#nahvee

[tragicblood-archived]

|| Faye and Nahvee for my love @devilsdecade . 

[frontierbound-archive]

Plotted starter for @devilsdecade

Beep

“Hello, this is a message for…”

There is a break in the message as the sound of pages being swiftly flicked through can be heard followed by hushed words.

“Andrew, there’s no surname here…”

The call abruptly disconnections.

Beep

----------------------

Beep

“Hello, this is a message for a Miss Nahvee, this is Debra Kane. I have you down here as the emergency contact for Samuel Silas? Samuel missed his appointment with me last week and he’s not appeared today and while he’s not hit a trigger point yet, as his Social Worker, I’m…well I’m concerned. It’s not like Samuel to miss these appointments, he knows how important they are and he’s always punctual.”

The sound of Debra groaning with frustration is obvious.

“Honestly Andrew, tell them to wait outside will you, I’ll only be a moment.”

The sound of a door slamming shut can then be heard.

“Sorry, anyway, I am loathe to call the police at this early stage, which could serve to cause more problems than it would solve, so can you please check on him for me and then call me back on 555….”

Beep

----------------------

Samuel’s social worker, Debra Kane, is aware that Nahvee holds a spare set of keys for Samuel’s apartment and while she is not entirely comfortable violating Sam’s privacy like this, her current level of concern for him is outweighing her need to follow established protocols.

Samuel isn’t answering the phone, nor his door, the door which is ineffectually barricaded with a broken chair, a box of records, ripped up journal pages and what looks to be the entire contents of Samuel’s cutlery drawer.

Inside the apartment, the picture that is painted is no prettier. It is freezing and there is a strange smell caused by the fact Samuel hasn’t fed the electricity meter in days which has thawed his freezer and spoiled the meagre contents of his fridge. The kitchenette itself is in complete disarray, everything pulled from the cupboards and left on the countertops. Several glasses have been smashed, the plates are stacked on the floor and the microwave door is sitting in the sink. With the curtains drawn and the lights inoperative, it is dark, but not too dark to see the huge chip in his glass coffee table where it’s clear Samuel’s injured himself, something made obvious from the bandages strewn all over the floor and the faint trail of dried blood leading towards the bedroom.

The state of the bedroom is no better; Samuel has pulled all of his clothes out of the closet, including his good suit, the one he normally wears to his social work appointments, which is now sitting in a crumpled heap in the corner covered in cigarette burns. There are empty liquor bottles on the floor and a pint glass on the nightstand that has some kind of brown liquid in it and at least 40 cigarette butts and beside it, empty prescription bottles that indicate Samuel is out of medication. On the bed is every blanket Samuel owns, all piled up on top of him, some covered in blood where he’s badly patched up the injury he sustained in the lounge and others covered in smudges of ash where he has clearly spilled the contents of more than one ashtray.

This downward spiral has occurred in just less than a week and at the precise moment where Samuel needs to reach out to someone most, he has done the exact opposite, instead choosing to isolate and insulate himself, in the hope that somehow everything will get better by itself. He can’t stand the thought of anyone seeing him like this, looking like this…living like this and so he has hidden himself away, unable to cope with the mess that he’s made, of his apartment and of himself; a mess he doesn’t know how to fix, but only make. He needs help, but it seems he’s found himself utterly incapable of reaching out for it.

[tragicblood-a]

Lil doodle for my two nerds @devilsdecade and @thxwxlf.

Nahvee in a lil deer Kigurumi because shes sweet and precious, Faye in a unicorn because they’re her favorite animal/fucking loves them, and Keki in a wolf because she’s a furry werewolf. Faye definitely bought them and they can only do a girl’s night in with them because she’s extra that way.

[hexadacttyly]

@devilsdecade​- asked- “ i’m scared ” (Nahvee) - two word starters meme.

Ford can find it very difficult to respond to intense emotions- often finding it awkward or saying the wrong thing entirely. But, he wants to at least try to comfort Nahvee, who openly admits that she is terrified, and with good reason. They hide behind a jagged rock- a creature’s footsteps shaking the floor. Another  creature flies by- with a searchlights for eyes., narrowly missing the two of them. It’s no wonder why she’s scared.

He turns to her- a frown on his face. ‘It’s alright.’ He says in a hushed voice. ‘I’ve been in tight situations like this before.’ He wants to assure her that there is at least a chance of escaping- even if it might be a small one. ‘We just need to take a deep breath, focus on our intellect and come up with a plan.’

And he does just that- taking in a breath and bringing himself into a state of focus. 

Now

What can they do to better their chances of survival?

 He snaps his fingers. 

‘I got it.’ He says. ‘We need to get the searchadron to shine it’s lights into the face of the gabbawalki. ‘ If they can blind the big brute- then they’ll be able to make a run for it- perhaps even cause the two beasts to fight amongst themselves. 

And then without warning, he practically throws her into the deep end.  ‘I’m going to get that big brute to chase me, meanwhile I need you to lure the one above us straight to it Make sure he blinds the bigger one..’ He takes her hands. ‘I know you can do this...My life is in your hands, literally, so..., no pressure.’ 

And with that he is away.

[vanderdamned]

Day 3 since I bought the hat and I’m still laughing because of it.

[frontierbound-archive]

@devilsdecade​

He’s taken to rolling his own cigarettes recently, the tobacco is cheaper and he finds the process relaxes him, the rhythm of it, the routine. Glancing over towards his kitchenette, he watches Navhee as she prepares some coffee, he doesn’t mean to stare but finds he often does. Sometimes he likes to imagine her in different clothes, chic outfits that tightly hug her figure in all the right places and show off her legs. There is nothing lewd about it, Samuel doesn’t think so anyway; he’s always liked fashion, not that anyone would know given the fact he practically lives in a loose hoodie and sweatpants combo these days; except on Thursdays when he wears his black suit to visit his therapist. He was always the best dressed lad in his platoon and should any of his fellow sailors try to ridicule him for it, he’d usually ask if they wanted to see underneath his ‘fancy’ clothes. It was proposition that either met with their withdrawal or arousal but never their derision – Samuel was popular and popularity he found was a very effective defence and deterrent back then, back when women like Nahvee were ten a penny and Samuel indulged in his fair share of them…wait, no, not women like Nahvee, only women that look beautiful like Nahvee. Samuel has never met any woman quite like Nahvee, truth be told. She is entirely unique and he still can’t quite believe she continues to visit given the absolute state of him sometimes; when he’s so drunk, he can barely move, never mind answer the door.

The day they met had been a whirlwind, Samuel dressed in his best suit, his only suit, heading back from an appointment with his Social Worker, only to watch a man push her over in the street towards oncoming traffic and snatch her bag. Moments later Samuel had found himself on his knees bashing that same man’s head against the pavement. He had handed Nahvee back her bag with bloodied hands, and the two had fled the scene together straight after. Diving into a nearby coffee shop, they had spent no more than 30 minutes together and during that time Samuel had done his best to play the part, inventing a good job, the kind that justified the suit, the existence of an ex-wife, the kind that justified him being single at the age of 39 and a range of hobbies, the kind that involved him regularly leaving the apartment, something he rarely does these days. When she had asked for his number, he had given it, because that’s what the character he was playing would be likely to do - trade numbers with a beautiful woman in the hope of wining and dining her and taking her to bed.

Returning to his apartment that same day, he had removed and carefully hung his ‘person-shaped’ suit and stood staring in the mirror, watching his hands shake from alcohol withdrawal and looking at the sickly dark circles under his eyes, his gaze eventually drifting down to stare at battle scars that, however faded now, still defile his skin. The sight had instantly brought back to himself, his real self, causing him to shed the second skin he’d cloaked himself in during his meeting with Nahvee, to hide such an ugly reality.

He had ignored her calls and texts, disgusted with himself, convinced she would be equally disgusted with him should she learn the truth, until one night, too drunk to properly see the blurry caller ID, he had picked up and in his deep melancholy had told her everything. He had told her about his PTSD, his breakdown, his medication, his alcoholism, his medical discharge and his brief stay in the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum. He had even told her about his journal; a dossier of false recovery evidence written in the hope of keeping himself out of hospital. He had expected it to be enough, enough to save her from the disgrace of his sociopathic lies and foul company, but to his shock she had been kind, understanding even and rather than condemning him had offered to come over and cook something for him sometime. He still wonders if it was the manifestation of some kind of pity for him, but Samuel is not the kind of man who is too proud to accept a kind woman’s pity.

Nearly a month has passed since then and as he sits on the sofa watching her fuss with the cafetiere, he can’t believe she’s still here, making them coffee, in his apartment – the kind of woman he can write about in his journal without having to change anything about her. 

“There’s no fresh milk, but there’s creamer in the cupboard.” There’s no fresh milk because getting milk involves going out and Samuel doesn’t like going out, he doesn’t trust people, doesn’t trust himself either, Gotham’s streets are mean and they tend to bring out the meanness in him.

Finishing his cigarette, he slips in a filter tip and lights it. Tom Ford…she’d look good in a Tom Ford dress, something silver or black maybe. 

“Do you need any help Nahvee?”

[tragicblood-a]

|| You know what I was in need of? Some Faye and Nahvee smooches because i absolutely love and adore them. 

@devilsdecade

[frontierbound-archive]

Plotted starter for @devilsdecade​

“You can’t be here, you can’t come here, it isn’t safe, it’s dangerous, I’m dangerous!”

Samuel doesn’t remember the exact moment he must have reached to grab Nahvee’s wrists, though looking at her now, pressed against the hallway wall, held against it, her arms held high above her head, he realises it must have been the moment she stepped through the front door. He doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t mean to and yet he knows he is holding her tightly enough to, to scare her he supposes, scare her into leaving here and never coming back, because it’s the only way he knows how to truly protect her.

He can sense she is going to speak, perhaps she is going to try and reason with him, try and talk him down and so his hand moves to clamp over her mouth; because he can’t allow it, can’t allow her to try and talk him down from this ledge, the one he’s about to willingly throw himself off. These are hard, ugly truths she’s about to hear and he has to speak them, she has to know.

“You don’t know me…”

It’s a statement he only half believes himself, because there are times when he thinks Nahvee knows him better than anyone he’s ever known and yet there are things he has hidden from her and lies, huge lies, the kind that can’t be ignored any longer, the kind that keep him awake at night and eat him up inside.

“I follow you…watch you…”

He shakes her hard, as if trying to emphasise the seriousness of it all. Stalking; that’s what his therapist would call it if Samuel ever dared to speak of it. All along he’s told himself it’s for Nahvee’s protection, for her safety, but there have been nights where he has found himself standing outside her apartment building just to see who she is with, to determine if there might be someone else she spends her time with, someone he doesn’t know about. There isn’t, there never is and yet he has found himself unable to fight the compulsion to check; fuelled by a terrible combination of his paranoia and possessiveness.

“I was there, last night, in the parking lot when you left your office…”

He swallows hard, still unsure how to explain what happened in a way that doesn’t make him sound like a psychopath; criminally insane, just like he was labelled in Arkham.  

“…there was a man Nahvee, in the parking lot, a man in a mask…”

Samuel doesn’t know if the man was there to rob Nahvee or attack her, in truth, for all he knows it might have been some kind fucked up sex game. He should have waited, intervened when the time was right, but he couldn’t, couldn’t bear the thought of him touching her, in violence or in passion and so he had dragged the man into the shadows before Nahvee could spot either of them.

“…I grabbed him…we…we fought…no…no…leaning forward, Sam presses his head next to her own, his forehead resting on the cold wall as he struggles to maintain focus. “…that…that’s a lie, we didn’t fight…I grabbed him Nahvee and I…I…”

His face is full of panic as he describes it, as if he is relieving the moment all over again; the sensation of the man’s body convulsing in his grip, the sounds of his shoes scraping frantically against the tarmac.  

“I snapped his neck…like…like he was nothin’ more than a fucking toy…I threw him…God, I threw his body in one of the industrial bins…”

That’s it, that’s the truth and there is no dancing around it, no way of softening it; it wasn’t self-defence, it was an execution, plain and simple and there is no way Samuel can escape that fact. Releasing a tense breath, he looks up into her eyes and finally speaks the words that have been trapped inside his chest for weeks, festering.

“…and your boss…I didn’t know how to tell you, I wanted to…I really wanted to Nahvee, but I…he was hurtin’ you and I…I didn’t plan it…but he was so…he called you a bitch and the next thing I knew…the next thing I knew there was a smokin’ gun in my hand and a hole straight through the middle of his God Damn head…”

He thinks about removing his hand from her mouth, he doesn’t want to bruise her, but he’s worried she might scream and how much worse he’ll feel if she does; like the mask has just slipped right off his face as she is horrified by what she lurks beneath it. She might threaten to call the Police and she’d be right to, but Samuel can’t go back to Arkham, he won’t, but he can’t keep holding her like this, hurting her and so finally he releases her from his tense grip. 

“I’m a threat, don’t you understand? It’s not safe here for you, I’m not safe.”