i love mark.

jake english / homestuck

kankri vantas / homestuck

mark turner / the miseducation of cameron post

kazuichi souda / danganronpa

toko fukawa / danganronpa

multimuse / work in progress

mark: 1 asks, 3 starters, 4 replies (8)

toko: 3 asks, 5 starters, 5 replies (13)

souda: 3 asks, 3 replies (6)

canon multi: 10 asks, 7 starters, 10 replies (27)

Sometimes, on his good days, you remember when you used to be friends, when the affection in your chest didn't twist itself around bitterness and anger and guilt but instead around something softer.

Sometimes, on your bad days, you convince yourself that he is a threat to you; you're only as strong as your weakest link, and mutants never had much of a reputation for strength.

Kurloz: ...

Kankri: Well, let's ask him what he kn9ws, see h9w much help we're getting there.

Cronus: Hey, Mituna might'wve killed us, and his tapped act vwas a play.

Latula: you s4w th4t k1d p4ss3d out, how would h3 k1ll us?

Horuss: 8=D < Anything like kill him?

Aranea: Yes!

Normally, you'd be far too busy leading for this sort of frivolous activity, but Latula thinks it's so fun, and you've got a soft spot for her. Besides, you can't deny that you sometimes feel a hint of jealousy when you see her flying past. 

Well, you could, but not to yourself. And it really is only a hint. 

You're having fun, you think, even though you haven't succeeded at much beyond standing on the board. That's almost a thrill. You've never been allowed to do anything that might hurt you, and now you're here, learning how to skateboard in the middle of the apocalypse. So you're having fun, even despite how poorly you're doing, and then. And then you're positioned incorrectly, maybe, you aren't really sure, but then Latula hums "here, let me--", grabs your shoulders, and pushes you into place. 

You pull away so violently that the board goes flying, and you land on your elbows with a painful thump. "D9n't m9ve me!" You shriek before you even realize you can speak--it doesn’t really feel like you’re the one who said it, but you must be.

You aren't quite used to the sensation of pain yet--you'd never really felt it before--and your eyes tear up as soon as it registers--tears tinted just enough that anyone watching will know something's off, and sure, everyone here already knows, but you feel like you've been exposed nonetheless. 

Initial anger dissolves into panic--you're blushing, now--if you were home (home?), your culler would've tilted your head up by the chin and cooed about how adorable you are, would've taken photos to send to all her friends, if she touches you again you're going to lose your mind--

When you look up, Latula's sitting on the ground, the retrieved board lying between the two of you like a barrier. When you make eye contact, she twitches like she wants to reach out for you, but then she catches herself--"h3y, 1ts just me, y34h?" 

You look away, terrified you'll see a hint of pity in her eyes, even as your heart twists with the thought--you blame that on the part of you that still sometimes misses your cullers, the part of you that forgets you don't need anyone. "S9rry. I sh9uldn't have yelled." You sound pathetic, all shaky and embarrassed, there's no way she's going to ever respect you after this, you've made yourself out to be a child, haven't you?

"1 shouldnt h4v3 gr4bb3d you." And though you aren't looking at her, you can visualize her shrugging--she says it like it doesn't matter, like you're talking about grabbing lunch and she doesn't have any preference either way. 

And maybe that's just how she talks, you think, maybe she doesn't even notice that she's done it--but you notice. 

"Regardless. My ap9l9gies." You look up, and she grins and pushes the board in your direction.

"you w4nt to try 4g41n?" She asks, but you're still lingering on the kindness of giving you the board--her board--and this, you know, she would never think about, but it's a taste of autonomy you think you might never get used to--your palms sting with gravel, and when you glance at one of them, the bright red scrapes feel like a reminder of why you were always kept on a short leash.

She notices--even when someone knows, the color always draws their eyes--and laughs. "dud3, th1s on3 t1m3, 1 w1p3d out so h4rd 1t l3ft my 3nt1r3 l3g t34l. my lusus fr4aked!” 

And you could bring up how your blood colors are obviously different, so ‘wiping out’ has different implications, and also that you don’t appreciate the comparison to lusii, which is problematic for an entire host of problems, and there’s a million other things you could say, and you know if you did say them, she’d wait for you to tire yourself out before interrupting. “I d9n’t kn9w h9w these devices are all9wed.”

She cackles, this time--it’s nice, making her laugh, and you shouldn’t stare, and you absolutely shouldn’t make objectifying comments about her appearance, but goodness, she’s beautiful when she laughs; her hair falls into her face like it belongs there, and you want to push the strands behind her ear like a scene from one of the romantic movies your cullers used to watch--but you would never do that--not without asking--not at all.

“g3tt1ng hurts p4rt of the w1ck3d cool funz,” she says, and then she nods at your palm, which you’re still staring at, transfixed by the color--by the fact that the color is showing and nothing’s happening, no one’s pulling your palm closer or insisting that everyone around appreciate the precious little mutant, no one’s clicking their tongues and calling you p##r dear, you’re bleeding and it’s just blood--she nods at your palm. “1ve got b4nd-41dz 1f you w4nt to p4tch th4t up.”

You pull your palm closer to yourself and blow onto the scrape like your culler used to--the pain subsides, but that might be your imagination. “I’m fine. Can we try again?”

She jumps up before you’re even done responding. When she offers a hand to help you up, your shoulders tense--you take a deep breath and accept it, hissing at the feeling of her grip against tender skin. Her skin is cold; if you hadn’t told everyone about your blood color, you think they might’ve guessed--most of them have commented on the way you radiate heat that even the warmest of blood colors don’t reach. Being reminded how different you are doesn’t bother you as much this time as it usually does. 

She lets you drag the board over to yourself, and she doesn’t flinch or reach out towards you or hover when you step on the unsteady platform, and you fall a thousand times more, you think. By the third time, you’re both laughing, and by the time you call it a day, the ends of your sleeves are flecked with red, and your entire body aches, and she grins and says the bandages are still up for offer. 

She doesn’t try to patch you up, and she doesn’t laugh when you can’t figure out how to maneuver the aid with only one hand free at any given time. She’s just so nice--so considerate, so easygoing--she acts like she isn’t even thinking about it, like all of this comes so naturally--and maybe it doesn’t, but maybe that’s just an act. Or maybe she truly doesn’t even realize how smoothly she inserted herself into this narrative, how you’ve never in your life felt more comfortable around other people than you do alone, but she’s making you rethink that.

“T9m9rr9w, may6e we c9uld…” You hover in her doorway, and then you drift off, because you don’t really know how to finish that sentence, how to express that you really enjoy her company and would like to indulge in it again, and really, you had fun, even though you thought you might not, and then you’re speechless, caught up in your own mental monologue.