warnings: graphic murder, sex and death, violence
my only defense is that i was drunk and addie likes to make me write mizarei when i am in no position to argue so then i had to make it awful to spite him but i am not sure it spited him at all. i promise i'm not a psychopath in real life. i should also try to be nicer to mizael in future but in my defense he should stop having a stupid face to motivate me. that is all, enjoy your murderporn.
The last left, he thinks, and maybe it is a sad thought, before he snuffs it in duty and in betrayal and in Purpose, purpose to protect his human and this strangely heavy world. Shingetsu Rei (because that is his name now, he gave up the other when he took on this human body) is a middle-school student, a young fledgling human, like his peers, certainly not ancient and angry and filled with fire, fire that could spill out his jaws and engulf this disgusting, fleshy world if he really wanted to. But peace carries its high prices, and so he waits.
He waits for Mizael to realize the missing link, the piece that keeps Tsukumo Yuuma two steps ahead, the presence that whispers nows and heres and theres into his head because humans are so gullible, so moldable, so easily turned and fixed. Shingetsu (because that is his name here) has Yuuma pinned, wrapped around his fingers. The variable is Mizael, the stupid dragon-user who can't even control his dragon, can't burn this thick, matter-saturated world to ashes the way he'd like to, because weakness is a sin and sin is death.
But even as a Lord, even the lowest of the low (the way the two of them are, connected but not bound), sometimes Mizael is so clueless, so out of touch with the very body he inhabits, that Shingetsu finds it very, very difficult not to roll his eyes (a human gesture of derision he has picked up) at who should in theory be his superior. At least where Varian matters are concerned.
But – he must admit this to himself, late at night when he checks on Yuuma before falling asleep himself – that the both of them seem refreshed every time this happens, this body-touching that they do – Mizael probably knows, on a level he won't admit to himself, that he knows who this is, this human who seems oddly eager to please his strange new body's strange new hungers –
At any rate, it was bound to end.
This he tells himself, while his mouth roves over the Lord's own human mouth, their connection-yet-separation aching in both parts of him, the human part that wants more touch, more sense, greedy of everything more it can acquire, and the Varian part of him burning quietly, waiting to break free of this ugly, heavy, matter body and blaze flame-to-flame, remind Mizael of Who He Is, and What He Must Do – on either side, human, Varian, there was no expecting a thing like this to last. Not with two worlds on the line. Not now that he knows who holds the Numeron Code.
Perhaps he should wait, some part of him says, but Shingetsu ignores it the way he ignored every other warning instinct he has had so far, a leftover relic of his patient ancestry, who has had aeons to reflect and ages to react to new threats. No, these humans – these short-lived, ugly, dirty humans – they understand the value and necessity of time. And that is something worthy of respect. Base and low as they are, that is something worthy of his respect.
Not to mention their own self control, he thinks, his hands roving over the Lord's sensitive parts below his waist—the humans know, at this level of maturity, what touch belongs to a lover's and what belongs to anything but, yet Mizael has not learned this distinction (new as he is to these strange matter-bodies), this hierarchy of touch and territory and what Shingetsu can claim as his own with his fingers and palms, with the clever hands this body has, these tools for dominance and creation, for destruction and communication.
He touches Mizael's stomach again. Softly, gently, and the Lord breathes out again, a capitulating sound, an invitation to sensation. These bodies, Shingetsu thinks, so fragile, so controllable. At least when one is unused to them. The humans have the advantage of experiencing these strange matter-bodies from birth. Meanwhile, Mizael the Varian Lord, the Dragon-Master (such a fool), so unused to this body, to sensation of any kind, is like a soft child in Shingetsu's hands, ready to be taught, to be molded, to be modeled for.
"Shh," he says, when Mizael lifts his head, almost as if to ask a question. Mizael holds this position, but soon sinks back to the pillow, the only soft object on the hard mattress that passes for a bed in the former meeting-place of Alit and Gilag. (And it would upset so many delicate balances, wouldn't it? To tell Mizael what role Shingetsu played in Alit's demise? And Gilag's defeat?) Shingetsu's mouth, approaching Mizael's navel, skips down to the organ most involved in this level of sensation, the rod-thing that sometimes assists in waste elimination, but seems more conducively aligned to the process of reproduction. That is what Shingetsu has found, and what is more, this reproductive process in humans is associated with strong instincts. With interference of the kind he is looking for.
Shingetsu takes Mizael's human form's rod-thing into his own human mouth, and listens for the kinds of noises from Mizael that mean he is open to suggestion. Sounds of capitulation, of yearning, of surrender to the easily-deceivable human senses. And Shingetsu is not disappointed; when Mizael gasps, and his hips begin to quiver and buck beneath his mouth, at the behest of his tongue and lips – the human instincts taking over – this is when Shingetsu usually lets go and whispers encouragements into Mizael's ears, whispers human desires and human reassurances so that Mizael, when he comes, can feel fully human, fully base and degraded, below his status as a Lord of higher beings. This is what Shingetsu loves the most, to see him brought low. To dim his light beneath a shade. To lay claim to it.
This is why, this time, Shingetsu does not stop when Mizael begins to quiver, but keeps going, his human mouth providing the encouragement in things other than words, in touches and licks and breaths that keep Mizael quivering and shuddering, a blind and hungry animal. He is no longer aiming for a foothold in the Varian political landscape; that is done and gone. He doesn't want his counterpart to be dimmed for his sake, either.
No. Shingetsu just wants to be better. Better than the Lord who has eclipsed his light for so many eons. He wants to hear the Lord begging for his touch and attention beneath him, wants to bring this bright shiner low and know that he was the author of the other's demise; wants Mizael to beg him for forgiveness, for mercy and light, and to look down on him and pronounce the judgement.
For now, he thinks, he will have to settle for this – for fondling Mizael's rod-thing in his wet human mouth parts while the Lord rolls from side to side and groans, and capitulates to the demands of his foul human body even as the others, for all he knows, could be watching from above. Durbe. The other two. He must have thought of it by now. He must not care.
Shingetsu waits until the taste changes in his mouth, and then all at once he withdraws, leaving the bright shining Lord exposed, on his back, erect and so terribly near release, his eyes unfocused and his breath haggard, reduced to such a low and pitiable thing. The sight of him like this, the awful joy in his conquest, makes Shingetsu's own human parts warm to it, just a little. Disgusting—but Shingetsu has accepted his lowness. Has made it into his strength.
Mizael makes a strange sound, like a whine, begging, and focuses on Shingetsu, confused and half-desperate with need. Shingetsu wipes at his mouth with the crook of his wrist, making sure that Mizael sees his eyes, makes this contact with him, knows that he knows exactly what he is doing. Then he presses his hand to the Lord's beautiful, arched, regal (and so-soft) throat.
"What's my name?" he whispers.
His self-control is breaking too soon; he can feel the smile creeping across his face, a terrible expression of hate and hurt and triumph. Far too soon for it; there should have been a longer period of uncertainty. The punchline will be ruined. Mizael's face was already flushed pink but now it is turning a dark angry red. Sounds come from his throat like blows of an ax. "Sh-shin-gh?—"
"No," Shingetsu hisses, and digs his fingers in harder, individually, feeling the network of cartilage and veins and sinews in this most vulnerable place in the human anatomy. Now he will dare the Lord's name. He will dare tipping his hand. He will dare. "What's my name, Mi-za-e-l?"
The shift of his hand had allowed Mizael another lungful of air. His face is dark purple, the same color as his exposed member, still hard. His lips purse around a syllable. "R-R—?"
"My name," and his hand clenches harder, Mizael is bucking again under his hand but this time it is panic and his hands are clawing at Shingetsu's chest but he is already too weak, already in his hands and under his control. He can feel a grin stretching his face, his teeth bared, human primate instincts to threaten and show his weapons, or perhaps it is not a smile at all. Not in the slightest. "Ask me to finish you, Mizael. Ask me!"
And now—now a new terror bursts into Mizael's bulging eyes like a star being born, more than the fear he had felt before because now it is tightly focused. He struggles, mouth open—now his face is a sickly pale and there is blue tingeing his orifices—struggles and for a moment maybe Shingetsu hopes—"A-gh," he chokes, only able to crack out a vowel-sound that could be a word or could simply be his dying gasps. "Ah-ck...Algh..."
There is a length of time, when Mizael arches back, and they seem to freeze in time, and Shingetsu is nearly holding his own breath, waiting for him to say it, to say something, to...
But it is a long time after when Shingetsu realizes he is dead. He lets go with difficulty; his hand felt as if it had seized up around Mizael's neck, now a bruised mass. His face is too awful to describe. Shingetsu cannot take any more joy in it. It is disturbing. Human weakness is disturbing.
(He had not... he was not sure that he was going to kill Mizael just yet, when he first came here. After all, he has a reliable information source in Yuuma now, and he has claimed Hope for Varian. Mizael had outlived his usefulness, but there also was no hurry. It was only in the heat of the moment-the awful heat and sweat and the ugly lust and fury that seem dyed into these human skins-that his cold hate had kindled into a sudden passion. That maybe it was not only Mizael who was conquered by his matter.)
It is as much as Mizael deserved, he reminds himself. Not to go down in a duel, with the honor he prized, as if there were so much honor in war. Honor was reserved for Lords. Not the lost ones. He runs a shaking hand through his hair and stands. It's different from when he dealt with Alit. Different from gloating to Gilag. There are only three Lords left now, and after...
After that, he would shine alone, wouldn't he?
(The next day, in a moment when he and Yuuma are alone, Yuuma asks why, even out of sight of the other humans, he's smiling so much.)