nishaxeleazar

[nishaxeleazar]

"You're right." Nisha said with a nod. "Clan's never interested me." Honestly, she didn't want to be told what to do. She'd spent centuries with her sire, trying to make sure she did everything right. For once, she hadn't wanted to feel controlled in her own life.

Not that it mattered anymore. Mehrzād had found her. As had her daughter. Nisha's independent life was about to go up in flames. Maybe her theatre, too. "Maybe you could get out of it, somehow? If you hate it that much." Nisha didn't know what the terms and conditions of Clan's were. If one joined, could they leave? Maybe. Maybe not.

"Everything's great." A lie. An easy lie. "The show for the theatre will be starting in the next month. Last minute costume designing and tailoring is happening right now. The actors and actresses should know their lines by now, but I've noticed some are still fumbling over their words." It annoyed her that they'd been practicing for over a month and some of them still couldn't get their lines straight. "Nothing that can't be fixed, though."

One hundred and thirty five days.

Maybe it was no use keeping track anymore. Some days it helped to manage the anxiety, as if by packing the chaos of her new existence into a neat little number could make it feel more surmountable. Numbers she was good at, numbers she could manipulate. But other days it felt laden with dread, like a pronouncement of death. I've been gone for one hundred and thirty five days. No one is coming. This is life now.

Eleanor leaned back into her armchair, fingers clutched around a glass of absinthe, and smiled wryly at Nisha's question. She'd never told her all the sordid details of her involvement with Clan Reardon. Outing herself as a hostage would do her no good. She'd only recently been given leeway to roam outside of No Man's Land and Nisha was the first person she'd struck up an acquaintance with. Jeopardizing that for what -- pity? -- served no purpose. She'd seen what Reardon was capable of; she had no intentions of dragging Nisha down with her.

Besides, if she squinted, this could almost pass for normal. They could be on her porch in Bumfuck Texas right now, tucked into matching patio seats; two friends enjoying a drowsy summer night, gossiping over glasses of merlot, the smell of Luke's cooking drifting in through a crack in the front door.

"... I have shitty coworkers," she answered with a shrug. "It's nothing. You're smart to stay out of clan politics, it's not worth the hassle. And you don't strike me as the type of gal who likes being told what to do." She liked it, that fierce streak of independence. It was heartening to meet a vampire whose life didn't revolve around whatever Sopranos reboot Clan Reardon was workshopping. "What about you? How's everything been?"

[nishaxeleazar]

Nisha wasn't sure what she'd expected when walking into the dojo. A man who remembered her, perhaps. Although, it didn't seem as if he did. Even though they'd only met each other once, and the event had been so short, it had caused a huge issue in Nisha's life. One that was incredibly memorable.

"If you do not..." She clicked her tongue as she tilted her head to the side. "Then I suppose there is nothing I can do." A dramatic sigh escaped her lips as she remained on the ground, kneeling in front of him. "A shame, really. You were so interesting, back then." Who was he now, decades later? Still the same person he'd presented himself to be? Or maybe, a changed man.

Her eyes met his as she answered. "You explained the mechanism that you'd placed on my door. You gave me a way to get out." Her voice had an edge to it as she spoke. "But it didn't fucking work." She practically spat at him.

Technically, it had. With the knowledge that Tetsuya had given her, she'd managed to get out of her locked room. She had wasted no time darting down the hallway and running down the stairs. She'd made it out the door, down the steps and out into the yard before Mehrzād had caught her and brought her back inside. She'd timed her escape wrong, but she still blamed the man in front of her for it.

"Which means, you owe me."

His quiet is merely an appraisal, and it stays that way, even as she begins to lower herself at his feet. It is something he should know well, because it is sickening in his hindsight how many begged at his feet. At one point, they are all but blended voices before becoming the echo of screams. Stolen voices, choked until he might pluck apart their lungs, and their sanity to extend the life he had not been ready to give up.

Mehrzād is a name he feels he knows, filtering centuries of history from a dying mind. It's a feeling like the name does not belong to this face or this woman, but he has seen it before, somewhere.

I'll do anything. Had she had something at the time that Miyazaki had wanted? A key to unlock his ambition further?

She's alive, for one. As alive as the dead is. And this is not his doing; he can say that for certain. She survived him, for whatever that's worth. It is expected that his past would find him; he cannot outrun it all.

Tetsuya allows her face to be pictured in his mind with the backdrop of a thousand places, as though one might eventually feel familiar. She has caught him in the depths of his thoughts, thrown something sudden and jarring in the wake of it. So quick to action and so determined in her intention. The sensei expects that she came here for something that is not the nostalgia of old memories. How many people did he lock away, in the pursuit of furthering his own power? Miyazaki does not trust easily, and there is every potential that something else that desires him dead would find its way here, to deliver his execution.

"And if I do not?" There is supposed to be some apology there, he imagines. But he hasn't disciplined his humility when challenged so brazenly as yet. But it does come in slow rivulets; the knowledge of who she might be, if only because he remembers a man and his desire for a tinkerer; technology beyond its time and his wife, whom he used as a means to test its versatility.

Miyazaki's eyes narrow because flashes of things long forgotten begin to worm their way back. Perhaps his memory is failing him, much like his body is, but he is direct:

"Do you remember what I said?"

[nishaxeleazar]

"Of course not." Nisha said, a smile on her lips as she stared at him. "Especially not for an old friend." Though, she'd hardly call him that after he'd practically ensured her getting kicked off of his ship all of those years ago. They'd been friendly, but they weren't friends. Maybe they could be, one day. Most likely not, though, if Mehrzād had any say in it.

Nisha's fingers slipped from his arm as he decided to sit back down on the bench. A breath escaped her lips as she moved to the other side and sat down across from him. "Me? Work here?" Nisha scoffed and shook her head. "You have the memory of a fucking fish. Too many years sailing on the sea. Too much salt water in your ears."

Granted, she didn't look exactly as she once had. Her clothes were different. As was the style of her hair. "You really don't remember me?"

A hand on his arm draws his attention left. An instinct not entirely dampened by rum. It stops him from rattling with the lad on the adjacent table, whose giving him a stink eye. Oh boy you've no idea. Garrick's friendly, til he ain't.

You've sunk so deep, darling.

"Well, darl." That's all he's got for that string of thought, actually. He's busy steadying his feet on the ground. He hasn't been a pirate in so long, it's a phrase he'd never use outside of his mind, either. Garrick thinks she's referring to the restaurant, with it's gimmick's and little monsters scrambling up fake rigging, and tugging on skull and crossbone flags. "You didn't mind giving a hand, did you?"

It's still lingering, equally cold fingers looped around his elbow. Alcohol stained lips curve into an amused smile. More dead. They're truly infection parasites. The smiles stretches into a thing half wry, half a little too honest. Garrick decides he might need to sit back down for another quarter of an hour, before he's able to fully surrender his table. He plants himself back on the picnic-like bench. "Thankin' you."

His ship? Is she pulling his leg?

"You work here or somethin'?"

[nishaxeleazar]

Nisha ↠ Reid

Nisha: Can we meet? Reid: Why? Nisha: Do I need to have a reason? Nisha: I just want to see you. Reid: I won’t spare you twice, Nisha. Nisha: I’m not asking you to. Nisha: Please, Reid. Reid: No games. Nisha: None. Reid: Where? What do you want? Nisha: I’m not sure. I need to make sure he doesn’t follow me, first. Nisha: I already told you. I want to see you. Reid: Him? The mysterious dead sire. Reid: Eleazar, you know why I meet you, so just tell me where. Nisha: Kinglet Cove. Midnight Nisha: Yeah. Not so dead anymore. Reid: [ read ]

@reidhalstead

[nishaxeleazar]

Smash or Pass: Mehrzad, Reid

"Both. I'd have sex with both. Not at the same time. Seperately. Preferably without Mehrzād knowing about the other. That would cause more of a mess than what I'm willing to deal with."

@lustrcnt @reidhalstead

[nishaxeleazar]

NISHA / LIAM / ROSE / ZANE / FREYJA / NOLAN / TJ / AKEMI

Send me "Good boy/girl" for my muse's reaction to your muse saying that to them!

[nishaxeleazar]

SEND “⚡️” AND A QUESTION AND MY MUSE WILL BE FORCED TO ANSWER HONESTLY

Please specify the muse for multimuse blogs.

[nishaxeleazar]

Even though it has been years -- centuries -- since she'd seen him, Nisha would recognized Garrick anywhere. He'd been one of the men that she had tried to manipulate all of those years ago. Someone that she thought she'd be able to latch onto. Who would give her a new life, away from her sire. She hadn't given herself the greatest chance, though, having stowed away on his ship.

It turned out that Pirates really did not like strangers being on their ship. Especially ones that carried baggage. While Garrick hadn't known who she was at the time, his Captain did.

She could tell that he was drunk before he even tried to stand. She's seen him drunk before. Although, it seems as though his balance is off now that he's on land. "A Pirate who can't even stand on his own two feet." Nisha smirked as she took a step forward, grabbing ahold of his upper arm to steady him. "You've sunk so deep, darling."

Whether he recognized her or not didn't matter. It would be best if he didn't, honestly. Mehrzād was around. If he had a reason to believe that Nisha had stepped out on their marriage, even though it had been centuries ago, he'd go after the man that she'd done it with. Then she'd suffer more consequences than the ones he'd already put her through. As if on cue, the burning sensation on her forearm flared and she grimaced.

"Where's your ship?" Because even in the modern world, Nisha assumed that he was still living on one. Once a Pirate, always a Pirate. At least, that's what she believed.

For: All.

Garrick's not a creature of one place. That much has always been very clear-cut. Between The Ports, Olympic Serval, Satin Cabaret, and Blacktop Mile. He's not familiar, but he's becoming something of the sort. He needs to push the edges of a city, to know what it's about. Vying to know its guts and its glory and where there are open wounds he might need to heal, or to bleed fatally.

It's a gimmick sitting by the water. Rascal Jack's is a bustling entity, he's found. But he's never been inside when there's too much stuck to its outside, like an evergreen being decorated for whatever religious holiday. Garrick believes he'd tear down its innards if he were allowed in. Instead, he's in the yard of it, docked himself at a table with a rum (because it's all over the menu) and eyes the bow fastened to the front of the restaurant for all its crass craving. Whatever ships and vessels (if any) they'd pulled these novelties from, it's a theme. Not a museum, or a shrine.

And if he hears 'Ay, me hearty,' one more time, he's going to make them say it whilst they're gurgling blood. An education in how much a corsair cared to have a conversation with them, let alone serve them grog and bread.

He's telling himself to see the humour in it. The Caribbean hadn't been the same as Munster, and everyone gets a fair trial in the name of the people.

He knows he's been far more than a man at sea by this point, and he's about to be on his way to the Serval to go break the same bread with those without homes, nestled in the hull of a once great structure, abandoned.

The rum is but a trickle at the bottom of his glass now, and he raises it as a new wave of patrons eagerly come to experience a night of piracy.

They look lost.

"You lookin' for a table? Here, I'm just leaving."

When he goes to stand, he realises that he's on his fourteenth rum. And he's tried to leave about eight drinks ago.

They keep serving him, or maybe he's compelling them to. "Could you be a doll, lad and give me a hand?" a lifts a finger in pause before trying for another go at standing up. It's not so clean — any of his movements — and a funny little chuckle breaks free as he's got another table looking their way. "You don't wanna rattle about it, not in front of all these ankle biters, do you?"

[nishaxeleazar]

Nisha forced herself not to flinch at the loudness of his voice. It echoed through the theatre, her mind immediatly imagining that this was a play in itself. A game that the two of them were playing. One that she struggled with remembering the script. They'd been here before, on several occasions. Not having this exact argument but... something close to it.

She couldn't tell if his questions were rhetorical or not, but given his current mood, she knew that anything she did say would most likely cause him to grow angrier with her. Nisha couldn't see a way out of that, not unless she dropped to her knees right then and there, and begged for forgiveness. That, or threw herself into his arms and show him her undying love for him.

A love that she wasn't even sure was real.

She was close to laughing at the idea that the theatre was created in his memory. She would have, if he had spoken it in a different tone. The theatre had nothing to do with him. It had been her passion before he stole her away from her life and it would continue to be, whether he was next to her or not.

"You were dead. What the fuck what I supposed to do, Mehrzād? I had to--" Her words were cut off as his fingers wrapped around her throat and suddenly, he was so close to her that she could feel his breath on her face. The bouquet of flowers fell to the floor as her hands lifted and grabbed at his arm.

Dread flooded her body, his words sinking into her skin like a balm that was supposed to heal old wounds, only to carve them open. Warmth prickled at the corners of her eyes as she shook her head at his words. She had fled the scene because she hadn't wanted to die. Nisha would have never turned a stake upon herself, not for anyone. "So you'd have done that if it were me who died? Killed yourself?" She didn't believe it. She couldn't.

The silence causes her fear to spike, an involuntary whine escaping her lips as a lone tear trickled down her left cheek. "Zād--" Nisha started and then flinched as his grip tightened. Her nails dug into his skin, as if that would prevent him from harming her further. "No." She said, quickly. "No. Of course not. There could never be anyone else." All of those years had been lived alone, for the most part. She'd turned Reid a few years ago, but she didn't have him. He wasn't hers. Not in the way Mehrzād was asking, at least.

"Please... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Tears streamed down her cheeks now as her hands moved up his arm, fingers grasping at the fabric over his chest. "Let me show you how much I missed you." A hand moved up to his neck, fingers brushing over his skin, up his face, and tangling in his hair. "My love, please."

“Decades are nothing but a blink to you and I!”

His loud, angry voice echoes throughout the auditorium. Something of a yell, but what it truly is, is the frustrated cries of the weary. How many times will she try to make a fool out of him? She's trying to unravel her unreasonable actions, as if she spins the thread through and through, somehow reason will magically appear. It won't. Excuse after excuse. How tiresome. How boring. Frankly, how untrue.

A tale as old as time, the people you love are bound to disappoint you.

Muscle memory must've taken hold of her tongue, but not her eyes too? Why don't they look at him with adoration anymore? Compassion? Love? Where is her love?

It's absolutely heart wrenching.

"Distracting yourself?" Mehrzād repeats, a concoction of both disbelief and bitter drizzled on his tone. A thin scoff flares out of his nostrils. “Putain, mais bien sûr. Tell me, sweet Nisha, how have you been distracting yourself? Hm? I'm dying to know, in what ways you have dried the tears you've cried for me?" They gesture to the entire theater. "This theater can't be the only thing you've built in my memory, is it?"

Humorlessly, drenched in sourness, a laugh lunges from his throat.

"My God, Nisha, all of these centuries and yet, you are still a fool!" He shakes his head and his black curls bounce with it. "What modern nonsense is that? Moving on?" His brown eyes narrow at her as he lets her nonsensical sentiment linger in the air. "There is no moving on, not when you and I are of concern. We are fucking eternal."

Muscle memory catches up with his own body, with one swift motion, he lunges his arm in her direction and captures her throat with his hand.

"Believe me when I say," Mehrzād continues, not easing his grip by a centimeter, "There is no me without you, no you without me. I would have been happier to hear word of you digging a wooden stake into your heart rather than witnessing you moving on. If you believed me to be dead, then dead you should have been too!"

As his desperate shouts echo back to them, there's a moment of silence. In this silence, against the shaky breaths of the tormented soul that is Mehrzād, he has a sinister thought.

"Perhaps," he begins once more, "I haven't asked the right question. Is it not what is drying your tears..." His grip tightens around her neck. Should I ask, who has been drying your tears instead?” His voice is softer now. "Tell me Nisha, is there someone else?"

[nishaxeleazar]

There was so much she needed to tell him, and yet, Nisha wasn't even sure how to answer the question. If she should answer it. Knowing Reid, he'd most likely try to find whatever instrument or object had caused such markings on her body and try to use it on her, himself. And maybe she deserved it. Mehrzād had truly believed that to be so. "I don't know." She could guess, though. "I don't exactly get to know the full details of my punishments."

She knew it had been a brand. A special kind of brand. But she wasn't quite sure how Mehrzād had come to acquire it. It didn't really matter, though. He had it, he'd used it on her, and now the marking wouldn't go away. It burned constantly; a reminder that she was not in control of her own life. That she was his.

His question, along with the tightening of his grip against her throat, had Nisha rolling her eyes. No. She wasn't trembling. Not from him, anyway. Even though he'd torn through her body months ago, Nisha was not scared of her own fledgling. She was scared, however, of her sire. Of what he'd do if he found out she'd sired her own vampire. Of him walking into her office and seeing this scene. Witnessing her practically ask for death.

This was unlike her. Nisha had never actually wanted to die. And in that moment, she still didn't. But she was tired and if this is what Reid needed to feel better about himself, then so be it. It would tear her away from Mehrzād. He'd be devastated. Most likely hunt Reid down and kill him for what he'd done. But that wouldn't be her problem any longer. She'd be nothing but dust.

Her jaw clenched as his fingers dig into her chest. She does her best not to flinch, but the pain causes more tears to form and stream down her cheeks. Nisha's tear filled eyes lift up to watch his expression. She could tell by his hesitation that he was conflicted. "He's alive. He found me." Her voice is barely even a whisper. Mehrzād happened to her. He was the reason her own mind and body was at war with itself. "This isn't a game."

Reid is so close to her that a part of her wondered if he was going to kiss her. If he'd give into other primal, completely ignoring the fact that he was inches from killing her. Nisha's thin fingers wrapped around his wrist and she practically pulled his hand further into her chest. "Please." Nisha never thought she'd act like this towards Reid. Begging him for release from this life. For him to do exactly what he'd threatened to do to her for years.

What happened next was something that Nisha hadn't expected. The strength in his hand around her neck increases and suddenly, her neck snapped. Her body sunk to the floor, her mind completely unaware of what happened.

When she woke, Nisha was alone in her office again. The pain of her burning flesh continued. Disappointment and sadness flowed through her veins and without even checking to see if the door was locked, she curled in on herself and cried.

END

She doesn't know him at all. All those studious years she spent leering over his shoulder, nudging him into compliance — using his family as leverage. She doesn't know him; she just sees what she desires there to be. She's delusional, neurotic. Batshit insane. He had freedom, he had strength; he had all of that when he was alive. She'd taken it from him in a clean murderous sweep, and whatever twisted good conscience she believed her destruction on his humanity had been, earned her nothing but his continued hatred. He'd had months to sharpen his hate into something fatal. It'd been buried for a while, but with his temperamental nature of late, maybe he'll unbury that weapon.

She won't even look at him. When did Nisha become a coward in his presence? Irony would have it that he knows her. And he loathes that he can see something is off with the woman — his sire. Everything from the scald on her arm, which vibrates fresh, to the aloofness and callousness of Nisha's actions. She's letting him do it again. Tear her up, shred her to pieces. There's no threat or reprimand. None of that violent calculation that lives inside her mind at every given moment, demanding to be twenty steps ahead of Reid, always.

"Why not that?" He practically demands it, like he wants to know what great weapon can leave a burn on her in such a way. She covers it, all sleeves and unease. He wants to put a letter opener that's on her desk right through her, just to see how that fares.

Reid's eyes narrow as his hand tightens around her throat. "Are you trembling, Eleazar?" Afraid of him? As fucking if. Who is this person that's replaced the cold, life-ruining bitch that he's dealt with for nearly a decade? Confusion ripples across his features, wondering what kind of game this is. What strikes she's about to pull out of the woodwork that'll put him to the floor. Frustration, anger, and guilt are all things that cloud his judgment. That have his eyes wavering over the woman and the water crescenting her ducts.

He can do it.

And then his hand settles in the gap between her breasts, guided there by hands that have left scars on every inch of him, inside and out.

She's going to let him kill her. Reduce her to dust, forgotten.

In his mind, he's quick with this opportunity, burrowing his hand inside her chest until he feels the slick flesh of her heart. His fingers thread between her arteries and aorta, spidering around the organ, squeezing tighter and tighter until he can tear it out in one sudden jerk.

Reid can see himself so clearly, in his imagination, standing over the end of his maker as the ash of her heart feathers through his hands, and he watches Nisha crumble to dust, gone. Just like that. He's fantasised about such a thing for years. It's all he's wanted: to rid himself of the woman who took everything from him. And he'd be damned if he ever let her do it again. Because he has things to lose again, now.

He has people he refuses to let go of.

Yet there he stands, slowly digging his fingers into her chest, tight-jawed, watching her expression like it might give him some satisfaction to see her in pain. But his hand only ghosts her heart. Stops. Why are you stopping? He doesn't know, because whatever has crawled inside Nisha and stolen her spirit is the chance that Reid has waited for, and he's about to blow it.

Nisha saved his sisters once, twice. When Reid couldn't. Her adoration is a twisted, masochistic thing, but that's on her to endure, not him. Nisha's ongoing crime has always been her control of things; her execution of him from hunterhood, the overbearing sire that'd only let him form a life years after stealing his. A captivity that he's still suffering from the aftermath of. He's lost his mind. If he doesn't end this now, Nisha will still be here, fifty years from now, a hundred, even. When he's lost everyone again. And who does he have then? Other than the sun? And her?

He's lost in his mind, weighing up every decision that'll come after this one. What would anyone say to him if they knew he hesitated in this moment? Reid seethes, teeth tempting to crack: "What happened to you?" He adjusts his hand of its bruising grip. His fingers twitch from within the first inches of her ribcage. "What game are you playing with me now?"

He can't do it, and he knows it.

Reid can't let her know that; he will not allow her to think he cares a fraction for her, or her existence. (But what other reason could there be?)

He's about as close to her face as he can be, without kissing her. He's convinced he can hurt her, do this — he can — "Well then, fuck you, Nisha." It doesn't ignite the old wrath inside him to move deeper in her chest. Dimmed emotions that ignite and fizzle out without his permission.

But the hand that is necklaced around her throat, choking her, furiously snaps sideways.

There's a sickening crack. And her body goes limp in his grasp.

Reid lets go, watches her fall.

Hands move to his head to furiously rub through his hair, itches at his scalp, and he wants to scream. Why can't I do it? She's still. Powerless. There are a hundred ways for her to meet death in this office, and time ticks away from him. His window is closing. Fuck. He's killed more monsters than he can count. What's another? He's looking at the broken neck of one of the worst.

Is it better to have her on his side than to not be? He doesn't know what's wrong with her, or what madness has her wanting to take the dust train to the afterlife, but Reid wishes she'd done it years earlier. Now, he's thinking she could be more useful, than dead. And he's angry with himself for thinking like a monster.

Reid doesn't wait for her to wake up. Can't stand to see the smug grin on her face to see him there, knowing he'd hesitated. He doesn't think he'll get this opportunity again.

And he still walks out the door.

[nishaxeleazar]

NISHA / LIAM / ROSE / ZANE / FREYJA / NOLAN / TJ / AKEMI

     𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃   "  𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇   𝐎𝐑   𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒  “   𝐅𝐎𝐑   𝐌𝐘   𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄   𝐓𝐎   𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑   𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘   𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓   𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒.   𝐍𝐎   𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃  .

[nishaxeleazar]

⚡️if you had to pick one to leave port leiry with by your side, reid or mehrzad?

"That is complicated. I've recently come to... regret some of my actions with Reid. So, I think, if I were to choose, then I'd choose to leave with Mehrzād. As much as I want Reid for myself, I wouldn't want to take him away from his sisters. I also know that if Mehrzād finds out about him, it might turn... ugly. I don't want that to happen. Reid is mine, whether I'm in the same town as him or not. And at this point, with my sire alive, he'd be safer without me, or Mehrzād, there."

@reidhalstead @lustrcnt

[nishaxeleazar]

⚡️who do you really love?

"I don't know if love is a thing. Mehrzād has always claimed to love me, but I've really only seen lust from most men. Lust, power, and control. If that's what love is... Then I've felt it occasionally with Reid but mostly with Mehrzād. Love, in my experience, is conditional. There are expectations. It takes and takes, even if you have barely anything else to give. It feels fake, sometimes, too. So... maybe I love them both, just in different ways."

@lustrcnt @reidhalstead

[nishaxeleazar]

NISHA / LIAM / ROSE / ZANE / FREYJA / NOLAN / TJ / AKEMI

SEND “⚡️” AND A QUESTION AND MY MUSE WILL BE FORCED TO ANSWER HONESTLY

Please specify the muse for multimuse blogs.

[nishaxeleazar]

As he continued to play with strands of her hair, Nisha fully expected his fingers to drift further upwards, finding her roots and gripping her hair tightly. Her imagination creating a scene in front of her where he gripped her scalp so tightly that he pulled out chunks of her hair as he forced her to kneel in front of him. Her eyes glazed over for a moment, lost in the potential situation he might put her in. The situation that she'd caused herself for not going back and checking to see if he was actually dead.

His voice -- both soothing her mind and causing an itch underneath her skin -- brought her back to the present. His question evoked an immediate answer: "Of course I did. How could you even ask that?" Her eyebrows furrowed at him, a half truth. Half lie. She'd missed parts of him; the times that were good. She missed some of the attention that he'd give her, the devotion. "It took decades for me to feel something other than sadness." Other than fear.

Nisha doesn't even relax as he releases her hair and takes several steps away from her. She's trying to figure out this game -- his next steps. His plans for her. She hadn't expected him to let go of her and walk away. "I was able to distract myself." She corrected him. Move on, well, she'd done that too. It didn't mean that he had to know that part, though. She wasn't going to admit to it. Not now.

"You're assuming, Mehrzād." Her voice hardened as she met his gaze with her own glare. "You've been gone for so long that you have manifested truths that aren't even real about me. About us." She refused to admit that yes, she had a plan. That if the hunters hadn't attacked them at that time, within the week, she would have tried to drive a stake through his heart. "It's been a century. I watched you die. At least, I thought I did. You can't expect me to not be shocked by your presence. To not have... tried to move on." Her voice was raised now, showing her frustration. "If it were me, if the situation had been turned around and it were me who died, I would have wanted you to try to move on. To try to create some life without me."

Nisha ran her free hand over her face as she let out a sigh. She couldn't believe that this was happening. That the life she'd created for herself was crashing down around her, all because she'd assumed that her sire had fucking died. And now, he was there, standing in front of the stage, expecting... her. The old her. The obedient her. Her eyes drifted towards the flowers, her lips dipping downwards. "We've both changed over the years, Mehrzād." It was an assumption, really. She had no idea if he was the same person as before. "I'm glad you made it out alive." For Julieta, at the very least. "But I've been a widow for a century and I don't know where that puts us, currently. What, exactly, do you want from me?"

The words sound lovely on her tongue, even so, there's a sense of sadness flickering inside of his eyes. This sadness, it doesn't stray his gaze, or even stop himself from combing through her hairs. His suspicions of her cowardice isn't new. Yet, the confirmation from his own tongue sickens him to his stomach. How he has failed as a sire. Mehrzād did not realize, that during his and Nisha's time together, someone had come in the night and cut her spine out of her body.

Of course, those hunters did not exist. She'd be looking for figments of her imagination in the physical world. Strangers would've pegged her as confused, then finally mad, if she pressed on it. Then mad she should've been. She should've been absolutely bathshit over the loss of him. She should've relived that night every night in her mind. She should have regrets. Right now, she should pulled out the list of what she could've done better, what she could've done to save him the middle of the forest. She should be groveling, kissing his feet, reading Mehrzād this list of her shames.

She does none of this. She stands, a little proudly, a little too chummy, for his liking. He was mistaken what he said earlier, perhaps drunk on hope because the reunion with Nisha, Mehrzād had spoke complete nonsense into the air. Her punishments could wait. It's clear to him now, they cannot. It wouldn't be fair to him, but it wouldn't be fair to his Nisha either. A wall is built between them, and if he moves his feet just right, he could see her clearly. Yet, each word she says, she might as well position herself in direct view of the rock. Why dance around the wall? They should hack it to smithereens! That way no hard feelings linger in his chest. Forgiveness can grow him a new heart.

Retribution must be paid so her sins can disintegrate. They should get it all out on the table, in this case the stage, and leave it there, so they can enjoy eternity hand in hand

"Did you miss me?" His voice is velvet and its as if the sadness from his eyes made way to his tongue. "Being away from you was pure agony. As if someone was holding my head underwater for years. As if a hot branding iron was placed on my chest, of every day, of every second, for an entire century."

Mehrzād releases her locks of hair and begins to step away. He walks downstage, as if he's getting a closer look of the entire auditorium and deeply sighs. "It looks like you were able to move on," he notices, his voice lower now. He turns his back to his beloved Nisha. Beloved. He wonders if the feeling is mutual. He wonders if it ever was.

"You are embedded into my skin like a injury that will never heal. You're scar tissue, melted in my soul for as long as I haunt this earth." His eyes hover with darkness. "In order to heal from me, you put on the smallest of bandages. Moved on before you could blink." His head cocks to the side. "When we were together, before the hunters whisked me away, did you pray for my downfall? When we slept next to each other, husband and wife, did you have dreams of wedging a stake into my cold, dead, heart?"

[nishaxeleazar]

Her emotions, which had been shut down and completely gone in the last century had made a sudden appearance the moment she saw her sire. Nisha was trying to reign them in, to yank them towards the back of her mind again, to shut them off, but Reid's words were like daggers in her skin; prying her open and allowing the emotions to fester instead of retreat.

She flinched at his words but she knew that he was right. She'd let him grab her and use her in any way that he wanted in the end. She'd allowed his harsh touches, his teeth, his nails in her skin. Nisha had wanted to feel what it was like for Reid to actually touch her, even if it was in an effort to destroy her.

Yes, she could have stopped him. But she hadn't. Yes, she could have prevented him, initially, from tearing others down and succumbing to his own bloodlust. Again, she hadn't. Whether it was a mistake or not, Nisha didn't know. But it was clear to her that Reid had wished she'd stopped him. That she'd done something to save him from what she forced him to become.

And then... well, it had been too late. She'd intended to help but her plan had been derailed by her sire. "The freedom. The strength. Yes, I thought you'd enjoy those things." She said but her voice was quiet now, her eyes averting downwards. Ever since Mehrzād had shown back up in her life, it was as if all of her strength had seeped from her body. All of the fight that she once had, all of the drive. Nisha was in survival mode, now. She was no longer the woman she'd became after her sire had "died".

A hiss escaped her lips as Reid grabbed her arm. She'd managed to forget about what was on her forearm. The inflamed skin that was radiating heat. She'd covered it with long sleeves when she came to the theatre, but had rolled them up sometime in the day. She hadn't expected to see anyone. Especially not Reid. "I do. Just not from this." She glared at him, yanking her arm from his grasp. She quickly yanked her sleeves down, allowing the edges to wrap around her wrists again.

Then she was against the wall, sudden and harsh. Nisha's head knocked against the hard surface and she groaned. She didn't try to wiggle out of his grasp. Nisha didn't even struggle. His words, once again, sliced through her and her bottom lip quivered slightly. Nisha couldn't even remember the last time she cried. And yet, now, her eyes burned, threatening to spill. No. She wasn't happy now. She realized that she pushed Reid too far and at this point, he'd most likely never accept himself as a vampire. That was her fault.

"Nothing." Her voice cracked as she raised her watery gaze to meet his. "Nothing is stopping him. If that's what he wants, then he can do it." Mehrzād sure as hell wouldn't allow her to die, if he was given the option. But he didn't know that she currently had a fledgling that wanted her dead. He didn't know the situation she was in. So, she could die. She was being given the choice and part of her wanted to take it. To escape this world and the future that was completely unknown. To allow her fledgling to have closure after what she'd done to him.

Nisha had fought so hard not to become her sire, but it seemed as if she'd become him, anyway. She reached towards Reid's hand, grabbed it, and guided it towards where her heart was, just beneath her breast. "Go ahead."

He wants sparing the lecture. Because she only has to look at him and see the pain vibrating in his eyes, and the rage that's desperately trying to devour it. And fuck, he'd thought she might actually have been honest with him. That the bitch would stop lying through her teeth, like it means a damn.

"You didn't know?" He spits it at her, half-laugh, half-scoff. "You and I both know you let me do that to you — I was in no state to take you on, whatever you thought I was going to do... What? You think even without any humanity I'd ever touch you in the way you want?" Now he's just being spiteful, because she's the catalyst that he's never been able to stop. "I don't know how ancient you are, and I don't care. You could've stopped me, Nisha. You could have saved me this—"

She could have done something right. Dare he say, something on the path of foregiveable. Reid watches her reach for him, and stills. Hand clasped over his own like she's trying to ease him to some comfort. It works for a moment, because he forgets; pictures another set of fingers against his, before he reminds himself that he's at the Titan with the woman who ended his life.

You're sorry? Reid wants to choke, because he didn't know what he'd expected coming here. Didn't know what she could say or do that would make this better. That would alleivate an ounce of the guilt he's carrying. You should have been there. You should have stopped me. She says it all, and it hardly makes him feel any calmer. But it does allow some defeat to settle in, because that's all she could possibly say, isn't it? Whether a lie or a truth, she'll say what he wants — or needs to hear, and that'll be it, she'll never lose sleep over this. And Reid doesn't get to sleep anymore, because human blood rejuvenates him more than animal-kind ever did.

"You thought I'd enjoy it?" Disbelief, now. In amongst the responsibility she's so easily taking. She's softer than he's seen her, weaker, he might even say. There's a moment that comes in a flash, where he believes they could have been allies on the same side. But it lasts a second, before her hand slides away and she's shuttering something cold over her features again. It's more familiar of what he knows.

Reid doesn't let her get too far. A hand snaps out, pulls her back toward him as he twists her forearm upwards. His eyes fall down to the glaring red he'd caught in his periphery. It's a burn, crassly carved in some coat of arms, bleeding red on her flesh, a letter engraved in its centre. He has no idea what the fuck that is. "You don't heal now?" Good to fucking know.

He doesn't know what play she's putting on downstairs, but he's sure that she's not careless enough to let some prop burn a mark into her goddamn arm.

Reid lets go of her, like she's suddenly filthy and he's realised what he's willingly touched. She can't change anything. They know that. And all her calm, and her apologies has Reid madder because it's quietened the argument and he would really like to erupt. It doesn't matter what she says, he decides. And he crosses the room, pins her against the wall of her office — as though he'd ever stand a chance to keep her there. "Are you happy now? That you'd made me this. That I'm so fucking broken that I don't know what to feel, or if I can. All these years you wanted this, the hunter, the fighter and now you've got him, what's to stop him ripping your heart out?"

And even as he says it, he isn't sure he can.

[nishaxeleazar]

Nisha stood in front of the house where her husband was staying, umbrella drawn above her head. Her husband and her daughter. Nisha was conflicted. Her old self, wanting to have a nice, family dinner. Her new self, who wanted nothing to do with this situation at all. She didn't want to step foot into the home, fearing that she might never be able to leave.

Memories of being locked in her own room -- and in a coffin -- for years, flooded to the forefront of her mind. She absentmindedly rubbed at the new brand underneath her long sleeve -- against her will, of course. A consequence given by her sire for leaving him after believing he was dead. The heat radiated off of her skin, pressing into the cloth of her shirt. She was getting better at ignoring the pain, though it was quite irritating.

With a clenched jaw, Nisha walked up the steps of the house and opened the front door. She waited until her sire noticed she was there and watched as he comepelled a woman to invite her inside Nisha's eyes narrowed at the human, her nose snubbing at her as she closed the umbrella, left it outside, and walked past her and into the home.

Her eyes caught sight of her daughter. There were no hugs offered, no smile, and no comments of adoration. "You haven't seen your mother in a century and this is how you decide to present yourself?" Nisha shook her head in disappointment. "Go change. Now." She'd never been the best mother but Nisha had taught Julieta how to present herself correctly. Nisha expected more from her. She also expected her to be with her husband and not still attached to her father like a fucking infant.

Nisha sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly as she turned towards her husband. Ex husband, in her opinion. "You should have killed the humans the moment you decided you wanted this home."

@lustrcnt

WHEN? 3:33p

WHERE? The Very Large House Merhzād and Julieta are "renting" from a very nice human couple.

WHO? @julietaisms & @nishaxeleazar

Outside, the rain beats against the roof of the old white Victorian home. Truly, it's a beautiful house, these humans who own it have magnificent taste. Elegant flooring, lovely, furniture, and a beautiful, grand piano that doesn't get enough use. Mehrzād can tell by the way the human husband, owner of the home, plays. Since arriving, Mehrzād has encouraged him to play. Right now, the husband plays a terrible rendition of Beethoven's Für Elise. Day and night, the human has been compelled to practice his musical skills, only breaking so the human can get a good night's rest so he can do it all again. Mehrzād isn't cruel. Perhaps, he should be, because regardless of that practice, the human still hasn't mastered one of Mehrzād's favorites. It's pitiful, really. He plays awfully clunky and terribly off key. Definitely not good enough to play in the presence of the entire Yazdani family.

Today must go perfectly. This family reunion is overdue. Decades overdue. Though, Mehrzād could handle the dreary weather caused by a Pacific Ocean hurricane (what are the odds), he could not deal with a shabby piano player.

He's had enough, the irritation is too much to bear. With impeccable speed, Mehrzād picks themselves off of the fine leather couch and to the homeowner playing the piano. "If you're not going to play it right," he chides with eyes wide. "Why have any fingers at all?!" In flash, he grabs the man's left hand, and with great strength pulls off not one, not two, but three fingers off of the man's hand. They break as easily as snapping a stick of a carrot. The bones crunch, the man screams, and blood sprays all over the gorgeous hardware floor and vintage rug.

The annoyance in Mehrzād grows. "Now, look what you've done," Mehrzād barks. "You've ruined the rug!" Rubbing his face in his hand, the vampire gives the human his next command. "Go to the hospital and get that taken care of."

While the husband picks up his discarded fingers off the floor and begins to leave for the hospital, the wife enters the room. She'd been busy preparing her lovely home for Mehrzād's and Julieta's most esteemed guest but the vampire had one final task for her. Once she heard the screaming, she knew to prepare a bucket of hot soapy water and a cloth to scrub out her husband's blood out of their expensive rug. By now, she knows the drill.

After a deep sigh, Mehrzād falls back into the leather seat, picks up the novel he had once read until his ears were violated by the terrible tune. His eyes flash upon the grandfather clock in the corner. Nisha would be here soon. And where is Julieta? Nowhere to be found. He supposes she has her own feelings about the whole ordeal. Mehrzād had lost his wife. His truest love. His everything. Julieta had lost her mother and supposedly, that meant something too.

His gaze then flashes upon the speaker in the corner. Though nothing beats live music, when properly executed, this is a decent enough back up.

"Hey Alexa," the vampire orders the modern contraption, "Play Für Elise by Ludwig Beethoven."