Fx Male 🌐｡ ₊🚀°⊹ ࣪ ˖💿๋࣭ ⭑ ｃ：\\ｃｒａｖｉｎｇｓ

[mctormouth]

start here!​

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hey there! welcome to my request thread. please stop by my journal first for my about info, key guidelines, and k-list! the quick and dirty/most important info here:

• mid-twenties, EST, absolutely no interest in OOC flirtation/solicitation, but would love a good friendship & planning rapport!
• would prefer to write in a thread on the forums, as opposed to a PM exchange. PMs great for plotting & OOC though!
• open for one or two select longer term stories, with conservative posting frequency of 1-2/week
• m/f for now (but LGBTQIA+ friendly! <3). i do not care what the gender of the writer is, and am willing to write as both male and female characters.
• third person, literate/multi-paragraph format (writing samples below)

currently seeking...​

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so, longest shot of long shots: i’m primarily after long-term, semi-plotted canon/OC for some of my more obscure/older fandoms! an egon spengler or (and? m/m/f fun, anybody?) ray stantz from ghostbusters (1984;1989) would be the big fish i’m looking for, but i’d also love to write against an alexander dane from galaxy quest or a dr. ian malcolm from jurassic park. specific plots/dynamics for each in the spoilers below, but the general common themes will be: an age gap, interracial/my f!OC being of color, the endgame being smut & domestic bliss of a sort.

i am very much happy to double or trade for a canon of choice from either the same fandom, or another listed in my journal (even if it’s not listed, just ask me! i’ll see if i know it!)

ghostbusters​

timeline: sometime shortly after the first movie, or an AU where they’re not shut down for the gozer/stay-puft business. my female OC is a new(ish) lab & research assistant, often buried in paperwork, translations to do, and her daydreams about her boss or bosses. too bad he’d never ever give her a second look, since he’s so into his work & research…right? at least, so she thinks. until something goes down that leads to some re-evaluation of their…professional relationship. possibilities include:

• an accident in the lab with some positively charged mood slime?
• a possession by an an incubus or sucubus?
• an encounter during a bust with some ghostly doppelgangers that leads to some confessions under duress?

i’ve got extensive knowledge of this canon, from the movies, to the novelizations, to the cartoons, to the video game—all of it! i’m down to and prepared to come up with some other ideas too.

jurassic park​

timeline: after the first film. my female OC is your ‘historian-type’ of choice—a ghostwriter, part of a documentary team, a journalist, what have you. in the midst of ingen trying very hard to control the narrative regarding the events on isla nublar, she’s interested in learning the truth, straight from the source.

galaxy quest​

i am admittedly quite idea-slim, but will update or am willing to receive inspo!

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besides these, i am open to the possibility of “inspired by” plots and may update with some original plots of my own, but i’m definitely prioritizing and seeking these first and foremost for now!

writing samples​

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average reply​

“Hey, is it fine if I—oh!” Fallon all but squeaked as Marcy (and her perfume) hooked her into an impossibly strong grasp. She was shocked her feet were still touching the floor. The blur she caught of the bullpen as they sped past was very much like the entryway, mahogany desks, brown leather, such and forth. What looked like a lump of lime green wool and tousled brown hair was half-slumped over one desk.

She didn’t even have the chance, nor the space between Marcy’s rundown to form a breath that could’ve been, “Are they alright?”, but she did throw the lump a second look as they stopped in front of Bill’s door. At the other woman’s quip about ‘the goods being odd’, she couldn’t help but tilt her head and give the bullpen a side glance. Bill had also been vague about the men who would essentially be her bosses; per him, they were fine, fine young gentlemen, thrown in the midst a long tangent on an unexplained undersea mass sponge migration he’d witnessed in the ’70s.

It wasn’t like she had no experience with academics. Otherwise, those three years of Ivy League education would’ve been a total waste, rather than an almost complete one. Stuffy, lukewarm-ish at best, and yeah, usually odd. Correction, eccentric. But, Fal could do that.

Fallon shank back a bit on instinct at Marcy’s holler, but still she was carefully searching the knots of employees. Maybe Gav! was the tall, Viking-looking dude holding court with a handful of laughing companions. Or the one meticulously tilting and balancing the plates on cookie table like he was defusing a bomb. Or—

“Wha…?” The lump was a person. A very miserable looking person who could definitely use a Benadryl. Maybe a shave. Haircut might not kill him either. She gave him a small wave, and a sheepish, apologetic smile before Marcy turned back to her. Fallon was foolish enough to open her mouth to try to talk again, but this time, the tingling of bells cut her off.

Bill, just as friendly as he’d been last time. She didn’t even attempt a verbal greeting, just smiled and nodded—her nonverbal communication would clearly be her greatest asset at this job.

She followed close behind him as they made their wall down the hall, and started to run down a mental list.

ID & keys? Check!

(Probably?) Met at least one half of Reed and Stern? Check!

Tall, dark, and aerodynamic at 9’o’clock— Huh?

Her double take wasn’t even close to quick enough to catch the eye of the tall man as he glided past, but Fallon certainly caught the eau de sum of money she’d never see in her life at one time and how drastically he stood out against the gaudy warmth of the decorations. Did they employ the paranormal here as well as investigate it?

It was only Bill’s clap that brought her back to the moment, and Fallon quickly turned forward to face the rest of the room. Okay, so she would be speaking at least once today. Quick intro, she could do this.

She quietly cleared her throat, then gave another quick, boneless wave. “Hi, um, I’m Fallon…it’s good to be here. And I’m really looking forward to helping out.” She nodded, then gave Bill a little dry laugh and a shrug. “Sorry, think that’s all I got?”

fun cold open/starter!​

It may have been dark, and only getting darker, but the night was only really getting started. City that never sleeps, right?

The pedestrians—nine-to-fivers with running, red noses carrying newly-freed layaway prizes for the commute back over the bridge to the ‘burbs, third-shifters grabbing dinner, students promising into chunky flip phones that “Yes, Mom, I’m catching the train the day before…”—never gave him a second glance. He was shortish, not rail-thin but clearly the build of somebody who favored a well-timed smoke over a meal from time to time. He took off his grungy gray beanie, swept dark hair back into place before putting it back on as he walked down the block alongside them.

Bart was a dick. For a litany of reasons, but for the moment, he was a dick because he just couldn’t seem to stop bumping into people. They gave him nothing stronger than a dirty look, maybe a “Watch it, pal!” from the mouthier and less exhausted among the pack. In exchange, however, he’d been generously gifted with five money clips, four credit cards, three bracelets, two Rolexes…

And a partridge in a pear tree, Bart hummed with the music piping out of a storefront nearby as he swiped a pocketbook hanging out of a coat pocket. Quite the haul, if he said so himself. He loved this time of year. Not for the warm and fuzzies and shit, but because the percentages of marks and clueless assholes skyrocketed. Tourists, shoppers, out-of-towners…it was perfect. Just perfect.

Speaking of perfect. As Bart hit the street corner and turned onto a more hidden stretch of businesses, the crowd thinned considerably. The only aware and awake inhabitants it seemed were himself and a couple trying (and failing miserably) to hail a taxi. The thing that’d stopped him, though; a man in a Santa costume, slumped over in a chair with his little jingle bell still hanging between his fingers, fake beard flipped messily over his snoring mouth. Next to him, an open, shiny copper bucket, near overflowing with bills in all of Bart’s favorite denominations.

Bart looked to his right, scratching fake-idly at the stubble on his chin; the couple’d finally put some back into it, and were piling into a cab. He looked to his left; nobody coming down this way, and in the only shop still open, a single worker with headphones on mopping behind the counter. A witness-free crime, and so far as his moral compass was concerned, a victimless one as well. This money went to charity right? He was kind of poor.

In the blink of his eye, Bart’s leather gloved hand plunged into the bucket and stuffed a handful of money into his pocket. The Santa snorted and stirred a bit, but his chin dropped back onto his chest and his hat fell into a slushy puddle nearby. Regardless of if he had actually stirred, Bart was already halfway gone, hustling and looking in all directions just to confirm all he was already confident in. Once again, he’d gotten away with it.
Giving one last glance over his shoulder, Bart side-stepped into the alley and slammed a dumpster lid down. His eyes bounced between where he’d come from, and the haul in front of him as he began emptying his pockets—had to organize before retreating home for the evening. Soon, he fell into easy routines: count the bills, toss the blatantly fake watches, etcetera, etcetera. So easy, and so distracting that he would have never had a hope of noticing the pulsing multicolored light behind him in time, or the low hum that filled the air with them.

He did, however, catch the crunching thud. Bart froze, a rumpled Benjamin still in his right hand. An impossibly, hellishly hot and humid huff of breath hit the back of his neck and blew his hat off his head. He heard a crunchy, long scrape, then the sound of pebbles and glass pieces landing a little bit away. Then again. Whatever was behind him was impatiently kicking its feet. Like he was fucked up for not turning around to face it.

A shaky inhale, and the petty thief turned ever so slowly. His eyes went wide, horrified at the sight before, or rather, high above him.

“What the fu—?!”

The exclamation died in the air. And if anyone had been around to catch the sickening snapping, squishing, and slashing sounds that undercut the Christmas songs and crowd chatter echoing from the neighboring streets, they would have been able to conclude that its creator was likely dead not too long after.

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please shoot me a PM if anything looks good!