Homestuck Typing Quirks Novels & Stories

My hands were trembling as I slowly typed the words. I listened to a hundred of songs to make sure that I'll convey the emotions well.I typed and typed and finally reached the last two words. The End. I stared at it long enough to consume the thought that I made it this far.

Again, he gave him a business smile before getting down to business. Seeing that over passionate Tyler, he’ll never tell him that most of his advice are something he picked up from g****e when he was away for a moment. He won’t tell him that he has no idea what to do with that since he hasn’t had that kind of relationship with someone. -- -- There were ten letters in BOLD at the very top of the first page of the notebook. As it was written by a pen, the writer obviously retraced the letters many times. Maybe because the writer was thinking and just their hand just needs to do something.

𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘛 𝘣𝘦 𝘚𝘛𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥. I hit backspace, deleting the letters one by one until the text box is remaining "Th". I can't let him see that I break for this. I can't give him that satisfaction. Then, like a splash of cold water, I remember my rule. *Delete nothing.* The memory of my rules flashes through my mind. If he sees the deleted draft, the punishment will be worse than the admission. My breath hitches. With a shaking hand, I continue typing the words back into the box, exactly as they were and Send. Relief washes through me.

“I hate him for 11 seconds. I hate him for Alex’s backpack. I hate him for your scar. I hate him for making ‘3 PM’ a word Alex doesn’t trust. I hate him for making me write this. But I’m writing it. Because if I don’t, he wins. And he doesn’t get to win. Not Day 45. Not Day 56. Not ever.” _Thump._ Stopped. Out of breath. Out of words. _Silence. 10:24 AM._ Adrian stood up. Walked around table. No pen. No pad. Grabbed me. Held me. Hard. 91 BPM. Both of us. “Done,” Adrian said. Into my hair. “You’re done. That’s the statement.” *2:00 PM. [SFX: PRINTER. THEN PAPER. THEN SIGNATURE.]* Adrian typed. All of it. Word for word. Didn’t edit. Didn’t soften.

I started flipping the pages quickly, my fingers trembling slightly against the paper. I began counting them. On page fifty, there was another one. On page fifty-four, another. By the time I hit page seventy-two, I found fourteen separate responses scattered across thirty pages. And it got worse. It was not even just one person. There were two completely distinct handwriting styles. One was that sharp, right-slanted print. The other was a loose, almost illegible cursive that looked like it was written by someone in a massive hurry. They had been quietly continuing a conversation with me across multiple pages, answering my thoughts, reacting to my vents, and talking to each other through my n

That made it worse. I opened the keyboard. Typed. Paused. Deleted. The cursor blinked, a mocking reminder of my indecision. What could I say? What could I possibly say that wouldn't reveal the tectonic shift occurring beneath my surface? Started again. Adam: It looks good on you No period. No hesitation in the wording. Just enough sincerity to be true, but not enough to admit what I really meant. I stared at it for a beat too long. Then hit send. The message disappeared into the ether, a tiny digital dove released into the vast unknown.

Then— B: you should sleep. Exactly what I was expecting, so I pushed harder. My fingers moved before any hesitation could catch up. Me: nooooooo A second passed before I added. Me: i don’t want to sleep I waited another second before— Me: i want to see you I went completely still after sending that. I just crossed the line that could go either way. Pretty good for me, or completely wrong. The typing bubble didn’t appear immediately this time. I waited, tapping my fingers gently against the floor.

Cole probably wouldn’t appreciate his texts becoming a group discussion topic. Fine. I’ll behave. I open the chat again and start typing. I feel rough too. I stare at it. Too many words. Also… a little desperate. Delete. Same. No. Too dry. Too robotic. Delete. Me too. I pause. Short. Casual. Harmless. Perfect. I reread it twice to make sure there’s no typo that could accidentally ruin my dignity, then press send. The message barely has time to turn blue before the typing bubbles appear.

He pulled the note from under his cell roughly, bringing it closer to read the crabbed words, her handwriting far too worse to be matching her personality. in kitchen, is all it said, terse and specific, stipulating everything he needed to know. He exhaled, brushing his wild curls back through his fingers, still holding the crumpled paper in his hand. He couldn't but notice that it was the first time he read her handwriting. Her letters had adhered to each other far more miserably, he hardly fathomed that "in" and "kitchen" were two separate words. Someone had to be a medley of clumsiness and lovingly angry person to be writing the way she had. His neck turned to the door, watching as she wa

but I guess I have such a whimsical attitude after all. “Yeah, say that to the wall. It would listen,” I typed, smirking at the screen even though I knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. Riven: Oh fuck you. Me: No, boy. I’ll be the one fucking you. He left me on read. The little blue ticks stared back at me like a challenge. I waited a beat, then sent another. Me: Hey! Still nothing. Seen. I typed again, thumb moving faster than my brain.