#( please don't match length )

[beauclary]

WHO: Open to Anyone WHERE: Rosie's Diner WHEN: March 6th / a little after 6pm

To look at him now, it's almost difficult to imagine that there was a time when Beau Clary had the infectious sort of charisma that could engage an entire room. Hell, an entire stadium, at least once a week for a good chunk of the year for nearly all of his life. He's almost a shell of that man now ― at least in mind and spirit, if not in body. It's almost comical, actually, for someone so physically imposing to hold himself so small ; a hardened pebble in the sole of the Wexley, jammed into the grooves. Out of sight, out of mind. To his credit, he's done a commendable job at convincing himself he prefers it this way anymore.

But he's been lured out of the quiet lonely isolation of his apartment under a moral obligation to appease the kind hand that feeds and now ― now ― Beau stands in the middle of Rosie's Diner looking a bit like a deer in headlights. He feels a bit foolish, really ― it's not as if he doesn't know these people, even if he doesn't really know them, but he feels awkward and bumbling, like a perfect stranger stumbling into a family reunion. In spite of the fact that he doesn't really know where to go, he feels inclined to get out of the way, so he locks his gaze on the nearest empty chair and quickly makes his way over.

Looking up a bit sheepishly once he's seated, Beau clears his throat. ❝ Hi. Oh, hell, Ihis, um ― I'm sorry, this seat weren't taken, were it? ❞

[the-haunted-office]

(A starter for @alabonshay!)

"As Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left."

Stanley has forgotten how many times he's heard those words spoken in that order by that voice. Enough times that he doesn't need to be told to take the door on the left anymore, but the voice still feels the need to tell him. That's just how the Narrator is, though. Omnipresent, though perhaps not omniscient. Controlling, but not in control.

Stanley goes ahead and enters the door on the left, though. He has no reason to deviate this time around. Nothing in his gut telling him to go right instead, or to jump off any platforms, or to head down any dark and ominous corridors. Besides, it's not that he wants to listen to the Narrator this time around or that he has any particular gut feelings. He simply wants to see outside, even knowing it isn't real.

It may be the last time he sees the outside ever again, and in his yearning for freedom, he can't help but take whatever he can get.

"-2845- Stanley, have you even been listening to me? I swear, it's like talking to a wall with you sometimes. I don't know why I even bother."

Stanley presses his lips together and enters in the code behind the boss' desk, although he manages to resist rolling his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd been tuning out the Narrator. Everything is on autopilot this time around, it seems, and most of the time through the Story he doesn't even need to listen to the Narrator to know where he needs to go. It's the same thing every time, so what's the point?

The fireplace swings open, the Narrator drones on, and Stanley continues his march, onward toward the Ending he's reached dozens if not hundreds of times before.

Getting there is the boring part, and as the clank and clang of his shoes echo on the concrete floors and metal catwalks, Stanley begins to tune out the voice in the ceiling again.

The voice in the ceiling notices.

Meanwhile neither of them notices when something goes fantastically... different.

"-Stanley decided that this machinery would never again exert its- Stanley, you're just not listening to me, are you? Here you are, seconds away from your freedom, and you're acting like you're a walking corpse. I might as well be talking to one. I don't know why I bother with you sometimes, if I'm honest."

Stanley gives a small shrug in acknowledgment as he enters the door into the room with the Mind Control machine. He can see the blue glow from the enormous monitor just beyond the door. Here, he'll have to make his choice whether to turn the machine On or Off.

"Well, if you're so content with being dead already why don't you- .....What the HELL is THAT?"

Stanley comes to an abrupt halt, because he sees it too. Something is standing there in front of the controls. Something a lot bigger and bulkier than he is, and better dressed to boot.

Lacking any other reasonable way to respond to this situation, the office worker just stands there. And waves a hello.

[a-hell-of-a-time]

@copaceticjillybean

There were reasons why the marquis rarely went out alone. He knew that there were some among the lower houses who had it out for him, waiting in the shadows for their moment to strike. While Andrealphus was nowhere near the same status as a prince such as Stolas, he was still high enough in the hierarchy to have a target placed on his back.

This fact was made known to him as he slowly dragged himself down a nearby alley, a bloodied hand clutching his injured arm which was, arguably, the worst of his injuries. If anyone were to even look at his now bruised and battered self, most would not know who he was.

Of course, the fools who tried to jump him ended up worse off. Various headless corpses littered the alley floor behind him, and those who managed to keep their heads were lacking various other parts. Others still were left covered in ice except for the gaping holes where their hearts were supposed to be. It was all quite messy, he thought as shards of ice fell from his hands, the remains of his sword scattering below. Had it been Caim, the cuts would have been far more clean, and the fight finished in an instant. She had always been better than him at this.

A hiss escaped his throat as he leaned against a nearby wall, his vision blurring as pain wracked his body. He had used the majority of his magic in the fight, and it took all of what he had left to remain conscious. He knew he should call for assistance, but his pride and unwillingness to admit that he fucked up big time pushed him forward. If either his sister or Caim were to catch wind of this, he would never live it down. Not to mention that the media would find out and descend upon him like they did when his former brother in law ended up in the hospital.

He had to do this alone.

He would get himself out of this.

He ended up collapsing in the middle of the alley, his vision fading to black before hitting the ground.

[fullmxtal-elrich]

@flamesignite Found Ed in Domino~!

Ed had been living with Roy for about a week now, however without a job he had grown restless and as a result, decided that while Roy was off on his military duties for the day, he would get some work done of a different kind.

By the time Roy arrived home for the day, the house had been deep cleaned in every corner and the scent of food was drifting through the hallway, with a very proud Edward finishing checking on a few things. Turning to greet his adopted father with a smile, he happily set a plate of baby-back ribs glazed with honey barbeque sauce (a recipe he'd learned from his mother years ago before she'd passed), along with coleslaw and some sauce on the side upon the table.

"Hey, dad! Welcome back. I figured you might be hungry so I thought it might be fun to have some dinner ready for you when you got back. There's some cornbread in the oven still, and I'm almost done with the Biscuits and Gravy, oh and there's sweet corn on the cob in the pot, if you end up wanting sone of that too."

He spoke as though it was the most normal thing in the world, though he sort of forgot that the only one who really knew he could cook like this was Al. He'd never shown these skills off to anyone else before, except maybe the Rockbells when he was learning some recipes from them.

"How was work by the way? Feel free to sit down and dig in, I still have to finish these last two things before I can join ya."

[poppywright]

the loss of @sirensought in her childhood was something poppy wright never quite got over. just when she felt like they were going somewhere, where she might have been brave enough to make it through middle school, there eric went. she shouldn't be holding a grudge. it's not like it was his fault his family had to move. but she is, or rather, she has been for the last decade. because one day they were best friends and maybe even more, and the next she was completely alone; back to being the weird girl, a loser in so many words. which the kids in her grade and outside of it loved to used. and she was miserable despite trying her best not to be.

in high school she forced herself to try again. it was a new school with new opportunities, and now she was objectively prettier. that would be the start she needed. her blonde hair had the perfect wave to it, her boobs developed in the way most teenage girls literally prayed for. and eventually, people noticed. the colors she wore brought out her beauty. they matched her personality in a way that was appealing to teenagers. she was fun. she was sweet. but all it took was one rumor to crash and burn all over again. and in poppy's mind, everything could have been avoided if eric had still lived in linfield.

which is why, when she sees him at a party during her first few weeks of college, she has to fight the urge to rip her hair out and scream in his face. but college poppy would never. college poppy was who she had wanted to be her whole life: easy-going, charming to the point that no one who met her didn't want to be friends with her, and cool.

"oh my god, you guys know each other? that's so crazy!" their mutual friend exclaims, standing between eric and poppy like it was the wildest thing she's ever heard. but the air between them is tense to the point that their friend dismisses herself, awkwardly. once they were alone though, poppy can't help but push. "why are you looking at me like that?"

[rebelscaped]

food truck alley, midday, current time (no specific date) / @anchoragestarters

The remainding few pieces of xiaolongbao he'd ordered had been sat neglected on the bench table long enough that it had started to go cold, the soup having seeped out of one and into the polystyrene tray that held them. Although Kael had never been known for his appetite, it was not because he was not hungry that his lunch had gone ignored but rather that he was much too focused on other things; in particular, inspiration had hit and the most inconvenient moment and he was now stuck scrawling away on a pieces of scrap paper he'd found in his bag. The one he was on right now had been a flyer for something at some point, he hadn't bothered to flip over to check. Songwriting wasn't something with which Kael troubled himself quite as often these days; since he'd joined the band, those duties had fallen into hands besides his own. He harbored no ambitions of going solo but it felt nice to cling to old passions. Besides, the lyrics he penned were often personal and more occasionally, they were too vulnerable to be seen by anybody but Kael. He was fine with this. He might have even considered it a cheaper alternative to therapy. (Or was it more like keeping a diary?)

Of course it came as a shock, then, that a strong gust of wind came in just at that moment and whisked the papers right from under his pen. All Kael could muster as a response was a quiet grunt of surprise. The wind had calmed as quickly as it had picked up, as was the way of Anchorage's unpredictable weather. (He supposed he ought to have been used to that, given how much time he'd spent in London.) Most of the paper had gathered at the legs of another bench. Another occipied bench. Mostly under the bench. "Oh, fuck me sideways," he hissed under his breath, as he pulled himself to his feet and marched over, the gravel crunching noisily under the weight of his heavy New Rocks.

"Ey, if you don't mind moving for a bit, I need under here," said Kael, brusquely. Usually, he'd more polite than this. He wasn't a naturally rude person, but in times as frantic as these, he had a way of forgetting to filter himself. His gaze dropped to the bench table and his eyes widened as he finally noticed that a few sheets had landed squarely in this person's food. (He was so not reimbursing them for this.) Slowly but surely, eye contact was made. "Don't touch that."

[damianesco]

x. status -> closed for @graysonheller x. location -> oyster & pearl

Damian thinks that, were he a smarter, less impulsive person, he’d’ve Googled the restaurant his Grindr hookup recommended before agreeing to meet him here. As it happens, it appears Damian is neither smarter nor less impulsive than he is, so he’s found himself in a rather intimate setting for what’s meant to be a quick ‘making sure you’re not a psycho’ session before heading off to — well, hook up. He hears Phoebe’s voice in his head a little too late, lamenting his situation: should’ve offered breakfast. Breakfast always reads casual. 

He’s here now, though, and the man leading him to their table behind the hostess is tall, broad, and has some blue eyes Damian probably shouldn’t look too long at. He’d introduced himself as Lowell, which is miles better than his Grindr profile name, Magnum Gropus. To be fair, the amusement derived from the name is what encouraged Damian to agree to meeting up, so he guesses he can’t be too judgmental about it. He’s chattering on to Damian about his job — a field researcher, travels the country days at a time, apparently — when they finally reach their table. Lowell, ever the gentleman, pulls the chair out for Damian, and he’s in the middle of thanking him when his gaze meets a familiar one right across from him, seated comfortably to their right.

Grayson is accompanied by a rather beautiful, tanned woman, dark brown eyes and similarly-shaded locks. She looks — incredibly cold, Damian thinks a little bitterly, considering the state of her dress and the air conditioning blasting in here. He thinks it’s a little unfair, that being his first thought about her, but he can’t control it. It sneaks up on him like an unwelcome visitor, settling like acid in the pit of his stomach. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, and can only come up with, “Gray?” as Lowell takes his own seat across from him.

The tables are way too close together, he thinks. He should say something to management. There’s no need to have these tables so close to each other — it’s not a communal restaurant, is it? Lowell is looking at him with some puzzlement, glancing between him and Grayson. “You know each other?” he asks politely. 

Damian meets Lowell’s gaze again, a little embarrassed he’d almost forgotten about him. “Yep,” he replies cheerfully, because what good would it do to anyone to lie? “He’s a friend,” he stumbles a little over the word friend, despite the fact that Grayson is Damian’s friend. Whatever else they’ve been getting up to for the last six months notwithstanding, obviously. Looking back at Grayson, he glances at his date, the beautiful tall brunette, noting she hasn’t once looked away from Gray. It makes Damian’s throat taste a little like bile. 

Before he can elaborate or say something stupid, Lowell pipes back up, “Oh, hey, cool! Great minds think alike, huh?” He throws a winning grin over at Grayson, and Damian almost feels like he needs to have blinders on.

[ofseptarsis]

Strengt forretning || &Smee

The world of Mundus-Magick cooperation rarely had moments were both their interests coincided; However, one of the topics where both parts tended to agree on was when it came to Hunters, Poachers and Sellers, about just how dangerous they were, how much of a threat they presented-

-after decades working alongside both Mundus and Magicks to try and get rid of people like that, it almost felt wrong to make an appointment with one. Almost.

They had presented themselves as a collector of the strange, had made sure to use the correct wording when texting the man that, their sources said, was one of the most efficient in the business.

(The good thing about their old work, Tófi had figured, was that information passed government bodies them rather inefficiently, that some documents sometimes tended to disappear with people being none the wiser.

Sometimes information was just too good to leave to the authorities, you see.)

The rest, as they said, had been history.

Surprisingly, the man had had no issue with Tófi's current location and had gone as far as to arrange an on-person chat at a local tavern, which, had it not been for their instructions, Tófi would have continued not knowing a thing about.

The place has a rustic kind of charm to it, seemed rather quiet due to the hour; The only people present being the bartender and an aged man sitting by the bar.

"God eftermiddag" they greeted as he sat next to the gray-haired man, and, as instructed asked: "I have heard this place serves a mean Metropole. Is that true?"

@apirateslifefor--smee

[quentafeanorians]

@sonxofxgondor

Imladris stables, nestled against the forest wall were located some distance from the main houses, where the bustle of the house rarely reached and instead the sounds of birds singing and tree leaves rustling in the wind accompanied the idyllic view. The main building was built of pale stone, with the same sharply arching roof and care put into its design.

The individual stalls in the stables of Imladris had no doors; the horses were free to come and go as they pleased, whenever they needed shelter or attention from the Horse Master. On one side of the long building the impressive, oak double door opened towards the yard, with the tack building, barns, and Rocheru's house there, nestled into the edge of the forest that wrapped around the yard as if in an embrace. On the other side of the stable building, the double door was ever opened, leading onto a wide path, and further down an array of paddocks, all open but not all used at the same time, so the grasses may always be fresh and plentiful for horses to graze on.

Though the horses spent most of the time out in pasture, they still arrived each morning and evening to have their share of grain, and they made use of the stables when it rained or when they wanted to hide from the blazing sun. Thus, the stable still needed regular cleaning, and for all the stalls to have fresh hay and water. Tending to that, along with the feeding, was a large portion of the morning chores, for which Rocheru now had a helper.

The young lad sent from Gondor was eager and bright, with a kind heart and a head open to knowledge. These were qualities most auspicious for the future steward of the kingdom of men and Rocheru was glad for the opportunity to continue tending to them.

He waited for the boy in the stable yard, sat on a bench there and enjoying both the crisp, morning sun, still pleasantly warm rather than scorching hot as it would become later in the day, as well as his morning tea sipped from a blue and white ceramic cup.

[mad-hunts]

jokethur asked: ❝ that's not the worst thing i've ever heard but it's certainly up there. ❞

one might argue that the way barton huffed through his nostrils in a wry sense of disbelief at what he heard come out of the other's mouth, rather than at the terrible thing that was just said through his own lips without an ounce of shame, told you everything you needed to know about him; that he was a brutal and very unfeeling person. but honestly, even if those things were the least bit true, barton thought... he was only saying what everyone would be thinking in their heads if they knew what was really going on behind the scenes. they just wouldn't want to say it aloud for one reason or another, whether that was due to the fear of being ostracized by their peers, or frowned down upon by society as a whole. kind of like how he was currently by the man standing beside him.

barton took a long drag out of his cigarette and averted his gaze from one of the big, bright displays that decorated the skyline to meet the others eyes. the displays were showcasing what looked like the latest news: and that was what barton seemingly was making a comment on, as the death of a cop that was rather infamous for being a ' pinnacle of kindness and care to their community ' was the main headline for that day. except that man was everything but in reality. it was just so rich to be seeing him regarded as some fantastic guy, when barton knew for a fact that he was a sleazeball who he had seen hanging around his old boss, as he was secretly in their pocket and doing their dirty work. and if there was one person that barton held contempt for more than anything... it was the man who used to treat him like he was something less than human. or, less than dirt, actually.

but of course, barton would never tell the gcpd of his corruption because he knew that rainer (you have to put a face to the name for these people) would realize that it was him who'd sold him out. and besides... since when did he have faith in the gcpd, or even like the police? they were all a bunch of pigs to him. so, barton let him continue on with his little game of playing the role of the well-beloved police officer while he was helping people get killed on the side. he rolled his eyes then, ❝ well, if i had known that you were such a big fan of the police, then i likely wouldn't have said anything. but i rest my case: a lot of people do deserve to die, stranger, and he was one of them. so i don't feel sorry for him or his family at all. ❞

barton stated this all in a very matter-of-fact manner, blowing smoke out through his nose from his cigarette before he continued, ❝ i mean, where was this guy if he was so good whenever the city got flooded? i didn't see him among the people who were helping other's whenever everything went to shit. in fact, i bet he was probably sitting in some place really safe and warm whenever it happened, because i knew the real kind of person that he was. a total prick who certainly wasn't the golden boy that the news is trying to make him out to be, ❞ he flicked his cigarette down on the ground and smushed it underneath his boot, successfully putting out the fire on its other end. barton turned to face arthur completely with an unamused look in his eyes.

❝ now, are you done preaching to me about how wrong it is that i said that? you don't really know the first thing about the pig after all. but i do. though you didn't hear that from me, alright? ❞

[asherbaudelaire]

Closed Starter for @mayarparker Setting: The Morning After *****

This is not his phone.

It's the realization seeping far too slowly through his hungover, mildly dehydrated brain as he sits upright on the sofa where he'd passed out after getting home from yet another eventful night out a few hours ago. Asher blinks the groggy sleep from his eyes, head pounding as he turns the device over in his hand and tries to focus on the details. It's the same model as his phone; similar case, too. But this is not his phone. This is not his phone.

It buzzes again. Asher sits up a little more, pushing the tousled hair from his face as he tries to recall what drunken shenanigans last night might have led to such a predicament. He'd gone to that dive bar a few streets over after work. Not unusual. Shots were 2-for-1 on Thursdays. There was a woman partaking of the same, who had joked she could drink him under the table. That was how it started. Isn't it always? Somehow they had ended up in the bathroom together, and--Oh. His eyes go wide.

Oh...

"Fuck." Asher breathes, wincing as a flush of heat rises to his cheeks. Now he remembers. "Fuckin' Hell..." He feels the telltale churning in his stomach and reaches for the small garbage can he keeps beside the sofa, worried he's about to hurl. He's certain the nausea isn't only from the alcohol; this is not good. What if--were either of them sober enough to consider precautions? He doubts it. Fucking a stranger in a filthy bar bathroom is one thing. It happens. Potentially infecting an innocent woman with lycanthropy is entirely another. He doesn't even know her name. Panic sets in full-force, and Asher doubles over to retch into the garbage bin. There's a moment of clarity in the wake of it. They'd been in such a hurry as they scrambled to grab their things and go; the phones must have gotten mixed up...which means if he has her phone, then she has his.

Asher snatches the woman's phone off the cushion beside him and dials his own number. It rings, and rings, and rings, until finally he hears the receiver pick up the line.

"Hello?? Please don't hang up..."

[quietlyblooms]

open to mutuals | in which chiyo doesn't want them to leave <3

" thank you, " softly chiyo mutters as laces are untied and shoes discarded, careful hands helping her beneath a comforter that feels heavenly against her skin. typically she'd never go to bed in street clothes, but the night calls for an exception; she's had just a tad too much to drink, feels much too tired to worry about dirty clothes. no, chiyo's more concerned with squeezing her pillow as tightly as she can ( the pressure against her chest soothes something that she can't name, doesn't want to name ).

she feels the bed shift as her companion stands, and eyes like melted chocolate stare up at them. belatedly chiyo realizes she's grabbed hold of their wrist but doesn't let go. belatedly she realizes she's allowed her pillow to fall to the ground, half-risen upon an elbow, though she doesn't care. she just doesn't want them to leave.

" could you stay a while longer? " her voice sounds so small, fragile. " please? "

[intxication]

@korraxnazari

Location: Brotherhood Territory

It was painfully terrible to be Mathias. He walked through his life unable to fully grasp control over himself. Up until recently, he had been at the mercy of voices in his head, pushing him to kill and fall further and further within himself. When the voices left, he believed for a moment that maybe he could have control over himself. The reality was that he was in a much worse state. There weren't voices to turn him away and remind him that everyone had a specific time and place where they would die. Without that, Mathias was a chaotic loose canon.

He killed indiscriminately without hesitation. The jobs he was given helped with his constant need to spill blood. Even more so now. Mathias took pride in his efforts. No job became a failure, he always got his man. He would find himself in places that added an extra layer to the danger. Other gang territory, or places he hadn't been to yet. No matter what, Mathias would still do his best to complete the hit.

The person he was after was truly on their last leg. Bleeding out, beaten badly, death was looming. Mathias could finish the job and then make it back home before dinner. Right when he was going to deliver the finishing blow, a noise stopped him. He turned to see who had interrupted him, and narrowed his eyes.

Both him and his victim were bloodied, Mathias' arms covered in sleeves of crimson. The anger on his face causing him to hiss out an exhale.

"Can I help you?"

[aletheialed]

As Barok walks down the hallway to greet the guest at his door, he wonders if he should once again pray. God has never listened to him before, but if He truly is merciful... right now, Barok is certainly desperate enough to try.

The state he's in now is laughable. After ten long years, he's finally been freed of the Reaper's curse, and the truth about everything has been exposed. It's not like he expected everything to be easy after that... after all, the very truths that freed him have also been unbearably painful ones to accept, and the wounds he bears as a result - both old and new - will take a very long time to heal. He knows that well. But... he wasn't expecting to start losing his sanity after everything was already over.

It feels cruel. And in truth, maybe it's been a long time coming. It's not the first time Barok has worried he might be losing his mind, even then, but this is different to anything he's ever experienced before.

The symptoms of madness plaguing him now are too many to count, but above all else... is the infernal hunger that's consumed him. No matter how much he eats, it feels like it only gets worse by the minute, leaving him practically him a starving man, and frankly - terrified as well. It's a fear he can't even begin to express in words. The fear of dying when he finally found something to live for is already bad enough, but... this fear feels primal, like an instinct he didn't know he had, and sometimes it feels like he's being called to do something unthinkable, something he can't put in words but that fills him with a dread he can't shake off.

What a pitiable sight he must be. Luckily, the intensity of that fear seems to come and go by the moment, and right now, he's managed to make himself at least presentable enough for conversation. While the hunger still burns inside him, he has no choice but to ignore it for the time being - even if that thought alone makes him uncomfortable.

"Pray forgive the discourtesy of... my late arrival." As Barok greets the guest he's been expecting, Barok gives a slight bow, surprised at just how weary he feels already. Even finding the energy for words is strangely more difficult than it has any right to be. "I trust that there was no danger on your journey?"

@wakiizashi ( plotted starter ! )

[plantfell]

Ever since Zazie's arrival, Knives has made a habit of checking the contact list in his phone after every eclipse. Specficially, he checks for the names of the Gung-Ho Guns. Even if things with Zazie went well enough, each member of the gang has their own quirks that could make their arrival troublesome for Knives, even without taking into account the unknown element of the other universes.

Legato Bluesummers.

It takes three passes before the name really sinks in. Even when it does, Knives struggles to put the emotions he feels into words. Is he relieved? Pleased? Afraid? No. None of those were ever things he felt towards humans. Especially not a meaningless dog like Legato. He was a tool! Lord… Vash really must be-

Vash! Damn it. Knives has no idea where or when this Legato is from, but any state he might be is almost certainly not good for either Vash. Hastily, the plant clambers out of bed to change into his suit; better to wear something that has a higher chance of being recognizable than any of his new clothes. Once he's dressed, Knives doesn't bother with the door and opens one of his windows to leap out of it; wings quickly manifesting to pull him higher into the air.

Knives isn't able to get to the platform before the arrivals are shuffled off to their new homes, but he does at least figure out they're being taken to Archimedes. It isn't great, Golden would have put more distance between Legato and his Vash (he isn't sure where the other one lives), but at least it isn't Fibonacci.

With a little more searching, Knives lucks into spotting Legato outside and his heart jolts once more when he recognizes the man. Again he's hit with a confusing swirl of emotions, and again he roughly pushes them out of his mind. There isn't anything to feel for the blue-haired human but ownership.

"Legato!" Knives barks in a commanding tone as he lands softly behind the human, his wings quickly dissolving back into energy, "Kneel."

@deadlydevotion

[serabellyms]

i hate that feeling when i'm writing w/ a new mutual or a mutual that I haven't written with much and don't know what's too long of a reply that's gonna scare them off

so ig this is my way of saying to the dash: if you're not intimidated by long replies sometimes PLEASE let me know directly bc this vibe literally results in me deleting and rewriting replies to people multiple times when the first few were probably just fine to send and i'm instead overthinking how much content i'm putting in it when that particular mutual would've just gone with the flow--