’d drop dead.

“What nonsense is he blubbering about?” the voice said again, and the trace of discomfort was slight but obvious to a boy who had been forced to pick up on such subtleties to survive. Did he not like to hear about the fact that some kids did not get coddled?

Did Death Eaters coddle their kids? Like, as a whole? Draco Malfoy had definitely been coddled; he acted just like Dudley, if not as stupid. He’d definitely grown up with a bed and food and people that would say ‘yes’ to his whims. He just had that sense about him.

Not that Harry wished that the boy hadn’t grown up with that stuff. Harry wouldn’t be intentionally cruel enough to hope for that. Just, he didn’t have to rub it in people’s faces so much. Then again, the brat would have to have manners or something not to do that, and with each passing day Harry was becoming increasingly sure that no witch or wizard actually possessed any matter of manners at all. Everyone was so rude, all the time. Well actually Riddle hadn’t been rude at first, but then he sicced a basilisk on Harry, which was not only rude but also attempted murder. 

Wait, where was he again? Oh. Halfway into the wall he had flown into after bursting through the first. Attempted murder again. That made sense.

The only question was, why was Voldemort so bad at actually murdering him? That had to be a little embarrassing. Oh wait, no, ‘lesson’. The man wanted to teach him something. Harry wondered if he wanted to be a good student for the Dark Lord, or if he’d rather just decline the opportunity. So far, he taught like a muggle.

“A muggle?”

Ouch. Harry’s scar hurt more than his arm; how did Voldemort do that? Harry needed to learn so he could hurt the man right back. Fairs fair.

A finger pressed cruelly into Harry’s brow, right over his scar. It hurt it hurt it hurt it hurtithurt!

“Just like a muggle,” Harry gasped out. Physical violence. Just like Vernon. Voldemort. Vernon. Maybe everyone in the world who had a V-name was the worst.

Cold fingers felt surprisingly nice against Harry’s overheated face. The pain of his scar ebbed abruptly, leaving a dizzying confusion in its wake. Harry might throw up sometime soon.

“Would you like non-physical violence, boy?” Voldemort asked.

Harry carded through the options. Isolation and containment. Starvation. Maybe mental violence, the kind that Snape preferred. Verbal violence of Petunia’s ilk seemed a bit below the Dark Lord, but then her words about how much of a worthless, unnatural freak Harry was did circle his head to this day, so there was no doubt that kind of thing was effective. Just, probably it would’ve been effective if Voldemort had started before he could remember like Petunia had. 

“Do you have a non-violent option? Or is there a box I can check to be killed quickly? Is this a survey? I would rate your services as abysmal. Or wait. Uh. Troll. That’s it, right? Yeah. Bad… bad grade. Probably your first. You’ve failed pacifism. A truly bleak thing for a Dark Lord. You have my greatest sympathies. Surely this will hurt your future career options and they’ll have to lower your salary.” 

Are revolutionaries paid? Or does Voldemort take his own payment? What would be a suitable payment for a Dark Lord? The bodies of his opposers? But then, all his opposers are magical, and didn’t Riddle have that Magic is Might thing? Or was that just something he said? The man had ordered the death of Cedric, who had been the most worthy of age wizard at Hogwarts according to the cup. Apparently Cedric’s completely attractive competency hadn’t mattered, because Voldemort hadn’t hesitated to kill one of the brightest of a generation when a stunner and memory charm could’ve worked just as well. 

Then again, he’d wanted to kill a baby, once, and the death toll of the last war had officially been tallied at one-hundred and seven magicals, after Harry’s parents, so obviously he could care less if he was decimating their population, so long as he got to rule the world or whatever. 

“Potter, do shut up.”

Huh? Had Harry been talking?

“Rambling,” the voice of the oddly not simpering sycophant chimed in helpfully. 

Well. That was something. Normally Harry went very quiet when he was concussed and waited for his magic to—oh. His magic. Harry had magic. What had he done last summer, when Sirius was no longer an adequate threat? He could probably just… 

Harry looked down to see his wand in his left hand. He set it down very gently, then stared blankly at said hand for a long, long moment. Then the air around it began to do that cute little vibrating thing that his magic would do when it hadn’t been let out for long enough, because of the stupid Dursley’s, and the stupid rules, (why the fuck weren’t students allowed to use magic at all over the summer? Didn’t it make them feel like they were going to burst apart with all the suppressed energy? It was near painful sometimes unless Harry found some way to use it, which invariably the Dursely’s gave him.) 

A hand grasped over his wrist and held him at bay. “Do not do whatever you are considering, you stupid, reckless child—”

Harry was a child, and he had chosen to be reckless when he had chosen Gryffindor over Slytherin, so he let his wrist spark with electricity that was enough to get the touch away from him. Why did people always feel so entitled to touching him? He shivered in revulsion even as he placed his hand to his head and let his eyes fall shut.

His magic went to work, effective as always. This was only the second time it hadn’t waited until Harry was asleep. That was very nice of it.

“Thank you,” he told it quite seriously, in the middle of its work. It buzzed against his temple, a current of energy, and Harry quieted and let it continue.

When Harry re-opened his eyes, his vision was not blurry, his head not pounding, and the world not an unsteady bouquet of water colours with a diagonal slant. When he opened his eyes, he met the red gaze of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and swallowed.

“Oh. Just… lovely. Hi?”

The man behind the Dark Lord snorted. Harry spared him a glance—no features were visible beneath his cloak and mask. 

Harry’s throat worked around a swallow. “Fancy seeing you here,” Harry offered, and then set his hand on his arms, because why not, and winced when his bone snapped back into place. 

Ithurtsithurtsohshit. 

Voldemort’s eyes were gleaming with an odd sort of hunger. “I wonder if you will be so eager to talk now, Harry Potter? Tell me… when was the last time you encountered me treating you politely?”

Voldemort didn’t know about the Chamber?

Harry swallowed. “Okay,” he said.

Voldemort stared. “Just like that.”

 “It’s not like I’m opposed to you knowing. I thought you already knew, but apparently you and Tom Riddle weren’t as connected as he implied. Though, you know, if you want me to spill all, you should at least say please.”

Harry’s scar ached, but his arm didn’t any more. Unlike his ribs. “Pardon?”

“You would actually prefer to use Crucio than say please,” Harry noted. “That says mildly concerning things about you, you know. Common courtesy—Troll.”

“He’s stalling,” the Death Eater noted, when Voldemort moved as if for his wand. 

“Of course I am,” Harry rebutted. “He’s clever; you should keep him around to control your terrible temper.”

Why was Harry doing this? Was he waiting for a rescue that would never come, or an opening that was twice as unlikely given the multitude of people involved. 

The Death Eater laughed, and Harry saw a flash of green light. Heard his mothers scream. 

“Oh,” he said, eyes going a bit wide. “There’s two of you.”

Both figures went unnaturally still. “Why would you say that?” The cloaked Voldemort asked. 

Harry tilted his head. “Your laugh,” he said simply. “Your voice is different, but your laugh is the same. Also, you’re not nearly frightened enough of ‘Your Lord’’.”

The cloaked figure hummed, then lowered his hood. “Clever boy,” he said lightly, eyes just as intent and intense as Voldemort’s own, though they were dark rather than bright. His hair was curly, Harry noticed, longer than Tom had kept it when he was in school, though this man didn’t look very old at all. He still had his nose, though his cheekbones were sharper than they had been as a boy, and unlike Voldemort he had lips as well. Harry catalogued these differences with some interest. The evolution of Voldemort, he thought vaguely.

“Technically,” he adds, as he finishes taking the other Dark Lord in, “I’d be doing the both of you a favour by sharing the story of my Second Year.”

His implication was clear. He wanted two pleases. 

“You’re positively suicidal, aren’t you?” the human Voldemort murmured. “Very well, Harry. Please tell me about the circumstances surrounding your encounter or encounters with Tom Riddle, as well as the encounters themselves.”

Harry watched him thoughtfully. “What are you going by?”

“Marvolo,” the cloaked man answered easily. 

“Marvolo,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Your middle name. Tom wrote it in the air for me—rearranged the letters to spell,” he gestured to Voldemort with his newly healed arm. It didn’t so much as twinge. He was more than a little impressed with his magic. 

“How did you take the revelation?” said Voldemort, something cruel in his voice. 

Harry's lips quirked. "I told him he was nothing special," Harry admitted easily. "I told him Dumbledore was the greatest wizard in the world. Mostly, I just wanted him to shut up. He kept asking questions,” he allowed his gaze to drift over both of them, mouth speaking absently even as calculations flashed through his mind. How was he going to get out of this unscathed? There had to be something… some way… 

“He was desperate to know about the night you lost your body,” he told Voldemort. “He thought I would have the answers, somehow. I told him it was my mum. Muggleborn,” he informed Marvolo, in case he didn’t know. Harry’s lips curled in amusement. “He didn’t like that very much. Went on and on about how alike we are. Then he decided it was luck and chance that had saved me, said I was nothing special, and called the basilisk.”

“Maybe I proved him wrong when I killed it and then shoved a basilisk fang into the diary.”

Rage bloomed in two sets of eyes, but it was Voldemort that hissed, “You what?”

“Well, I was dying too at the time,” he defended. “I’m nothing if not spiteful. If I died, I was going to take him with me.”

“Yet here you are,” Marvolo said with clear menace. “Apparently you did not get close enough to death.”

Harry watched him, unimpressed. “The diary wasn’t the only thing that got stabbed with a basilisk fang.”

“You lie,” hissed Voldemort, redrawing Harry’s gaze as if he’d ever truly lost it. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s the liar, here? My parents died begging you for mercy?”

“Didn’t they? Your father begged for his wife's life, and yours. Your mother for yours alone.”

Harry’s lips pressed tight. “Really fucked yourself, didn’t you? You told my mum ‘very well’, when she begged to trade her life for mine. You agreed. You didn’t think she was powerful enough to form an unbreakable vow without the official bindings? You would think you would be smarter than pureblood rhetoric when you’re hardly pure yourself.”

“That's it?” Marvolo murmured, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You couldn’t tell me that?” He glanced at Voldemort, then straightened. “You didn’t know.”

Harry felt the silent chastisement in the words. ‘How is it that a child realised what you didn’t?’

#my writing #Voldemort #Horcrux #concussion #ficlet #Harry being Harry #what can you do

[caintooth]

losing at least a week’s worth of wages due to my concussion so every penny helps extra now!

#diary #concussion #trans #transgender #top surgery #gender #ftnb #ftm #transmasc #non-binary #enby

[idyllicwillowtree]

How Much Love

Genre: Steve Harrington x fem!reader / gn!reader; angst with fluffy ending, hurt/comfort, established relationship

Summary: Steve has a migraine attack but he’s too stubborn to take care of himself.

Word count: 1.4K

Warnings: one curse word, non-descriptive vomiting, migraine symptoms, chronic pain, crying, one use of Y/N, dumb joke, p*rn reference?

Author’s note: I know the migraine thing has been overdone but idc :) I'm pretty sure this could be read as gender neutral but you can lmk if that's not the case

Enjoy!

Main Masterlist

Steve knew he shouldn’t have gone to work. The second his eyes opened he knew it was going to be a rough day. The persistent throbbing on the left side of his face and the twist of nausea in his stomach would be enough to convince anyone else that they should take it easy.

Not for Steve though.

He’s done this dance before. The battle in his mind of not wanting to waste one of his precious sick days or if he should stay home and take care of himself so he can make it through the next day. He usually sucked it up and went with the former.

I’ve had worse before, he’d rationalize to himself. I can handle it.

His true motivation for leaving the comfort and warmth of his bed was the date he had planned for you two. Steve went all out with flowers, chocolates, dinner reservation at Enzo’s, and concluding the night snuggled up on his couch watching a rented movie.  

But the customers kept coming. Steve could've sworn they were all there, not to rent a movie, but to exacerbate his migraine attack. Tired mothers bringing in their screaming babies, a group of smelly teenagers, and a boisterous man who was trying to convince Robin that The Godfather was the greatest movie ever made. That’s not even mentioning the flickering fluorescent lights that Keith refuses to change the bulbs in.

Robin began to take notice once Steve kept bumping into the shelves as he put away tapes around the store. She watched as he mustered up enough strength to pick up a stack of returned tapes and mindlessly put The Muppet Babies in the Horror section and something called I Dream of Weenie in the kids section.

  By 4:30, he was absolutely fried.

“Go home, dingus,” Robin ordered.

All Steve could muster was a small grunt from his spot at the register. His forehead was pressed to the cool counter, toned arms wrapped around his head, trying to keep as much noise and light out as possible.

The bell on the door of Family Video was the final nail in the coffin. People have been coming in and out all day but this time the ring pierced through the side of his head like a burning knife, swiftly penetrating his brain and twisting it for good measure. 

Steve’s back stiffened as he sat up too fast, stomach turning when he ran blindly through the store and into the bathroom before emptying out the contents of his stomach. He tried not to think about when the last time the toilet was cleaned as he kept his face in the ceramic bowl, spitting out the rest of the sour bile coating his throat.

Steve barely heard the door creak open through the throbbing in his head and the ringing in his ears, but he did notice the light in the bathroom turn off. “Go away, Robin,” he croaked out. 

The disobedient footsteps continued towards him. He just wanted to be left alone, feeling too vulnerable in this state. He felt embarrassment twist in his chest at the thought of not being able to handle a simple headache.

A cold hand landed on the back of his neck and began to massage lightly. It felt comforting but Steve’s mind was rejecting it, “Robin, I said-”

He finally lifted his heavy head, half opened eyes widened slightly as he met your concerned gaze, only for him to start welling up. Steve’s lip trembled as it failed to keep a sob from escaping.

“Oh baby,” you whispered. “Not feeling good?”

Steve hung his head the best he could with his stiff neck and shook his head in response.

“It’s okay, Stevie. Try not to move your head too much.” 

You squatted next to him on the nasty bathroom floor and gently brought him into your arms. You let him cry into your shirt, gently rubbing soothing circles on his back and neck. Steve knew that crying would only hurt his head more, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t understand the emotions he was feeling yet, but he knew he was relieved to see you show up. Like a superhero, there to heal and protect him from any harm.

“I’m here now, baby. Let’s get you home, okay?”

_______________________________________________

Steve was so out of it he wasn’t sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew he was snuggled in a cocoon of pillows and blankets. He peeled his eyes open and recognized the dark ceiling of his bedroom.

You were puttering around the room, tidying up a little so Steve would have one less thing to worry about. He admired how natural it looked for you, knowing where everything goes and even avoiding the loud creaking spots on the floor. Steve had the sudden urge to reach out but you tucked him in so well he was having trouble slipping his arms out.

His grunt of protest over the blanket entrapment alerted you and you were by his side in an instant.

“What is it baby?” you whispered gently, “you need some water? Or a new ice pack?” 

Only when you removed the cool washcloth from his forehead did he notice the satisfying chill. He must have been practically asleep when you brought him home because he really doesn’t remember anything.

“What time is it?” Steve croaked out.

He leaned into the kiss you pressed gently to his cheek before you answered, “almost midnight.”

“What?!” Steve immediately went to sit up, but in his weakened state you were easily able to push him back down. “We had reservations!”

“I know, Stevie. It was really sweet of you to make plans but nothing we can do about it now,” you tried to reason. “We need to get you feeling better.”

“But I-”

“Stop that,” you demanded, still with a quiet and gentle tone, but it was still enough to cut him off. “Let me take care of you, Stevie. I know you feel bad, but I want to take care of you.”

Steve wasn’t sure if you meant he was feeling bad because he was sick or because of the immense amount of guilt he feels whenever he sees himself as a burden to others. Probably a little of both.

“I just…I was looking forward to tonight,” Steve muttered tiredly. “And this stupid chronic thing just always gets in the way and I don't…I don’t like asking for help.”

Steve wasn’t sure if he was making much sense but your smile showed him you understood. Your expression was soft and comforting as you gently raked your fingers through his hair. “Steve, I love you. All of you. Every single part of you I just adore. It doesn’t matter if those parts are feeling bad or good, I’ll always be here,” you stroked his cheek gently with the back of your hand, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. “I like caring for you Steve. It makes me feel good. So don’t worry about burdening me or anything like that, okay?”

Steve felt his lip tremble again but managed to gulp down his sobs this time. He whispered a quiet, “thank you” before fully relaxing. He lazily pursed his lips, silently asking for affection, which you happily fulfilled. You moved in close and kissed his lips as a way to let him know you will support him during this tough time.

Once you were leaned back you said, “now, on a scale from one to ten, how bad does it hurt?”

“Mm…Eleven.”

“No, it’s Y/N.”

Silence engulfed the negative space until a curious Steve peeled one eye open, only to see your shit-eating grin. He knew you’d be frozen like that until he laughed, but your expression was usually funnier than the joke.

He puffed out a laugh through his nose before shutting his eyes again. “That was horrible,” he said.

“Maybe, but at least I got you to smile,” you said smugly.

“Mm you sure did,” he praised you lightly. “Now c’mere. Cuddling is the best medicine.”

It’s called ‘chronic pain’ for a reason. Sure you can dull the pain with medications and treatments but it’ll always be there. Sometimes all you have to do is deal with it and ride it out,  but it makes it so much easier when there’s someone there who loves and supports you. 

Love may not be able to cure all kinds of pain but Steve thinks your love comes pretty close.

thank you for reading!

Main Masterlist

#stranger things #steve harrington x reader #robin buckley #canon divergent #steve x reader #steve harrington x y/n #fanfiction #netflix #80s #established relationship #migraine #chronic illness #chronic pain #concussion #steve harrington #steve pov #hurt/comfort #fluff #angst #Spotify

[greekgodssitcom]

Apollo: Wait what happened? Ares are you okay??

Ares: No but that’s unrelated to the concussion

#Apollo can try being a therapist but I’m pretty sure he’s a different kind of doctor #s: me #greek god sitcom #greek gods #greek myth memes #greek mythology #incorrect greek gods #incorrect greek mythology #god #ares and apollo #apollo <3 #phoebus apollo #apollo #ares greek mythology #ares greek god #ares deity #apollo greek god #apollo greek mythology #concussion #I don’t know why I tagged that

[one-time-i-dreamt]

My friend’s brother started crying and demanding that I tell him jokes because his sibling (my friend) had a concussion. They were completely fine, by the way. They were just watching this and eating pizza on the floor.

#dream #text #February 8th 2024 #friend #brother #family #crying #joke #sibling #concussion #injury #pizza #food #eating

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

screaming crying and sobbing over characters having hushed conversations over their injured/sick teammate.

Why are they whispering? Is there danger nearby? Do they want to avoid disturbing their teammate? Are they about to do something unpleasant but necessary for their teammate's survival - like setting a bone or flushing out an infected wound?

Or are they talking normally and the injured party just can't understand everything that's being said? Are they delirious with pain or fever? A head injury is affecting their hearing? Are they having difficulty staying conscious, and that one teammate keeps patting their face or shaking them, doing anything they can to keep them awake? Why are there so many hands on them? Why do they keep pushing on their stomach? Why does everyone sound so serious/nervous/angry/sad?

+ bonus points for manhandling their friend bc it's for their own good

#whump #whump prompt #whump writing #whumpee #caretaker #team caretakers #medical whump #comfort whump #emotional whump #delirium #sick whump #sickness #concussion #head injury #tw: broken bones #tw: injuries #tw: infection #ohohohohooo good shit

[oliversrarebooks]

fuck you, I'm a goddamn menace pt. 1: morgan fucks up

the story of the barely tamed feral villain and the hero team determined to protect him

This first part is an edit of an earlier story of mine, to add actual names and additional context.

TW: injury, concussion, sedation, medical whump, abuse mentions

Oh, he'd really fucked up this time. Already so weary, at the end of his rope, he failed to notice the energy blast coming from the youngest member of the hero team, the one who struggled to keep her powers under control. He knew how badly he'd fucked up when his back hit the wall, pain exploding from every muscle, especially the parts of his back where his boss had already punished him. His head impacted the concrete with a sickening crack that made him see stars.

Morgan, the city's second-most menacing villain and public enemy number two, sank helplessly to the sidewalk, his body refusing to obey his commands. Through his blurred vision, he could see the painfully bright costumes of the hero team, and he tried to struggle to his feet. He couldn't fail here. It simply wasn't an option. Failure meant risking the wrath of his boss, or worse, being captured and at the mercy of the heroes.

Pain radiated from his knee as he tried to stand. It was broken, maybe. Even more urgently, every tiny movement of his head caused a wave of dizziness, the world tilting and spinning in a nauseating blur. He searched for the word. Concussed, he was concussed. Shit. This was bad.

"Oh god oh god oh god." That was the high pitched voice of the young hero. "Oh god, are you okay? I didn't mean to hit that hard -- oh no oh no --"

Morgan tried to answer, but his tongue was thick in his mouth.

"Step aside."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt him that bad --"

"It's okay, Julie. Step aside and let me take a look."

Morgan would know that voice anytime, anywhere, the smooth and confident voice of his nemesis, the city's most beloved superhero. Powerful, upstanding, and disgustingly rules-abiding. Morgan hated him. Hated that he had so much power and had the luxury of helping people with it.

"Morgan, speak to me," said Arthur. "Stay awake. Talk to me. How bad is it?"

Arthur's sickening face swam into view before Morgan's eyes. Fuck, this was really bad. He tried hard to focus. He had to slip away, couldn't let himself be captured. Salcedo would be furious. He'd hurt Morgan so much worse than he'd already been hurt.

"Let me go," Morgan managed, but it sounded weak and pathetic.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Morgan. You're severely injured. I'm going to get you medical attention."

Morgan tried to shake his head no, but all it did was make him twice as dizzy. He felt on the verge of passing out.

"Stay awake, Morgan, please, keep those eyes open. Can you see my fingers? How many fingers am I holding up?"

The fingers were nothing more than an indistinct blur. Morgan couldn't answer. All he could think of was his boss's unquenchable rage when he learned Morgan had fucked up so badly. He could feel it now, power suppressants strapped to each of his limbs, the way the smooth metallic floor of the lair felt against his face as his boss mercilessly beat him for his failures.

"Get up, Morgan," said the cruel voice of Salcedo, delivering a kick to his ribs. "Get the fuck up. I don't pay you to cower on the floor." 

"I -- I can't --"

"Yes, you can, Morgan. You can keep your eyes open," said a much gentler voice. "You can stay awake for me, please, stay awake. The medic is almost here."

It sounded nice. The voice was familiar. He felt himself nodding. A medic. That sounded good. 

"That's good, Morgan. Stay awake. Just a little more." 

His head felt heavy, his eyes strangely drowsy. He wouldn't mind going to sleep, but the voice was telling him to stay awake, echoing inside his head. Stay awake, stay awake.

A strong hand squeezed his, warm and comforting. Everything hurt except for that. He tried to squeeze back.

"Yes, that's good. I'm here. You're gonna be okay, Morgan, we're gonna keep you safe."

Safe. What the fuck was safe? When had he ever been safe? Safety was for people like -- like -- His sluggish mind placed the voice and face --  Toshiro. His nemesis' crafty sidekick -- Fuck. He instinctively backed away. 

"No, no, it's okay! Just try to relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

"No -- no --" If the punishment Morgan boss doled out was bad, he couldn't imagine what the hero team might do to him. He'd been a thorn in Arthur and Toshiro's side for years.

"The medic's here, Morgan. Just try to stay calm. I've got you."

Before he could protest further, Morgan felt arms picking him up and laying him down on a gurney. His struggle against them was fruitless, his limbs weak and uncoordinated. 

"Should we strap him down?" said a voice.

"I think you'd better. He doesn't seem to be all there. And even if he was..."

"Please -- don't --" said Morgan, too quiet for anyone to even hear, as he felt pressure against his chest and legs, holding him down. 

"The concussion seems to be very serious, and there are multiple fractures at a minimum, not to mention the possibility of organ damage and internal bleeding," said a serious voice. "We'll have to administer painkillers and sedatives, and prepare an OR for emergency surgery."

"No!" Morgan called out, a surge of adrenaline giving him the strength to fight. "You can't -- you can't capture me -- don't drug me -- let me go!"

Arthur's firm hands pinned Morgan's shoulders to the gurney. "You're going to hurt yourself, Morgan. We're getting you medical attention. We're not going to hurt you, I swear it."

Incoherent nightmares filled Morgan's foggy mind. "Yes, you are! Yes, you --"

His voice was suddenly muffled by a black rubber mask, and he gulped down a chemical-smelling, drug-laden breath before he realized it. He fell back against the gurney, his head much woozier and dizzier than it had been even a moment before.

"Just try to relax, Morgan," said Toshiro. "It's just going to ease your pain and make you drowsy, okay?"

Morgan shook his head in a vain attempt to get the mask off his face, but Arthur's hand was holding it firm. Incapacitating him. Placing Morgan at the mercy of the man who must hate him more than anyone. And his struggles were useless, the mask not budging an inch. 

Exhausted by his attempts, Morgan stopped struggling for a moment and allowed Arthur's face to come into focus. He didn't look angry. He looked... sad? Morgan blinked, and he realized that his eyelids were so heavy. The sedative was kicking in. He was utterly helpless. And he should be terrified of that, but his fear was starting to feel foggy and far away, almost as if he was watching himself from a distance.

"That's good, Morgan, you're doing okay. Just keep breathing," said Arthur.

He sounded so... reassuring. Morgan wondered briefly if that was how he sounded when he rescued civilians. Sometimes, on particularly bad nights, he wondered how that would feel. Being rescued. Being safe.

"You can shut your eyes now," said Arthur. "You can go to sleep if you're tired. It's okay. You're safe."

Morgan wanted to laugh. He never got to sleep just because he was tired. He was so, so tired, all of the time. And he was so impossibly, incredibly tired now. His knee hurt, his back hurt, his head felt like it was being jackhammered. His heavy eyes wanted so badly to close and stay shut. He just wanted to sleep. But he was in danger, wasn't he? He couldn't sleep here. Boss would kill him. He couldn't... sleep...

"...stronger sedative to put him under..." a voice was saying. 

There was the unmistakable feeling of a cold needle in the crook of his elbow. Morgan wanted to fight it, stop it from happening, but all he could do was blink his heavy eyelids. "Don't..." he muttered. "Please don't... please..."

"Ssh, Morgan, it's okay, I swear," said Toshiro. "I swear no one here is going to hurt you. You're just going to go to sleep, okay? The drugs are going to make you feel really warm and nice and then you'll go to sleep, and nothing bad is going to happen. I promise."

That strong hand squeezed his again. Morgan felt so safe, so comforted, and he was so sleepy now, so sleepy and relaxed. The world was just a fading blur beyond his half-closed eyelids. He couldn't feel the pain as much any more. All he wanted to do was sleep. He never got to just sleep. Sleep would make him feel so much better.

"It's okay to sleep," said the reassuring blur. "I'll be right here."

Morgan remembered the reason he couldn't go to sleep. "Salcedo...?" he said weakly. "Salcedo is gonna fucking kill me."

"He's not here right now, Morgan. I'm here. And I'll protect you while you sleep. No one is going to hurt you."

This had to be a dream. A dream where he got to sleep and someone was going to protect him from his boss. But he never got nice dreams like that.

"Is it..." His mind was so hazy. He couldn't think of what he was trying to say. "I'm..."

"You're going to sleep, now, Morgan. You need to rest. Go to sleep. Shut your eyes. Rest."

"Mmm." He was too tired to argue. It felt so, so good to close his eyes. He could feel his pain fading as he relaxed onto the gurney.

"...surgery... gonna have to..."

"...can't just let him..."

"...right thing to do."

That was the last thing he heard before the sedatives pulled him down into a dreamless sleep.

Thank you for reading this story of a villain who needs some sleep.

Part Two

#whump #whump writing #villain #hero #villain whumpee #sedation #medical whump #concussion #fuck you I'm a goddamn menace

[where-is-my-whump]

Hudson and Rex 6x11

#whump #whumpedit #hudson and rex #hudson & rex #charlie hudson #charlie hudson whump #john reardon #unconscious #knockout #head injury #concussion #limp #hospital scene #6x11 #gif #in pain #dizzy #hes about to throw up #trouble standing #angry #worried #happy ending #pushed out of vehicle #whump blog #bruised #bruises #cuts on face #sarah truong #mayko nguyen

[breezy-cheezy]

WHUMPTOBER Day 1:

“But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

OR: “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Hellooooo Arknights peeps have some Silverash siblings (watched friends in the discord cook up a funny scenario where Enciodes just. Tries so hard to get to his sister's birthday party. He has not slept in 3 days. There have been 2 assassination attempts. He has fallen off a cliff. He has like 3 concussions somehow. He Will Get To This Party. For political relations of course.)

I feel this goes without saying buuuut just in case:

Please don't tag with ship tags thank you!!

#whumptober #whumptober 2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am I holding up? #art #drawing #my art #arknights #silverash #silverash siblings #enciodes silverash #enya silverash #pramanix #whump #blood #concussion #they're trying their best #i haven't been too active on tumblr so surprise!! another gacha game #it hasn't eaten my life like the others tho....gameplay fun but harddd #Silverash (Enciodes) was my first 6 star tho and a friend's blorbo so #fond of him...he's so emotionally constipated #i could have taken this on a more serious route but that's too much work #if I could draw faster!!! bwargh

[jasmines-library]

Just One Big Headache

WHUMPTOBER 2023: Day one, prompt "How many fingers am I holding up?" FANDOM: Supernatural Summary: A routine salt 'n' burn takes a nasty turn when the spirit directs its anger towards you, leaving you with a nasty concussion, but not to worry, the Winchesters are there to look after you. Warnings: Head injury, concussion, loss of consciousness, violence, weapons, broken ribs. Word count: 1.8k Author Note: Aaaaaand its off! Welcome to jedi-archives whumptober 2023! I promise i'm going to try my best to get these out everyday but i can't make any promises. My prompts are coming from a mixture of the official @whumptober prompts and my own. I'm starting off with something slightly fluffy to ease us in. With that said, happy whumping!

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

'it's just a salt 'n' burn' they said. 'it'll be fun' they said. Oh boy were they wrong. 

The air was crisp as you stepped out of the Impala. You watched as the little clouds of air rose before your face, illuminated by the street lamps which flickered haphazardly. Tugging your jacket closer to your body you made your way around to the back of the car, following the crunch of Sam’s shoes as he walked across the frosted grass. Dean propped open the trunk and made quick work of loading rock salt into his rifle and ensuring that there were enough matches inside his pack. The other Winchester hauled the shovel from the car and leaned it against his shoulder; it was hefty and made with iron, caked in mud and rust. The pistol that you shifted between your hands was so familiar, like an extension of your body. It fit snugly in your grip. Flicking the chamber open with a metallic click, you made sure it was fully loaded before snapping off the safety and slipping it in a holster on your belt. 

The grass was damp from the frost that had settled on the grass in the graveyard. It had managed to claw its way up the gravestones and trees like fingers too. It seeped uncomfortably through the toes of your boots as you trudged towards the grave. Small and unkept, it sat located towards the west side of the gravesite. It belonged to a young woman who was brutally murdered a few years ago, but who’s case ran cold. It was safe to say that she was pissed; her revenge taking the form of hunting down those who were associated with the woman who killed her. But what started out as unfinished business soon turned cold and twisted as she turned to others who had wronged. Her grave stood out on the line of tall, pearly stones with dainty flowers laying at their feet. It was dark and clad with weeds. Unloved.  

Dean’s duffel landed with a thud next to the grave, unsettling the ground around it. The shovel went down next to it. 

“Alrighty.” He said, rubbing his hands together. “You know the drill.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but brought out his hands in front of him anyway. “Seriously dude, I don’t even know why we bother anymore.”

“It’s a game of chance, Sammy. Now shoot.”

After the count of three, you and Sam shaped your hands into a fist and brought them forwards. You smirked. Dean had played scissors. With a groan, he pulled his hand back and reeled his body away. 

You laughed. “Scissors everytime, Dean.”

The eldest Winchester grumbled something underneath his breath, but picked up the shovel and begrudgingly began to dig until the shovel hit something solid, you and Sam kept your eyes peeled for any sign of the spirit. 

“Okay. This is it.” he confirmed, hauling up the lid of the coffin. It creaked open on unsteady hinges. The corpse beneath still had skin attached to its discoloured bones. It pooled loosely around the woman's frame. The putrid smell that emerged would have made you gag had you not already had your fair share of salt ‘n’ burns. “Keep an eye out for that son of a bitch.”

Sam lent a hand to haul his brother out of the newly dug pit. From where you were standing, a few feet away, you could see the top of his hair poking out from the top of the opening. Almost mechanically, the brothers began to tip the gasolene and sprinkle the salt onto the body. 

The deathly howl that suddenly emerged in front of you snapped you awake. The spirit raced towards the Winchesters, gritting her teeth and scowling. Her vacant eyes narrowed at them as she got closer, but your fingers were on the trigger before you could blink, sending her away with a shrill cry and a cloud of grey. 

“Hurry.” You told your friends, who had moved from preparing the body to the old duffel on the ground. Dean rummaged around desperately on his knees, not caring about the cold, until he felt the familiar grit of the matchbox against his fingers. Tugging it out, he ran back to the body. Sam tugged the shotgun tighter to him and positioned it in front of himself. The two of you danced around, keeping your eyes peeled for the ghost.

The spirit appeared behind you this time, wailing like a banshee. Sam shot it in the chest before it howled shrilly and disappeared. 

“Dean! Hurry up!” You cried as it reappered again. He was busy fumbling with the matches, which refused to light on the cold box. He pushed too hard against the cardboard and felt the stick snap and splinter. He cursed loudly. 

“I’m trying!” He huffed back through gritted teeth. 

All it took was that one look over your shoulder to Dean for the spirit to catch you off guard. Sam’s shout of your name was a second too late as a ghost appeared behind you, wrapping its cold, bony fingers around you and flinging you away. You cried out in pain as your head collided with one of the neighbouring gravestones and your body slid to the floor. 

“Dean!” Sam yelled out for his brother, firing his weapon at the creature and sending it dissipating to somewhere else on the property. 

The match slipped between Dean’s fingers, twisting in his grip as he tried to create friction between the two objects. Time seemed to stop as Sam raced towards your side to be cut off by the woman re-emerging in his path. That was when the match tumbled from his brother’s grasp, landing on the heap of chemicals and starting the chain reaction of events. 

The woman reeled back as she burst into flames like a candle. The sound she made was dreadful, it cut right through you as she writhed on her feet. When she finally finished her onslaught of screaming and her bones were no more than a dismal pile of ash, Sam fell to his knees in front of you, cupping your head in his hands. It lolled to the side, unable to hold itself up against the throbbing pain in your skull. Sam was suddenly aware of the blood that trickled from your temple and coaxed his fingers, crying out again for his brother, he gave your face a gentle tap. Your eyes fluttered beneath heavy lids.

“Hey, Hey. Kid. Stay with me.” He pleaded, searching your face. “Open your eyes Y/N, come on.”

Your eyelids felt like they were made of lead. Your head felt hazy as you peeled them open, watching Sam swim before you. 

“That's it! Keep them open Y/N.”

Dean was to your left, his hands roaming your body for any other injuries. You whimpered when his fingers flushed against your tender skin on your upper back. You were sure you had a broken rib. Or three. 

“I know. I know sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s face was close to yours as he tilted it upwards. He saw the way that your pupils were dilated; one the size of the fucking moon, the other lagging behind. 

“Shit. Dean?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Dean prompted, “Can you stand?”

He moved to position himself under your arm, wrapping it around his neck. Sam’s arm weaved around your waist and the two of them hauled you to your feet. The movement made you want to hurl and you cried out as the pressure in your head and ribs increased tenfold.

“You’re okay, sweetheart, You’re okay.”

Your movements were sluggish as you floated towards the car. your vision doubled and you were now struggling to differentiate left and right. Your legs trembled in your fogginess, you seemed to lose all control of your limbs, relying heavily on the arms wrapped around you to aid you back to the Impala. It was when your vision blurred and your legs completely folded beneath you like a crushed can that Sam scooped you up into his arms. He cringed at your noise of discomfort, but raced behind his brother to the old car which was parallel parked across the street. 

“We’re nearly there kiddo,” He hushed. “Just keep those pretty eyes open for me, okay?”

You tried to keep them open. You really did, but it just became too much. Your body became slack in Sam’s arms as you gave into unconsciousness. 

~

The light was too bright when you peeled your eyes open again. You were back in the bunker, propped up on pillows in your bed. Your whine alerted Dean to your awareness. His hand, which was clutching yours, moved to wave in front of your eyes.

“Y/N? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Sam rolled his eyes, swatting his hands away. He saw the way you squinted painfully against the light and moved to the switch on the other side of the room to dim it, before promptly coming to perch on the edge of your bed. . Satisfied, you hummed and scanned the room, eyes landing on the two worried Winchesters who loitered in your room. They breathed a visible sign of relief when they saw your eyes focus on theirs. Your ribs still stung, and the throbbing in your head was still present. You reached up and trailed your fingers across your temple. The skin had been cleaned there, the dried blood no longer glued to your face. You could still feel it in your hair where Sam hadn’t quite managed to get it all out. The skin was rough and had begun to scab over. A pair of hands wrapped around your wrist and pulled your fingers away. 

“Don’t touch.” Sam said tenderly, handing you a glass and a handful of painkillers. The glass was cool against your lips as you swallowed them thickly. “It should heal on its own. It didn’t need stitches.”

 You blinked groggily. “What happened?”

“Ghost got you good.” Dean told you. “You have two broken ribs and a concussion.”

“And the ghost?” you asked.

“Taken care of.”

Nodding slowly, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

“I-” Dean stuttered. “You had us worried Y/N”

“I'm sorry.”

Sam shook his head firmly. “Not your fault.”

“But-”

“Nope. Not hearing it.” He said sternly.

You sighed. “So, what's the damage, Dr Winchester?”

The youngest brother chuckled at the remark, glad to see that you were feeling more of yourself. “You are going to stay in bed and rest for a few days. We are going to stay here and look after you.” he told you before you rolled your eyes at the idea of being bed bound. 

“I suppose I could do that.” You shrugged, not opposed to the idea of having the Winchesters as your personal waiters for the next few days.

“I thought you’d be happy.” Dean shook his head, then gestured to the covers and the tv which was mounted on the wall. “Room for two more?”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

DAY TWO

🏷️ Whumptober Taglist

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up? #concussion #brokenribs #unconscious #hurt/comfort #whumo #supernatural #supernatural x reader #winchester #winchesters x reader #fanfiction #writing #angst #supernatural fanfiction

[forestshadow-wolf]

What if one time ghost got smashed in the face by an enemy with a lead pipe or something. HARD.

Soap was on overwatch. He had to watch ghost drop like a stone in water. He shot the enemy and rushed down to ghost's position. He drags him behind cover before assessing the damage.

Now getting a better look he can see that the skull plate is cracked. Not just cracked, broken. There's a horizontal fracture that runs through both eye sockes and over the nose bridge. The point of impact was spiderwebbing outward, and there was a fragment missing from it. He calls for exfil.

Ghost regains consciousness a few seconds later. His eyes unfocused, his ears ringing, what the hell happened? Spots fill his vision. His entire face is screaming at him.

When the get on base ghost is escorted to medical by one john mactavish. Ghost leaves medical with twin black eyes, a broken (shattered) nose, a fractured cheek bone, and he is heavily concussed. They want to keep him for a few days to make sure his brain doesn't swell, but he's already halfway out the door. They try to atleast give him some stronger painkillers but he declines. Soap promises to watch him.

Ghost's head feels like it's trying to implode on itself. It's so hard to think. He lets soap herd him into their room, onto their bed, and then soap is gone.

He returns with 3 advils and a bottle of mango nector juice. He uncaps the bottle, pops the pills, and downs them in one go. The rest of the juice follows next. Soap throws the empty bottle away, and then suddenly he's right next to ghost in bed, coaxing him to sleep.

#el rambles #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #soapghost #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #concussion

[akirameta84]

saiki falls down the stairs randomly because he gets startled by a bug or smt and hits his head really hard. so suddenly and hes spooked cause bug he didnt even manage to catch himself. he doesnt think anything of the incident or the horrible headache after because he has no reason to believe theyre related. he gets migraines from his telepathy all the time, and he surely cant be harmed by a simple fall like that, even if he DID hit his head really really badly

matsuzaki takes one look at him and he knows that the kid is very badly concussed and for some reason still came to school. hes dazed as fuck and stumbling and just very ill looking. its a miracle he made it to school in the first place

(of course saiki saw no red flags at all when he was forced to teleport because he was far too dizzy to walk to school. not to mention how tired he felt and how blurred everything-his thoughts and the literally things he was seeing-were getting)

#angst :] #saiki k #saiki kusuo no psi nan #the disastrous life of saiki k. #saiki kusuo #concussion

[whumpster-dumpster]

Whumper concussing Whumpee by slamming their head against the solid bars of their cage

#whump #whump prompt #writing prompt #manhandling #head injury #concussion #cage