React to the Diary Post of the Above OC

(This is the coolest forum game I've seen so far!)

There was something wedged in between the cushions of the sofa. Rose wriggled uncomfortably, groping for the strange object. Huh - it was a little brown notebook. 

Brown. he thought disdainfully. It was the worst color in the world. Just looking at it made him feel dirty.

A tiny name printed on the inside of the cover in pencil told him that it belonged to someone named Jeremy Woods. Inside, the pages of the little notebook were covered with tiny, spidery handwriting that teetered every which way - cramped letters jostling for space, lines crossed out violently...... it was a mess of arrows and ink and confusion. Looking at it made his head hurt. 

The paper was cheap and flimsy, and crackled when Rose flicked through it - Jeremy hadn't bothered pressing gently on the paper. He thumbed through the pages carelessly, sighing with disappointment. He hadn't expected it to be juicy, but he was disappointed nevertheless. It wasn't budgeting, it was a journal - but it was the most boring journal Rose had ever snooped in! Where were all the scandals, the juicy, reputation-ruining secrets? Where was the intrigue and the gossip? Rose peered closely at a random page. Huh. Who was Junko Enoshima? 

Perplexed, he flicked to the newest entry. 

"entry #23

X/X/20

I’m so close to losing faith in this world."

Rose sighed. It was one of those diaries.

"I know it sounds edgy as hell but it’s true. This world, it’s messed up and unfair. nothing is fun anymore. I’m tired of constantly isolating myself from people. they never listen. they just think i’m some crazy guy with ridiculous theories and crap. i’ll show them, I swear! once i finally solve this mystery and save the world from despair, everyone will look up to me! everyone will love me! this world, it has so much potential to it. I just need to save it. find someway to save everyone from this horrible despair."

Theories? That sounded more interesting. The boy read on, theories of his own flitting through his mind. Who was Jeremy Woods? Was he.... a brilliant, misunderstood detective? Perhaps he was on the trail of a lethal, world-ending weapon! 

Perhaps..... he was a SPY. A dashing barrel-chested rogue with a five-o-clock shadow and slicked-back hair under a dark hat....... the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

"i’ve been looking a bunch of wiki articles on the biggest most tragic most awful event in human history a lot lately. there are many articles about it, though it is hard to trans scribe which of its true and which of it is fiction. I might be able to solve the mystery behind this too. there’s so much of it,"

Oh, articles. Rose felt himself deflate. Jeremy was probably one of those crazy conspiracy theorists... but granted, they were interesting to listen to sometimes. And they weren't wrong all the time.

"i gotta say that it’s pretty interesting to say the least. it’s amazing how one single high school girl could cause such despair all over the world. maybe I could even be her one day."

This chilled him to the bone. No, this wasn't the journal of an eccentric ranter. This was someone who glorified a dangerous criminal - someone who wanted to follow in her path. A wave of disgust overwhelmed him, and he let the book slip from his hand. 

WARNING: Potty mouth, bad grammar, spelling mistakes, sexuality, general immaturity. Rose is a dumb teenager and his life has shaped who he is... but that doesn't make what he does right.

(The diary is a fluffy pink abomination, and smells like it's been marinating in flowery perfume for the last couple centuries. On the very first page is a warning written in sparkly gel pen. It reads: "WARNING!!! Do not read or I will cut youre bits off.". There is a very bad, very rude and physically impossible stick-figure drawing underneath this.)

Dear Dairy!!!

Today I went on a date with Percy. It was to an Opera, and we sat in a box seat. It was the most boring Thing in the World why didn't they kill the wife and run away together?? The sex scene was funny thogh Percy turned Marr marron red. I wore my new black and orange kanuko-feather stole with that ember enchantment on it and Percy wore the shoes and the orange flame-jewel earring and the nice cologne I sent over to his house but he didn't wear the star-moth silk shirt with the lacings and the sexy cutout :( :( :(

We didnt kiss after, he only wanted to hold hands with me. his hands were like dead fish... if he grabs my ass i will probably die of frigt. (But he has probably never done that to anyone before, he is a man of Sceince... an expert on the wrong kind of Biology. also, the closest hes probaly been to a human before he met me was by a disecting table.) 

his eyes are a pretty shade of green (my favorite color!!) and he has cheek bones that can cut glass. I had fun fooling around with him when we got lunch in a private room at the Velvet Lotus. (When he blushes, his ears turn red as well!!! I think I'll get him a nice green scarf later to wear on dates with me, it'll go so well with his embarassment. ) While we were their, he got very drunk and..... kissed me on the cheek! GASP!!! I was actually very impressed by how un-drunk he was acting. I had only a few glasses but he finished almost 2 bottles of wine and could still talk all polite and proper and stay vertical. 

I found photos of us later up on Newsy posted by some rookie reporter. Celyn Marr called me a slut in the comments and it was funny.... Im not the one sleeping around with b-list celebrities for popularity. Plus I've always liked being called a slut, I dont know why. Anyway Percy took me back home and kissed my hand (my hand!!!!!!) like in one of those old earth romance movies before he left. I think he didnt mean to. His eyes sort of....went wide after and he walked off quick after that. Maybe it was wine that made him do it, but it was kind of sweet, to be honest. 

Dairy, he's a very sweet boy but i don't think we will ever- (ink smudged) - anytime soon. Its them talos folk, their so sheltered and far away from everybody else. And he's so good-looking too. I guess that makes him more fun to go after??? I know he likes me back! Who wouldn't? Im so pretty and cute but i guess I am kind of a little shit sometimes..... at least I have a nice butt.

Im going to get ready for a party at Baron Maharaj's mansion now. I'll be the center of attention, and Roscoe will definitely forget about that boring Parvati! 

Kisses,

Rose

Dean was a prolific taker of anything and everything free, and today on a walk in the park, he found a yellow notebook that had a little cartoon bee on with no owner in sight. He opened it up to see how much of it was used up and flipped onto the latest entry.

He felt a little guilty upon realizing this was a kid's diary and closed it after. She did have it right though- school was dumb and stupid. He'd never really fit in with others in school either and decided to opt out of going to college- partially because he couldn't afford it, partially because he wanted to live his own life instead of having even more schooling, and partially because he didn't want more years of avoiding people and feeling like an NPC in his own life.

Instead of taking this diary for himself, he decided to do a walk around the park in an attempt to find it's rightful owner.

XX/XX/2011

Dear diary,

Despite the fact I really don't want to, my friend...? (I dunno what to call him, actually) Lark told me to start writing in a diary. He knows how I feel about that- that it reminds me of my mother because of her diaries at home including the one I had to steal from her to try and learn even a little bit about my dad. But he suggested it anyway due to my pent-up anger about her. I swear I'm a chill guy, I almost never get mad. Unless it involves HER. I can't stand the thought of being similar to her, so don't be surprised if I drop this diary thing after a few days. Once I tried to dye my hair with Kool-Aid just so I wouldn't be blonde like her.

And yesterday she found out that I took the diary. Lol oops. She hasn't stopped blowing up my phone all day. I had to turn the fucking thing off.

Right now, me and Lark are headed to Florida to meet some acquaintances of my dad- hope they're like, not batshit crazy.

Ambros did a low whistle through his teeth in a sort of wince as he read through. "Poor guy," The archangel muttered to himself. Whoever this person was, they certainly had some parental issues and were definitely still not over it. Plus, it sounded like they were on the hunt for their missing father, the other half of their bloodline.

Ambros finished reading the note, and he had a sort of solemn, simple understanding of the woes that this person had to endure: not wanting to be similar in any way to someone they clearly hated. Ambros checked the date, noticing that it was written quite a few years back; he was unsure if he could ever find this person again. He'd keep the papers with him however, just in case.

-----

You pick up a slightly crumped paper. The edges are a bit dirty from the page having obviously been mistreaten and thrown away, but otherwise asides from the date the inked words are clear enough to read.

××/××/20××

The urge is coming back.

I've been clean and sober for a thousand or two years at this point. It's been nothing but a struggle for me, an uphill climb for all eternity. I'm doing all I can to take my mind off it, but yet I still find myself reaching for the bottle of whisky I keep in that one cabinet, for some goddamned reason. I know that if I ever let a single drop of alcohol go into my body again i'll fall back into my old habits, i'll hurt my friends and family who I hold close to me. Hell, I'd probably end up hurting myself too.

I resist it, but there's a part of me deep inside that still wants to go back to how I was. Even if it means that i'd be throwing away a thousand years of effort. Because, alcohol was one of the only respites both the mental exhaustion I face in this world, and the terrors in the world of dreams. It was an easy, albeit cowardly and unhealthy way out. If i'm to admit, its hard trying to be strong and keep my head above the water all the time.

I think my son is catching onto this, as well. He notices my sadness, my constant fatigue, my mood swings. I don't want to tell him of this part of my past, as I am scared of what he'll think of me once he knows, but i'm afraid that it will have to happen sooner or later. He's already stressed to his near limit trying to adjust to his new life in the Aether, and I don't want him to place my burdens on his own shoulders.

It's quite late now, as I write this. Hopefully, the horrors of the dream realm do not come to haunt me tonight.

The scrap of paper had caught Ryn's eye. It felt a little voyeuristic, bobbing down to swipe it, unscrunching it to take a peek, but it wasn’t like the author would have minded. They’d have gone to a bit more effort if they wanted to keep it totally away from prying eyes.

Ryn had been expecting something like a shopping list, or some kid’s lost homework, so he was surprised to find something so outrageously heartfelt. His brow furrowed as he read.

Thousand or two years. Dramatic bastard. It did feel like millennia, though, didn’t it? Keeping straight. Keeping your shit together, just for other people’s sakes. Okay, this was… scarily relatable. The wording was amusingly pompous, sure, but that specific brand of emotional turmoil was something Ryn wasn’t a stranger to either. Trying not to lose ground after clawing your way back up that slippery slope. Keeping it all on the down low. Too proud to talk it over. A son, too. Fuck, that would have made it even worse.

He still had nights like that. Getting wasted still felt convenient. A softly-glowing exit sign in the back of his mind. Didn’t really go away, did it.

The writing style was strange enough that he did doubt its authenticity, but the read left Ryn with a chill nevertheless. He frowned, and ripped the paper into bits. Whether this was even real or not... it felt more honourable, not leaving it intact for more people to gawk at.

Yeah. Keep fighting, you overdramatic son of a bitch.

Ryn let the scraps of paper fall from his hands. They fluttered down, scattering a little in the breeze. He couldn’t help but hope the stranger was in better spirits now than when he’d written it.

A ringbound journal lies on the ground, either lost or discarded. It has a weirdly corporate look about it. There are instructions printed on the first few pages, giving suggestions for what to write… and reminders that it’s not optional. There’s only one entry in it so far, penned in a spidery, aggressive hand. Whoever wrote this was evidently feeling a little crass at the time so I'm putting it under a spoiler

It wasn't every day Zander found what seemed to be some sort of discarded mandated therapy journal on the ground. He was never really one to snoop, even when his boyfriend left his laptop open, he was simply the person who closed it and went about his business. Though, this object in particular intrigued him. He flipped through the first page, which was covered n instructions on how to use it. Weird that a journal would have such things in it, then again he'd never been to an anger management or therapist in his life.. And now technical demonic resurrection.

Flipping to the next page, the demon cocked a brow. Wow... Just one entry? He almost expected a lot more out of something like this, but figured that the writer of this particular journal was bull headed and really didn't want to keep this thing for long. Having thought back on the conditions of use on the first page, Zander really couldn't blame them. The entry started out rather normal. The almost stereotypical 'dear dairy' start made him huff. Boring! He read on, so this person was a musician? Why did they think of their trade as boring? And what the hell was 'dad rock'? It went on about drinking, and then got into slang he had never heard before. What the fuck did some of this even mean? Or was he reading it wrong... The handwriting was too messy to even tell what was what, but Zander was making due with trying.

The snark went on, Zander's thoughts immediately going to the fact that this person was probably implying that some guy not only bought them a drink, but took them to bed as well. He remembered nights like that, though it was never someone random, in fact it was his boyfriend at the time. The same boyfriend who ended up killing him... Anyways, back to this odd journal. the date changed and the paragraph read was even shorter. Zander was unsure as to whether this person just led that boring of a life, or if they genuinely didn't want to do this journal thing. Probably the latter. Actually definitely the latter considering how this entire thing ended. folding the pages shut, the demon sighed. "I'd call this Ryn person a drama queen, but I'm pretty sure I'd be pissed off too if someone handed me something like this and forced me to write in it."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An empty stage with nothing but a music stand and a discarded piece of sheet music written for violin. Inside the booklet was skillfully written sheet music, and within the lines towards the end of the sheets was a carefully handwritten thought that the owner never finished

I can't really call this a dairy, but here I am trying to find some way of not being so trapped in my head.

It's been... Shit, how many years now? Four? I've lost count. I can't stop thinking about it, the night August killed me. I've tried to see past it. I see how he mourns me unlike any other death that bastard caused. I can't say I fully understand why he did it, but I know now that he didn't mean it. He's so fucking lucky I loved him, otherwise I would gladly haunt his ass for the rest of his life... Which seems to be forever as well all things considered. Great. On the bright side I think I found someone that I like. Another demon of course, and he kinda met the same fate I did. Well... Not really, but he is in the 'dead because of a lover's stupidity' department. We bond over... Some things? I mean, we spent our first two weeks together pretty much gossiping about how dumb our exes are... Who are somehow dating now? It makes no fucking sense to us, but whatever...

I tried to play violin today. August got me this amazing custom, and it sounds beautiful... But there's just something missing. I hate to say that I miss August and his skills, even if his playing was a bit below my own. A duet was always welcome. I wrote these notes hoping that I would be able to find that heart that I had before. Well it seems that when you take thirteen stabs to the chest, at least three of those pierced the heart so mine's apparently not working anymore. The music doesn't flow like it used to. Maybe I spent too much time in Hell being angry... Maybe losing my chance to do what I love for a living is to blame. No, August is definitely to blame for this. If he hadn't-- The page appears wet towards the bottom almost as if the writer started to cry, and the next page with what would be assumed as the continuation appears to have been ripped out and nowhere to be seen.

He sets himself down on the side of bed, opening the tattered journal. It's seems old, and he's amused that he was even able to discover it outside. Whoever it belonged to was likely worried, nervous that their secrets would be read and the darkest thoughts they had examined. As he flips through a few pages, he lands on one in particular, gazing over the handwriting. It's beautiful, almost as if whoever had been writing should've taken up calligraphy and designed texts for the modern world's computerization. Reading it, he finds that it's a love story of some sorts, a forbidden one. How sad, he thinks, that they loved someone who they were supposed to kill; or so, that was the gist of what he was getting from it. 

He ponders about it, wondering if they had gone through with the assassination and just how old this thing was. There were no kingdoms in his time, nor were there kings and it'd been that way for many, many years. Part of him wishes there was a chance to see the outcome, but as he flips further throughout the pages, he finds that they're either missing or blank. Unfortunate. It makes him question if the author was caught, or found out and completely obliterated. How sad would that be? 

Fingers come over the cover as he closes it entirely, not realizing how long he's been sitting there, indulging. If he could time travel, if just once, he might use to find this individual and see where their life went. Did they kill the person who loved them? Did they get killed? Or was this a happier ending where they figured their own foundation of love and moved forward, leaving the journal behind? 

Maybe he'd find out one day.

@ NP: his post is a little weird and stuff, i hope it's acceptable. i inserted your name here for you to put your oc's name in the blanks. as for content warning, there is stalking and what not! and mention of vague nakedness, but nothing detailed! it's all kept pg-13! but just for a head's up in case! 

Oliver was always one of the more inquisitive types; even to a fault. So, when he saw the notebook, sitting out there as if it was patiently waiting for the time traveller the whole time, he almost gravitated towards it. Walking to it and leaning over slightly to pick it up from where it rested, he flipped through the mostly empty pages in an absentminded fashion until he settled upon the page with all the writing on it.

At first he was a bit shocked that his name was one of the first things said on the page. He wondered blankly if it was a different Oliver then him. The name was common, after all.

It became apparent that it was definitely about him as he got further into the paragraphs scrawled onto the page. The cogs began to turn in his brain as he peiced together the information. There was one guy who indeed was texting Oliver nonstop nowadays, but he didn't consider it that big a deal. It was annoying even, so much so that he muted his phone from time to time to stop the constant dinging sound of new texts. He never thought in a million years that someone could be this obsessed with him.

Then, it got to the part about him bathing, and this person letting themselves into Olivers and Christophers house to spend time with Oliver. He felt his heart sink like an anchor dropped into the deep ocean, and instantly a chill settled around him like he just got transported into the deepest, coldest part of winter. This couldn't be real, he thought. It must be just a sadistic joke that Agares set up, just a cruel prank being pulled, right? But this definitely wasn't Agares' handwriting; Oliver reminded himself. 

He finished reading, and then in an almost flinch reaction tore out the one page with writing before he threw the notebook to the ground, letting it lie cover down on the floor. His breathing began to quicken as he looked around, scanning his surroundings for any signs of anyone. But, he couldn't see anyone around him, at least not for now. Buttoning up his jacket he muttered a long string of swears under his breath in Russian. A paranoia unlike any other put itself upon his mind, clouding all other thoughts except for ones of fear and panic.

He quickly walked away, gripping the paper in his clenched fist and surveying the area like his life depended on it. He needed to show Christopher this, he needed to protect himself from whoever the hell was this unhealthily interested in him. He didn't like this new feeling of constantly being watched, and he wanted it to be gone as quickly as humanly possible.

--------

A simple notebook with a blue cover sits there, in an unassuming fashion. The name on the front is scrawled out with a purple pen, and the edges of the journal are frayed as if they have been picked at. Theres several different pages filled, mostly with doodles and incomprehensible scrawlings, but theres one page that has a decent amount written on it. The writing is childish and lopsided, barely legible at times.

There was a name at the bottom of the page, but its been scratched out into a cloud of pen scribblings and beside the blacked out area, a doodle of a few four pointed stars.

Gregory hardly noticed the notebook at first. For the longest time, actually. He left it on a shelf, stuck underneath piles of his own notebooks, his books, his husband's books, his son's books. Just a lot of books. Too many books to dig through before he remembered it, finally, after what was probably an entire year until then. He had a difficult time recalling things, and so if he wanted to read the journal long ago, it completely slipped his mind.

He laid curled up on the floor, by the hearth, listening to the fire crackle and blaze within. His eyes traced the cover, and flipping through the pages, he lightly touched the rough scribbles, tracing the lines. Was this his notebook? Again, he just couldn't remember.

He thought journaling would help him.

The man turned to another page, its lines detailed with scrawled handwriting. He couldn't read the writing, not really, but whether that was the fault of the author or of his own constant confusion was a mystery. But, the paragraphs made his stomach churn as he delved deeper into it, understanding it to the best of his ability, despite the pain at the edges of his eyes. But, he didn't quite get it. Time traveling was a foreign concept, one that made his lip curl, an abrupt shift from the slack-jawed expression he often bared. This was the ramblings of a mad man.

Gregory was a mad man.

His hands jerked. He brought in a deep breath and bellowed it out.

He wished he could stop time traveling. He wished he could have stayed in the present, not the future, or the past, and he wished that he could have kept his friends. Where were they now? Were they also time travelers? Just like him? Would he ever see them again? Would the author?

Would he?

He bit his tongue.

Wow, this is a great thing for this guy to find.

[cw for implications of abuse on this one jic]

---

[The journal is bound in wore, brown leather. Inside, on the front page, there is a massive stain that had bled through, obscuring each page until a quarter from the end, where the handwriting is mostly small and clean, aside from the occasional shake of the creator's hand, and the writing itself being infested with typos. The date has been scratched out and rewritten several times in ink, as though the person had trouble recalling it.]

Fitzgerald had been walking around when he saw a pamphlet advertising a... Musical? His stomach immediately dropped, and he was tempted to just place it back on the ground and move on with his day. That would've been the smartest decision he would've made in a while... If it weren't for the fact that as soon as he lifted it up to get a better look, a note slipped out of it.

"Huh?" he remarked to himself while grabbing the note out of the air. Gripping it tightly in his hand, he dropped the pamphlet - but not before getting a good look at the cover. It was of a musical, yes, but that was already stated from a glimpse. On the cover, he saw two people dancing to what he assumed was some sappy love song. Fitzgerald grimaced. Of course it was. Why else would they feature two people like that!? Thank goodness he dropped the pamphlet, right?

Now that the script itself was gone, the young man was able to open the note he had subconsciously crumbled with his fingers and narrowed his eyes. On the sheet, there were technical notes about... Something he didn't understand. And based off the document it was attached to, he didn't want to understand it. There were also doodles that he couldn't help but sneer at. "Stupid" was what he had in mind for this particular note, and now he started to regret even picking up this note. Why was he wasting his time like this, when he could've just continued to be as fabulous as he always was? This just made him look like some plebeian, after all...

Oh right, because he's a nosy bitch.

The actual writing on the note was confusing, but it intrigued him nonetheless. What type of drama is this? High school drama? Badum-tss. It was sort of a guilty pleasure at this point, to be involved in the drama only covered in tabloids. He could definitely see this being in one of those magazines he's haphazardly flip through whenever waiting in line at a store. Well, at least I'm just watching! I can't bear the thought of being this poor writer! Wow, way to make it about you, Fitzgerald.

With a raised brow, he muttered, "Well, that wasn't too bad," before promptly stuffing the note into his backpack. He definitely wasn't going to keep it for himself, even if it posed no practical use to him whatsoever. He brushed the dust off his clothes before puffing out his chest. "I do have to wonder who that 'Olive' fellow was, though. It reminds me of the fruit. Surely the writer can't be talking about a fucking fruit?" the young man remarked with a sigh as he resumed walking, "But more importantly, who the hell is this 'he?' I sure hope he isn't talking about me, but then again, I'm not a musical person!" A hearty laugh echoed from his throat before he was back to minding his own business.

Roll credits.

(The dark brown leather notebook in question is clearly one that has been doted over, for it's in mint condition except for a few wrinkles here and there on the pages. Even then, said wrinkles appear to have been smoothed out, but you can see the remnants if you squint... The handwriting within is extremely neat. Wait, is that cursive? Oh no. Most of the writing appears to just be bulleted notes pertaining to a schedule, but there's one page with an actual "entry" written in it...

Some writing appears to have been crossed out neatly, but the line is so thin that the contents are still able to be read with ease.)

Tazzi leafed through the navy blue journal she had found, a specific page catching her eye. She scanned its contents, brows furrowing the more she read. She did not know this person - she had simply picked this journal off of the ground, seemingly abandoned by its owner - but she felt a surge of sympathy for the author. He mentioned snobby rich people at a gala, an arranged marriage and...getting beaten by his father? What kind of family was this person living in?

After reading down to the last line, she shut the book, worry etched in her face. So this Bryson was the son of a wealthy couple, sent to an academy...but for what? Tazzi had learned a long time ago that money did not make someone a good person, and his parents did not seem like good people from what she had read. Well, there wasn’t much she could do about that information. Sighing, Tazzi tied the ribbon back around the dark blue book and stared at the cover, running her fingers gently over it. Hayes Inc. Tazzi would remember that name.

(slight tw? for mentions of death and swearing | it is a small, pocket-sized leather journal, dark brown in color and bound by a simple clasp. in white ink, the symbol for the jedi order is neatly drawn in the center of the cover. the pages inside are pristine, save for the tattered edges. entires litter the pages, along with carefully drawn doodles of droids and planets and people. the handwriting on the pages is thin, slanted slightly to the right, but very neat. this final entry has a couple of dried tear stains on the page.)