Homestuck Typing Quirks Novels & Stories

Hailey “How do you even read this?” I asked as I tried to look through Tyler’s notebook. There were no dates. All of his notes for his different classes were in the same notebook, and his handwriting was chickenscratch. “I don’t,” he said. “I just take notes so that I look busy in class. They call on me less that way.” I shook my head as I turned page after page. Half of them weren’t even notes. There were stick figure drawings of people shooting at each other and…were those supposed to be wolves fighting each other?

Stella cursed him in her heart, and then at the same time, she laid down on the bed and typed. Typing was quite difficult. Think about it. Normally, when you were chatting with your friends, you won't feel tired no matter how much you talked. However, if you typed without any purpose, it would be different. You would be so bored that you feel like exploding. If you had to write an article, you just thought about how to write it and then put your thoughts into the laptop. It was just torture, especially when RK sat next to her and kept interrupting her thoughts. It would be strange if she could write well.

I stared at the screen. Didn’t reply. Buzz. [Lucas:] Too far? She typed. Paused. Deleted it. Typed again. Me: You’re not wrong. You’re still just an asshole though. Lucas: Can I be your asshole? Me: Can you please stop with the lame lines?. Lucas: “I’d rather help you out of your blouse.” I smirked. Quick reply. Me: Did your brain just crawl out of your pants? Because you can’t type anything without it being sexual. Eeew!

“I just can't stop thinking about your hand gestures. You always move your hands too fast and worse, whenever I try to figure it out, you switch to typing on your phone because you think I am too slow. It's frustrating.” Her green eyes soften as she looks at me for a long moment before she types on her phone again, slowly this time around. Done typing, she shows me the screen: ‘I type my words because it’s faster for you. Most people get impatient if I try to write on paper or sign.’ Her words hit me straight in the chest and I find myself thinking back to what happened yesterday in the lecture hall with Dan. The memories flood through me and my stomach twists uncomfortably. She is right.

QuickShot: “Anything,” I ask, looking at JumpStart as he types away at the OutCast’s computer. “Are you finished with that list of names?” JumpStart stops typing. He lets out a sigh before turning around. “No, I am not done,” JumpStart says. “I wasn’t done when you asked me a little while ago. I wasn't done when you asked me a while ago. I wasn’t even done when you asked me a long while ago. By the way, that long while ago was not a long while ago. When I am done, I will tell you. Please leave me alone until then. I work better when there aren’t people looking over my shoulder.”

The habitual arrogance of an Alpha aristocrat. The seventh was different. Even the curve of the letters carried something else entirely. "The same hand wrote six of these. This one was slipped in by someone else." "You can tell?" "Laundry." She didn't look up. "Fingers soaked too long in cold water lose their grip strength. Whoever wrote *Mother of All Wolves* pressed down half a millimeter harder with the index finger than normal. He was putting force into it—" Someone by the window finished the thought. "Hate."

And I wasn’t. And honestly, I didn’t want to lie today. So I did the only thing I could. I dropped my gaze back to the screen. And I typed. I glanced at the clock; seventy-five minutes left. Forty-five minutes left. My fingers moved on instinct, typing line after line, but I wasn’t really reading what I wrote. The words blurred, the buzzing in my head growing louder. I took a shaky breath, wiped my cheek again, and forced myself to focus. No time for weakness. I had to finish this. I couldn’t let him win here too.

The fire was not lit—September was still warm enough—but the lamps were on and the sitting room had the quality it had in the evenings that required attention: gathered, particular, the specific quality of the room when it was being used for something that mattered. The pages were typed. Don had typed them himself on the typewriter that lived in the study—the same typewriter he had used for the Thessaloniki piece, the same one he used for all his finished drafts. Don wrote by hand first, in the notebooks, and then typed the draft when the handwriting was complete. The typing was a stage of revision: the words looked different in type than they did in handwriting, and the different looking al

I opened it, and my stomach did a slow, sick flip. The handwriting was a nightmare. It was a cramped, cursive script, full of loops and slanted lines that looked more like barbed wire than letters. To my eyes, it was a moving target. The words didn't just sit there, they vibrated, the "f"s and "s"s tangling together until the page looked like a map of a forest I’d never find my way out of. Disbursement... Asset Recovery... I tried to type the first entry, but my hand cramped. The letters on the screen didn't match the movements of my fingers. I deleted the line. Then I deleted it again.

Typing errors scattered through the text, words slurring together in a way that almost made me laugh. Subject: Hey, Nt sur how muuuch sense this wokl make, but had to… 8 mean, haad t write. Ben think aboyt… u. bout Satirday. Avout… us. Can’t get out of my head. So ssexy Maybe it’s thr drinks, mayybe is exhaustion, but your… diffrent. And want more. Not like… casually, but… I dunno. I want to see u again. Soon.