#it gets better i promise i swear

[homoeroticfisticuffs]

wip wednesday because i've never done it before and i'm actually working on something right now

(slight gamora character study + eventual starmora) (just a little snippet of the beginning, the whole thing is almost 6k now yay) (snippet length: 757 words)

Being with the Guardians was nothing short of foreign for her.

Sure, she had done collaborative work before, like when she and Nebula had been indignantly serving under Ronan and working alongside Korath and his troops; but this was altogether different. It was deeper, more personal in a way that she wasn’t used to. She felt like she didn’t know how to navigate it at all.

Until now, her driving force in life had been her anger, a near-mindless and primal way of life that allowed her to survive. It manifested into anger for Thanos, for Nebula, for their siblings, for all of it, finding its home and thriving in the constant cruelty she had to endure since her very first day with the Mad Titan. In a way, her own rage only reminded her of that of her captor, and made her feel sick at realizing how similar she really was to him. It seemed only fitting that the final straw that broke her away from him after all her years of torment was one motivated by sadness, and a need to protect what she could from his dark and horrible clutches.

When she found out that he knew where the power stone was, there wasn’t a cell in her body that could resist the need to do something about it, to stop him in whatever way she possibly could. It wasn’t the first time she felt rage for him and his sickening motivations, but it was the first time they made her feel true fear. The memories of her last day on her home planet still haunted her, and she knew she couldn’t let him wreak that kind of havoc again, not when she could really do something about it this time.

So she did, she betrayed him and made sure the stone was out of his reach, and she met the Guardians in the process. She had originally never had any intention of staying with them, not after the stone was secure in the hands of the Nova Corps; that was the only reason she was with them in the first place, and she had no real reason to stick around after that.

But there was a part of her, a bigger, deeper part of her that she couldn’t ignore, that wanted to stay.

As much as they got on her nerves, and as painfully stupid as she knew they all were, there was just something about them that drew her to them. The way they all had one shared goal, and achieved it together, fought side-by-side, and shared their pasts with each other like tearing themselves open and displaying their true and honest viscera made her feel something she had never felt before, not even with Nebula.

Things with Nebula were rocky at best. She did truly find herself loving her sister, but not in a way that she could afford to express if she wanted to stay alive. Things with Nebula were the way that they had to be, no matter how much she hated it. She always wished that they could have been sisters under better circumstances, and that maybe they could really get along if things were different, but she knew that could never be. She wasn’t naïve.

The Guardians presented something entirely different. Was it belonging? Freedom? Acceptance? Those were the only words she could come up with to describe it, only able to characterize it through a lack of pressure or feeling like she had to be the best or live under somebody else’s thumb. It was liberating being able to operate on her own, being a part of a team that she truly felt a strong bond with and who made her feel like she was really helping to make a lasting difference in the galaxy.

And as far as bonds went, over time she found that she had vastly different connections with each of her teammates. Rocket was the laughable demolitionist, someone you could rely on to get a job done or save your ass and always have something snarky to say about it. Groot was comparable to a child or a pet, especially after he had to be regrown; he could fight if he needed to, but the team preferred to keep him out of harm's way as much as they could. Drax was the amiable idiot, a contendable foe in battle and a passionate friend and sparring partner but severely lacking in his capabilities for higher intellectual thought. Mantis was a sweet soul who found belonging with the Guardians, even though her fighting skills were near-none. And Quill…

Well, Quill was Quill.

(all of this was written like 3 months ago and has been slightly revised since then, i'm still fighting to finish it haha) (if you want to read some of my finished and posted writing, you can find that here)

[peace-hunter]

Hi, I was wondering if you could do a previous moment of B-127 in sub level 50 like a couple minutes before Orion Pax and D-16 arrived, acting emotional and wishing someone was there with him; then his thoughts while meeting Orion and D-16.

P.S. I love your art, it makes me happy. (:>)-->--<

erm. well. he's never gonna be bored again for sure (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞

i'm really sorry i know this isn't really what you asked for but i couldn't get the idea out of my head and i just had to draw it out (/▽＼) i hope you still like it and i promise i'll try to do something more angsty later 〜(￣▽��〜)

[dailygihun]

day 12 || underrated trio in my humble opinion (just lineart under the cut cuz im stuck on which to post)

[vaguely-concerned]

obsessed with the fact that if you choose the last purple option in lucanis' romance chat before going off to tearstone island ("they MOVED the MOON!!!" still in the running for the best delivery in the whole game btw it's so ineffably hilarious to me), it's rook who flinches away just a little bit (if still warmly <3) and tries to change the topic and lucanis who's steady even though he's clearly still so afraid. 'don't tempt fate'/'*the softest fucking voice you've ever heard in your entire life* I don't intend to'. pain and suffering

lucanis looking at rook and helplessly, with a wonder that verges on despair, saying 'what would I do without you?' is soooo. especially at that point in the relationship and with what's about to happen. and for whatever reason rook can't quite stay with the fact that they do mean that much to someone, that they are so reverently and so groundingly 'I want to know what your favourite food is so I can make it for you any time you want it' everyday loved, it's too much and they have to deflect from it or the fear of losing it. can say some very interesting things about them, too.

(there is also a Pattern in that in my estimation lucanis frequently responds better to inviting humour than to earnest shows of concern -- it seems to help him be more engaged/online to be offered that more neutral space to meet you in and uh 'build' the conversation around something funny together than to be confronted with compassion head-on because that clearly mostly deer-in-the-headlights him, as we also see with some of the early flirt options haha. contrast this especially with bellara, who repeatedly gets genuinely upset if you try to make light of some pressing and painful situation she's dealing with (girl I'm so sorry I'm so jestercore and I canot change this but I'll try :'( for you). I think the times lucanis reacts negatively to the purple options are much more about you siding with other (frequently more charismatic lol) people against him or throwing him under the bus interpersonally -- like seeming to go along with illario's charm offensives, or telling teia lucanis didn't want to come help out with caterina's funeral and he'd just sit alone and brood about it if you didn't force him (???!!! hello??? unprovoked and deeply unkind out of left field???? this option is so fucking MEAN and for what fhdaskjfa you're telling me there's no way for rook to be a bit of a dick in this game?)

when it's one on one conversation he consistently seems to find it quite comforting, though... which makes a lot of sense because in many ways it's how he interacts with illario, just shorn of the resentments and hidden daggers and things they Do Not Talk About but really should beneath the levity that makes it sharp. it's gone ugly between them, but I think the affectionate instinct beneath is real and goes back a long way before all of that festered -- it's a form of play he does with people he loves. and uh. not really caterina huh. notably.)

[pricesgirl]

Cherry flavoured

C.W: Substance use/addiction, implied suicidality, homophobia, (flashbacks are in italics)

──────────────── ୨୧ ────────────────

Chapter 2

Blue eyes, blue hair—it’s all too fucking familiar.

Chloe Elizabeth Price.

She looks the same, but so, so different.

Older. Rougher around the edges. There’s something hardened in her that wasn’t there before, like life didn’t just knock her down; it dragged her through gravel, tore her up, and left her bleeding in the sun.

And she’s seeing me—me—of all people, hunched over in a dirty handshake with Nathan fucking Prescott. The human oil spill, born with a rotting silver spoon burning his tongue.

Her stare slices into me, hotter than the noon sun baking the cracked asphalt beneath our feet. I want to say something—explain, apologize, fucking beg—but my mouth’s a graveyard. Words crumble before they can crawl out.

Nathan’s already shoving the little baggie into my hand like he’s handing over a fucking party favor, grinning like he just sold me my own death.

He said it would chill me out—help me sleep like the dead—and fuck, that sounds goddamn heavenly right now.

"Y/N,—what the fuck, Nathan?" Chloe’s voice snaps across the lot, rough, furious, sounding like the kind of storm you don’t walk away from.

I flinch, stuffing the baggie deep into my pocket like that could undo it, like that could erase the ugly truth of it. Nathan smirks, acting above it all, like he didn’t just get caught handing me salvation in a ziplock.

"Relax, Price," he sneers. "It's just a little green. No big deal."

Wrong thing to say.

In two strides, Chloe’s on him, shoving him backward so hard his heels scrape against the concrete.

Nathan stumbles, looking just about as threatening as a wet noodle, but his hand twitches at his belt like he’s packing, like the little rich boy’s gonna whip out Daddy’s gun if he feels cornered.

"Back. The. Fuck. Off." Chloe spits, voice raw.

Nathan freezes. His smirk falters, like it slips off his face before he even realizes it.

For a second, he just stands there—caught off guard, eyes darting between us I know he’s not used to being told no. Not like that. His jaw twitches. 

There’s something ugly behind his eyes, something he doesn’t know what to do with now that she’s turned the volume all the way up.

Then he mutters something under his breath—cowardly and low—and turns away. Slithers off into the sun-glare like roadkill with a trust fund.

And then it’s just me and Chloe, and silence falls between us thick enough to choke on.

Her eyes flick to mine—blue, furious, betrayed.

"You serious right now, Y/N?"

Her voice cracks at the edges, not from anger—hurt. The worst fucking part.

I open my mouth, but there’s no excuse that doesn’t make me look worse. So I just stand there, pathetic, shaking, wanting to tear my own skin off.

"I just needed to sleep," I croak, and it sounds so fucking small.

Chloe laughs—a short, sharp bark of disbelief. "So you buy your sleep from Prescott now? Jesus Christ Y/N"

I hate the way she says my name, like it’s dirty in her mouth. Just another thing in Arcadia Bay that's gone sour.

Her face twists—anger, disgust, something else fighting behind her eyes—and for a second, I think she’s about to really lay into me.

Say something brutal. Final.

Instead, she exhales, long and shaky, dragging a hand through her tangled blue hair.

"...Fuck," she mutters, more to herself than me. Her shoulders sag, like some invisible weight finally caught up with her.

"I’m being an asshole," Chloe says, voice rough. "You’re—you’re not Prescott. You’re not fucking him. You're... you."

She scrubs a hand down her face, grimacing like she hates even hearing herself out loud.

A thick, stale kinda silence settles again. I shift my weight from foot to foot, feeling the little baggie burn a hole in my pocket, heavy and shameful.

Chloe looks at me, really looks this time—less furious, more raw. Like she’s trying to pick up all the pieces without slicing her hands open.

"Can I...?" she starts, voice cautious, almost gentle. She jerks her chin toward my pocket. "Let me see it."

For a second, I hesitate. Embarassment crawls up my spine like a thousand tiny needles.

But something in Chloe’s face—something tired and too damn human—makes me move. Slowly, awkwardly, I fish the baggie out and hand it over.

She plucks it from my fingers without touching me, holds it up to the sun, squinting at the contents.

It’s not much. Just a scraggly little dime bag. Smells like cut grass and desperation.

But Chloe frowns. Hard. She tilts the bag studying it closer. Her shoulders stiffen. Her mouth tightens into a thin, ugly line.

"This isn’t just weed.”

My stomach drops clean through the pavement.

"No—no, it’s just—" I start, desperate, stupid.

Chloe's already shaking her head, scoffing bitterly under her breath.

"You see this shit?" she snarls, jabbing a finger at the dusty, crystalline dust sprinkled between the leaves. "This is laced."

Laced.

The word slams into me like a punch to the throat.

I stare at the bag, really look this time, and yeah—there’s something wrong. A shimmer where there shouldn’t be. Tiny chemical flecks clinging to the buds like glitter at a funeral.

"You smoke this,you don’t just sleep like the dead, Y/N. You become the fucking dead."

The ground tilts.

The sun presses too hard against my skin.

I think I’m gonna be sick.

"I—" My voice snags on the way out. "I didn’t know."

"God, Y/N," she mutters. "You think Prescott gives a shit if you don’t wake up?"

"He said it would help," I whisper. It sounds so fucking pathetic. I hate myself for it. 

"Just—sleep. That’s all I wanted."

──────────────── ୨୧ ────────────────

Chloe

The truck engine’s spluttering like it’s about to fucking die under me—knowing my luck it just might.

Arcadia Bay peels past the windows—dead fields, busted fences, the same shitholes and nothingness as always.

Y/N’s curled up in the passenger seat, arms hugged tight around herself like she’s trying to hold the broken pieces in. Her head’s against the window. Her mouth moves sometimes, little twitches like she’s dreaming about arguing with someone. 

Or maybe with herself.

It’s 1000000% herself.

I tighten my grip on the wheel until the fake leather cracks under my fingers.

It shouldn't matter. It's been fucking years.

People change, right? Grow up. Grow out of being scared. Grow out of being cruel.

But no matter how many times I tell myself that, the memory still comes back sharp and bright, like it’s carved into my fucking skull.

-

It was hot that night—sweaty-back, jeans-sticking-to-your-ass kinda hot. The sun hadn’t dipped yet, just hovered there like it was showing off, smearing the sky with all those cliché-ass colors: pink, gold, orange.

Fucking picturesque. The kinda shit you’d see plastered on a postcard.

“Arcadia Bay: Come see the sunsets.”

Y/N looked so fucking pretty under the sky, she was sprawled on the roof of my truck, head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut as she laughed at something I said.

It was one of those real laughs, too—not the fake-ass ones she tossed around like candy for teachers and parents and that friend group she lowkey hated. 

This one came from her chest, her whole body shaking with it, like the universe had granted her five seconds of freedom.

It brought a flush to her cheeks, pink with summer heat and beer and something I let myself mistake for want.

God, it felt so fucking real.

And I was such a fucking fool.

She sat up to grab another beer from the six pack I’d swiped from David’s precious stash and I just—

I kissed her.

Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Just moved.

Her lips tasted like that cheap-ass cherry lip gloss she always wore. The kind with the glitter in it that made your mouth sticky.

It was a crap product—the color never stayed, but the flavor sank deep into the cracks of her lips.

Sweet, synthetic, familiar. Every sleepover and summer night and almost-moment we ever had blending into one fucking thing—cherry. 

She gasped, but there was no hesitation. Her lips pressed into mine, soft and tentative at first, then more urgent, like she was tasting what we both knew was always there.

But then, just like that, she was scrambling. She shoved me away, her hands pushing against my chest like I’d burned her.

“Chloe, what the fuck is wrong with you?” she spat, her voice sharp, jagged, trying to cut the moment out of her skin.

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

I reached for her, but she jerked back, eyes wide, like I was some kind of fucking monster.

"Don’t. Ever. Do that again." Her voice cracked like a whip—loud and final, but there was a wobble. She was confused, but so, so angry, like I’d spat in her face instead of kissing her. Like I was filth.

“I’m not one of your perverted friends, Chloe.”

I sat there, dumb, stunned, the sky behind her all pretty and pastel like it was mocking me. Like the universe had dressed up to watch me get wrecked.

“Jesus—you think just because I hang out with you, I’m into that shit? You really thought I was gay?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My throat felt like it had been scraped raw, words caught somewhere in my ribs, refusing to move. I felt too much—too everything—like my skin didn’t fit right anymore.

“You’re a joke,” she muttered, grabbing her jacket. “It’s no wonder people talk about you the way they do.”

Fuck me, that hit harder than any slap.

I think she knew it too, because she looked at me after that—really looked—and something in her expression flickered. Just for a second.

But she didn’t take it back.

She just climbed down from the truck, dusted off her jeans like touching me had dirtied her somehow, and walked away.

Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back.

Just left me sitting there under that stupid cotton-candy sky, heart bleeding out onto the roof of my own goddamn truck.

-

God, I fucking hate cherry. 

She still wears it. I can tell—faint whiffs of that sickly-sweet crap clinging to her breath when she mumbles in her sleep. It used to make my heart race. Now it just makes my stomach fucking churrn.

The tires crunch up the gravel as I pull into the driveway, killing the engine with a sharp twist that jerks the whole truck forward.

She jolts awake, sitting upright like she’s been shot, disoriented as hell, blinking against the orange spill of dying sunlight across the front yard. 

There’s sweat clinging to her neck, darkening the lace of her shirt. Her fingers twitch, brushing at the sleep crusted in the corner of her eyes.

For one horrible second, she looks—safe again.

Not the girl who spat bile at me with cherry-glossed lips, not the girl who turned me into something dirty with one sentence.

Just Y/N. Exhausted, hollowed out.

“What—where—” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“My place,” I say flatly, yanking the keys out of the ignition. “Congratulations. You survived the ride.”

She blinks at me, confused, then takes in her surroundings. Her shoulders slump when she recognizes the cracked siding of my house. The silence that follows feels loaded.

Neither of us wants to be the one to crack it open.

I slam my door shut, harder than necessary, and stalk around to the passenger side. She flinches when I pull it open, like I might start yelling. God, maybe I should.

Instead, I just stare at her. “You coming?”

She nods, slow and ashamed, and slides out of the truck.

That damn cherry follows her like a ghost.

──────────────── ୨୧ ────────────────

Y/N

The house looks more or less the same—cream paneling bleached to a brittle yellow by too many summers, windows sagging in their frames like tired eyes. 

The screens hum low with the wings of trapped flies, their bodies outlined in dust, like they’ve been trying to escape for years.

I follow Chloe up the steps, heart thudding with every creak beneath my feet. It’s like walking into a time capsule—one I never thought I’d see again.

The door still sticks. Of course it does. She throws her shoulder into it like she’s done a hundred times before, muttering, “fucking thing,” like the wood itself owes her an apology.

I almost smile. Almost.

“Mom’s still at work,” she says, kicking the door shut behind us with the heel of her boot. “And Step-dick’s probably off harassing teenagers again.”

“Again, huh?”

She just snorts, not slowing down, already halfway up the stairs. “Yeah. He gets hella creative with his little power trips these days.”

There’s a bitterness in her voice that cuts deep, but it's not directed at me—not right now. It's all for him. I can hear it in the way her feet hit the stairs harder than necessary, each step an unspoken frustration.

I just stand there, arms at my sides, feeling like a fucking idiot.

“You coming up, or you just gonna stand there?”

It’s tossed over her shoulder, half-dare, half-command. Still got that bite.

I blink, realizing I haven’t moved, like my body is waiting for permission. I force my legs to obey.

The stairs groan beneath me, each one louder than the last, like the house itself wants to make sure I remember.

I trail after her like I did when we were kids—back when Chloe Price was the sun and I was just some dumb planet caught in her gravity, content to orbit forever.

-

Her room’s hardly changed either.

That same old American flag still hangs above her bed—creased, a little dustier now, but unmistakably her dad’s. A ghost of William Price in frayed fabric, watching over everything.

The posters littering her walls are louder than I remember. 

Some have changed—she’s swapped out unicorns and glitter for crude sketches, band logos scrawled in permanent marker, half-naked women with joints between their maroon-painted lips, middle fingers raised like a silent anthem to whatever god she’s still pissed at.

“My room looks a bit different to when you last saw it,” she says, as casual as if we’re just catching up over coffee.

Yeah. No shit.

My eyes snag on something that throws me for a loop—a bass guitar, propped against her nightstand.

The strap’s sagging, like it’s seen more emotional breakdowns than gigs. There’s a chip in the body, like it’s taken a hit for her, probably more than once.

I swallow.

Her desk used to be cluttered with the makeup we’d sneak from Joyce’s bathroom, daring each other to try eyeliner with trembling hands and candy-pink cheeks. Now it’s scattered with empty lighters, blistered guitar picks, no makeup in sight.

I doubt she even wears lip gloss anymore.

-

“Hold still.”

“I am still, you’re the one with shaky hands,” Chloe mutters, even as she flinches slightly.

“Just shut up and stay still.”

“Yes, boss.”

She closes her eyes, and I try to focus—steady the line, make it clean. We’ve done this a hundred times, but tonight something’s off. My hands won’t listen. 

Everything feels tight—my throat, my chest, the grip I’ve got on the eyeliner we nicked from her mom’s drawer. 

“You done?”

I don’t answer. I’m staring at her mouth.

The way her lips move—how they curl when she’s about to laugh, how they twist around every crude comment. How she says the worst shit and still somehow makes it sound kind of sweet. 

They’re... really pretty.

Soft, even.

My breath catches like I’ve swallowed it wrong.

Shit.

I jerk my eyes away, heart thudding loud in my chest, fake-busy twisting the eyeliner shut. My stomach flips. I feel... wrong. Dirty, almost. Like I crossed some invisible line I didn’t even mean to step near.

Chloe’s a girl—she’s my best friend. I’m not like that.

“Hello?” she says, eyes open now, brow raised. “You good?”

I fumble the eyeliner, fingers suddenly useless, jamming the cap on too hard. It slips, clatters to the floor between us. I nod too quickly, too hard, like that’ll erase whatever just happened. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, flooding my ears.

“You sure?” she asks, and her voice is soft—way too soft. Gentle in a way that makes it worse. “You look a bit... warm.”

“Yeah... yeah, it's just a bit hot in here, that's all.”

 I’m such a fucking liar.

My legs move before my brain catches up. I’m already halfway to the door, pretending I’ve got somewhere to be, something to do, literally anything to get out of her damn room.

“I should go,” I mumble, not meeting her eyes. “My mom’ll freak if I’m late.”

“Y/N—”

“I’m fine,” I say, too fast, too loud. “Really. I’ll see you later, and you might wanna get a fan.”

──────────────── ୨୧ ────────────────

authors note: hiii, i had a lot of fun writing this chapter (as much as it was also kinda heartbreaking) but hopefully this will make the reconciliation even better :3

please like and reblog <3

[buyoancy]

some sketches i posted to ig

[maxessence]

GUUUUUYS I UPDATED MY ZOSAN FANFIC.

It starts with happy Frobin, and ends on sad Zosan... You know, time-skip and stuff 👉🏾👈🏾

And I...

Anyway, link to my story if you're into emotional roller-coaster : The Sleeping Bastard

I swear they'll be happy soon...

Just not right now.

[starscreamingg]

Detroit Become Human and why does this game decide that the problem in society is individual people treating androids poorly because those androids are choking them out of the workforce and NOT the corporations and governments who deliberately designed the androids to do this

[elizakai]

do you guys ever have multiple projects or tasks you need to finish and have been putting off but the demotivation/depressive wave hits like a truck whenever you think about it? so you either can’t work on anything else out of stress, or you work on everything else out of a need to justify your own inability to do the original task?

ANYONE??? SOBBBBBB

[lucydoodlessometimes]

People search for a wonder like you, all of their lives....

[starry-sophrosyne]

Lowkey crashing out rn bc I had a whole BRAIN fart and forgot that, yes, there is indeed the ability to put flowers into the regular drink picrew; And what else? Oh, I don't know, maybe just the fact that there's also ACTUAL sunflowers in the martini glass picrew??!!- IT'S. So y'know what, they're not as perfect, but it's on the house. For: @toadettely and @second-best-daisy, hope you guys like em! ٩(ˊᗜˋ)و

[icarus-mp3]

[copper-sands]

starting to think that maybe it's a good idea to stop forcing myself to create and take a break actually

[a-stars-art-blog]

I feel like a fool for finalizing realizing this but,

I was never quite satisfied with the explanation given in DGS 2-3 on why Barok took on the prosecution of his close friend.

I don’t think it was ever EXPLICITLY stated and the most we really got is it upheld Albert’s reputation. That Barok did it bc any other prosecutor would paint Albert as a sham right away. Which is a fate worse than death for Albert.

But that never stood right with me bc Barok values finding the truth and justice above all else. He would not do something for the sake of “prolonging” cause he knows it’s pointless. The truth MUST be found so there’s no need to tiptoe around it.

It makes no sense to do it for the sake of Albert’s reputation if finding the absolute truth inevitably leads to Albert’s reputation being ruined. The machine, experiment, and theory, it HAD to all be proven faulty if Albert was to be free. There’s no way it could not. Barok knows this.

What he did in 2-3 seemed like tiptoeing but he was working harder than ever to get to the truth.

The reason why he pushed so hard, the way he continued to give point after point, bring up every inconsistency, bring up even the smallest of possibilities that Albert was guilty, (which honestly sounds like his usual thing. But this time there’s an personal motivation to it)

was entirely so that Ryunosuke could disprove him.

We already knew that Barok trusted Ryuno to handle the defense. That Ryuno also strives for absolute truth. So he threw every little thing at him so that there would be NOTHING left that’d indicate Albert as involved in the murder.

That’s why he took the case. That’s why he was adamant on painting Albert as a murderer.

The way Barok trusted the life of his closest friend to Ryunosuke HE TRUSTED HIM THAT MUCH GOD I LOVE HIS CHARACTER GROWTH SO MUCH-

[ofthebrownajah]

This reread is just really hammering in how much I don't like Moiraine and Rand's book dynamic. In theory the unhealthy mentor mentee relationship can be good I just don't like how he wrote it. Show Rand and Moiraine's relationship will forever reign supreme in my head

[moe-broey]

I'm gonna bully Lif again

I'll admit, some of these answers don't cover all the bases, but. What are we thinking, here. What is The Truth behind The Twink Death? 🤨🎤

I will also be accepting write-in responses as usual 🫡