ME Action Network UK's Capain for Very Severe ME/CFS Services
I slightly edited one of the charity's template emails to MPs to make it a bit more spammable and am posting it below in case it helps anyone.
Please note: I hate the term CFS with a passion but have added it in for my own reasons- others are obviously welcome to do as they think best!
Hi there, I'd really appreciate if you could use the email template below to lobby your MP on people with Very Severe ME/CFS. If you have a smartphone, it should take no more than a few minutes! Many thanks to those that have time. X
Subject: Request for Support Regarding Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (ME/CFS)
Body: Dear [MP's name],
My name is _____ and I am one of your constituents. My postcode is [insert postcode]. I am writing to draw your attention to this critical matter (. / and on behalf of my (whatever) who has had ME/CFS for _ years (/many years). / and I have had ME/ CFS for _ years].
Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME), also known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS), is a complex, debilitating, and chronic disease affecting over 700,000 people in the UK. ME causes profound neurological, immunological and metabolic dysfunction. In the UK there is no NHS service for the very sickest people with ME/CFS.
It is estimated that up to 175,000 people are suffering at home or in hospital, bedbound, tube fed and paralysed, with no specialist service to call on. The DHSC ME/CFS Delivery Plan promised to start the process of commissioning a service for the very severely ill ME/CFS sufferer in England.
The start of this process has now been pushed back until April 2027 at the earliest while the very frail are left with no service, no specialists and nowhere to go.
[If possible add personal or local information that will help illustrate the issues you are concerned about. Make it as personal as you are comfortable with. Sufferers sharing this with friends and fam might consider pre-writing a couple of sentences about themselves and their experiences that their associates can choose to include or perhaps delete this section to avoid people getting stuck on this bit.]
I am not able/ too ill to come to your surgery to discuss this matter in person so I ask that you view the short video attached here (https://youtu.be/YoCT_K66Ul0?is=h9ffQa7BqjJwduVZ ) and respond to me by email (/other.)
(My ( ‘s) situation/The video linked above) illustrates how urgent the case for healthcare is for the very sickest people with ME/CFS who have the least help. The decision to set up this service lies with the Secretary of State for Health and Social Care. Please lobby him and represent how urgent the situation is for those of us who are too ill to campaign on our own behalf.
(If you live in England you can ask your MP to contact your local IntegratedCare Board:)
Setting up a specialised service for the very severely ill with ME/CFS will take years. You can help relieve suffering now by lobbying our Integrated Care Board (ICB) and ask for the immediate setting up of a virtual ward system and inclusion in their Joint Forward Plan: https://www.england.nhs.uk/contact-us/about-nhs-services/contact-your-local-integrated-care-board-icb/
A virtual ward allows patients to receive acute, hospital-level care in their own homes, care homes, or hospices rather than a hospital bed. It uses technology—such as apps, wearables, and monitoring devices—combined with regular, multidisciplinary team visits (nurses, doctors, therapists) to monitor conditions, prescribe medication, and provide treatments like oxygen and fluids.
Thank you for your attention,
[Your Name]
[Your Contact Information - contact phone number, address with postcode]
Voltober 13 - I Laugh in the Face of Death - The Adventurers
Author's notes: Yes, I did cry at work while I wrote this. PLEASE look at the content warnings before reading further. This one really messes me up when I think about it.
Masterlist - Voltober 12
Content: Multiple whumpees, minor character, slavery, severe illness, chronic illness, fear of death, death of a minor, extreme grief
@voltober
Deflecting Concern | Distracting an Ally From Their Pain | Worn Out Laughter
Warning: I have a policy of giving almost all of my POV good guy characters happy endings. Almost. This is the exception to the rule. This story has been making me sad for years now, and without exception makes me cry when I think about it too long. It’s one of those bits of story that I have no control over. I cannot change it or make it better because the characters tell me this is how it happened. I have never properly written it until this moment because of that. Heed the content warnings. While Souka goes on to have a very good life, Ichimaru…..
Ichimaru coughed hard and bit back a whine, rolling over in his thread bare blanket. He was almost too hot for it. But when he took it off he froze to death.
Ichimaru closed his eyes, trying not to think of death. It had always felt close to him, ever since he was a child. Like death was stalking him, just waiting for his conditions to finally win over. His albinism, his propensity for illness, his chronic cough, and everything that came with being a slave.
He opened his eyes. Would he die here? There wasn’t much for him here, but it was terrifying to think he would die. He had no idea what was on the other side. Was there nothing? Would he stop existing forever?
His chest spasmed and he coughed so hard snot bubbled out of his nose, tears leaking down his cheeks. He shivered and huddled tighter under his blanket.
He was so scared. It wasn’t fair. He knew that this day would come sooner rather than later. Like he was one of those doomed characters in the sad stories the older slaves would tell. The ones who fought their fate, but fell to it anyway.
He sniffled, wondering if there would be stories about him. Probably not. The only other person he was close to in this whole world was a semi-mute slave child who looked about as close to the grave as Ichimaru did. It was a shame. Ichimaru knew he looked quite striking under all the dirt. He would be a good character in a story.
He was distracted by those thoughts by a shuffling at the small door that lead to he quarantine room Ichimaru was staying in.
He looked over to see wide eyes, dirty skin, and long brown hair framing a skeletal face.
The young teen, Souka, crawled in and came to sit by Ichimaru, tears already welling in his eyes.
“I’m fine,” Ichimaru said, a smile coming easily to his face. “You shouldn’t be in here. You’ll get sick again.”
“I got you sick,” Souka rasped in a whisper, the scars on his throat jumping with the movement of his speech. “I want to help.” His lips kept moving to say like you helped me but his voice gave out. Ichimaru was used to reading Souka’s lips, though, so the message was not lost on him.
Ichimaru relaxed. He had comforted Souka when he was sick, sure that his little friend would die in those long sick nights, but Souka pulled through. Of course he would want to help Ichimaru the same way, though Ichimaru was sure it was not for the same reasoning. Souka was too relaxed. He had no idea Ichimaru was going to die. Ichimaru couldn’t stomach seeing Souka’s hope fade. It was his death day, but he wouldn’t tell his friend that. He was allowed to be selfish today of all days.
Souka got onto the pathetically thin pallet and under the blanket, wrapping his arms around Ichimaru to share his body heat. Ichimaru immediately felt overheated, but he put an arm around Souka in turn, taking comfort in the touch.
“I think I can-” get you more food tomorrow.
“You don’t have to,” Ichimaru said gently. “That’s very kind of you.”
Souka huffed. He cuddled closer to Ichimaru and the older teen sighed, closing his eyes. Souka would be the one to hear his final words. What did he even want to say? What could he say to try and keep Souka’s hopes up after he was gone.
“Do you want a story?”
Souka nodded against his chest.
“Good.” Ichimaru paused, covering his mouth and coughing painfully hard. He wipe his hand on the blanket before Souka could see the specks of blood that came up. “Remember the day we met?”
Souka nodded again. You named me. He mouthed, a faint whisper behind the movements.
“Yes. I named you. I still can’t believe you hadn’t heard the story of the hero Souka before we met.”
Souka cleared his throat, wincing in pain, and rasped, “The Slave Freer.”
“The Slave Freer,” Ichimaru echoed warmly. “He was like us, once. Getting sick, sneaking extra food for friends, working his butt off for the masters during the day. Just like you.”
Souka nodded excitedly and Ichimaru was surprised. In the past when he had told this story, there had always been doubt in Souka’s eyes. But now, he seemed eager to drink up and believe every word that Ichimaru spoke. Ichimaru had a sinking feeling in his stomach beyond the emptiness and nausea.
“He promised he would get free, and when he was strong, he would be back to free the slaves. And he kept his word, coming back and freeing all of the slaves, holding back the masters while they all escaped. He gave his life for their futures. The others are afraid to-” Ichimaru broke off, coughing hard into his hand again, knocking Souka off of his chest with his seizing.
Souka put a hand on Ichimaru’s chest, worry and fear in his eyes. Ichimaru forced himself to recover quickly, laughing weakly. “Sorry. Umm…. Oh the others are afraid to speak of him. They’re afraid to hope that there is a way out.”
Souka nodded, settling back in. “Like Old Jassy.”
“Yes, like Old Jassy.”
Jassy shut down any talk of Souka, hope, or freedom. She thought that it was cruel to give any of the slaves hope, instead focusing on the joy they had where they were, few and far between it may be. She had been very angry when she found out Ichimaru had give the name Souka to his previously nameless friend.
“And one day, Souka, I know you will be better than him. You will get out and you will free everyone here. And you’ll do even better than the first Souka. You will live to see it all! Maybe you’ll even end slavery!”
Souka’s eyes seemed to glow at the idea, putting his heart and soul into believing it for the first time since Ichimaru had known him. “And you will be there with me. I can’t do it without you.”
Ichimaru smiled, trying to keep the pain and sadness out of his eyes. “Yes. I will be with you, every step of the way.” Even if that was only in spirit. There had to be something after death. He needed to be there for Souka, even if it was in an intangible way.
Souka hummed and closed his eyes. Ichimaru put a hand on Souka’s head and said, “Good night.”
Souka nodded, mouth moving, but Ichimaru couldn’t see what he said.
Ichimaru waited until Souka had relaxed, his chest moving smoothly and calmly before he blew out a sigh, closing his own eyes.
He was so scared. He could feel death settling in, taking his limbs. He could feel it’s cold breath on his face. He was so scared. He was so terrified and he didn’t want to go. He wanted to live. He had to take care of Souka. He had to make sure he didn’t lose hope.
Ichimaru was still so full of hope himself. He needed to believe there was something better for him. This couldn’t be the end. His life had been so unfair. This couldn’t be it!
Silent tears made their way down his cheeks, but he didn’t even have the energy to wipe them away.
He was cold. His chest hurt. He was fading. He was scared. It was too much! It was too fast! He should have said more. He should have told Souka he loved him! Ichimaru should have told him he was dying. He should have given Souka a proper chance to say goodbye!
His breathing was getting shallower and shallower, his vision leaving him, and just as he felt the fear and pain would consume him and make him mad just before death, a small voice seemed to whisper to him, dispelling all of the fear and anguish.
Come, Ichimaru. Come home. He will not be left alone. He will be loved. You have done what you can.
Ichimaru’s last breath came out as a sigh of relief as the pain and regret left him, and he did as the voice asked.
…………………………………………………
Souka opened his eyes, becoming aware before becoming fully awake. He was sore and cold. Ichimaru was…..
Souka sat up quickly in the darkness, reaching for the old mage light kept in the quarantine room, tapping it to turn it on again.
Ichimaru’s glassy eyes stared blankly ahead, limbs stiff and cold.
Souka stared down at the body, uncomprehending and terrified.
He shook Ichimaru and his heart dropped. No! This couldn’t be happening! He sobbed, hand on Ichimaru’s chest. He began mouthing quickly, but his voice wouldn’t come. It wouldn’t voice what he desperately needed to say. This wasn’t fair! It’s not fair! He knew Ichimaru was fragile, he knew that he got sicker quicker than anyone else. He knew he should have pushed him out of the quarantine room when he came to cuddle with Souka when he was sick.
Souka threw back his head and wailed in anguish, the sound stuttering, airy, and broken. He had killed his best friend! He had killed his brother! The person who had given him a name, a purpose, and a hope was dead! He was gone forever and he left Souka behind.
Souka bowed over Ichimaru’s body, pressing his head into Ichimaru’s stiff chest. He had dared to hope, dared to believe Ichimaru’s words as though that would help him recover. As though his hope would be enough to get Ichimaru through this and protect him. As if it would protect Souka from the sorrows he had been faced with in his whole life.
He sobbed loudly, clutching at Ichimaru’s ragged clothing, begging him to come back.
“I can’t-” do this on my own! I can’t! PLEASE.
Old Jassy found him hours later when the supervisors noticed he was missing, curled around a corpse staring blankly at the wall. She sighed, rolling up her sleeves in preparation to peel him off of the one person who had well and truly loved him in his entire life.
This is the diary of someone with severe ME. For those unfamiliar ME stands for Myalgic Emcephalomyelitis it is a neuroimmunological disease affecting over 30 million people worldwide. Severe ME refers to patients with ME who are housebound and mostly bedbound. I am completely bedbound and depend on IV fluids.
The defining symptom of ME is PENE or post exertional neuroimmune exhaustion. PENE happens whenever someone with ME "overexerts." The more PENE you experience the worse you get. The last thing I did to trigger PENE was eat some bread with my mum. In other words, if you dare to live, the disease progresses.
To prevent the progression of my disease I spend every day in a dark room resting. I recieve IV fluids through a central line in my chest and take a carefully crafted set of over 20 medications and supplements. I can watch videos, but nothing too exciting. I can talk, but not get emotional. Every action must be accounted for in my balance sheet. Every piece of ATP accounted for.
Then of course the pain. The daily constant migraines. The light, noise, and skin hypersensitivity. The acid burning muscles. The aching joints. The spasms. The stabbing neuropathy. These too take energy to endure. Energy I can't afford.
This is my existance of living death. The girl who once inhabited this body, a girl you will get to know perhaps, is no more. She died a slow painful death. Now I write to you from the living death of severe ME. Not to teach or to shed light or whatever other BS. No. I do my advocacy elsewhere. Simply because even ghosts it seems want to be heard. Because this existance makes you want to shout and curse into the void and you dear reader, if you even exist, you are my void.
A has been injected with an ever mutating bio-weapon. Just as that think they’ve beaten the damn thing it evolves into something else. It tears through A’s body leaving them in agony and constant discomfort.
The medical team become frantic trying to find the cure - perhaps even making careless mistakes in their treatment which do more harm than good.
Of course A recovers, but not after suffering skin lesions, stomach ulcers, severe coughing, seizures and cardiac arrests (basically whatever you want the whumpee to go through.)
Bonus points for the lead doctor breaking down out of stress and worry:
For @jonanacoe / @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse.
Fandom: Star Trek AOS.
Pairing: Leonard McCoy x Reader.
Prompt: Self-Sacrifice.
Word Count: 713.
Warning(s): severe illness, needles.
The soft sound of glass clinking pulls you out of a doze. You blink a few times to clear your vision as you orientate yourself. You’re in a bio bed in sick bay, your body is still too warm from the fever ravaging it, and everything aches. It’s hard to breathe, too, in spite of the cannula that’s nestled in your nose delivering a steady stream of pure oxygen. You turn your head toward the source of the clinking sound and find Leonard sitting next to you, rolling a small vial with an opaque, white liquid inside between his hands. The vial clinks every time it rolls over the ring he always wears on his little finger.
“What’s that?” You ask hoarsely, too weak to raise your voice above a whisper.
Leonard looks up, his tired gaze meeting yours.
“A cure,” he says flatly.
You feel a small flicker of hope at his words, but reserve judgment. You can tell by the way he’s fidgeting that it’s not all good news.
“So what are you waiting for?” You ask.
Leonard sighs, running a hand through his hair and regarding the vial. He makes a show of reaching for a hypo spray, turning it over in his hands before loading the vial into it and readying it. He meets your gaze again and there’s apology in his eyes.
“The Ziaran doctors assured me that this would cure the virus,” he explains. “But it’s never been tested on humans before. Preliminary screenings show there’s a significant chance it would put a human into anaphylaxis, and I’m not sure we could pull you back from that in the state that you’re in.”
You frown.
“That doesn’t sound good,” you murmur. “But if I take it, I have a chance, right?”
Leonard makes a wordless noise that you take to be agreement.
“Then let’s do it,” you say, your heart rate creeping up and setting off an alarm on the bio bed.
He jumps to his feet immediately, prepared for the worst, but simply reaches over and shuts the alarm off once he’s reassured himself that you’re not in any real danger. You wait for him to settle a moment before continuing.
“I’ve got nothing to lose,” you reason. “If I don’t take the cure, I die. If I take the cure and I react to it, I die. But if I take the cure and don’t react, I might make it through this. Giving me that hypo is the only logical thing to do.”
Leonard snarls, practically throwing the hypo onto your bedside table, rounding on you.
“Logical?” He growls. “Don’t tell me you’re taking lessons from Spock now. That’s ridiculous, darlin’.”
You watch him pace next to your bio bed.
“We both know I won’t survive this,” you say softly. “I might have another few days, but nothing more. I already feel worse than I did before I went to sleep earlier.”
Leonard curses quietly, shaking his head.
“Don’t talk like that, sweetheart,” he says lightly, his tone strained. “You’ve still got a fighting chance with the immunity boosters we’re giving you.”
You smile sadly.
“You’re not ready to let me go,” you say gently. “So don’t let me. Give me a fighting chance. And spare me the speech - I know the risks, I’m giving you my informed consent. You can write articles in all the big medical journals once I make a miraculous recovery.”
Leonard curses again, more loudly this time. You can practically feel the tension radiating off of him. You can see it in the way the muscles in his neck are strained, in the way his hands clench and unclench as though they’re itching to do something, anything.
When he breaks at last, he does so spectacularly. Unable to dam the desperation any longer, he reaches for the hypo, primes it, and presses it against his own neck, injecting its contents. You watch in complete and utter shock as the milky liquid disappears beneath his skin and watch with bated breath as he drops the hypo and takes a seat.
“Fifteen minutes,” Leonard says shakily. “If I’m not showing any adverse effects fifteen minutes from now, we can revisit this discussion.”
And so the two of you lapse into silence, waiting.
Whumptober 2018: Day twenty eight - Severe Illness
Summary: Tim should know by now that nothing is ever as simple as having a common cold.
Enjoy! :)
The first sign that his condition was worse than what he thought should have been the cough. At first it was hardly noticeable but after Tam pointed out how bad he sounded Tim couldn’t ignore it then.
After that it just seemed to get worse. He honestly didn’t think that anything was wrong, he just happens to be suffering from a common cold (he had fallen into Gotham Bay the other day while on patrol so he already knows whats causing it). But from when Tam pointed it out to him Tim did start to notice how tight his chest felt and how sometimes it was difficult to breath.
Like normal Tim pushes himself through it as best as he can. He’s too busy to be sick. He’s got to help run WE, help patrol Gotham and keep tabs on the Titans. He can’t let sickness get the better of him.
That night patrol was difficult. The pain killers he took before starting his nightly activities weren’t doing squat to help him, his chest was sore, he was struggling to breath, the cough he’s had over the last few days makes his throat feel raw and he’s now started to bring up phlegm as well which was just disgusting. He ends up calling it an early night. There wasn’t anything major going on at that moment and no one seemed to be in peril so he sets course for his apartment.
By the time he gets to his apartment it’s just gone 2 in the morning and he’s only gotten worse. As he stumbles through his window he takes a moment to try and catch his breath which is proving to be really difficult as his chest hurts with every breath.
He stumbles around his apartment while trying to get his suit off, he throws the clothing hazardously all over the place not really caring where it lands at that point. By now he just wants his bed. He feels awful, his body feels weak and sore, he’s struggling to catch his breath and that damn cough isn’t helping anything. Once he’s down to his boxers he heads for the bedroom and proceeds to collapse on his bed.
He rolls around and tugs uselessly on the cover to get it over him. It’s when he gets the cover partially over him that he gives up, he doesn’t really need as it seems to be too hot anyway, and slumps into the pillows now feeling exhausted.
It was a struggle trying to get some sleep. He’s restless, feeling hot and cold at the same time, his chest is painful, his cough is violent and he could barely breath.
It does cross Tim’s mind that this could be more than the average common cold, but he argues with himself that he’ll be fine after a goodnights rest, he’s just tired and it’s taking a toll on his body that’s all. There’s no need to bother anyone with this, they’re all too busy to stop and look after him. Even if he did want to to go to someone, he can’t remember where he put his phone. It wasn’t on his bedside table meaning it must be somewhere else in the house and at that very moment Tim wasn’t in the mood to get up and search for it, perhaps he’ll do it tomorrow.
“Tim. Tim, buddy you there? Come one dude wake up.”
Tim groans as something nudges him, that something waking him up from the depths of unconscious. He opens his eyes before closing them again upon realising what a bad idea that was.
“Tim?”
Tim groans again which launches him into a coughing fit. As he was coughing up his lungs he feels hands grab at him and then he’s being pulled up into a sitting position. The new position helps him to over come the fit but it does leave him trying to catch his breath. Everything hurt and he couldn’t think straight.
“Tim? You’re really worrying me here dude?”
Right there was someone else with him. Cracking his eyes open he looks and recognises that Conner was somehow with him.
“What you doing here?” He asks. His voice is dry and scratchy, it makes his throat feel uncomfortable.
He sees Conner make a face, “Dude you were calling my name out during the night. I got concerned so I came over, it’s probably a good thing to, how long you been sick for?”
Tim shakes his head, “I’m not sick. Too busy to be sick.”
Conner gives him the ‘you’re a fucking idiot’ look, before he’s rolling his eyes. “I’m going to take you to the Bats, you need to get some medical attention.”
Tim shakes his head again (which does nothing to help him) and starts trying to bat Kon off him, “No. I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah that’s not happening. Come on. Lets go.”
“It appears that Master Tim has once again been reunited with his old friend pneumonia.” Alfred says coming out of the med bay to where Kon was pacing in the main cave area waiting.
Kon gives Alfred a look, he’s not used to the older man making jokes, especially jokes about involving their health. “Is he going to be okay?” Kon asks him eventually.
Alfred nods, sending him a small smile, “He’ll be alright, as long as he rests, takes his medicine and gets plenty of fluids, all of which I’ll be over looking myself. He’ll be back out with you in no time at all.”
“Okay, that’s good to hear. At least you know what you’re doing.” Kon says laughing a bit. Thank fuck for Alfred, the man is a god in that family.
Alfred smiles politely, “Thank you. It’s a good thing you brought him here when you did or else it could be a lot worse.”
Kon feels his stomach drop, rubbing the back of his neck he looks away from Alfred, “I didn’t even realise he was sick until just now. I have no idea how long he’s been sick.”
“If it’s only consolation lad, none of the family yet know about Master Tim, while that’s not a good thing you have nothing to feel bad about.”
Kon nods his head in understanding, okay so at least he wasn’t as bad as a friend than he thought. He looks back at the man, “Anything I can do to help?”
The butler doesn’t hesitate to nod, “If you would keep Master Tim company for now while I go and make some food I would be grateful.”
Conner smiles at him, “Of course.” He goes over to the med bay where Tim was resting. There was an oxygen mask over his face, he was connected to an IV and there was a bottle of water beside him that hadn’t been touched.
When Kon walks over to him, two tired blue eyes peer at him. Kon offers a smile, “How you feeling?”
Tim groans, “Like shit.”
Kon huffs out a laugh and sits down, “Next time you begin to feel ill call someone Tim. You’re not alone, we want to help and take care of you.”
Under the mask Tim makes a face and waves him off. He shifts on the bed and faces Kon. It’s quiet when he talks, the mask practically muffling it all but Kon can hear as clear as day. “Thank you.”
He smiles, “No problem dude. I hate seeing you ill. If there’s something you need a hand with just shout and I’ll be there, you know that.”
Tim smiles and slowly closes his eyes. Kon lets him go to sleep, clearly he needs it. He leans back in the chair he’s sat on and gets out his phone and begins to play on it. May as well do something while he waits for him to wake up again or until Alfred brings down the food.
(Last part. Tomorrow will by a oneshot and my last whumptober prompt :D)
The bond between his and Ezra’s Force signatures seemed healthy enough, but as the days turned into weeks, Ezra seemed to be permanently fatigued. He spent most of his time sleeping, and when he was awake his mood was subdued. It was a little unnerving to see Ezra so quiet and downcast. Kanan was sure something else must be wrong.
Hera gazed at Kanan disbelievingly. “You’re joking, right?”
“What? We know that inquisitor drugged him. These could be side effects.”
“Kanan…” Hera gave a sad sigh. “I think he’s just depressed.”
Kanan opened his mouth, but then closed it again. It made perfect sense. He should have realized it earlier. He was just so focused on Ezra’s physical and Force injuries, other explanations didn’t even occur to him.
So now, several weeks after Ezra had been saved, after his physical and Force wounds had healed, Kanan set out to help his mental ones too.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” Kanan said to him.
“I know,” Ezra said, but it was an automatic response.
Kanan pressed his lips together. “Even about what happened with the inquisitor,” he said quietly.
Ezra stiffened. “Y-Yeah… I know.”
Kanan waited, but Ezra didn’t say anything else. He let out a small sigh. “You don’t have to talk to me… but you should talk to someone.”
“Why?” Ezra squeaked. “It won’t change what happened.”
“Do you remember when you first told us about your parents?” Kanan said. “It might have been hard - painful, even - but in the long run, keeping it all bottled up would have made it even worse.”
Ezra crossed his arms, staring intently at the ground. He was breathing deliberately deeply, and Kanan could sense his anxiety rising. “I don’t want to talk to anyone else…” he muttered.
Kanan placed a hand on Ezra’s shoulder, squeezing it. “I’m not pushing you. Just know, when you’re ready… you’re not alone.”
Ezra nodded, leaning up against Kanan’s side. “I know,” he replied softly.
It was just the beginning of a longer journey. But Kanan knew they would both be able to see it through.
Soooo Venom…. Finally got around to see it and it’s so good! Mostly my whumper heart just loved how Eddie looked like he was sick through the majority of the movie. Yes, this is pencil, (not digital I know) and also, how does one draw hair?
Drawn for Whumptober #28: Severe Illness he is a parasite after all
