This sideblog is about Mithrun. I don't tag spoilers on reblogs (lazy). I will spoiler tag on text posts, though. Out of courtesy. Thanks. Mithrunning away now.
The world was separated by fine lines. They ran through civilization, rarely with a discernible beginning, and rarely noticed by anyone but those who approached them. They were tangled and knotted and digging into the skin of society— and when released, the mark they left was red, bruising.
You wanted to snap one of those lines. You wanted to run it across your palm, wrap your fingers around it, and squeeze. You wanted to watch the tension grow, to tear it apart, to leave it ragged and broken and ready to be yours.
Yours, as you were his.
You felt the fine line grow taut as Mithrun’s good eye searched your face. You’d done something bad. His chest rose and fell as he held himself up with both arms on either side of you. Those arms could’ve been the bars of a jail cell, or the columns of a temple. His palms were flat on the cold ground, his fingers were splayed, one knee was between your legs and you were doing your best to make no noise.
Mithrun’s good eye narrowed. He was doing his job, he was the Captain. You could only wonder if he ever stopped being the Captain, if he was ever just Mithrun. Knowing him, most likely not. Another line. Did he ever let it bend?
As if he could see through your skull and right into your brain, his shoulders tensed and his lips twitched. He knew. He always knew. You inhaled through your nose with hyper-awareness of the rise and fall of your chest. You were far too considerate of how precisely how little room there was between Mithrun and yourself. He smelled like basic soap, like familiarity.
“You did something stupid,” Mithrun broke the silence. He didn’t sound particularly perturbed by the fact that you’d done something stupid, but you caught the hint of gravel, the hint of a rough scratch in his throat that told you all you needed to know.
You knew. You always knew. His shoulders relaxed a little as if saying his thoughts aloud helped him come to terms with it.
The truth was: you did a lot of stupid things. Despite the self-awareness you possessed upon the matter, you still did them. The source was not genuine stupidity, but rather a quality that you and Mithrun shared; single-minded determination. You thought he’d understand.
You managed to raise your right hand and gently press it against his chest. Yet, no amount of pressure would push him back. He steeled himself and leaned in closer, shoulders rising as silver curls fell forward to brush across his jawline.
“I’m fine,” you argued, and you could not help but avoid the black-eyed gaze that dug through your brain. You settled for glaring at a misshapen brick on the wall of the dungeon.
Mithrun seemed to relent. He sat up on his knees and folded his arms over his chest, though you were still on your back in front of him. You’d ended up in that position by accident. You did not stay in that position by accident. It was like pulling teeth, but you ripped your eyes away from the wall and looked up at him. The rays of the light spell above washed him in pale yellow. And the fine line regained its strength with every inch of space created between your bodies.
“You’re fortunate I was there,” Mithrun observed with the nonchalance of someone who believed he did not care.
That was what you knew so well; Mithrun could care. Mithrun could desire. He wasn’t aware of that, but even if he were, he wouldn’t bother with it. What point was there in desiring anything unrelated to the demon?
Another line, though it was not fine like the others. The Captain had simplified himself so much. And simple things were easy to understand. If it didn’t involve revenge, he did not care. That was a line you knew you could not bend, twist, or snap. You didn’t try.
However, you did walk it like a tight-rope.
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” you informed him. You weren’t sure how you sounded, most likely defiant, most likely argumentative. Judging by how he slightly tilted his head at you, it was one of those two descriptors. Yet, the room to care had run out. Your rooms were filled with fire, flames licking at every inch of you and turning you into ash. Your lower abdomen felt as if it was a rubber band being pulled.
You liked being pulled.
“You put people in danger,” Mithrun responded almost immediately, “you could’ve died.”
He said the word ‘died’ as if he wanted to spit it in the dirt.
You and Mithrun had been separated from the Canaries and your party on account of your own horrible decision making. You couldn’t quite recall what you had done. Was it pathetic that all you knew was Mithrun’s arm around your waist as he yanked you away? One track-minded, surely, but Mithrun had the ability to create new, far more exciting tracks to follow.
He’d teleported you both to a room nearby. It was stone and smelled of dust, and hints of green moss crawled up the walls like desperate fingers. You were, most likely, the one who desired the room into existence, a spot for Mithrun to teleport to where you could be alone together. If it was anyone else, Mithrun would’ve been on his feet and determinedly searching for the exit by then.
But you knew. How could you not know? Mithrun never hid his feelings; a blessing and a curse for all involved.
The line appeared again and it was not the thick, simple line that you could never bend. The line that settled between you and the Captain was thin and weak and just asking to be torn apart. Without a second thought, the words were out of your mouth, “I don’t care.”
You don’t care.
You don’t care?
(You cared.)
Mithrun’s lips parted and his brows slightly furrowed. He knew what it was like to not care. He had to know you were lying. Yet, the words wrapped around him and sunk into his veins like poison. Immediately, they spread through his body. For someone who cared about so little, he despised how you apparently did not care.
Which, in and of itself, was a desire. He felt something. He stared at you as if you’d just kicked a puppy and you knew, in that moment, that he desired— even if he didn’t realize it.
That was okay, you decided within seconds. He didn’t need to realize it.
“Do you not realize…” slowly, he lowered his body like an anchor dropping into water. His hands slid across the dirty stone, then his forearms, until he was only inches away from you. His breath mingled with yours and your abdomen pulled again. It was as if his proximity had captured your soul on a hook, and it was all you could do to stay grounded. Mithrun continued, “That if you died–”
The line began to stretch.
His fingers wrapped around your throat. Your heart flipped rather gracelessly. His fingers were cold and firm and in the perfect spot, encompassing your pulse. He could most likely feel the increase of your heart rate beneath the pads of his index fingers, but that was fine. He knew.
It was nothing new. Yet, you’d seen flowers bloom a thousand times. You’d seen the oranges and pinks of the sunset a thousand times. But you always stopped for them, giving them a moment of your life. Who could possibly say they were tired of seeing the sunset?
“Do you not understand what that would do?” He asked. Mithrun’s voice was quieter than usual— he wasn’t trying to seduce you, he was trying to talk to you. For half of a second, you felt like a total pervert for melting beneath his touch.
Yet, pervert or not, you wanted that line to stretch further.
“Do to who?” You asked, despite the light pressure on your throat, “What would it do? Why do you even care?”
“I don’t,” was his immediate answer. He had his hand around your throat and looked at you as if you’d ruined his life. Such vitriol, such hatred. “I can’t.”
You began to thrive. “You’re being contradictory.”
“Stop.”
You immediately stopped thriving. “Alright.”
There were certain lines you wouldn’t cross. Perhaps it was best to leave this particular one alone.
But he kept his fingers around your throat.
Mithrun’s expression turned slightly softer, though it was just a hint gathered from the shape of the lines between his brows and the slight flutter of his left eye. You could’ve written a book on the slight facial expressions of the ex-Dungeon Lord of the Central Observation Tower.
“Promise you won’t do that again.” It was technically a question, but Mithrun wasn’t asking. The Captain was commanding.
And as one-track minded and stubborn as you were, you were his. You tried your best to respect his set lines.
However, “I’ll try my best,” was all you could offer him.
Mithrun’s shoulders lowered, though not because he relaxed. His body arched ever so slightly as he pushed down further on your windpipe— there it was again, that pull, that ache, that burning. Consuming. What had you even done in the first place?
He noticed, because he always noticed. He simply didn’t usually acknowledge it. His eye widened and searched your face as heat rose to your cheeks. You tilted your head back to give his hand more room. Grabbing people by the neck, using his teleportation magic to remove their heads from their bodies and replace them with stone was natural for him. And touching you, that was natural too.
Yet, this was one of those fine lines. As he exhaled softly and his fingers tightened, digging into your skin, your eyes fluttered. The line had been stretched again. Your muscles tensed and you couldn’t help but lift your hips. Through the layers of clothes, the room between your bodies closed and your flames brushed against him. Again, Mithrun exhaled, sharper. His head slightly dipped and his brows furrowed and his hair fell into his face.
You knew.
He slid lower until your breaths intermingled. You closed your eyes as his lips brushed against yours. It was like holding a monster back by a thin, weak leash. In seconds, it would snap. Rampage.
With a slight lift of your hips against his, it snapped. You could practically hear the sharp crack of thread breaking away. The taut bowstring of his body released as he pressed his lips against yours. They slotted together. His teeth scraped harshly against your bottom lip and you gasped into his mouth, but he didn’t care. He never cared. He continued, holding himself up by core strength alone as his free hand went to your waist as if he wanted to pin you down to the cold stone floor.
You tilted your head so your noses wouldn’t bump. His breath drifted into your mouth; it was hot, but smelled like nothing. Mithrun slowed down for half a second to gently pull at your lip with his teeth, and it was as if he had pulled the rubber in your stomach too tightly, and it was snapping back with a force that wracked your body. The shiver was undeniable. His fingers on your hips dug in even tighter; he clearly wanted to pierce your skin and feel your flesh encircle him. Fingers were important, they were the parts of the body that controlled things, that reacted, that felt. He held you as if he desperately wanted to feel.
It hurt.
It would leave bruises, round, representing four fingers on your hips.
The pain spread through you like a drop of dye in water. It branched out, reached out, ran out. It stretched to the edges and corrupted every inch of your body until you were colored Mithrun.
That was the line. It wanted to do more than simply bend.
One tendril loosened and pulled away. The frayed edges were happy to be free, to feel the air.
You raised your arms and wrapped them around his neck, yanking him down even closer. If it was possible to put a negative amount of centimeters between you both, you’d find some way to achieve it. In past relationships, kissing was a constant reminder to pucker, then deepen, then hold. With Mithrun, you didn’t think, you couldn’t think. It was as if he’d breathed something into you that scrambled your brain.
And his hand was still around your neck.
And his hand tightened.
And you let out a soft noise without deciding to do so. His left eye lowered slightly as he pulled back to look at you— admire you? Perhaps. It might not have been pure delusion on your part.
Another tendril of the line frayed and threatened to snap. Your abdomen pulsed. After meeting Mithrun, you started to believe that desire was a concept. After kissing Mithrun, you knew that desire was an emotion, a pulsating and raw and consuming emotion that liked to wrap its cold hands around your entire body, around your throat. Merciless. Ruthless. Apathetic to what was logical and right because desire had its goal in mind and would do anything to reach it.
He squeezed. You gasped. Something thrummed, threatening to break out of your skin.
And the fine line snapped. Pleasure mingled with its enemy: pain. Mithrun crashed his lips against yours again and you softly moaned into his mouth, helpless to his touch. For once, he put in the work. For once, he was motivated. For once, he wanted.
It wouldn’t last, you knew. Your rightful spot in the race was clearly second, a silver medal.
Yet, for the moment, with the way he touched you as if he could kill you for daring to leave him…
With the way he squeezed, with the way he bit, with the way he exhaled as if letting out years of stress—
Your lines intersected and, for once, he was yours.
im really obsessed with "washed up" clearly middle aged depictions of mithrun im a very very big fan of them. i know why kui drew him kind of moe and i like how he looks in canon too but i just think him looking like a disheveled grown man is neat . it's really understandable too. its tough always being cute and youthful looking when u feel like some guy whos been hit by a truck a couple times. mithrun is for these people
2087
prguitarman
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
snowghoul
romaincrisis
amandla
pixelskylines
