#i've opened 18 different tabs over the last hour

[kitkatyes]

research sprials,,, /aff

[jolalibrary]

the man who has returned home

javier peña x f!reader | masterlist

summary: this week’s sex diary - the man who has returned home under the covers’s sex diaries series asks anonymous men to record their sex lives — with angst, sometimes sexy, and always revealing results.

wordcount: 3k warnings: sex diary. modern!times (for the plot). smut (it's a sex diary) 18+, so the usual explicit things. reader in this has a nickname to protect their identity. an: I've wanted to finish and post this for ages, all because I've read and been inspired by The Cut’s Sex Diaries for the longest time. not sure what this will be, but at most going to be a loose collection of the ppcu boys, but for now, i don't want to run before i walk, so meet javi p.

DAY 1 5.32am

He’s woken earlier than he wants to.

There’s sweat on his forehead, on his spine—it forces the off-white sheets, which are crumpled under him, to cling to him. Worst of all, he’s breathing heavily, his heart angrily thumping in his chest, a tightness that doesn't lessen the more he gulps still-warm air.

He knows it's another nightmare; another shapeless horror that can be added to the tab.

Foolishly, he thought they’d lessen in time, ease a little as time ticks from weeks to over a month of being back.

Instead, it’s only worsening. A thought which ruptures as he digs the base of his palms into his eyes, groaning, before stopping himself.

The last thing he wants is to wake up his Pop.

6.18am

The shower isn't fixing the irk in his bones, it doesn’t wash away the woven annoyance in his muscles as water cascades and slides off the slope of his nose to his chest.

He tries fucking his fist to the memory of... let's call her Cinnamon. Cinnamon is a woman he used to know and now knows in an entirely different way. She doesn't ask questions, doesn't appear to care what he did overseas or not and mostly doesn't look at him like he hung the moon.

It's why he fucked her. It's why he keeps fucking her.

Now, he's touching himself to the thought of her. Hoping it helps, alleviates.

A few tugs and he’s panting, forehead pressed to the cold tiles as he groans her name. It's all acidic, purposeful. It hisses out all coiled around pleasure before it's swirling down the drain.

It does rid the annoyance, but it’s replaced instead by shame. It blooms out similar to the red welts as he dries himself, running the towel over his shoulders, chest, stomach, and thighs.

He doesn’t recognise the person he greets in the mirror when he goes back into his bedroom. The one with dark bags under his eyes and a haunted look he manages to mask every day when he steps into the rest of the house.

He’s barely pulled his jeans up his thighs before a fresh irk swarms him. Wondering, nursing his lip between his teeth whether breaking the new horse in might help. It’ll keep him busy, at least.

Then he spots the number on his dresser. The one staring at him as he tucks his shirt into his jeans—the one etched in lipstick. His phone is next to it, all but tempting, making his jaw jut to one side as he contemplates if he should open that text chain again.

He doesn’t.

He wonders if he’ll crack sooner on this than he did smoking.

6.38pm

Twelve hours could be a new record.

Cinnamon’s fingers claw, scratching at the back of his head. Each slap of his thighs against the back of hers makes her whine. A delectable noise, a sight for sore eyes. Especially as she’s smothered in a faint sheen of sweat and perfume, neck bowing as he pants against her neck. Inhaling her. Feeling her pulse against his tongue.

Each plunge of his cock, each press of his fingers into her supple skin makes him grunt. The feel of her, squirming, desperately rutting back into whatever he gives you only makes him more desperate to fuck her so hard he hopes it’ll fuck the bad out of his head. Loud, sinful noises come from where the two of them are joined, the sheets a mess under the two of them.

He can still taste her on his tongue. He’d delved, made her thighs stretch around his broad shoulders as he buried his face into her pussy, fucked her hole with his tongue as her breath hitched and her fists clamped around her sheets.

He suspects she knows that he’s not sleeping, but she doesn’t ask. Likely has little care about how he’s using her, because he suspects she’s using him too.

Dragging his mouth to hers, she moans against his tongue. She pants out harder, as though knowing he needs permission. He does. Makes her skin ripple with the force of it as more sobs and mewls are punched out of you as your pussy clenches, flutters and pulses.

Fuck, he groans—quickening his pace, desperately clinging to not come just yet. Needing her to. Wanting her too. Feeling her squeezing and bearing down as she nods, as she tells him she’s close, I’m close, fuck I'm c—

When she comes, she arches into him. Tensing before becoming boneless and limp. Wrapping her tight, fucking heat around him that makes his morning feel futile.

And it is, because he never wants to leave this. A need. A desperate, hungry need. One he can never replicate this as a moan is forced from her throat and her pleasure crashes over her in a thick, heavy wave. It pushes him over with a few more thrusts until he’s groaning into her neck, bruising her hips to the point of no return as he pulses inside of her, fucks his spend into her until he’s softening.

Fuck, she says, panting.

Fuck, he replies, before he finds his mouth is latching to hers and the two of them become a heap in her bed.

7.12pm

He suspects there should be some guilt that he keeps doing this with her.

A thought that ruminates as his fingers twitch for a smoke. A need for it. One she must tell because she smirks and says nothing.

He won't admit it, but he likes it when she smirks. Has some perverse reaction to it. Because it reminds him she took him in her mouth behind the bar, his nails scraping brick, coming forcibly down her throat as she looked at him like she somehow expected more from him.

All that's to say, it's ruined her smirk now. It makes him hard now whenever she does it, like some sick Pavlov's reaction.

She may have a new number, a new look and an apartment, yet she’s the same girl he’d once known deep down. She's been shyer then, but he knew she wasn't innocent, not like she let others think.

But, he supposes that's the meaning of a true friendship. When you know a person intimately, like he knows her. Like he knows that she hates heights because of the time they climbed a tree and knows she sobbed when she tripped and broke her arm on his ranch. In the same way, he knew for a long time what oversized tees she owned, could almost predict which she'd choose, until one day there was suddenly a sundress that made his cock hard and his brain malfunction.

Fuck, she still has nice legs.

A thing he had witnessed when he was a teen. When she began dating a friend of his and wore their jacket on cooler evenings with him on the ranch. We're ranch friends, she used to say, hooking her pinky with his.

Now he’s fucking her.

Spearing her and making her fingers clamp around his as she needs him for leverage as she careens towards another orgasm. Those glorious, beautiful, stunning fucking legs wrapped around him or pressed to her chest as he sheaths his cock inside of her.

She reminds him of how good they are when she slips from his arms to retrieve water. Naked. His and her slick likely still smeared between her thighs.

His arm comes up over his forehead, muscles relaxing into your mattress and flower-scented sheets. He shouldn’t sleep.

He shouldn’t sleep over.

He falls asleep anyway.

DAY 4 9.12am

He’s not sure whether to be offended that he doesn’t hear from her or if he’s out of practice.

Before, back in Colombia he supposed it was more scheduled. A need for info and a need to forget. Routine, almost booked in. I’ll be here to hear what you have to say and then hear how you say my name.

Back home isn’t like that.

Cinnamon does have a job—a good one, from what he has been able to pull out of her. She keeps things locked down. Any time things toe the line of getting too close, she clams up and shifts the conversation.

There’s no faded tan line on her finger, though. No gossip when he enters stores about her.

He thinks he could ask his pop. Quiz him.

He decides against this ten minutes later.

4.12pm

Cinnamon is busy tonight.

He kinda hates that he was the one to ask. He hates it more than she only replies with the word can't.

10.48pm

He hears his phone go off when he’s doing his best to pretend the world doesn’t exist.

For one, he should be asleep. A thing he knows but hasn’t quite managed to get more than five hours since he came home.

The sound of nothing bothers him more than the old sounds of busy streets, guns and shouting. It crosses his mind he should check in on M tomorrow. See how he coped when he came home.

His phone sounds again. Jaw grit, he checks it, and sees a photo from Cinnamon.

Felt bad not being available is accompanied by her holding a towel in a way he’d describe as art. He can almost feel the condensation from her skin, how the droplets would feel on his palm and how he’d collect the beads from her perk breasts. She’s chosen her angles, even made sure to twist her hip toward him, casting a shadow that leaves your perfect pussy hidden.

He’s hard before he can wrap his head around it. Palm around his velvet skin, tugging, hips meeting his movements.

He comes hard, phone in one hand, fist around his cock.

You’re forgiven, he texts back when he’s cleaned up.

He sleeps for six hours.

DAY 13 9.02pm

It’s been days.

Odd texts, a phone call that lasted 18 minutes. But otherwise, silence. Awkward, weird silence that makes him feel shitty.

He wonders if he’s the other man. If there’s a whole life that she lives and he’s the break for her. It makes him think, question, ponder. Delve into a side of his thoughts he shouldn’t do sober or without a smoke.

Then, like the sun after a storm, Cinnamon asks if she can come to the ranch.

A thing she has yet to do since this thing began. There’s a white line, he imagines, between the road and where he sleeps.

She looks upset when she exits her vehicle, with red eyes and a sternness he thinks is forced. He asks her what she needs, and she responds with a shrug.

He doesn’t think when he places his hand on her lower spine, when he leads her down the beaten path—when he scoops overhanging branches from her face and takes her to the edge of the ranch.

It’s crosses his mind that he should ask, that he should check she’s okay, but then her mouth is on his. Hot, fervently, breathing him in as her fingers slide into his hair and pull him as close as she can have him.

Stop with the puppy eyes, Peña. You don’t have to… we’re not like—

He kisses her instead of letting her finish her thought. Better that than ask why not. Choosing to part her lips with his tongue, moan into her mouth like he’s starving, like he needs a taste of her as much as she needs him.

Maybe he does.

Maybe that’s why he can’t fucking sleep again.

Wanna taste you on my tongue, Javi…

And her hand is undoing his belt, not even needing both hands, managing with one and a smirk. Easing his jeans down to his knees, licking a stripe up her palm before he’s grunting, shifting his hips into her hand as she kisses his lips, his jaw, before descending down to her knees.

Can I?

He snorts before nodding, because how could he refuse her? A thing he almost says but Cinnamon has the sweetest mouth.

She takes as much of him as she can, right down her throat. He knows if he reached his hand around, he’d be able to feel how determined she is, trace his fingers over the bulge of him there.

The thought makes him grunt her name—her real name. Hissing it into the quiet air that only is interrupted by the cicadas.

He bites at his lip as she swirls her tongue, gazing down to find her cheeks hollowed and her eyes staring up at him—uncaring that her knees are in the dirt and she’s slobbering over her chin.

Her breaths are measured, nostrils flaring as she bobs up and down, and the sounds of it meet his ears.

And shit, fuck—she looks wrecked, fucked, and he’s not even touched her.

Suspecting if he did, however, he’d find her soaked, dripping, desperate to be stuffed full of him.

It’s that which almost makes him confess that he can’t stop thinking about her. He’s almost become sore from how much he’s stroked himself to the memory of her, to the image she’d sent and the one she’d let him take.

His photo album is becoming dedicated to her, to them. A shrine. Images of her in lace or nothing; her body contorted and her face hidden. Then, the latest one, her body splattered in shadows from her undrawn window, skin wearing only moonlight and the light sheen of their activities—one covering a breast, the other dipped between her legs, doing as he said, two fingers swirling around her clit, chin tilted up, take the photo, Javi. Just take it.

He wonders if she’d let him take one like this. Or if he’d have to settle on a memory.

A grunt passes through his clenched teeth, hand firm on the back of her head as she takes him deeper, as she bobs her head and sucks and swallows—

A louder noise leaves his throat soon after. One that rips from it as he spurts down her throat. When his body is licked by flames and something has tightened to an impossible degree in his lower stomach before he’s hissing, feeling her cleaning him up and releasing him with a pop.

Then, he’s treated to another prize, another treat. Cinnamon’s mouth opens, seeing the white ribbons swirling in her spit. Her tongue almost outstretched as though presenting him with a gift wrapped in a bow.

Swallow, he commands.

And she does.

He wonders if it’s romantic to fuck her in a field.

He does so anyway.

DAY 20 7.02am

There’s something about morning sex he can’t put his finger on.

Whether it’s because it’s a thing he hasn’t indulged much in. In Colombia, he’d only encountered it a handful of times.

He suspects it’s Cinnamon.

Her soft thighs on either side of his waist, the way she arches into him, contorts so her chest is flush against his as he finds himself deeper like this, hitting that spot inside of her that makes her look at him with nothing but lust.

It’s slower, less rushed. The pace not punishing, but controlled thrusts that somehow make her slicker, tighter.

He comes to the conclusion it’s her when she grasps his forearm, feels it flex under her fingers as she splutters his name and splinters around his cock. He realises this because he understands her, and knows what she needs. Has her figured out as he shifts her muscle-slacked body to hit the angle she needs to see stars again. It makes her eyes and her whines become desperate moans. He wishes she’d bury the sounds into his skull, into his brain. Wishes they’d cover screams and the sound of a life being taken.

For a moment they do. She makes sure of it.

Heat becoming blistering in his lower stomach, a need to increase his pace as she keens and whines, fingers digging into his shoulders, cut me he thinks, dig your nail down he silently pleads.

Her orgasm crests and he becomes dizzy from it—pushing a thigh closer to her chest, staring down at the place the two of them conjoin. Seeing the mess he’s made of her, how she takes him, how her slick coats around the base of him and the tight curls.

Then his own breathless moan forces itself out, small jerks followed by a stillness before her lips find his. The taste of him there, evidence of what began the entire morning thing.

12.33pm

He has a call with M, one he takes in his truck—overlooking the place he’s from.

It’s quiet here. A favourite from when he was at school, a place he brought people to so he could impress them.

Once, a long time ago, he’d brought Cinnamon here too.

As a friend. To make her smile—cheer her up.

He thinks about that when he should be listening, a thing he seems to do more and more of lately.

He hopes M hasn’t said anything helpful.

8.24pm

Do you fancy grabbing food?

Five fucking words that he regrets typing out, never mind sending. Biting his nails, rocking on the two legs of a garden chair as he prays his weight won’t make it buckle beneath him.

He stares at the slight curve of his stomach under his tee. The one that had formed as age caught up with his horrendous diet and his lack of fitness out of running and fucking.

He almost launches his phone when it beeps, and he sees a reply.

Now or as a date?

He contemplates his reply.

DAY 24 7.02pm

Cinnamon arrives looking fucking beautiful, just as he expected she would. Her eyes latch and dig into him as she moves between tables and he finds himself on his feet to pull her chair out.

She’s wearing a different perfume, a different lipstick than the night they’d reunited. She also looks nervous, politely asking for water before turning her smile to him. She likes his shirt, and teases him about not wearing a tie—he laughs. Finds it slips from him with ease.

He keeps laughing, interspersed with hers.

She finally shares that has never been married. Engaged though, once. He asks her if the breakdown of it is as rememberable as his, and she smirks, eyes shimmering, nothing can be as memorable as you, Javi.

He hopes she chose her words carefully.

She confirms later she did, dragging him through her door, his fingers undoing her dress.

Finding her wearing his favourite colour. A thing he’d said offhand the night they reconnected in the bar.

I remember, Javi, she had said then.

Now, he realises he maybe should have believed her back then. 

an: hope you like this different styling. I've had this half-done in my drafts for ages, trying to find the courage. so a huge thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for always believing in me, cause without her so much of what i'd write would find its way into the bin.

[katedrakeohd]

#Wacky Drabbles No. 11

Happy Birthday Drake

Prompt: " Did you have fun? "

Rated: (M 18+)

Pairing: Damien Nazario × Drake Walker

Tagging wacky drabblers:

@emceesynonymroll @jovialyouthmusic @sirbeepsalot @dcbbw @speedyoperarascalparty @bbrandy2002 @jessiembruno @brightpinkpeppercorn @mfackenthal @qween-corgis @gardeningourmet @pedudley

Word count: no idea, cuz I wrote it here.

____________

Drake woke up tangled in hotel sheets. Stretching out his limbs lazily with a sigh, the throbbing in his head reminded him of last night's drinking binge.

Rolling over toward his bed partner, he hugs the pillow against his stubbled cheek and gazes into a face with a pair of chocolatey brown eyes and a sleepy smile.

"Good morning Mr. Nazario." He drawls with a smirk.

Damien leans over placing his warm hand on Drake's rough cheek, bringing him in for a soft kiss. "Good morning to you too hot stuff."

Drake kicks off what's left of the sheet, sliding his foot over to nudge against Damien's shin. "Hot stuff huh?"

Tilting his head back to take in Drake's naked profile in the morning light, Damien swallows as his breath catches in his throat. Memories of the drunken night before come back to him in hot passionate flashes of skin on skin.

----

It had been Drake's Birthday, and they'd been at a bar. They were just two anonymous guys at first, nursing tumblers of whiskey and watching the room as they sat on barstools. As the evening wore on and sweaty drunken people wandered over from the dance floor to order mixed drinks full of more ice than alcohol, he and Drake had outlasted them all.

Drake was on his third double whiskey and feeling fairly buzzed and relaxed when he noticed the man at the other end of the bar watching him. Lifting his glass in greeting, he's met with a slight nod and a grin from the other guy.

Damien had been casually watching the tall handsome devil all evening. He'd seen busty drunk girls sidle up to him and flirt but get brushed off with a shake of his head or a sullen frown. He had found it odd that someone so desirable could be so unwilling to accept a date. When the younger man had finally lifted his glass and made eye contact, he'd felt a sizzle of attraction and couldn't help but smile back. It had been a while since Damien had shared the company of a man so attractive, and he decided to take the leap and introduce himself. After downing the rest of his whiskey he fished a handful of bills out of his wallet and placed them on the bar and set his glass on top.

Walking around the corner of the bar, he notices the other guy glance at him and then look away. When he nervously rubs the back of his neck and then shifts his gaze down to the floor, it makes Damien smile. He knows I'm coming over for him.

Damien stops a few feet away, putting a barstool between them and then catches the attention of the bartender. "Excuse me barkeep, what kind of payment does the pool table over there take?"

"It takes coins," Drake interrupts, tossing back the last of his whiskey.

"Wanna play?" Damien asks, with a grin.

Drake gives the man with the dark hair and soulful eyes a quick sweep with his gaze, trying to gauge if he was flirting or just bored. With the amount of alcohol thrumming through his veins at this point his inhibitions were pretty low and he didn't care either way.

"Okay, sure. It's my lucky day and I'm feeling generous so I'll buy the first game."

Damien nods, slapping down a few bills on the bar. "Ok, if you buy the game I'll buy the beers."

Pushing away from the bar, Drake smiles. "Works for me. I'm Drake by the way."

Damien picks up the bottles of beer and then jerks his head in the direction of the table. "Damien. Lead the way."

Taking a sip from the bottle, Damien followed Drake across the room, appreciating the way his straight leg jeans hugged his ass and thighs. That sizzle of attraction buzzed through his veins again, and he took another sip of beer to cool the heat crawling through his belly. Setting the bottles on a side table, Damien peels off his leather jacket and then unbuttons and rolls up his sleeves. He felt very warm and wished he'd opted to wear a tshirt like Drake had. Taking another swallow of beer, he opens the top button on his dress shirt.

Drake shoves his hand in the front pocket of his jeans searching for coins to pay for their game. Damien's eyes are drawn down to his groin and the way he adjusts himself slightly as he digs for coins. Sweet Jesus, the way he fills out his jeans. Or maybe it's just the layers of denim and zipper giving an illusion of more? Fuck, it's indecent the shape of what he's packing.

Drake catches him looking and clears his throat, sending Damien's gaze back up to focus on his face. "So I come to this place often but haven't seen you here before."

Damien leans against the table, crossing his arms across his chest. He hesitates a moment, wondering what to tell Drake about himself. "I'm not from here, just passing through between jobs."

Drake takes in the worn quality of Damien's clothing, the scuff on his boots, trying to decipher what he did for a living. There was a slight wrinkle to his cotton shirt as if it hadn't been folded up or seen a hanger for a while. Damien's style wasn't that much different than his own. Wash and wear, throw on the floor, then wear again.

Damien startles Drake out of his idle thoughts, the whiskey was evidently starting to make his mind fuzzy around the edges.

"So you said it was your lucky day. What's so special about today?"

Drake smiles as he puts coins in the pay slot of the pool table and releases the balls for play. "Oh yeah, I said that didn't I? It's my Birthday today."

After Drake straightens back up, Damien claps him hard on the shoulder, and smiles, "Really? Hey that's great man, Happy Birthday."

Drake nods, his shoulder tingling from the slap. He'd only been touched that way by his friends. And for some reason he felt excited about how Damien's slap made his skin tingle. Sucking in a deep breath, he grabs the ball frame and arranges the pool balls on the table for play. "Uh, Okay..Damien. Go grab a couple of cues and let's play."

What was it about this guy that made me want to do things I've never done before? Maybe it's the way he keeps looking at me like I'm a snack. He's so smooth and charming, and commanding but not in a rude or condescending sort of way like I'm used to hearing from the nobility. I kind of like it.

An hour, and three beers each later, Drake was up two games to one. Was Damien really that bad a player or was he just sloppy from the alcohol?

They'd joked about random stuff, talked about women and argued about whose favorite teams were better, ranging from football, baseball to basketball and beyond.

They hadn't realized how late it was until the bar was empty, and the lights went up. The bartender thumped his hand on the bar to get their attention, "Alright guys, it's closing time. You have a tab, now settle it. Call a taxi, stagger home, or whatever, I don't care. But you can't stay here."

Drake looked at Damien's grinning face, and the glassy luster of his eyes. He looked about as drunk as Drake felt. Shrugging into his leather jacket, Damien pulls his wallet out of his pocket and hands it to Drake. "Here, pay the man I gotta go take a piss."

Drake's mouth drops open, as he watches Damien shuffle his way to bathroom at the back of the bar. Glancing over at the collection of empty beer bottles on the table, he reluctantly opens the wallet and tries not to look at anything personal. Damien has an impressive wad of cash. There was a mixture of Euros, American and Canadian. Who was this guy?

Drake grabs a bunch of Euros and hands them to the bartender, stealing a glance at his ID before closing the wallet. Damien Nazario, New York City.

There was some other sort of identification card that Drake didn't get a good look at in time before he saw Damien returning from the bathroom.

"All paid up?" Damien asks as Drake nods and hands him back his wallet.

The bartender folds his arms across his chest, giving his head a jerk in the direction of the door. Time to get the fuck out.

Drake and Damien both wave goodbye to the bartender and follow eachother out into the cool evening air. Drake gasps involuntarily, the cool air sobering him up somewhat because he hadn't worn a jacket.

Damien glances up and down the deserted street, not seeing a taxi stand or bus stop in sight. Drake's shoulders are hunched and he has his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looked cold. Damien bites his lip, considering their options. He didn't feel like going back to his hotel alone, and he didn't want to see Drake wander off cold and alone on his Birthday either.

Pulling off his jacket he offers it to Drake. "Here you can borrow this. I dunno if we're the same size, but at least you won't be so cold."

Drake looks at Damien, feeling unsure. Offering a jacket to your companion is usually a date night sort of thing. Was Damien suddenly his date? They had just spent the evening drinking and playing pool together, but just by chance. It wasn't a date.

Damien raises his eyebrows in question, "Well? You want it or not? You can walk me back to my hotel and then hand it back."

Drake shrugs, "Yeah, what the Hell. We're just two guys walking up the street together. Nothing unusual about that right?"

"Right."

Drake slides his arms into Damien's leather jacket. It smelled of his cologne, sweat and coffee. Things that were uniquely Damien. Drake liked how it smelled. It was a little tight in the shoulders so Drake didn't zip it up. He appreciated the kind gesture, and it was full of Damien's body heat, which was oddly exciting.

"Thanks." He says, falling into step next to Damien as they head up the sidewalk.

As they walk, Damien did up the buttons of his shirt and unrolled his sleeves to keep himself from getting cold. Although they had spent the past hour together, Damien was only now realizing how much taller Drake was than him. A couple of inches for sure. And in his jacket he came off as broader and bigger as well. This only made Damien want him more. If only for one night, to make Drake's Birthday one to remember.

They don't talk as they walk together. Both entertaining their own thoughts over where this night may be heading. As they approach the front doors of the Hotel, Damien stops walking and grabs Drake by the forearm and pulls him into the dark alley. Drake is off balance as Damien pulls him close and whispers in his ear. "Happy Birthday Drake, did you have fun tonight?"

Struck speechless by the heat of his breath in his ear, all Drake can do is nod.

Damien's voice is a low rumble as he says, "The fun doesn't have to stop yet."

continued...here

[siirensung]

Hello :) My name is Dani and first of all let me tell you that I LOVE your writing. I literally sit and read how you interact with others for HOURS and seeing you and a couple of the people you write with gave me the inspiration to create an indie blog for my bb Reyes. That being said, I've never had an indie rp before but I've figured the basics with the rules, verses, etc. Could you please give me some suggestions on how to approach people or get this thing started? I'd thank you forever

asldkfh that’s so sweet of you omg what the fuck

HELL YEAH OKIE DOKIE first thing first: the best way to learn how to indie rp is just to follow a bunch of people and sort of pick and choose the different techniques you like to resemble. that what i did. i came from a long experience of closed group rping with no formatting, and just sort of floated with the indie trends that came and out, and kept the ones i like. i’m gonna tell you how I consider indie rping, which isn’t law or bible or anything, but this is what i look for when i’m looking to follow people!

first, the technical shit

RULES. i’m gonna go over things you say you already know, because there are some. hidden things that people sort of silently expect. in your rules, you must have your name/alias, your pronouns, your age (the terms ‘minor’ or ‘18+’ are sufficient, you don’t need to give your exact age but you NEED to tell people if you’re a minor or not), and your triggers (again, no detail necessary, just tell us what we should tag for you). these are the necessities and the rest is up to you. make your rules clear and concise, and on the short side. it helps to bold important things so people can skim and find them easily. personally, i like seeing people’s shipping policies. bc i’m a shipping slut. are you single ship? multiship? do you prefer not to ship? are you exclusive?

SELECTIVITY. on that note. let people know about your selectivity. do you want to play with anyone who follows you? do you only want to play with mutual followers (people you follow who follow you back)? i, as well as (almost) everyone i follow, are mutuals only. don’t feel guilty if you want to follow this route, and don’t let people talk you into playing with people you don’t want to play with. this blog is yours and your time is yours. spend it how you choose.

EXCLUSIVITY. along the same vein, let people know about your policy on exclusivity – which basically means that there are certain blogs of characters and theirs is the only blog of that character with whom you will play. this is entirely up to you. personally, i don’t do it and i never will. but be sure to let people know if you do! make sure to be honest. make sure you’re comfortable with your rules.

then, the aesthetic shit

REPRESENTATION. the first glance. the first eye contact. generally, this is the mobile preview. have a cool looking mobile banner! it attracts the eye! you don’t need to be a photoshop god for this, either. minimalism is in. a dark screenshot of your character that blends in with the color of your mobile background is hella neat. make sure the color is eye-friendly. black, white, cream, soft tones. if a mobile preview is lime green or shocking blue, i won’t give it a second look. My Eyes, They Bleed. then make sure you have SOMEWHERE on your mobile preview the bare minimum of your blog’s explanation. it doesn’t need to be long. in fact, i tend to like short ones. minimalism, man. for example, mine: ‘multimuse rp blog: dragon age and mass effect canon and ocs’. i’m saying what this blog is: an rp blog. i’m saying what KIND of rp blog: a multimuse. what fandoms i cater to: dragon age and mass effect. what characters you expect to find here: canon and ocs. sometimes people will put their name, too. (also, warn people if you have an autoplay. just write ‘ap’ or ‘autoplay’. people know.)

REPRESENTATION PART 2. piggybacking on all that: promos. gotta have a promo. this is how people find you, and how you can spread the word about your cool new blog. (tag it with the audiences you want to attract. such as: mass effect rp, mass effect roleplay, bioware rp, bioware roleplay, star wars rp, etc etc. the mass effect fandom isn’t all that huge. consider expanding with crossovers to other space fandoms, such as star wars and star trek. we’re buddies.) it can be as simple as the icon promo trend, where you have a horizontal line of icons of your character followed by ‘like/reblog if you’re interested in playing with (character name)! written by (your name).’ it can be that chill. sometimes it can be dramatic. just make sure it’s tasteful. try to avoid gaudy. ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS (this is my pet peeve) INCLUDE YOUR CHARACTER’S NAME AND THE FANDOM NAME. i die inside every time i have no idea who this promo is for.

THEME. the second glance. your blog’s handshake. first – and sometimes last – impression. same rules as the preview and the promo, make it tasteful or make it minimalist. make it easy to follow. if you’re not confident in your aesthetic or ps skills, the white blogs with a simple pic of your character in the sidebar is in right now. leave it open to interpretation. theme-hunter is where i get all my themes, for the most part. if you want some cool theme suggestions, let me know! you may end up interested in html through theme aesthetic and wANTING IT TO BE PERFECT. like me. hehe. anywho – you’ll see a lot of Hyper Aesthetic Themes. try not to get worried about them. the most important thing is that your links to your rules, verses, dossier (if you have one), and ask are clear. the writing is easy to read.

also, the replying shit

FORMATTING. okay so formatting is a Minefield right now. personally, i really enjoy formatting! my formatting trick is: twenty spaces before each paragraph to simulate tabs, bolding quotation marks and putting a space between the marks and the dialogue, ( doing this to parentheses and quite frankly using Way too many parentheses ), BOLDING AND CAPSING emotive words or phrases, italicizing things for emphasis, using small font (and sometimes tiny font). but DON’T overdo it. still, the point is legibility. it’s your choice to use formatting at all. i like it a lot, it helps me Feel the writing and reply. it’s also your choice to use small or tiny font, but… i’ma be honest. i really really do prefer when people use small or tiny font. people are pushing back against tiny font bc it can be really hard to read, so i tend to just use small font (unless my partner uses tiny font). to small font (on pc): select all the text, ctrl shift minus sign. to use tiny font: use small font, then ctrl comma. 

ICONNING. again, another minefield. as we speak, rp icons are getting smaller and smaller. my icons at 80x80 with a 2px border, and i often times use a psd. if you get your icons from somewhere, credit that place. i frequently make my own, but not always. as a personal favor, don’t go smaller than 75px… the icons… they’re shrinking…

SPEED. go at your own speed! i cannot stress the importance of this. i’m currently suffering from depression and some Shit, so i may be on the dash a lot, but my reply speed is frequently outstripped by passing snails. don’t write if you’re not feeling it. don’t feel pressured to do it. personally, the majority of the fun of rping is plotting with your partner and obsessing over your character. people love to see people enthusiastic about their kid. that’s why they followed you. bc they love your kid, too. if you have a thread you’re not feeling, be honest! TALK TO YOUR PARTNER.

COMMUNICATION. on that note! get to know your rp partners. love them. cherish them. tell them they’re wonderful. tell them when you’re not feeling a thread. don’t suffer in silence. drop threads. treat yoself. also, follow ALL THE PEOPLE. they may not follow you back. don’t tug at them if they don’t. follow people and make sure you have examples of your writing on your page, even if it’s just a long headcanon or drabble. like a cover letter. 

WRITING. third person. i think i can be pretty confident about this: only third person. i use present tense for the most part, but present or past tense. sometimes there are oneliners (replies that are usually just dialogue, maybe with a lil but of narrative for actions, usually spur of the moment and dropped after the moment is gone). there are short paras (generally 1-3 paragraphs of varying sizes). there are long paras (4-6 paras, usually for plotting). there are Novella (6+ for the Intense Future Tolkiens i can’t do this i’m a dr seuss). 

TAGGING. can be pretty simple. as a multi, i have too many characters to have thorough tagging systems. a lot of people have different tags for like. aesthetic, musing, visage, headcanons, etc. mine is simple. each character has an in character thread tag: * ｡✧ ━ ⦅ character: scott. ⦆. also, a musing tag: * ｡✧ ━ ⦅ musing: scott. ⦆. a headcanon tag: * ｡✧ ━ ⦅ headcanon: scott. ⦆. sometimes a ship tag: * ｡✧ ━ ⦅ scott & liam: just frame the halves and call them brothers. ⦆. and you MUST have an out of character tag, where it’s just you talking, and you must tag every post of just you talking with it: * ｡✧ ━ ⦅ out of character. ⦆. it must be clear. you can make them fancy and pretty like this. i like them. it’s not necessary. also: tag any triggers. important. search your partners’ rules for their triggers. if someone asks you to tag a trigger, do it without a second thought.

lastly, the important shit

HAVE FUN! we’re all here for the same reason. we love mass effect. WE LOVE SPACE. there will always be aggression and elitism and hurt feelings in the indie rp community. always. try not to let it bring you down. play nice. kindergarten rules. enjoy!

let me know if you have more questions/want more detail!

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