»  Blog Home
  »  Browse All Blogs
  »  Blog Layouts

Manage Blog
  »  Add New Post
  »  View My Blog
  »  Customize Blog
  »  My Subscriptions
  »  My Subscribers

  »  Browse All Blogs
  »  Uncategorized
  »  Blogging
  »  Guidelines
  »  Photography
  »  Real Life
  »  Resources
  »  Stories

Browse All Blogs

02/22/2019 07:17 PM 


Kaydel Ko Connix-- “You need to believe me, please!”

“You need to believe me, please!”

“Whoa, whoa, Kaydel, slow down. Okay. Breathe. I believe you. I believe you.” Evaan put her hands on the young lieutenant’s shoulders and lowered herself a bit to help better make eye contact with her. Evaan’s hands pumped with the steady beat of an even pulse, and she gripped Kaydel’s shoulders tight enough for her to feel it. The Admiral was steadfast, a rock standing up against battering waves and currents. She was unflinching, unmoving, and she hoped that Kaydel could siphon off some of that energy for herself.

War made things complicated. Evaan—having come of age during a war of her own—knew this better than anyone. It made it easy to slip into panic. It made it easy to feel overlooked and unheard. Any functional military had many moving parts and sometimes things got lost in the cracks, the Resistance was no different. Evaan looked at Kaydel and the worry that she was trying to express to rebel high command, and the worry that doubled as more and more people pushed aside her concerns as secondary issues; and she saw both the soldier that she taught and trained back at the academy, and the young woman who should’ve never been put in a position of war during such an important part of her life.

“I’m listening. I’m here. I believe you. Now start over, from the beginning. I want to hear it all.”

Rebel Princess-- “I want to go home…”

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get use to these damn dresses,” Evaan tugged at the pinching sides of her gown as she entered a room on the far side on the newly finished space station—a station built out of the rubble of the destroyed Death Star and orbiting the same path that the planet Alderaan once traveled. “I know the war’s been over for a little while now but still… spend enough time in flight suits and soon everything else is just—”

Evaan looked up when she realized she wasn’t be listened to, and she spotted her melancholy princess across the room. Leia—dressed in a white gown of her own, looking perfect, and regal, and ready to represent what was left of her people on that important day, on the day that New Alderaan was completed—stood by a wide viewport that looked out over a vast starfield. But her eyes were not fixed on the stars, they looked down at a small black rock sitting behind a glass display case on a pedestal. It was piece of Alderaan’s mantle, a solid chunk of home rescued from the cold vacuum of space and put on display to make sure no one forgot the old as they were starting something new. Leia’s eyes glassed over as she stared at the charred rock.

All thoughts of uncomfortable dresses, and celebration, and everything else faded away from Evaan’s mind, and she went over and joined her friend. There was no need for a great speech or conversation or any number of the blah-blah-blahs that could follow a moment like that. Anything that could be said was known by both parties, and even though this was an important and great day, a day where Alderaanians from all over would have a place to call home again, there was no need to fight the natural angst of the day. Leia was Evaan’s friend, a friend who didn’t often show moments like this. So Evaan stood there and she let her friend feel sad for as long as she needed to because sometimes it was important to feel said.

“I want to go home…” Leia said, her voice shaking.

Evaan put an arm around her friend and stared at the rock behind the glass, too. “Me too, ma’am. Me too.”

Doctor Aphra-- “We need to run for it!”

The cave was narrow, cold, and wet, as caves usually were narrow, cold, and wet. Evaan Verlaine marched forward toward the darkness, her hand finding the blaster pistol holstered on her side and drawing it as a scream rushed up out of the shadows, speeding toward her. Behind the scream, a beeping; the all too familiar song of an Imperial probe droid.

Aphra came running out of the shadows first, screaming and arms flailing like some sort of cartoon. She was Evaan’s unfortunate partner on this mission, which explained the constant scowl chiseled to Evaan’s face since the mission started. There were parts of Evaan—large parts—that wished for Aphra to trip and take a tumble down a long dark hole. That certainly would’ve solved a handful of problems Evaan was dealing with, that was for sure, but no; Aphra was doing this job with the Alliance. Despite her dishonest nature and her untrustworthy past, she was a rebel, at least for a day, and she was Evaan’s responsibility.

“We need to run for it!” Aphra called out as she hauled ass toward Evaan.

Evaan stopped, but she didn’t turn around. There was no going back. The mission was too important. Evaan raised her blaster and squinted an eye as she lined up her shot in the dark. Aphra raised her hands in front of her face and called out for her to stop, maybe thinking that Evaan was going to shoot her instead, but when Evaan pulled the trigger a single red blaster bolt lit up the darkness and zipped over Aphra’s shoulder, striking the Imperial viper droid in its soft spot right below the dome as it emerged from the shadows. Evaan lowered her blaster and the probe droid whined before dropping to the stone floor with a heavy thunk.

“Come on,” Evaan grabbed Aphra by the shoulder and dragged her back toward the depths of the cave. “They know we’re here already, which direction do you think they’re going to come from when they come to find us? No way out but through. Move it, soldier, we have a mission to complete. And this time, Chelli, no more screaming.”

─ ƞeurotic.

02/22/2019 11:30 PM 

(♛) ; welcome & guidelines.

First off, welcome to my slice of Gotham. This is a simple and straightforward guideline blog.
I won't be strict with my rules but it's just for keeping things running smoothly.

001. Since people seem to like to know, I'm from Scotland, which means I'm on a UK timezone.
I've been writing since 2013 and have been writing as Jervis since 2016 on various sites.
DC Comics is fairly new to me, so please don't be judgemental when I don't know everything in and out.
This page isn't spoiler free; I'm up to date with season five currently.

002. As character goes, Jervis will be played canonly from Gotham.
I've also read numerous Batman comics he is in and yes, I'm aware of his backstory in detail.
I am not against to writing him from the comics or the animated series but I prefer Gotham's portrayal of the character.
The only difference is I do not acknowledge the relationship between him and his sister.

003. Crossovers are welcome and encouraged. I don't have a preference, everything goes.
I'm also non judgemental when it comes to people's writing abilities.
OC's are also welcome to add.

004. Sometimes I simply can't get on.
Please be aware that my health does affect my muse, without going into much detail.
Replies will be sent when I feel able to get them out with quality.

005. I'm a para to multi para writer.
Whilst I prefer this, I am in no way discriminative of other people's writing lengths. I prefer quality over quantity.
If I send you a large reply or starter, please do not feel the need to match me.
The fact you have replied is more than enough for me.

006. Drama isn't needed, so please don't bring it to my page. Thank you!

007. Not that I've thought about it much, Jervis has no preferences towards gender when it comes to shipping.
I don't write smut due to personal reasons, but my shipping is usually chemistry based really.

Now that that's been done, tea?
discord; -- neurotic.#2084


02/22/2019 04:57 PM 

About this page

(1) I'm UK based - our times online are likely to be different. 
(2) I've been roleplaying for 12 years, though I'm recently back from a hiatus.
(3) I can write Para - Novella, whatever you'd prefer.
(4) I don't NEED smut - I tend to write as friends/family. The smut and romance is just something I tend to fall into if it fits.
(5) I've created Alena out of a deep and lasting love of Buffy the Vampire Slayer; a staple of my childhood. I've created a darker past for Alena (her family connections to demons, dead mother who came back as a Vampire, etc) so that she fits into more genres, not for the drama.
(6) I f***ing hate when people create drama for no reason. Very annoying.  Go back to the playground if you want childish conflict, please.
(7) I'm happy to talk out of character, but I am here to write - not to ignore anyone.
(8) Just because Alena is straight does NOT mean I'm against LBGTQ+ - we have friends in RL we aren't attracted to, so the same applies on here.
(9) I do work full time, so I can't be online all day every day - as such, please don't be impatient with me - I won't be impatient with any of you. We all have lives outside of here which should always come first.
(10) IF we do turn things more towards a sexual nature, I do have limits: Don't include children in the RP, no elderly people and no animals. There are other places to experience those things, but this isn't really one of them.

Don't be shy - say hello!


02/22/2019 02:47 PM 

what have you done? pt. 2 }} d r a b b l e.


tw: drug overdose, suicide attempt

W H A T  H A V E  Y O U  D O N E ? -- ;

”Heyyy, he is awake!”

”Yayyy, he’s awake.” Casey gave a weak smile as Christian neared the bed, like he was forcing himself to celebrate with him, but what reason did he possibly have to do so? What was there to celebrate about being stuck in a hospital bed, still fighting for his life after both his exes found him dying alone in his apartment? He felt like an idiot, yet all of it was bitterly nostalgic. Being completely lost in what felt like another realm, with no concept of time other than the fact that it was still dark outside; delirium from copious amounts of medication that offered little relief; the stiff bed in an obscenely bright hospital room; the worried faces and crying he could only remember in small bits that made little sense upon true awakening; memories he wasn’t sure were even real. Most familiar was the interrogation from the nurse about why he’d done it -- if he’d been feeling depressed, if he partied too hard, For his convenience, she had a list of psychiatrists for him to get in touch with, but Casey had been there, done that, and he wasn’t about to do it again.

”Was Sarah here?” Casey strained just to speak above a whisper, his eyebrows furrowed. Another familiarity was the fiery feeling raging through his stomach and throat, making it hard for him to gather the strength to breathe, let alone talk. But he swore he recalled Sarah being in his apartment, so he had to ask. He had to know it wasn’t a dream.

”She was, but she left,” Christian answered, taking a seat beside Casey.

Casey smirked. ”Probably didn’t want me to know she helped me out.”

”It was actually Sarah who realized something was up with you,” Christian explained. “She lost Isaiah and Jake’s numbers, so she called me instead. Guess you were texting her some weird sh*t.”

”Nice...” Casey shut his eyes, though a hint of his smile remained on his face. He felt Christian’s hand brush his hair back as his head drifted off to the side a bit.

”Sooo are you feeling okay?”

”I’m miserable,” Casey blunted, still with his eyes closed. “This bed feels like cardboard and I’ve had to pee for like three hours.”

Christian laughed. “You know what I mean, dork.”

At that, Casey’s eyes fluttered open, smile fading as he stared at the window.

“If you really wanna know… I wish I tried a lot harder.”


02/22/2019 02:31 PM 

Psych Notes || 00001

*** TRIGGER WARNING: suicide, suicide ideation, suicidal thoughts.

One of the fun parts of recruitment is that they play on the last few remaining strands of your humanity by showing you what you death did to those who loved you most. Their favorite one to show me was about my mother, and how she found my body.

My parents had worked so hard on the house in order for me to come home. They converted the living room into a bedroom for me so that I didn’t have to climb the stairs in my wheel chair. My mother never lost hope that I would walk again - I think that’s why they left my bedroom the same. I cringed every time I saw the living room. My mind burned with memories of being gathered around the television during Sunday supper, my young and naive self, sitting too close to the screen as I jammed fork after fork of mac’n’cheese into my mouth.

As I sat in the middle of my family’s living room, slumped over in my wheelchair, all I could think about was how much my mother was now going to have to do for me. The idea made my guts ache like someone had run a hot knife through them, and my mind spiraled out. The only reason I had even found myself in a position to be blown up was because I was adamant about dying the soldier’s death. Seeing as I had no honor left for me in the States I figured that I would just go out with my boots on.

I can hear God laughing at me now.

Sometimes I wonder if God had more in store for me than to just become this shell of a man who had nothing left to live for.

Even in the wake of everything my parents still found it in their hearts to care for me, to make room for me. In spite of my father’s bitching, mom made it possible for me to come home. No doubt she would have to take heaps of emotional grief for it but I knew she only did it because she loved me. That’s what made it so difficult to watch her find me. Why couldn’t it have been my dad? Certainly he would have been able to break the news to her more softly than I did…

She had been out shopping. I remember because when she had come in she was wearing her jacket. If I had been alive I would have been able to smell the scent of peppermint from the little candies she always had in her pockets. She would joke about how she would carry candies in her pockets until she died because you would just never know when you’d come across a small child who needed a peppermint candy. I was usually the only one she gifted them to but sometimes, if she was doing laundry or the dishes, she would joke about how she couldn’t wait to treat her grandchildren to the peppermint candies she kept in her pocket.

“Fletcher, I’m home!” Her words rang out into the empty house. It was quieter that usual – that kind of quiet that is deafening when she had just left a house full of people.

“Hello?” She said when her words went unanswered.

She walked into the living room, clutching tightly to the brown bag of groceries that she had carried in. As she made her way into the living room she saw that my wheelchair was empty. “Fletcher!” She gasped out in a panic. Clearly her thought was maybe I had fallen out of the chair and hurt myself trying to do something on my own.

If only that were truly the case.

She dropped the bag of groceries she had been clutching to when she rounded the couch to find that I had been laying on the floor the whole time, unmoving and cold.

When I watched the look overcome her face, my heart shattered into a million pieces. It was such a contorted blend of concern and fear with flickers of hope that what she was seeing with her own eyes wasn’t true. Can os spaghetti-o’s and boxes of mac’n’chesse filled up the space next to her feet, a can rolling to thump into my leg as it laid there unmoving.

She stooped to her knees, her hands curling over my arm as she tried to flip my body over. She was frantically saying my name over and over again, no doubt in an effort to get me to wake up. She strained trying to pull the whole weight of my two hundred pounds over onto my back. When she did I hit the wood floor with a thud as my limbs laid lifeless beside me, my head slumped over to the side. My face and the floor had been covered in vomit; my eyes were puffy, my cheeks swollen.

My mother let out the most unearthly, blood curdling scream. After the scream she started shouting for my father. He had left just a few minutes before I had collapsed. He always had great timing.

“Robert!” She belted out through the house as she frantically pulled herself up from the floor to scramble for the phone hanging on the wall. Her hands were shaking so much that she dropped the phone, and it smacked against the wall as it hung from its cord. She let out a frustrated wail as she scooped it back up into her hands. Frantically she dialed for emergency services, who begged her to stay on the phone until help got there.

“I don’t want to leave him alone in there,” my mother cried out on the phone. “He’s all alone, my baby, he’s all alone!” She sobbed. If there was anyone who truly understood the levels of suffering I faced in my daily life, it was my mother. To this day I am still so ashamed that she had to be the one who found me. In all honestly I was hoping that I would have been the home care worker that they had hired for me before I came home, but she was stuck in an appointment and had been coming late that day.

Jokes on everyone, though. No matter who found me, they wouldn’t have been able to change what had happened. I had been storing up my pain pills for over a week to make this happen.

When emergency services came, they declared me dead at the scene. My mother stood there alone as a police officer stood beside her scribbling down notes. She had called my father at his office but he hadn’t had time to get there because the message had been left with his secretary. Figures.

It didn’t take long for them to get my body into the back of an ambulance. My mother stayed behind at the house because she wanted to wait for my father to come home. A police officer lingered for a little while to ask her questions about foul play. It wasn’t hard to figure out that this was an overdose though. For many years my mother believed that it was she who killed me because had to be the one who gave me my morning medications that day.

My father didn’t help, either. They fought a lot after my death, some of the fights doing irreparable damage to their marriage.

Of all the things I’ve ever regretted, hurting my mother this way is probably the biggest. When they stand my soul at the gates of hell, may they make me suffer at the hands of evil for the pain I have brought upon my mother.

Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry. Mama's gonna make all your nightmares come true. Mama's gonna put all her fears into you. Mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing. She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing. Mama's gonna keep baby cozy and warm.

© 2019 All Rights Reserved.