🤔 What’s something you’ve never tried in RP but want to? + 💖 What’s a trope you love and will never get tired of?
{ from this meme }
ummmm. aaaaaah. lately i’ve been writing shorter posts/moving back toward more casual threads. so more of that! and as you may or may not know, i want to put dark!ren in a vulnerable position that forces him back into his body.
i will never get tired of slow burns, monster/human, monster/monster, corruption arc romances, enemies or rivals to lovers. messy recovery arcs. unrequited love. self-denial. repression!!!
send me a ➹ and a fc ;; i'll create a character on the spot !!! || @kinomorebi sent in Rahul Kohli! || always accepting!
Dr. Vikram Nair
Basics:
Fandom/Genre: Southern Gothic/Crime
Full Name: Vikram Anand Nair
Nicknames: Vik
Age: Looks to be in his 40s
Occupation: General practitioner
Birth Place: Depends on who, and when, you ask
Current Residence: A little house at the edge of town
Vikram Anand Nair is the town’s general practitioner, known to most as Dr. Nair, and to a smaller circle— people who have known him long enough to stop finding it strange— as Vik. He lives alone in a narrow shotgun house at the edge of town that stays inexplicably cool even in the height of summer, as if it remembers how to be shade better than the rest of the street.
He appears to be in his late thirties or early forties and has, for as long as anyone can comfortably recall, appeared to be in exactly that same range. When asked, he offers a ready explanation— good genes, vegetarian habits, no alcohol— delivered with an easy, practiced lightness that discourages follow-up questions.
He arrived in town with a medical bag, solid credentials, and a calmness that made people trust him before they realized they were deciding to. He took over the practice from Dr. Fontenot, as Fontenot had taken it from someone before him, and so on back through parish records that grow oddly ambiguous the further one looks. A Dr. V. Nair appears in earlier entries as well, though whether it is the same man, a relative, or something the record has simply repeated too confidently is never entirely clear.
His educational history is similarly inconsistent in its particulars. He has, at various times, referenced degrees from Tulane, Edinburgh, and a medical school in Kerala whose name slips from memory shortly after hearing it. Nothing he says is demonstrably false; it is more that the timeline refuses to hold still when examined too closely.
What the town does not say out loud— but quietly behaves as if it knows— is that Vikram does not arrive so much as continue. He has known people here in ways that should not be possible. He delivered Mabel Trosclair, and her mother, and her grandmother. He held the grandmother’s hand when she died. Mabel herself is now seventy-one. Neither of them speaks about this directly, as if naming it would make the arithmetic finally insist on an explanation.
Perhaps, they can't.
He seems to know the town’s history the way an old building knows its own foundations: old disputes, buried scandals, paternity secrets, and incidents that were never properly recorded but never fully forgotten either. He never uses this knowledge as leverage. It surfaces instead in small, uncanny precisions— a name spoken that should have been lost, a detail about a family line no living person should be able to place.
In person, Vikram is disarmingly warm. He remembers everyone. Not just patients, but their children, their pets, their habits. He shows up when called, brings food when it is needed, and rarely refuses care to anyone on the basis of their ability to pay. He listens in a way that makes people feel properly seen, as if they are the most coherent thing in the room.
And yet there is something watchful in him. Not suspicion, exactly, but attention stretched over a scale too large for the present moment. The kind of attention that suggests he has seen versions of this place before and knows where certain stories tend to go. The affection is genuine. So, beneath it, is something heavier: a quiet, accumulating grief that does not belong to a single lifetime.
He does not speak about himself if he can avoid it, and he is very good at avoidance. Conversation with him tends to bend outward, toward the patient, the town, the weather, anything but the structure of his own history.
What remains unspoken in him is a kind of moral uncertainty. He stays because the town needs him— because he is often the only person willing to come out at 2 a.m., or sit through the long, unglamorous waiting of dying— but that is not the whole truth. There is also the question he does not fully examine: whether his presence here is choice or consequence, and whether the town’s immediate trust in him is something he has earned, inherited, or subtly shaped.
He loves them, in the way one might love something fragile and familiar across many seasons of breaking and repair.
He is, at the same time, not entirely sure what he is doing to them by staying.
SOMETHING JAGGED STEEPLING A FROZEN MOUNT. the college of eire is as ice-locked as the rest of csilla, and inside, hours day and night, it howls. it's not a place for children. it's a place for little bodies born without childhood in their hands. he'd know something about that, whatever name he once was. for now, he knows the tome slouched between his hands. his palms with their nameless white bruises. he knows the spiderweb of light that waltzes down from an overhead window — the tower's topmost, this its highest, spiraling floor — while it tries to brush something familiar of his face, and comes away darker, knowing nothing.
hours on hours. whittling through languages. the stranger doesn't feel time's passage until a breath fingers its way through his comfortable silence. a door shivering open, a cold wind enwrapping something warm and human. footfalls very far below. he stop-starts like something just remembering it's pretending to be something else.
and walks from knees to feet, inclining, warily, over a banister. ( over banister over banister, over banister ... flights spiral away to the old, unlit, open belly below. )
‘ we are, ’ putting on a voice, pitching himself to a height as familiar as the false robe he wears, ‘ ... closed? ’
The bass thumps steadily through the cement floor, creeping up his muscles, and bones. The warehouse was hazy, a thick fog mixing coyly in-between bodies. Neon green flashed, lasers moving up and down bouncing off the sweat stained floor. It reeked, he scrunched his nostrils at the intensity of cologne and perspiration. Bellamy holsters the gun in his hand, suddenly hyperaware of his appearance in the nightclub. An entirely black-clad marine in the trenches of the industrial district was, suspicious, to say the least. Bellamy tried to control his breathing, erratic, he began to push through bodies, their irritation and annoyance met with sudden confusion at his appearance.
"Blake, where you at?"
He could barely hear it, the static jumping up the further he pushed into the blind sea of intoxication. Bellamy reached for his radio when he spotted her, a few feet in front of him- the music slowed, gazes clashed and he felt the bubble of rage he had subdued for years. Violet. Fingers danced across his weapon, when she jolted, faster than he anticipated.
Fury, hot and white crawls up his spine as whatever sickly sweet liquor starts to slide its way down his bullet proof vest. Curls sink into his vision, and he aggressively wipes at the droplets still clinging to his skin. Adrenaline floods his system with renewed vigor, he sprints after her- club occupants knocked down with little regard. Nimble, as she somehow maneuvers through the crowd. The walls slimmed, heavy red hues illuminating the smokiness of the narrow hallway. Skin alight with retaliation, his hand encloses around her wrist and his training kicks in. Body pressed to the wall, arms pinned- trapped between her back and his chest. The wall and himself. There was no badge on his vest, no uniform to speak of, he was not bound by the law- capture the target was the only oath he lived by. Perhaps he used a bit more force than necessary, tongue swiping his bottom lip, the bitter sharp tang of alcohol still dripping down his face.
"What a neat trick." He huffed out, breath ghosting her ear, cuffs beginning to make their way unto her wrists. "Quick- I'll give you that."
@kinomorebi ... notably, i usually read threads to vet out style and compatibly ... or to understand a character a bit. it's rare that i ... in loose terms ... "keep up" with other people's threads. i haven't read absolutely everything but a good chunk. i am def a qimirkyrie apologist. and than by extension a Kyrie apologist, too. i also love when you tact on imagery inspo, very cute stuff. as a story-centered rper, i can tell you are too ... even before we become moots.
"you get really mad while you're fighting."
voice like a child, angelic, looks like a sleeper build with a modeling contract.
"i kinda get the impression it's painful for you." and so he comes to a conclusion all by himself for her, tying all her complicated up in a simple bloody bow: "you're straining yourself too much. you don't have enough fun with it."
he's creeping from somewhere overhead the commotion. underground tunnel system, lots of runaway curses. he crosses one leg over the other, chin to palm while he waits for her to figure out where he is. she wasn't by herself a minute ago, but the white-haired guy with the blindfold (was it a sleeping mask? he did seem pretty bored) went off in another direction. oh well. probably for the best. that guy was strong.
mahito smiles, dreamy.
"that's why they think you're weak."
[ Chatter: ] Do they like to talk during the act? If so what do they like to talk about? Is it just dirty talk or something different?
[ Risk: ] Are they into some risky kinks? (breath play, exhibitionism, blood play, etc.) If so what are their favorites? Do they practice them safely?
[ Yes: ] Do they have any specific turn ons? Things that will automatically make your muse say yes to sleeping with someone else. If not what are some other things that get them in a more romantic mood? Lighting? Dinner?
𝐀-𝐙 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭
C - Chatter:
He's definitely a talker, what exactly he says depends on his mood and his partner. If he's really fired up and starts talking dirty and his partner responds positively? He'll keep going, and going. But it's not always completely dirty, sometimes it's him just babbling to his partner about how gorgeous they are, how perfect, etc, etc.
R - Risk:
He knows certain things that he's definitely into like some exhibition & voyeurism, a healthy dose of masochism that can get a little risky. (He thinks he might be into knife play but does not want to be the one to bring that up). But honestly, there's plenty that he'd probably like but just hasn't tried. He's not the most well versed in kink, he hasn't taken the time to study the things that have become less taboo over the decades. He mostly goes with the flow, lets whatever he's feeling come out naturally, which might mean dipping into some things bordering on risky. He's willing to try most things.
Y - Yes:
Something that will make him automatically say yes? Not exactly, he's too damn stubborn for that. But he definitely has specific turn ons. He likes pretty lips, especially if they whisper in his ear and brush against his skin. After battle adrenaline can be intense and seeing someone handle themselves well in a hard fight definitely gets him going. His partner getting possessive can turn him on, especially in front of others. Also he's not immune to tight clothing and bare skin okay.
rhaegar sits not too far from from his merry group, above them the emerald mountain soars ⸻ cavorting over pregnant clouds not unlike a god; it is her presence meant to deter enemy armies / and remind the mercenaries of the power of house targaryen. even if nagini's rider could not have been further from the royal family, looking more than a trueborn baratheon than anything else.
❝ we still have a long march ahead of us —– you ought to rest. ❞ the dragonseed could talk, one might think —– perched upon dragonback whenever they marched. but those who never left the ground would know very little of the strength it took to ride a dragon, even with saddle and reign, the powerful winds one must fight to stay seated. a dragon's violent movement when in battle.
a soft sigh leaving pale lips —– rhaegar is not too worried about an ambush, the greens had little to offer against the winged mountain. sunfyre was young and inexperienced, dreamfyre no longer used to battle, tessarion barely large enough to carry her young rider; only vhagar the old posed a real threat. all of this for that hideous iron chair rhaegar thought. ❝ i hope we join daemon's army soon. ❞ the sooner they marched upon kingslanding the better; the sooner they get rid of the pretender king the better.
