He walks like a cat who has tape on his paws, and has had tape on his paws for a very long time, and who never expects to ever again walk without scrunching miserably from side to side in a tangle of self-loathing and confusion. It hurts to look at him, but it hurts more not to.

“I’m probably not going to like you, and you’re definitely not going to like me,” she says, all in an urgent rush, “but circumstances being what they are I do believe we need each other.” She holds up a piece of paper: your ad, printed out. One room8 needed, ASAP!!!!!!!! (Alternatively: Rose Lalonde, Vriska Serket, and the bodies left in their wake.)

“It’s like, his little hornzorz!” Latula says. She rips open a new pack of Flamin Hott Fire Crispoz with extreme prejudice, manic with food dye and pity.

You get culled.

House sorting under here I will fight you

He is fourteen and sweaty sparring lessons with shirtless well-built men are starting to leave more than just her shirt damp.