lovemebutleavemewild

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Imagine pretending you don't know how to do things when it's convenient for you. Car broken down? You can't use jump leads. Something heavy needs moved? Oh God, someone big and strong will have to help you!

In actual fact you're completely competent - you just doesn't see the point in showing off when men are so eager to do things for you.

John Price slowly figuring it out and it winds him up because he will find a way to take care of you, goddamit.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

SOURCE

[lovemebutleavemewild]

John Price would not understand the concept of keeping things casual and if you told him that's what you wanted, he'd assume it meant you didn't want a big dress for your wedding.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

John Price, who often goes long periods where it's unsafe for him to call you, can tell how good you've been for him by how long it takes you to start begging when he does finally get you on the phone.

If it takes more than 10 minutes (after you've been assured he's safe), he'll hum disapprovingly and ask if you've been playing around on him while he's gone. And if you have, you shouldn't need his help now, now should you?

You learn to ask for what you want, what you need, pretty quick.

And when he finally does give you permission, when he tells you to "go ahead, let me hear ya' darlin'", he stays on the phone while you slip a hand into your underwear.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

As an insomnia girly, John Price would definitely get fed up of your tossing and turning and pin you to the mattress, belly down, with his weight, grumbling for you to stop thinking so much and go to sleep.

His leg slots between yours and his breaths are the slow and steady pace of a man who can fall asleep anywhere, and you've never liked weighted blankets before, but you think you could get used to this one.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

You'd always known you'd come to him.

The man who'd lured you here may have thought himself responsible but you knew better.

When that voice, that voice, had called for your captor, he'd left you at once to run up the stairs towards it and you'd been alone in a hallway with a door at your back and enough adrenaline in your heart to take you far away if that was what you wanted.

Only it's not what you want, though a second ago, it had been. Because you know that voice and you also feel a stirring need pulling you towards it.

That voice has whispered to you in your dreams.

Though your captor must have long reached the top of the stairs, the voice calls again. For you.

And you go to him, as you'd always known you would.

The door at the top of the stairs is made from cheap wood that swings inwards silently at your touch.

Your captor is crouched on his knees but you barely look at him and he doesn't look at you at all. His head is tilted back, held in place by the gloved hand in the longest part of his hair.

You know you're to look where he's looking, know what's expected of you and want to meet those expectations, but all the same, it takes a long time to lift your eyes. He waits in silence, knowing you'll acquiesce eventually. Finally, you do.

His eyes are the only part of him you can see. You tell yourself the rest of his face is covered by a mask, but in the dim light of the room, you could almost believe the bottom half of his face has been stripped of flesh, that the darkness around his eyes and nose is actually the soft insides of a face rotted black.

He looms, nearly as tall as the ceiling and dressed almost entirely in black, apart from the glimpses of white that are his knuckles. His fingers move absent mindedly through the mohawk of the man knelt at his feet and though it looks gentle, you know those fingers are hard, capable of holding too tight and not tightly enough, all at once.

He is terrible. He is beautiful. He's haunted your dreams for years and been the only source of pleasure that has ever rung true.

Every night since you've known him you've woken, soaked in sweat, sheets twisted around the lower half of your body and panting like you've run a mile, his face scarred into your eyelids, his name on your lips.

"Ghost," you breathe and the word is nothing and it's everything. Ghost shifts, his hand tightens and your captor lets a high whine out of his throat.

The lower man's thighs stretch as he moves from his haunches to his knees proper. Quick as a snake, Ghost releases his hold and shoves him on the side of the head so he falls on his side, hard.

At a flick of Ghost's wrist, he's up and moving, and in a second, you realize he's stripping. When he's down to his underwear, he retakes his position on his knees, still gazing upward, with a look of adoration on his face, but something else too. There's hunger in his eyes, in the set of his slightly open jaw and his chest heaves as low, heavy pants escape him. His fists rest on his thighs but every few seconds he raises them and reaches out as if desperate to touch. He never does and you know in your bones that he won't. Not until he's given permission.

Heat paints the side of your face and you meet Ghost's eyes again, though you never look right into them. Instead your gaze falls on the edge of the hard white of the jaw bone on his mask. You can pretend it's fear, if you don't want to admit to yourself what it really is. Deference.

But there's no pretending with Ghost. There never has been. He's seen into your dreams, into your heart. He knows your deepest, most depraved desires, has always known them, has been there in the background as they've grown and twisted under his careful tutelage.

He raises the hand not touching your captor and with one twitch of a finger, he beckons you forward. You go at once and stand before him, hands twitching, wanting, and not daring to want simultaneously.

And then his hand moves again, in a way you've seen countless times in your dreams and just once in person, just seconds ago.

You move instinctually, hands shaking over buttons, trembling over zips. All the time, he watches and waits, still as a mountain. Then his head tilts by the barest inch and the thought thrills through you at once.

He's seen your soul bared and still wants you.

When you too are down to the barest items of clothing, you wait with bated breath. Your eyes roam his face hungrily and you roll forward on the balls of your feet, wanting so badly to draw closer, waiting, hoping, needing.

In your peripheral vision, of which you are acutely aware, you see his hand move again and euphoria crashes through your veins, filling your chest and possessing you entirely as you drop immediately to your knees. You gaze upwards and breathe out, letting your eyes flutter shut just as his hand reaches out and settles in place around your throat.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

writing is so fun

[lovemebutleavemewild]

[lovemebutleavemewild]

MAJOR flash warning for this!!

Idk what to say other than he could kill me

[lovemebutleavemewild]

fear of god

There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 8 masterlist

-

Another day passes. Sleep and wake again. Take the long hand on the clock and spin it back around, the same day starting over again. 

Coffee and breakfast in the galley on your own this time. It’s too early for anyone else to join you. Movement in needle-point inching, creeping through the hallways under the glare of the fluorescent lights. Everything feels too hollow and too bright. 

When morning briefing comes, you stand by the wall closest to the door and mask your anxiety as best as you can. 

Gaz is already in the cockpit when you arrive, chatting on the other side of the room with Alex, their conversation too low for you to eavesdrop on. He sits with an ankle crossed casually over his knee in a figure four and his hands resting on his upper thighs. One of the guys must have lent him a shirt because he wears one of their standard issue heathered grey long sleeved shirts, the fleecy material stretching a bit tight across his shoulders. 

The commander claps his hands together, tearing your attention away from Gaz’s shoulders.

“Okay, we’ve got a lot to get through today, so listen up.”

More of the same that you force yourself to pay attention to even though your mind keeps threatening to drift off. You didn’t sleep especially well the night before, tossing and turning over something that you can’t wrap your head around. You’re suffering for it now though, eyes burning from lack of sleep. 

“We’ve also got some good news, finally,” Graves says. “Cruise control is operational again, thanks to Gaz.” 

A smattering of applause and you can only stare. You clap along with the others, the gesture more instinctual than celebratory. 

Gaz’s smile is bashful, a classic, ah, anyone could’ve done it. But anyone didn’t and his faux modesty grates on your nerves. 

Amidst Graves’ usual rundown of the day’s tasks and schedule, you notice something. Or rather, the absence of something. 

With a fresh layer of petroleum jelly still clogging your nostrils, you can’t smell anything in the room. For the first time since Gaz boarded the ship, you stay rooted in your body, not swept away by the sense memory of another time and another place. If your mind drifts, it’s only because of what you’ve been ruminating on these past couple of days. 

You observe and take note. 

Then the briefing comes to a close, the crew dismissed for the day. You only stand up after Hadir and Nikolai take leave, still staring across the room from the corner of your eye.  Despite being dismissed, Gaz doesn’t leave his seat beside Alex, still deep in conversation. He doesn’t so much as glance your way as you step from the cockpit. 

You don’t know why that stings. 

Nausea hits you out in the hall. You stumble down the stairs leading up to the cockpit before you have to steady yourself with a hand against the wall and breathe until it subsides. Less than two days later and he’s already ingratiated himself to the commander. Graves isn’t a complicated man; he wears his favouritism like a badge of honour, happy to let his underlings fight for his approval. 

You don’t know why it bothers you, but it does. Deeply. In the months since you first met Graves, you’ve hardly graduated from lukewarm pleasantries, and yet somehow within less than forty-eight hours, Gaz has earned the commander’s praise and respect. It doesn’t make sense.

The door to the cockpit abruptly slides open and a figure breezes past you, quick legs taking them halfway down the corridor before your brain even registers who it is.

“Farah?” you call out, making her stop in her tracks.

Already at the end of the hall, she turns at the sound of your voice and waits for you to catch up with her, poised like a sickle-footed dancer. She holds a tablet in front of her, the edge resting against her sternum. Dark eyes follow you all the way. 

“Can we talk?” you ask when you’re close enough to speak at a clandestine volume. 

Her eyebrows pull together. “What’s that on your face?”

“What? Oh, it’s nothing—it’s just Vaseline. Can I ask you something?”

“About what?” 

“First just—” Quiet suddenly, head twisting around to stare down the long corridor behind you. There’s no one there. Farah seems mildly unnerved when you turn your focus back on her, but when is she not these days? Maybe you are fraying at the edges. “I’ll walk with you, okay?”

Instead of responding to that, she spins on her heel and keeps walking. You take her silence as permission to follow her down the hallway towards the cargo hold. You keep silent until you’ve descended below the orlop deck, the sheer distance from the cockpit making you lower your hackles. 

Finally, it feels safe enough to speak. “What’d you think of him?”

“Gaz?” she clarifies, and the question immediately irritates you because who else would you be referring to? Who else emerged from nowhere? 

“Yes.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes drifting back down to the tablet in her hands, taking her attention away from you again. Her fingers flit across the screen as she types up a quick message, not missing a single stride as you continue down the narrow, vent-lined hall towards the main cargo hold door.  

“Farah?” you prompt. 

Her eyes flick towards you again. “He’s…helpful,” she finally answers. “Nikolai walked me through how he fixed the autonomous navigation yesterday. It was an oversight on my part to not think of fixing the GPS receiver before, but it’ll be beneficial to have someone else around to catch those slip ups.”

You frown. “I thought you and Nikolai had already tried fixing the GPS receiver.”

She stops in her tracks so abruptly that you nearly trip over your feet as you skid to a halt as well, then stares at you for a beat. Her brow furrows. You’ve never seen Farah look lost before, but she comes as close as you’ve ever seen. Faintly foggy-eyed, lips unconsciously slipping into a frown. 

“Farah?” you prod again.

That snaps her out of it. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “No. It was an oversight.”

You open your mouth to argue, certain that you recalled Nikolai mentioning it before, but decide to just let it go. Not worth arguing about. “Okay, fine, it doesn’t matter—look, I just…I know things have been…weird lately. I’ve been weird, but…” You swallow, nerves making your stomach turn. “I just think…that something feels…weird about all of this. And you can tell me if you think I’m crazy, but I thought…the other day you seemed…—it just seemed like maybe we might be on the same page.”

“About Gaz, you mean?”

You just nod. 

She levels you with a sidelong look, Mona Lisa without a smile. Inscrutable woman. She looks at you like she’s trying to communicate or understand something or study you or impart something on you, but you don’t know what. Or maybe she just means to look until you do the work for her; until your mouth opens wide and you pour your heart out—

She breaks your stare, looking away. “Okay. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

That surprises you; you somehow expected more resistance. Maybe you expected her to call you crazy. “You will?”

“I trust my own judgment more than anyone else’s. And—” Farah bites her tongue at the last second, holding back whatever comment she’d been about to make. Curiosity nearly makes you question her further, but she finds her words before you do. “…It’s better to be cautious and diligent, even if it amounts to nothing.”

The relief of not being dismissed out of hand nearly bowls you over. “Yes. Yes, thank you. That’s all I’m asking.”

She powers down her device, turning her body to face you fully. “That’s all you wanted to talk about?”

“Yeah. Yes—that’s it.”

“Alright.” 

The dismissal is clear in her voice. She doesn’t even have to say it for you to get the request to leave. Even though it comes as no surprise, it still stings. 

You only make it a handful of strides down the hall before her voice stops you again. 

“And, doctor?”

You pause, looking over your shoulder. “Yes?”

“I’m doing this as a favour. So don’t get anyone else involved with this unless we absolutely need to,” Farah advises. “Okay?”

“Okay. I won’t.”

And then she disappears into the cargo hold without a glance back, the doors sliding shut behind her. 

At half two, there’s a knock on the medbay door and you pause in the middle of your sentence, stylus poised in midair.

It only occurs to you why someone might interrupt your research time when they knock again and a tinny, familiar voice calls out from the other side of the door, “Doctor?”

Your stomach clenches. You put the stylus down and rise to your feet. 

He’s there when you press the button to open the door, all smiles and fulsome charm, cloying like overripe fruit. Pungent and on the brink of spoiling, perfuming the air with a sickly sweet aroma, saying in a different language, this is your last chance, so take it while it’s still here. It won’t be long until this is all gone. 

But you step to the side and let him in because you promised him you would.

“I’m not too early, am I?” Gaz asks, giving you an out, and you almost take it. 

It’s tempting just to say yes and send him on his way, no follow up appointment scheduled. Maybe you’ll always be too busy to see him. Why invite him into your sanctuary after all, the only place on the ship meant just for you?

But you’ve hardly kept him out, a little voice in your head reminds you. Hasn’t he been here before? 

Again, that lingering suspicion. No evidence to back you up and yet your gut is firm in its conviction. You think of walking into the medbay the day before and stopping in your tracks, overcome by the sense that someone had been there just before you arrived. 

“Nope,” you reply with a tight smile. “Come in.”

The room feels a lot more cramped with another person in it. Particularly a man of his stature. Though you’ve treated other men before, some even more formidable than Gaz, he has a certain enigmatic quality to him that seems to take up a room. 

Your eyes subconsciously track the sway of his hips as he walks over to the exam table and takes a seat in the middle of it, waiting patiently for you to join him.

“What first, doctor?” Gaz asks, hands clasped in front of him. 

Hesitant, you smooth your hands down your lab coat and move towards him. “Um. Just—just sit for a second and I’ll grab my things.”

His stare is a physical weight on your back, but you have to keep it turned to him while you gather all the requisite equipment. 

“Sorry if I caught you at a bad time. Were you busy?” 

“…No,” you answer, shaking your head. “I wasn’t. I’m—well, honestly I’m probably the least busy person on the ship. Half the time I’m just twiddling my thumbs in here.”

You say it blithely, almost a joke, but when you turn back to Gaz, you find him staring at you with sympathetic eyes, as if sensing a deeper undercurrent to your words. “You wouldn’t be here if that were true.” 

The sudden shift to earnestness makes you feel almost awkward, embarrassed. You distract yourself by ripping apart the velcro sleeve of the blood pressure monitor. “Can you hold your arm out, please?”

He does, letting you wrap the sleeve around his arm, his bicep bulging around it. 

You conduct the litany of routine tests in silence, careful to avoid eye contact or conversation. The silence feels too delicate to break.

The evaluation consists of a series of standard tests that you’ve performed countless times before: measuring his height and weight, taking his vital signs—blood pressure, heart rate, temperature—which all come back normal, listening to his organs—which all sound, to your ear, perfectly fine—and a visual and physical examination. 

You’re not exactly sure what you expect to find. Hypotension from dehydration; decreased skin turgor; weak and thready peripheral pulses. Anything at all that might indicate the fact that he just spent the last few days stranded without food or water. Anything to indicate starvation or dehydration or lack of oxygen. 

But with each successive test, you find yourself less and less sure that he experienced any hardship at all. Everything looks fine. 

Even with the examination table lowered as much as possible, he’s still a bit too tall for you to properly perform your evaluation, necessitating that you pull up a stool at one point. It forces you to get far too close for comfort, only a hair's breadth from being pressed up against Gaz’s side when you hold the otoscope up to his ear, peering into the canal. Acutely aware of the heat emanating off his body and your nipples beading under your shirt.

He’s quiet too, for the most part. Breathes heavier when you touch your hands to his skin, but you chalk it up to reflex. Ignore the way your hands tremble and your sex aches from his presence alone. 

His lips part in a crooked grin when you switch to palpating his lymph nodes. The exhaled laugh makes your hands twitch against his neck. “Sorry—that tickled.”

“It’s fine.” Ignoring the way your face heats up, you feel around the nodes again, digging your fingers in enough to be sure that all seems well. Still nothing jumps out at you.

It’s a hundred times worse when you have him lie down on the table so you can feel around his abdomen, checking for anything abnormal. You shake a bit when the muscle doesn’t give under your questing fingers, rock hard. Beneath the shapeless spacesuit that he always used to wear his bulk was mostly hidden, but you feel it now, the solid muscle of his core undeniable. 

Enough. It doesn’t become you to objectify your patient, but there’s not much you can do besides ignore it and hope the impulse goes away on its own. 

When it finally comes time for his blood test, you step down from the stool and leave his side to go fetch a fresh needle and syringe, a couple vials, and adhesives for after. His eyes never leave your back. 

You tie off his arm and study the crease of his arm until you see a vein, cleaning the spot while keeping your gloved thumb pressed against the skin. 

“Okay, deep breath if you need to,” you whisper. 

He doesn’t flinch or wince when the needle presses in, lips not even twitching. Calm always in spite of the situation at hand. 

It’s oddly intimate, standing so close to him with your fingers resting against the inside of his arm while you fill vial after vial with his blood. Lulled by the sound of his breath, his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. Almost a dreamlike space. You find yourself avoiding his eyes again, lest they distract you. 

When you’ve drawn enough for your tests, you extract and discard the needle and syringe, bandaging the prick. Your hands linger on his arm, finger still tracing over the delicate skin of his cubital fossa. 

“Anything wrong with me, doctor?” Gaz asks teasingly.  

Surprisingly, no—at least, nothing you’ve been able to detect so far. That leaves you with far more questions than you originally had. He’s the picture of health as far as you can tell from your cursory exam, though his blood tests will reveal more. 

“Nothing so far. I’ll let you know when your bloodwork’s ready though,” you let him know with a brittle smile. 

His gaze drops to your neck, half-lidded eyes watching the way your throat bobs when you swallow reflexively, suddenly nervous. Avoidant disposition; you’ve always pulled away from things that have tried to pull you in. You don’t know why that thought comes to you now. 

“What’ve you got there, love?” Gaz asks in a low, purring voice, staring at you intently, and suddenly it’s like a bubble has formed around the two of you. The outside world melts away, fades into the background. A faint hum fills the space between you. 

“What?” you reply, a bit doltish, breath catching in your throat when his eyes narrow and he leans in. 

“That…right there…” he murmurs, leaning in closer to you, a hand coming up to rest against the side of your face. “Under your nose.”

Body rooted to the spot, you don’t do anything when he drags his thumb under your nostril, wiping away the mess of petroleum jelly jammed under your nose. There’s nothing you can do but let him clean it off, your arms dangling by your sides like lead weights, each pass of his thumb wiping away more and more. 

“There, that should do,” he hums, wiping the excess off on his shirt, leaving a dark, oily stain behind. Dark eyes flick up to meet yours again.  

You can’t think of anything to say; your mouth goes dry instead. He lets another low chuckle out, eyes crinkling at the corners. As if your distress were written across your face. 

It’s like he can see right through you sometimes. 

“I—” you choke out. “T-thank you.”

“It was a good try, but…something like that isn’t going to help.” It’s said like a fact, not a warning. “I’m already up here.”

Two fingers tap your forehead, lingering there for a second. You tremble under his touch. 

And then, in the back of your mind, something moves. Something of you and not of you. It’s there and then gone, so fleeting that you barely notice it. But you do. 

Ice all the way down to your core. There’s a fear in your heart slowly leaking out, clotting in your veins. Aware that maybe he isn’t just speaking facetiously, that even now you can feel something slithering around in the back of your head and maybe it isn’t just your anxiety speaking to you. 

“What do you mean?” you whisper. 

His smile splits into something wider than his face. Your fingers are numb against the inside of his arm. “You still trust anything just because it’s right in front of you?” 

Nimble fingers brush yours aside to peel off the bandage you just applied, revealing smooth, unblemished skin. 

Your breathing goes haggard. You can’t answer him. Any coherent thought has been ripped from the soft tissue of your mind, replaced by a cold, churning fear. 

Gaz lifts himself off the table quite gracefully, righting his shirt when he’s back on his feet. The fluorescent lights make everything seem so flat. Even he seems flat, towering over you like a monolith, an obelisk from deep space. Reality sloughs off him when he stands at full height, like he can’t help but shed it. 

You stare down at the plaster crumpled up on the exam table. No trace of blood on the soft middle pad. 

Right before leaving, he looks at you from over his shoulder. “Let me know when you have my results, doctor.”

All you can do is nod, and then he’s gone.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Reader accidentally being kind to a stranger and not knowing that Johnny is months into a deep spiralling depression because of his head injury and medical discharge…..honey, you’ve got a storm coming

[lovemebutleavemewild]

ghost (or price) that acts as your husband in a hospital when you are sleeping, and asks the doctors what should he know about your state. you're bamboozled when you see him, but as you don't remember anything but your name, you think it's only right. maybe you do not remember him.

only if you knew he was no one in your pre-amnesia life. it's not like he's a stalker, not really; he was visiting his friend, and you were just... so fragile in the other room, so he had to look and see your chart. you have practically no one; parents on the other side of the world, no siblings, he had to take you into his own, messed up life.

it's not like he had a choice, right? retirement treats him horrible, he wants something for himself.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Countdown (1/3)

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pregnancy during apocalypse trope is CRAZYYY to me like why are you letting him come inside you girl???? now is NOT the time.

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Thinking about a new group of recruits coming in and one of them taking notice of the chemistry between Ghost and Soap + having a flair for the arts.

One morning Soap is walking through the hallways. There’s an old pockmarked bulletin board that mostly holds whatever scandalous images they can get by the brass, plus bad jokes, plus half-hearted propaganda on behalf of the King.

Today there’s a whole group of soldiers packed in the space around the bulletin, and Soap lets himself get caught up in the chaos.

“What are we lookin’ at?” he asks.

“Some kind of dirty story someone left posted on the bulletin board in the night,” the soldier answers. Soap’s brows lift. “Real 50 Shades of Gray shite.”

Soap wants to see this for himself, and pushes himself through the crowd, taking notice of how the guffaws and laughter seem to be increasing at his presence.

It’s a single page, front only, double spaced with impeccable spelling and grammar. But as Soap’s eyes scan the words, his smile goes slack, eyes widening. He bats an eager hand off the page and brings it closer, sure he is misreading.

Cocks and arses and so much cum—way too much fucking cum and—

It’s about him. Him and—

“What’s all this?”

Ghost’s voice cuts through the laughter like a knife. Soap feels it in between his ribs. He meets the eyes of the recruit next to him and knows that his own horror and panic is reflected there in the brown irises. Soap cannot let Ghost see this.

“Sergeant. Hand it over.”

“It’s nothing, LT, just some bastard’s idea of a joke—“

“I love a good joke. Remind me to tell you one about the disobedient subordinate. Hand the paper over, Soap.”

Soap takes one look at Ghost’s outstretched hand and shoves the entire paper into his own mouth, the crinkling loud over the silence that has filled the hallway. Soap chews, cheeks bulging, eyeing a spot just above Ghost’s shoulder instead of meeting his eyes.

Ghost stares. Soap chews.

“Don’t the rest of you have any duties? Or do I need to find you some?” Ghost asks, eyes on Soap. The recruits scatter. Once the hallway is empty, Simon holds out his hand, palm up. “Spit it out, Johnny.”

“More o’ a swallower,” Soap slurs around the paper which is turning to mush in his mouth. Ghost wiggles his fingers, and like a dog being told to drop it, Soap opens his mouth and pushes out the wad of smut with his tongue, letting it loll lamely into Ghost’s waiting palm.

“Thirty seconds to explain. Go.”

“Was hungry, sir. The mess hall was too far away.”

“Right.” He takes Soap’s wrist in his grip and drops the mush into his bare palm, relishing in his Sergeant’s wince. “Dispose of that.”

“Will do, sir.”

As he’s stomping away, Ghost scowls beneath the mask. This is the fifth day in a row that something has been posted on the bulletin about him and Johnny. The other four pages are safely tucked in the drawer of Ghost’s desk in his office. Things had just been getting good.

He only hopes he didn’t miss anything integral to the plot.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Rumour has it they're still at it to this day.

Consider getting me a Kofi | Commissions

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Bleeding blue

Chapter one (written by @nsharks, drawn by me)

It literally wouldn’t let me fit the first panel so I had to sacrifice it sob

Also check out the original work cause this comic doesn’t even compare to how good the book is. I didn’t even draw everything completely according to the original, so keep in mind before you critique me 😤 ‘it’s just for funzies