#ian malcolm blurb

[toomanybandstocare]

Hi ❤️✨ can I please request a sneaking around with Ian Malcolm, maybe reader is a dino vet and you're teaching him about them? It can be romantic or platonic, whatever you want! Thank you, and happy birthday 🎂

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖ - Sneaking Around

Drabble for a character x reader of your request. Thank you for celebrating with me anon! This can be read as romantic or platonic :) <3

Pairing: Ian Malcolm x Dino Vet, GN! Reader

Alternative Pairing: Ian Malcolm & Dino Vet, GN! Reader

Genre: Angst

Length: 1008w

Warnings: Implied reader death & Petname (Sweetheart)

Counselor Notes: Ah! It's the last of the celebration requests :,) I had so much fun with these. Thank you to everyone who sent on in or left a kind note on them.

-> Celebration Announcement Post <- -> Celebration Masterlist <- -> Camp Isla Nublar Masterlist <-

You heard them before anyone else did. As Grant and Ian argue over the best evacuation plan from the visitor center, a calculated footstep rung out in the distance. No, that’s too human for this shrill sound- a dull, claw scratch rings out against the metal construction flooring. With the vicious whispers, childish whimpers, and broken machinery hissing, the faint noise is barely noticeable. The adrenaline that rushes through your veins all throughout your body now burns at the creature’s taunting. Your eyes dart around the computer room, desperately searching through the darkness for something to disprove your worst fears. Your skin pricks as you lock onto the large window that looks into the hallway. Cloaked in shadows, something lurks behind the clouds of mist.

“Shut up,” you hiss. “Shut up, shut up, shut up”. The room immediately falls silent. Crouching down, you hide yourself behind one of the computer desks. Blood rushes to your ears, and your heartbeat thunders against your throat. Your fingernails dig into the palms of your fist. White knuckled and shaking, you cover your mouth with your hands.

“What did you see?” Ian quietly murmurs as he joins you. Knees pressed against yours, he crouches before you with a knowing expression.

His cologne mixes with the aroma of his leather jacket and sweat that brings you a twisted sense of comfort. You’re not alone in this. As you open your mouth to correct him, a chilling scratch rings out through the room. Eyes widening, you share a look of panic with Ian. Your breaths grow quick and haggard as a guttural growl echoes in the hallway, growing louder with every click-click-click. Claws lazily dragging against the floor another set joins them, cl-click-cl-click-cl-click. Your skin pricks at the abrasive noise. Cl-cl-click, cl-cl-click, cl-cl-click.

Pulling your shaking hands away from your mouth, you whisper, “It’s what I heard”.

Ian grasps your hands in his own and tightly squeezes them. His amber eyes darken as he looks at you in complete seriousness. “We’re safe,” he assures you, “As long as we stay in here, we’ll be alright until we can figure out how to get the power back on”.

Nerves shake your spine causing you to tremble. Your knees scream from holding this cramped position, but you don’t dare move a single inch. Even though it’s hopeless. They already know you’re all here. All because of you. A choked whimper passes from your lips and your hands grip Ian’s “It’s too late,” you shakily explain. If only you had just pushed the anxiety down and stopped the others’ argument. Not a single security precaution works without the main power leaving you all sitting in a dark room with only the deadbolt bar across the door keeping the raptors out.

A metal screech interrupts you. Your eyes snap up, and your gaze focuses just past Ian’s shoulder at the entryway. “Raptors have sharp hearing,” you breathe out. Your voice quivers, and you drag your gaze to meet Ian’s. Watching the last spark of hope dim in his eyes, your stomach knots. There’s only one way for them to get out of this. Darting your tongue across your chapped lip, you let out a choked breath. “They already know we’re in here by now,” you continue. “And they’re not going to stop until they have something else to focus on. Raptors feed off the thrill of the chase just as much as they do devouring their prey.”

Ian takes you in with his cool, calculating expression. Always trying to get to the root of the situation through logic and care. At the cost of just being just one step behind. As a look of realization breaks across his face, you push against the balls of your feet and dart past Ian.

For one fleeting moment, you feel absolute clarity. Wind stigs your cheeks as you run across the room. Grant, Ellie, the kids - their hushed shouts are drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat thundering. Only Ian’s cry crashes through the whirlwind. His voice shakes with scared desperation as he calls out your name. Pleading for you not to go through with this. As if time moves in a blur, you’re already reaching out to the metal door.

The coolness bites at your flushed fingertips as they wrap around the deadbolt bar. Sliding it across, your ears prick up as you hear footsteps rush behind you. You hastily slip through the opening. As you try to pull your arm through, a hand latches onto your forearm.

“Don’t do this,” Ian heaves. “There are other options. You don’t need to do this”.

Your veins burn as blood stings the inside of your body. “You know how fast a raptor is, Ian?” you ask. Voice light and airy as the words tremble of your tongue in a façade of confidence.

“Don’t do this, sweetheart,” Ian pleads. Eyes wide as he shakes his head in protest, and his grip on you tightens. “Come back inside. There’s still time”.

“Forty miles per hour,” you choke out. “You need to let me go, or they’ll kill us all. They need something else to play with. What’s better than a group of prey waiting for the slaughter? One running for their life with death on their heels”. Pulling your arm free, you take a step back and slide the door shut. Your knees buckle as you take a step down the hallway. Fists pound against the window pane to the side of the door when you pick up a running pace. Looking over your shoulder, you see Ian shouting from behind the glass as three silhouettes emerge from the murky mist. A flickering hallway light illuminates the creatures as they take slow steps towards you. Heads cocked to the side as they watch. 

Your heart climbs up your throat as a dizzying wave of adrenaline washes over you. Without a second glance or thought, you run down the hallway. Claws clicking and scratching against the metal flooring as the Velociraptors hunt their prey.

[bcmuscd]

malcolm wheeler | bio

name: malcolm leon wheeler nicknames: mal, face claim: ian bohen pronouns: he/him age: 47 dob: november 6 orientation: pansexual occupation: rancher personality (+): hard worker, personality (-): blurb:

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[char27martin]

Where Do Characters Come From?

By Mitch Silver

When people find out I write novels—thrillers—for a living, they often ask, “Where do you get your story ideas from?” No surprise, that’s the question a lot of writers get. The second-most-asked question is, “Where do you get your characters from?”

Hmmm, that one’s trickier. The obvious answer, even if I don’t phrase it this way, is, “From my brain, of course.” But, how did Larissa Mendelova Klimt, the heroine of The Bookworm, my newest historical thriller, get in my brain? Or Amy Greenberg, the Yale art historian who was the protagonist of my first book, In Secret Service? For that matter, how did any of the other characters—the good guys, the bad guys, the real guys (Noël Coward, Winston Churchill, Antony Blunt, JFK, Marlene Dietrich in The Bookworm; Ian Fleming and Princess Diana, among others, in Service)—lodge up there all together?

Alchemy? Don’t think so. I’m pretty sure characters come from the life you live and the people you know, the books you read, the movies you see. And the paranoia you yourself bring to the party.

David Cornwell, a.k.a. John Le Carré, says, “My characters are drawn from bits of different people.” Sure enough, I used a girl I knew from high school (oh so long ago!) as the basis for Amy Greenberg, especially her ability to sketch and her love of all things Irish. My wife Ellen is probably the starting point for Larissa Mendelova Klimt and the way she solves problems by letting her unconscious do the work. I’m mixed in there as well, with my appetite for history and my willingness to research trivial tidbits to death.

But none of the above accounts for the fact that I write history-based thrillers, with incidents from the past serving as deadly tripwires in the present. You’ll remember that thrillers, as opposed to mysteries, are defined as stories in which the protagonist is in personal jeopardy … life-or-death jeopardy. I’ve never been in life-or-death jeopardy, unless you count the time, after a Lovin’ Spoonful concert in New York’s Central Park, I tried to make a left across Park Avenue.

No, there has to be something more for a writer of suspense than Mom and Dad and people you’ve known. More even than all the stuff books and movies and the TV news plant in your brain. For me … it’s the nightmares I sweat through.

My nightmares are always the same, ever since I was a little kid afraid of the dark: I know something I shouldn’t know, and I’m running away from the people who want to shut me up. Permanently. None of those naked-in-public or not-having-studied-for-the-test dreams some people call nightmares. I’m talking about the thugs who are in on the secret, the plot: the bad guys with guns … in cars … or in boats…or in planes—hunting me down. Maybe I’ve seen North by Northwest too many times.

Non-fiction writers have it easy. Their characters are flesh and blood humans whose looks, speech and other characteristics can be simply jotted down on the page. But novelists have more work to do.

11 Resources for Thriller and Mystery Writers

I’m absolutely sure when I think of the people who’ll populate a story of mine that I transmute the real-life people I’ve known and the vivid fictional characters I’ve read or seen on the screen through the meat grinder of my terrifying dreams. So, since we’re talking about where characters come from, here are a few of my favorite books and films that have, well, plot-driven plots and characters you just can’t forget or ignore when you sit down to write.

Let’s start with by James Grady’s Six Days of the Condor, which was cut in half to three days for the movie starring Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway. Ronald Malcolm, a guy who reads books for a living, goes out to get sandwiches and returns to find everyone else in the private library machine-gunned to death. He’s on the run from evil forces the rest of the way. A Mitch Silver nightmare stripped to its bare essentials.

Then there’s The Parallax View by Loren Singer, a book made into a movie starring Warren Beatty in the paranoid 70s. Same deal: Presidential aspirant is gunned down, and the photographer who got the picture has to run for his life.

Of course, Hitchcock was the real pro when it comes to ordinary people caught up in villainous plots. The Man Who Knew Too Much, The 39 Steps, The Lady Vanishes, and the aforementioned North by Northwest all involve regular folks who uncover conspiracies that may cost them their lives. Certainly their sleep … and mine!

Those plot-driven plots and their evildoers constitute an acre of library shelves, going back to Graham Greene and The Ministry of Fear, made into a great noir film starring Ray Milland. For Milland’s character, an Englishman named Arthur Rowe, the trip to the charity fair in the countryside (as the blurb on Amazon puts it) “is a joyful step back into adolescence, a chance to forget the nightmare of the Blitz and the aching guilt of having mercifully murdered his sick wife. Just released from a sanitarium, he’s surviving alone, outside the war, until he happens to win a cake at the fair. From that moment on, he’s ruthlessly hunted by Nazi agents.”

I’ve read the book and seen the movie every time it comes around on TV. For the hours I’m immersed in the story, I am Arthur Rowe, and I hang on by my fingernails right to the thrilling end.

There’s at least as much good nightmare material in William Goldman’s Marathon Man. Another group of Nazis, this time leftovers from the war, are after Tom “Babe” Levy, a graduate student in (what else!) History at Columbia. They want to know what his CIA agent of a brother might have told him before he died. Dental visits will never be the same.

Now that I think about it, I probably based my suave villain in In Secret Service, a guy I named Devlin for good reason, as much on the American baddie in Marathon Man as on anyone I’ve known in real life.

Want to feed a nightmare? Ira Levin went all the way in Rosemary’s Baby, where nice, sweet Rosemary finds herself living next door to a coven of devil worshipers in the Dakota. Mayhem ensues.

Last but absolutely not least is Coma, by Robin Cook. His protagonist, Susan Wheeler, is an attractive, 23-year-old third-year medical student working as a trainee at Boston Memorial Hospital. She stumbles upon something not-quite-right in OR 8: people come in for minor surgeries and go out vegetables.

Now that I think of it, I must have modeled my Professor of Geo-History at Moscow State University, Lara the Bookworm, at least partially on smart, determined Susan Wheeler. They, too, must match their wits against the evil that men do. Without knowing who those evil men are.

So the next time someone asks me where my characters come from, I’ll answer truthfully.

“I dream them up.”

Mitch Silver was born in Brooklyn and grew up on Long Island. He attended Yale (B.A. in History) and Harvard Law School (“I lasted three days. I know the law through Wednesday, but after that…”). He was an advertising writer for several of the big New York agencies, living in Paris for a year with his wife, Ellen Highsmith Silver, while he was European Creative Director on the Colgate-Palmolive account. A previously published novelist (In Secret Service), Mitch and his wife Ellen live in Greenwich, Connecticut and have two children: Sloane is a nurse at Wake Forest Medical Center and Perry is an actor and the drummer for Sky Pony, a band in New York. Mitch also won the American Song Festival Lyric Grand Prize for “Sleeping Single in a Double Bed.” His blood type is O positive, and he always writes his biography in the third person. For more info, please go to mitchsilverauthor.com.

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