Requested by: @alpacaewfan !!! hi twin hi hi
Painting You How My Heart Sees You — MOTM
Sumarry: You, an artist who pours their heart into painting portraits of the person you love, only to become trapped in an endless cycle of self-doubt, convinced that no canvas could ever capture how extraordinary your loved one truly is. But sometimes, the most beautiful art isn't measured by perfection — it's measured by the love behind every brushstroke.
Pairing: Cuphead x Reader, Mugman x Reader, Bendy x Reader, Boris x Reader and Shelly x Reader (SEPARATELY)
Genre: Romance, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Comfort and Slice of Life
Trope: Artist!Reader, Secret Gift, Love Through Art, Comfort After Self-Doubt, "I Wish You Could See Yourself Through My Eyes", Praise & Reassurance, Domestic Fluff, Soft Romance, Love Confession Through Actions, Different Love Languages and Self-Esteem Healing
The shared cabin carried the familiar scent of coffee that had long since gone cold, mixed with drying acrylic paint and the faint sting of paint thinner lingering in the air.
Evening sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains, bathing your tiny art corner in warm shades of amber that should have made everything feel peaceful.
Instead, it only highlighted your failures.
Three canvases leaned against the wall beside your easel, one had only the rough outline of a figure before the paint abruptly stopped, another had been almost finished before thick streaks of white paint had been dragged mercilessly across Cuphead's face, erasing hours of work in seconds.
The last had been turned around completely, hidden from view as if looking at it for another second would only make you hate it even more.
Cuphead had watched the entire process over the past few days, how in every afternoon he'd come home to another discarded attempt.
"The proportions are all wrong."
Another canvas abandoned.
"I can't get his head right..."
Covered with a cloth before you'd walked away in absolute frustration and anged.
He never commented on it, and it's not because he hadn't noticed — he noticed almost everything when it came to you — but because he'd assumed you simply wanted space to work.
Some artists were simply like that most of the time.
That's what he'd been telling himself.
Tonight, though... something felt... different.
The apartment was unusually quiet.
No humming while you painted to keep yourself motivated, no soft tapping of your brush against the edge of the water cup because you had to add a tiny bit detail into the drawing, and no small giggle that always appeared whenever you mixed together a color you really liked because of the nostalgia it gave you.
Cuphead wandered into the room with a fresh mug of your favorite drink balanced carelessly in one hand, stopping in the doorway the moment he saw you.
It looks like you haven't touched the canvas in nearly ten minutes, your shoulders were slumped, with an exhausted look on your face.
One hand still loosely held your paintbrush, while the other rubbed slowly over your face before coming to rest against your forehead.
"...It looks nothing like him." You say, sounding almost defeated, letting out a tired sigh. The words were barely louder than a whisper.
You practically jumped, grip tightened around the brush.
The answer came much way too quickly.
"...Really?" He raised one eyebrow.
"Yep." You nodded far too fast.
Cuphead wasn't buying it for even half a second.
A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth — just a curious one — as he wandered closer with the lazy confidence he always carried around your shared home. His shoes scraped quietly against the wooden floor while he leaned ever so slightly to peek around your shoulder.
"You've been painting me?"
Heat immediately rushed into your face.
"...It wasn't supposed to be finished yet," you mumbled, instinctively trying to step in front of the canvas to hide it. "You weren't... supposed to see it. At least, not yet..."
Cuphead's smile disappeared immediately, the painting wasn't bad.
He stopped smiling because... it really wasn't.
His eyes wandered slowly over every brushstroke, the portrait didn't look like a photograph, it wasn't perfectly realistic.
Instead, the colors were impossibly warm.
The lighting almost made it seem as though you had painted him standing beneath a golden sunset, making him look like an angelic and bright figure.
His grin looked softer than it usually did, less cocky and way more genuine.
The sparkle in his eyes seemed brighter somehow, almost glowing with quiet happiness and full of proudness.
Even the little "imperfections" — the chipped rim of his head, the wrinkles in his jacket, the messy strands of his straw — had been painted with so much affection that they somehow became beautiful instead of big flaws.
It wasn't a portrait of how the world saw Cuphead, Crack Head, or whatever other nickname the world has given to him. Instead, it was a portrait of how you saw him.
Like he was someone worth admiring, someone worth loving, just a someone, and that might be something 🅲🆄🅿🅷🅴🅰🅳 has been wanting since he was a little child.
He didn't realize he'd gone completely silent until your voice broke through his thoughts.
"...It's bad, isn't it? I knew it."
His gaze immediately snapped toward you.
You were staring at the floor now.
Both hands had tightened around the paintbrush so much your knuckles had turned pale.
"I wanted..." Your voice caught for just a second before you forced yourself to continue. "I wanted to paint how beautiful you are."
You say, uncertainly, with a trembling voice.
"I can't make it look like you." You shake your head, frustration spilling into every word now. "No matter how many times I start over..." Your eyes flickered briefly toward the abandoned canvases leaning against the wall before quickly looking away again.
"It never looks right. You deserve something better than this."
Cuphead simply stared at you, completely, utterly confused. Not because he didn't understand why you were upset... But because he genuinely couldn't understand how someone could look at a painting filled with this much love and only see failure.
Without saying a word, he reached over, his fingers gently wrapped around the handle of your brush.
You instinctively loosened your grip, allowing him to take it.
He carefully set it inside the water jar before turning back toward you.
"...Airhead." His voice had become noticeably quieter, gone was the teasing confidence and the cocky grin. There was only warmth and love instead.
He stepped behind you, slowly wrapping both arms around your waist until your back rested comfortably against his chest. One hand settled over your stomach while the other lazily intertwined with your fingers, his chin coming to rest atop your shoulder.
For several long moments...
He didn't say anything, he simply decided to hold you.
His thumb absentmindedly traced slow circles over the back of your hand, grounding you without asking for anything in return.
You swallowed hard, before answering. "...No."
"I see a painting made by my favorite artist in the entire world."
"But—" You try to argue but are immediately interrupted.
"Nuh-uh." He gently squeezed your waist before you could continue. "No interrupting, not me at this moment." There wasn't a single teasing note in his voice, only gentle certainty.
Slowly, he turned you around within his arms until you were facing him instead of the easel.
His hands never left your waist.
"You keep trying to paint me 'perfectly'." He tapped one finger lightly against the center of your chest. "But this?" Then he turned, pointing toward the portrait behind you.
You looked over your shoulder toward the canvas before sighing. "It doesn't even look accurate."
Cuphead actually laughed, softly, like you'd just said the most unbelievable thing he'd ever heard.
"It looks accurate..." He gently nudged your forehead with his own. "...to you, and that is worth way more."
Your lips parted slightly, looking away.
"But the lighting isn't realistic."
"The colors doesn't seem natural."
"The proportions are still a little weird."
"...Then why do you like it?"
Cuphead laughed again, because none of those things mattered.
His hand slowly lifted, carefully brushing a tiny streak of dried paint from your cheek with his thumb before letting his fingers linger there for just a second longer.
"...Because this is how you see me." His voice had become impossibly soft. "So every warm color..." Thumb brushing gently across your cheek. "Every little smile..." He tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. "Every tiny detail you obsessed over..." Eyes never leaving yours. "...means you were looking at me with genuine love and care."
The smile that spread across his face wasn't cocky, neither was it playful. It was small, sweet, almost disbelieving.
He glanced toward the portrait one more time before looking back at you. "...is how my favorite person sees me..."
"...Then I think I'm the luckiest guy alive." His voice cracked into the tiniest laugh.
Your vision blurred, you tried blinking the tears away before they could fall but, unfortunately, Cuphead noticed immediately.
He laughed awkwardly, anxiously, instantly cupping both sides of your face. "Hey—hey. Don't cry." His thumbs hurriedly brushed beneath your eyes.
"I'm sorry." You try to say, voice now trembling even more, for fear of disappointing your loved one.
"No!" He shook his head so fast his straw wobbled. "No, no, that's not what I meant." He smiled sheepishly. "I mean..."
A tiny chuckle escaped him.
"I was kinda hoping you'd kiss me, not cry."
A watery laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
"There it is, just like that!" His grin instantly returned, pointing dramatically at you. "I knew I could get that laugh back."
You rolled your eyes despite yourself. "You are unbelievable."
"I've been told." He leaned forward, pressing a long, gentle kiss against your forehead before resting his own against yours.
"I've never looked this handsome before."
He gestured dramatically toward the painting. "Look at that guy! He looks like he has his life together."
"He definitely doesn't." You laughed harder.
"Exactly!" Cuphead threw one hand into the air. "So clearly this is an idealized fantasy version of me."
Another laugh escaped you.
He beamed like he'd just won the lottery.
"You know... This is my favorite sound." His voice softened again. He reached over, gently taking one of your hands before placing a paintbrush back into your fingers.
You hesitated. "...Really?"
"What if it isn't perfect?"
Cuphead looked genuinely puzzled by the question, then he smiled.
He gave your hand one reassuring squeeze before stepping toward the easel, looking at the unfinished portrait one more time.
"...Because when people look at this painting..." He glanced back over his shoulder, his smile impossibly fond. "...I don't want them thinking about how good I look."
His eyes met yours, reaching over and gently nudged your shoulder with his own.
"I want them to see what it looks like to be loved by you."
Silence settled over the room again.
Only now, it didn't feel heavy.
You looked down at the brush resting in your hand, then back at the portrait and for the first time in days... Instead of seeing everything that was wrong with it...
You found yourself noticing everything you'd painted with love.
He was NOT supposed to see it.
For nearly three weeks, you'd carefully planned around his visits, making sure the easel was always tucked into the corner beneath an old white sheet before he knocked on your door.
The paints would be cleaned away, the brushes washed and hidden inside a small ceramic cup, the discarded sketches gathered into neat piles and shoved into drawers where they couldn't betray the countless hours you'd spent trying — and failing — to create what you so envisioned.
It was supposed to stay that way until his birthday.
Today, however... you had forgotten.
You'd become so absorbed in repainting the highlights around his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that you hadn't even heard the gentle knock at your door. When Mugman eventually let himself inside after calling your name twice, the first thing he saw wasn't you.
The quiet sound immediately made your entire body stiffen.
Your heart nearly stopped, feeling it reaching your throat.
You whipped around so quickly that the brush slipped from your fingers, landing with a soft clink inside the jar of cloudy paint water.
His wide blue eyes remained fixed on the canvas, not because he wanted to invade your privacy, but because he'd walked directly into it before he'd even realized what he was looking at. The surprise on his face was almost painfully innocent as his gaze lingered on the half-finished portrait standing in the afternoon sunlight.
He didn't even finish the sentence, he didn't need to. The portrait answered it for him — his portrait, half completed, and still covered in loose pencil guidelines and unfinished layers of paint.
The second he truly realized what he was looking at, his expression immediately shifted into one of quiet panic.
He took two quick steps backward, raising both gloved hands slightly as though physically distancing himself from the painting might somehow undo the accident.
"I-I'm sorry!" he blurted out, his voice full of genuine guilt as his scarf slipped slightly from one shoulder with the sudden movement. "I wasn't trying to snoop, I promise. I should've knocked louder—I just thought maybe you didn't hear me and..."
His words gradually faded away because only now did he truly notice the room around him.
His eyes slowly wandered away from the easel.
Crumpled sketches littered the floor around your workspace like fallen leaves after a storm. Some had been torn clean through the middle. Others were covered in frustrated notes scribbled angrily into the margins.
"Eyes aren't warm enough."
"Still doesn't feel like the real him."
Several finished canvases leaned against the wall nearby. Each one abandoned, painted differently, unmistakably him.
Your shoulders slowly curled inward.
The silence in the room suddenly felt unbearable.
"...I just can't get it right."
Your voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear it, you didn't even dare to look at him.
Instead, you stared at your own paint-covered hands resting limply on your lap, your fingers stained with dried blues, warm browns and soft creams from multiple times of mixing colors over and over again.
"I..." You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly feeling impossibly tight. "...I wanted this to be your next birthday present."
A weak laugh escaped you, though there wasn't an ounce of humor in it.
"I wanted to paint you..." Your eyes drifted helplessly toward the unfinished portrait. "...the way I see you, to show you what you look like in my eyes."
You paused, blinking rapidly as you searched for words that somehow never seemed adequate enough.
"But every single time I finish another version..." Your shoulders sagged a little more. "I look at it... and... it feels like I'm failing you, somehow." The confession lingered quietly between the two of you.
Mugman's heart shattered. Not because the painting was unfinished or because he'd accidentally ruined the surprise, but because you'd been carrying this all by yourself, every discarded sketch surrounding you suddenly stopped looking like failed artwork.
They looked like evidence — of just how desperately you wanted to create something worthy of someone you loved.
He didn't say anything immediately, he simply decided to walk forward, slowly and with care.
Not towards the painting.
His footsteps were soft against the floor, almost hesitant, as though he was afraid any sudden movement might make you retreat further into yourself, making you listen to even more of each negative comment inside your head.
When he finally reached you, he didn't even glance at the canvas again, alternatively, his gentle blue eyes settled entirely on your face.
"My beloved..." His voice was barely above a whisper.
He carefully reached forward, taking both of your paint-covered hands inside his own gloved ones without the slightest hesitation. He didn't care that fresh paint immediately stained the white fabric of his gloves, not even a little.
His thumbs instinctively began rubbing slow, comforting circles across the backs of your hands, grounding you before he even tried to comfort you with words.
"You know what I notice?"
You sniffled quietly, avoiding his eyes before asking. "...What?"
"I notice..." His gaze drifted around the room, taking in each abandoned canvas with quiet admiration instead of criticism. "...that every single version of this portrait has different lighting."
"This one right here—" He tilted his head toward one canvas leaning against the wall. "Looks like I'm standing outside during sunset." Then he points to another one "This one feels like early morning." And to a third one. "And this one..." He smiled to himself. "...looks like it's raining outside."
"I know." You sighed softly and frowned slightly.
You looked confused. "I... I just couldn't decide."
He looked back at you and answered with a gentle voice. "I'm aware of that." His voice remained impossibly sweet. "Because you weren't looking for the prettiest lighting," he squeezed your hands softly. "You were just searching for the exact glow."
Your breath caught and you looked at him with a shy expression, still facing down.
"And every single sketch here..." His eyes wandered toward another stack of discarded sketches, chuckling quietly under his breath, almost fondly. "...my smile changes every single time."
You looked over instinctively.
Some smiles were mischievous, some looked shy, others were full of laughter, while other ones looked peaceful.
"You kept repainting it," his eyes met yours again. "Over and over and over again." His thumbs continued their slow circles across your knuckles. "Because you wanted to find the smile that felt the most like me."
You hadn't even realized you'd been doing that.
"You just kept trying, without giving up once," his smile became even softer.
"...Because you love me."
The words weren't teasing, that's not like Mugman, but they weren't embarrassed either. They were spoken with quiet certainty — like the conclusion had been obvious all along.
Your gaze immediately dropped toward the floor again.
"I just..." Your voice trembled. "I just wanted you to see yourself through my eyes."
Mugman's entire expression instantly melted. His shoulders relaxed, brows lifted ever so slightly, eyes shimmered with unmistakable emotion.
"...Oh, beloved" His voice cracked ever so slightly around the word. "I don't..." He shook his head slowly. "...I don't need a perfect painting for that."
Before you could respond, he carefully lifted one of your paint-stained hands toward his face.
Your fingers were still speckled with dried paint. Tiny smudges of blue rested beneath your nails, there was even a streak of warm gold across the side of your palm.
Without the slightest hesitation...
He gently pressed a lingering kiss against your fingertips. The gesture was so delicate, so full of quiet affection, that it made your chest tighten.
When he lowered your hand again, he didn't let go.
Instead, he intertwined his fingers with yours.
"The portrait..." He smiled through the growing emotion in his eyes. "isn't really the gift."
You looked into his eyes, a confused expression on your face once more. "...It isn't?"
He shook his head immediately.
"No." His answer came so naturally that it almost startled you. "The gift..." He looked briefly toward every discarded sketch surrounding the room. "...is knowing..." His voice softened even further. "...that someone loves me enough to spend weeks trying to capture something they think the whole world overlooks."
His gaze slowly returned to yours.
"You weren't painting what I look like," his thumb brushed gently over your knuckles again. "You were painting how loved you make me feel."
"Mug..." You whisper, voice low, with tears blurring your eyes slightly.
He smiled, though his own eyes had become suspiciously watery now.
"I've spent my whole life worrying whether I was enough." A tiny laugh escaped him. "Strong enough, brave enough, interesting enough."
He glanced once more at the portrait.
"But then..." His expression grew wonderfully, heartbreakingly tender. "I get to see myself through your eyes," his free hand rested lightly over his chest. "And somehow... I'm smiling brighter. The colors are warmer. I look happier."
He laughed quietly, shaking his head in disbelief.
"You painted the version of me that only exists because you love me for who and for what I truly am."
A tear finally slipped down your cheek.
Mugman immediately panicked.
"Oh gosh, no, no..." His eyes widened as he hurriedly reached up with both hands, carefully cupping your face as though you were something impossibly precious. His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes in gentle, hurried movements, trying to wipe away the tears before more could fall. "I'm so sorry— Did I say something wrong? I wasn't trying to make you cry..."
You laughed weakly through the tears, quickly shaking your head.
"No..." Your voice wavered into a small smile. "You said everything right."
Relief visibly washed across him.
"Okay, that's a relief," his shoulders finally relaxed. A tiny, bashful smile appeared. "That's... really good."
Without another word, he stepped forward and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you gently against his chest. One hand settled securely between your shoulder blades, slowly rubbing comforting circles there while the other remained around your waist, holding you with quiet reassurance.
He rested his cheek lightly against the top of your head, like he always does whenever you need some love and comfort.
"No matter how this portrait turns out," he closed his eyes for a moment, smiling softly to himself. "I'm going to treasure it forever."
You giggled and smiled against his shoulder. "...Even if it isn't perfect?"
Mugman let out the quietest laugh.
"My beloved..." He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again, his expression warm with absolute sincerity. "It became perfect the moment I realized every single brushstroke was another way of you saying 'I love you'." His thumb brushed your cheek.
"And I don't think anyone could ever give me a more beautiful birthday present than that.”
The single word echoed through your room with far more confidence than it had any right to.
Your paintbrush stopped midway through another careful stroke, a bead of dark paint clinging precariously to its tip before dripping onto the palette below with a quiet plip that suddenly sounded deafening.
Very slowly, you turned toward the doorway.
Bendy leaned casually against the frame as if he'd been standing there for several minutes without you realizing, one shoulder lazily pressed against the wood. His arms were comfortably crossed over his chest, his tail swaying back and forth behind him in slow, amused arcs that betrayed just how entertained he already was.
The familiar crooked grin stretching across his face was equal parts smug, curious, and undeniably adorable, while one eyebrow arched high enough to practically disappear beneath the little horns atop his head.
His eyes flickered between you and the easel sitting only a few feet away.
"I just knew you've been hiding something from me." He says, his tone carried all the playful confidence in the world, accompanied by a knowing little tilt of his head as though he'd finally solved a mystery he'd been piecing together for days. One finger tapped lazily against his folded arm while his grin widened another inch, clearly enjoying the way your expression had gone completely blank.
"I-" You blinked rapidly, your brain scrambling for literally any excuse that didn't sound suspicious. "I wasn't!"
"Oh, really?" His smile somehow grew even wider. "You weren't?"
You immediately knew that "of course."
It was the same one he used whenever he knew someone — you — was lying but wanted them to dig the hole a little deeper first.
Bendy pushed himself away from the doorway with an exaggerated stretch, hands slipping casually into the pockets of his trousers as he began strolling toward the easel with completely unbothered confidence.
Each step felt painfully slow for you, each slow step he took only increased your anxiety even more.
It's like torture for you.
"Bendy..." You murmur, trying to sound authority but still sounding distrusting and suspicious by what he's about to do at any second. You place yourself in front of the easel, trying to do all of your best to hide it.
"I haven't even done anything." He shrugs, raising both hands in surrender as he stares deep into your eyes with a look that is both cynical and foolishly in love with you and with what you were currently doing.
"You are literally walking towards it."
He kept walking towards both you and towards the easel anyways, with even slower but now larger steps, in a way that is extremely agonizing to your panic.
"But I don't really think I want to."
His tail twitched innocently as he blinks his eyes at you.
"You are absolutely peeking."
"I'm simply observing, that's a natural thing to do."
"I respectfully disagree with you on this one."
He was only two steps away now, you can feel your heart pounding fast, way too fast for your liking.
You hurriedly moved to stand between him and the canvas, spreading your arms in what you hoped resembled an effective barrier, using your entire body to block it from his view.
"It's not even finished yet."
He leaned slightly to one side.
He leaned the other direction.
For nearly ten seconds the two of you engaged in the world's most ridiculous game of silently trying to outmaneuver one another around an easel.
"So am I." He grinned. "And I seriously think you're adorable."
"Bendy." You groaned, sighing and put your hands on your face.
"I'm just gonna take one tiny little peek..." He says, trying again to look at what you're trying to hide behind your body, but you block it from his view again.
"THERE ARE NO MOLECULAR PEEKS!"
"There could be though, you never know."
Before you could stop him, he gently takes your waist with one hand — not forcefully, just enough for him to to gently tickle you to distract you and at least finally laugh a little bit at the situation, making him have control over the strength of your body and pulling you away from the easel, letting him see what you were truly hiding.
"Gotcha!" He gently giggles as he hears your laugh, a light blush on his face.
"Bendy!—" You stop laughing and try to stand in front of him again.
But it was already too late.
The grin that was on his face immediately disappeared, you watched every ounce of playful confidence quietly drain from his expression, not because he'd seen something bad.
Quite the opposite, actually.
His voice had become suspiciously quiet, almost reverent.
"You painted me?" He asks, eyes never leaving the canvas as he stares at it with wonder.
Heat immediately rushed to your face, you looked away before he could see how embarrassed you suddenly felt.
"It just looks terrible." You rubbed nervously at the sleeve of his shirt, suddenly unable to meet his eyes, looking anywhere around the room but at the expression he was making when he finally saw the surprise you were preparing for him.
Then looked back at the portrait, back at you and back at the portrait again.
"...Hold on—" he gasped loudly and pointed dramatically at the easel without looking away from it, slowly turning his head towards you. "You think this looks terrible?!"
"It's unfinished." You immediately crossed your arms over yourself, you could feel your face getting even hotter, trying your best not to look at his face, knowing you would lose all your composure if you saw the amazed expression he was making and how bright his eyes were.
He gestured dramatically toward himself from head to toe.
"I've got emotional baggage, terrible sleep habits, a tendency to try to flatter my way out of problems and approximately other seventeen unresolved issues, but that's just me trying to guess how many there really are," he tells you, counting each one on his fingers as he shrugs, making you look into his eyes, a confused expression on your face. "So I'd say we're both works in progress."
Despite yourself, the tiniest smile threatened to appear.
"You don't actually mean it..." You let out a soft laugh. You don't doubt his words, you always try not to. You just doubt that he could have truly have loved something that you, yourself, have created and still did not liked despite this.
"No, seriously." He turned fully towards the portrait again, studying it with genuine fascination, his expression softened more and more with every passing second.
"You somehow made it seem like I really belong in the spotlight," his eyes wandered slowly over the careful brushstrokes, he pauses. "As if I was made to perform and dance despite everything...this is exactly how I always wanted others to see me, as a true star on stage, someone untouchable." He looked over one shoulder toward you. "I've always wanted to feel like I'm a star."
"You already are one." You place one of your hands on his cheek, the other still touching the arm that's holding your waist. Your words full of love and reassurance.
"Nah." He waved dismissively, slightly chucking. "Perhaps, in the past, I was one. I think my flame went out with time and at the moment I am just a burning meteor instead of a star myself."
A tiny laugh escaped you.
He heard it once again, smiling at the sound as his tail immediately perked up but he kept studying the portrait.
The version of him you'd painted wasn't exactly realistic, the shadows around him were softer, the warm lighting gave the illusion that he almost glowed, his smile wasn't mischievous in the usual way.
It looked peaceful — comfortable, like he was completely at ease and exactly where he was meant to be at.
His tail curved elegantly behind him, posture looked confident without even trying and his eyes looked impossibly kind. There, he was someone he once was and someone he wanted to be again, despite everything he had gone through shortly after.
Bendy stared for several long seconds...
Before dramatically placing one hand over his chest.
He gasped so loudly it almost echoed.
"Oh." Another dramatic gasp. "My." He looked back at you with exaggerated disbelief. "You've been romanticizing me."
"...I was trying to." You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly, looking away, feeling your face growing hot with embarrassment once more.
"I look like I'm a beautiful poetry."
"I'm actually an old one, that's different."
Your laughter grew slightly louder, Bendy smiles softly, there is nothing he loves more than your laughter and seeing you smile, especially when he is the cause of your joy.
His expression softened completely, impossibly softer.
He turns his body towards yours, placing your bodies one in front of the other, before gently cupping both of your cheeks between his hands, the movement was so careful it immediately stole your breath. His thumbs rested lightly against your skin, brushing tiny circles there as he tilted your face upward until your eyes finally met his.
"You absolute goof." His voice barely rose above a whisper now, there wasn't a trace of teasing left, only warmth. "You painted me..." His gaze briefly drifted toward the canvas again before returning to you. "...like I hang the stars."
"I don't." He smiled so softly it almost hurt to look at. "That's not bad art." His thumbs brushed your cheeks once more. "That's love."
You could practically feel your face burning, you immediately looked away again.
"But..." Your voice came out embarrassingly small. "It's not technically accurate."
"The lighting isn't realistic."
"The colors are completely wrong."
"I think you don't remember what 'I don't care' means."
"I know! But the proportions—"
He laughed quietly before leaning closer until your foreheads rested together. The tip of your nose almost brushed his flat face. His tail lazily curled around one of your legs without either of you really noticing.
"You know what artists always get wrong?" Bendy asks.
"...What?" You hesitates.
"They think perfection is the goal." He smiles, eyes searched yours for a long moment before he slowly turned one hand, pointing toward the portrait behind you. "But emotion?" His fingertip lightly tapped the edge of the canvas. "That's what people remember."
"No one's gonna stand in front of this painting thinking..." He suddenly adopted the most exaggerated art critic voice imaginable. "'Hmm, yes. Fascinating brush technique. Remarkable understanding of anatomical structure.'"
"They're gonna look at it and think..." His voice returned to normal, still smiling. "'Whoever painted this must've loved him an awful lot.'"
The room fell wonderfully quiet.
Your eyes slowly drifted toward the portrait again, for the first time in days... You weren't looking at the mistakes, you were remembering why you'd painted it.
Bendy watched your expression soften before another grin slowly stretched across his face.
"Heh. Besides." He dramatically places his hands on his hips. "If anybody has the audacity..." He puffed out his chest with theatrical confidence. "...to tell me this portrait isn't accurate..." His tail suddenly curled into the unmistakable shape of a heart behind him. "I'll simply become this handsome out of pure spite."
You stared at him for exactly one second. Then you burst into laughter, the kind that doubled you over slightly and left your eyes watering as you shook your head at his ridiculous confidence.
"There it is, my favorite sound in the world." His smile immediately became brighter than before, he pointed triumphantly at you as though he'd just won some invisible competition.
You were still laughing, trying to hide your smiley face behind your hands.
And Bendy couldn't stop smiling either.
"I miss that laugh every moment of the day."
The confession came so quietly you almost didn't catch it.
He stepped closer again, slipping one arm comfortably around your waist while the other reached up to brush a stray streak of paint away from your temple with the back of his fingers.
"You know..." His gaze lingered on your face much longer this time. "I joke around a lot, we both already know that." A small chuckle escaped him. "Kind of my thing, but..." His expression softened into something achingly sincere.
"I really hope you believe me when I say this," Bendy glanced towards the painting one last time. "I've spent my whole life pretending to be someone bigger, untouchable, bright, more charming than I actually feel."
His shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug.
"Then I walk into your studio and somehow you've painted the version of me that I've always wished I could become once again."
He laughed quietly through his smile, his dark eyes met yours again.
"Really." Bendy reached over, gently taking your paint-stained hand into his own without a second thought. "I don't think you realize what this painting actually is."
"What is it?" You tilted your head.
He intertwined his fingers with yours.
His smile turned impossibly gentle.
"That somewhere in this world..." He gave your hand a tiny squeeze. "There's someone who looks at me and doesn't just see the loudmouth, or the troublemaker...or the one with the blot."
He lifted your joined hands between you.
"They see someone worth painting." His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles. "And, my beautiful devil, I don't think I've ever received a compliment..." He leaned up just enough to press a lingering kiss against your forehead.
His lips curved into another smile against your skin.
"That could possibly mean more than that.”
The room had been silent for almost an hour.
Not the peaceful kind of silence that usually settled between the two of you whenever you worked side by side doing your own different things, side by side.
It hung in the air alongside the faint smell of drying paint, old wood, and fresh graphite, wrapping around the tiny studio until even the soft ticking of the clock seemed almost too loud.
Sunlight poured lazily through the nearby window, illuminating floating specks of dust that drifted through the room with nowhere particular to go.
Your paintbrush rested loosely between your fingers — perfectly still, the bristles hadn't touched the canvas in what felt like forever. A small puddle of paint had begun drying on your palette, the water inside your rinse cup had long since turned murky.
You hadn't noticed anything.
Not the light changing, not the coffee beside you growing cold, not your own shoulders slowly curling inward the longer you stared at the portrait in front of you.
The portrait itself was nearly finished.
Just one more afternoon and it probably would've been complete, you said to yourself many days ago.
Instead, all you could see were flaws.
The way Boris' eyes didn't seem soft enough just like how they do when he looks at you, the curve of his smile felt wrong, his posture somehow looked way too stiff, the warmth you always felt standing beside him somehow refused to exist on the canvas.
You let out another quiet sigh.
"I still can't do it." Your voice barely reached beyond your own ears, filled with frustration and exhaustion, not from all the hours spent in front of the easel, but from continuing to fail to paint your beloved the way you see him with your own eyes.
The brush lowered another inch.
You wondered if you should simply paint over the whole thing and begin, once again. This won't be your first time doing this, and it probably won't be the last until you're satisfied enough with the final result.
A familiar pair of footsteps echoed softly down the hallway — slow, unhurried and comfortably familiar.
He quietly stepped into the room, gently nudging the door open just enough to slip inside before letting it close behind him with barely a sound, almost immediately noticing the silence.
It wasn't unusual for you to work quietly, but the problem is that you weren't working at all.
You hadn't even realized he'd arrived.
His soft dark eyes drifted toward the easel for only a brief moment before returning to you.
Then — without asking what was wrong, immediately avoiding looking at the painting — he simply walked over, pulled another chair beside yours and sat down, quietly.
His large frame settled into the old wooden chair with a tiny creak, his hands resting loosely together in his lap while his tail lazily tried to curl itself around one leg of your chair.
He didn't speak and didn't pressure you, neither did he even look directly at you.
Instead, he simply shared the silence, like he understood that sometimes company mattered more than any real conversation.
Several peaceful minutes slipped by.
The only sounds were the occasional birds singing somewhere beyond the open window and the quiet scratching of tree branches brushing against the glass whenever the breeze picked up.
Eventually, your shoulders sagged.
The confession left your mouth before you'd even realized you'd decided to say it aloud.
Boris slowly turned his head towards you, enough to let you know he was listening.
"What are you scared of?" His voice came out exactly as it always did, low, gentle and full of patience — always for you. As though there was no answer you could possibly give that would make him think less of you.
"I..." You whisper, your eyes remained fixed stubbornly on the unfinished portrait, ffingers tightened around the paintbrush. "I don't think I'm good enough..." Your voice cracked slightly.
"...to paint someone I love."
The words lingered quietly between you, you laughed under your breath, it sounded tired — almost embarrassed.
"I keep looking at it and every time I do, it just feels..." Your gaze never left the canvas as you helplessly searched for the right word. "...smaller." You shook your head. "Boris, you're— I don't know, I just— You deserve something beautiful."
Your thumb nervously rubbed dried paint from the handle of your brush.
"And this..." You looked at the portrait again. "...doesn't feel like enough."
Silence settled over the room once more.
It wasn't awkward, neither uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
Boris didn't answer immediately, he never rushed his words.
He simply sat beside you for another long moment, quietly watching the unfinished portrait, allowing himself time to understand not only what you had said but what you meant.
You instinctively looked toward the easel, expecting him to examine the portrait more closely, maybe point out something encouraging or tell you which parts he liked.
Instead, he walked behind your chair, his footsteps remained slow enough that you could hear each one. When he reached you, his large hands settled gently upon your shoulders.
Not gripping or squeezing, simply just resting there. Warm, steady and comforting.
You hadn't realized how tense your body had become until his hands were there.
"Can I tell you something?" His voice remained just above a whisper.
You nodded, unable to trust your own voice.
He looked past you toward the painting.
"When I look at this," his gaze lingered quietly on every brushstroke. Every imperfect line, every place where the paint had been layered again and again. A small smile slowly appeared — one so gentle it almost seemed fragile. "I don't see mistakes."
"You don't?" You frowned slightly.
"No." He slowly shook his head.
Another thoughtful pause.
"I see someone trying very, very hard to tell another person they're loved." His voice grew softer, his thumbs absentmindedly brushed tiny circles against your shoulders.
The words hit you so unexpectedly that your breathing caught.
Your lip trembled before you could stop it.
"I..." You blinked rapidly. "I wanted..." The sentence fell apart as you tried again. "I wanted to paint how safe you make me feel." Your eyes wandered helplessly toward the portrait.
The confession barely rose above a whisper.
"I wanted someone to look at this painting and understand what it feels like..." A shaky breath escaped you. "...to come home to you," your eyes burned. "But I don't know how." You laughed weakly.
Boris became very quiet, not because he didn't know what to say, he just wanted to think. His ears twitched thoughtfully, his gaze slowly wandered around the room before eventually returning to you.
Then, without saying another word, he gently moved your chair backward, just enough to create a little space.
"Boris?" You looked up in confusion.
He simply smiled, a tiny one — almost shy.
And to your complete surprise, the large wolf quietly lowered himself onto the wooden floor. One knee first and then the other. He settled comfortably cross-legged beside your chair before slowly and very carefully...
Resting the side of his head against your lap.
The movement was so natural, so full of trust, so completely unguarded.
That your breath caught again.
"...Like this." His voice came out slightly muffled now, though no less warm.
"...What are you doing?" You softly asked, hands remaining in the air, not touching the big wolf yet because of the confusing situation.
His tail gave one lazy wag.
"Showing you." That's his only answer, in a low, soft voice, the smile still present on his face.
He looked up at you, there wasn't the slightest trace of embarrassment on his face, only complete sincerity.
"This..." His cheek remained comfortably against your lap while one large hand rested loosely atop your knee. "...is what safe feels like."
The room became impossibly quiet.
"You are always worried about getting every little detail right." He smiled softly, his fingers lightly tapped the edge of your chair. "The shape of my face, the lighting, the colors, the proportions..."
"I don't think those are the things I remember." His eyes remained fixed gently on yours.
You felt your throat tighten.
Another peaceful silence.
"When I think about you," His voice became wonderfully soft. "I remember the way you smile at me when you think I'm not looking, the way you laugh when I accidentally say something 'silly', the way your hand always reaches for mine without thinking whenever we're walking together."
His thumb absentmindedly brushed against your knee.
"I remember how peaceful this room feels whenever you're painting, how you always make enough hot chocolate for both of us when it's cold...even if I wasn't planning on coming over."
A tiny laugh escaped him.
"I remember feeling like I belong." His gaze slowly drifted toward the unfinished portrait again. "So..." He looked back up at you. "You don't have to paint every detail," his voice carried no doubt whatsoever. "Just paint the feeling." He smiled.
You looked up at the canvas again, then back at him.
"...What if I can't?" You ask with insecurity and uncertainty, genuine doubt in the sound of your voice.
He reached up, gently taking one of your paint-covered hands into both of his larger ones, the dried paint immediately smudged against his fur. He didn't even seem to notice or even care.
"I knew exactly who this painting was before I even saw my own face."
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
He gave your hand one small squeeze.
"Because it felt like home." He smiled with quiet certainty, you can see the skin beneath his fur getting redder and redder, a shy expression returning to his face once again.
"Boris..." Your vision blurred almost instantly.
His own eyes softened the moment he noticed tears beginning to gather.
"Oh, my love." He slowly sat up again, careful not to startle you, before gently wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you into the safest embrace you'd ever known, completely secure, like there was nowhere else in the world you needed to be.
His chin rested lightly atop your head while one hand slowly rubbed comforting circles across your back. He didn't rush to speak. He simply held you.
Letting the silence comfort you this time.
After a while, he quietly murmured against your hair,
You felt him smile ever so slightly.
"...when you finish this painting..."
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again.
"I won't be looking to see whether it captured my face perfectly, I'll be looking for the feeling."
His thumb gently caressed your cheek, as if you were the most precious and beautiful thing in his hands. He glanced toward the easel once more before returning his gaze to you.
"And if it's painted by you..."
His smile became impossibly tender.
"I already know 'll recognize it.”
"You are NOT allowed in here!"
You didn't even look up from your canvas as you shouted the words toward the hallway, one hand instinctively grabbing the edge of the sheet draped right next to your easel while the other still held a paintbrush suspended in midair.
Your heart nearly jumped into your throat the moment you heard the unmistakable rhythm of hurried footsteps approaching your art room.
Because if there was one person completely incapable of respecting suspense or boundaries for longer than five minutes...
A dramatic gasp echoed from the other side of the door, the kind of gasp that belonged on a drama novel.
"You mean..." She pressed both hands dramatically against the wood, her voice rising with theatrical horror. "...I have been banned?!" You can easily hear her heart shatter in a million pieces — metaphorically, of course.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, already smiling despite yourself.
"You've been temporarily relocated." You return your focus to the painting in front of you, continuing the calm movements on the part you were trying to finish for the last few hours.
"The injustice..." Her voice became quieter. "The betrayal..."
The image of Shelly dramatically and comically placing one hand on her forehead while the other rests on her heart projects itself into her head the more dramatic she sounds.
"The surprise won't be much of a surprise if you keep trying to sneak in." You rolled your eyes affectionately at her drama.
"I wasn't sneaking... I was investigating, nothing unusual here."
"You were trying to peek under the sheet."
"...Okay, yes." She sighed dramatically enough that you could hear it through the door. "But in my defense I am very curious." Her tone immediately brightened again.
"I know." You sigh and shake your head.
"You could tell me just one tiny hint."
"The emotional significance?"
You laughed quietly to yourself, knowing full well that Shelly's little shenanigans will only distract you further from your painting the more attention you give to her.
She immediately gasped again and playfully knocked on the door.
"Which means you're in a good mood."
"...Perhaps." You glance suspiciously at the door, seeing Shelly's feet drawing even closer, getting ready in case she tries to open it at any moment.
"So I'm getting closer to find out what it is."
You could practically hear the gears turning inside her head.
"A sculpture made of food?"
You stared blankly at the door, sighing loudly, facepalming as you shake your head from side to side, slightly disappointed by Shelly's "suspicions" about what kind of surprise you're preparing for her.
"...How would that even work?"
"I don't know, but I'd appreciate the effort."
You couldn't stop yourself from laughing, trying your best not to let her hear again, Shelly would feel more than proud enough to distract you a little from your current responsibility and task at the moment if it was to make you smile and laugh a little because of her.
"I HEARD IT AGAIN! I WIN!" She pointed triumphantly at the invisible audience that definitely wasn't there, dramatically bowing at it as she kissed the air, as if she were hearing applause for making you laugh.
"You literally won nothing."
"I won your laugh and that sure is worth something." Her answer came so quickly it caught you off guard.
"...Go away." You chuckle slightly at the door, returning your focus to the canvas in front of you, trying to remember where you left off and what other details are missing on the painting.
"Okay! Don't miss me much, love you!."
And she did, mostly. There were, admittedly, several attempts over the next few weeks.
One afternoon you caught her trying to slide a tiny mirror beneath the door. The sound of something lightly scraping on the floor catches your attention, and you look towards the door, seeing the mirror and Shelly's feet, trying her best to hide her shadow from your view.
"Shelly, I can see your feet!" You yell at her, pointing to the mirror and to her feet on the other side of the door, covering the easel with your body behind you in case she indeed ended up seeing something.
"...It was worth a shot."
Another day she somehow managed to convince Boris to prepare your favorite snack a few hours earlier so you could leave the room and go get your food yourself while she attempted to tiptoe into the studio from the office right next to it.
She made it exactly three steps before you could even head back into the hallway, a plate with your favorite snack was now in your hands and a frustrated expression on your face.
She froze like a child caught stealing cookies.
There was even an incident involving a pair of binoculars through the office's room window. You still weren't entirely sure where she'd gotten the binoculars to begin with.
Every single failed attempt always ended the same way.
She'd dramatically sigh, throw both hands into the air and declare that she was "respecting your artistic and personal boundaries", then immediately ask if the surprise was finished yet.
But finally, after fourteen very long days, it truly was.
You stood alone inside the studio for several minutes before calling out, making sure that nothing was missing on the painting that you would later regret if you had already shown it to everyone, checking for any errors or flaws that you could still fix before now making sure the paint was completely dry, place a white cloth over it to hide it.
"...Okay, this is good enough."
A loud thud, followed by another thud. The unmistakable sound of someone tripping over absolutely nothing.
"I'm okay! I actually meant to do that!" Shelly's voice echoed from somewhere down the hallway.
You covered your mouth to hide another laugh.
"You can come in." You wipe the dried paint off your hands on a cloth on the table next to the canvas, using a little water from your cup to help remove the dried paint more easily.
The words had barely left your mouth before the door burst open.
Shelly practically sprinted into the room like an excited puppy finally being let off a leash, scarf fluttering dramatically behind her while she skidded to a stop just a few feet in front of you.
"So, what's my surprise??" She clasped both hands together beneath her chin, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet with barely contained excitement.
Her eyes sparkled with childlike anticipation as she looked around the room, trying — and failing — not to stare directly at the large object still hidden beneath the white cloth.
"Can I guess, pretty please?"
"I'm gonna guess anyway."
She dramatically tapped her chin as she pointed at you, a determined expression on her face, as if she had already figured out what it is.
"A painting of me riding a dragon."
She pouted for exactly half a second.
"Okay, you can show me." Then her smile immediately returned, completely calm and patient now, waiting for the surprise.
Suddenly, you felt incredibly nervous. Your fingers curled around the edge of the cloth covering the easel, heartbeat picking up. All the confidence you'd built over the past few days seemed to simply disappear in an instant.
"...I hope you will like it."
"I have literally liked all your art."
"Just... I worked really hard on it." You swallowed.
The smile on Shelly's face softened immediately, the playful energy settled into something quieter, full of patience and understanding.
"I know you did." She folded her hands behind her back, standing perfectly still now. "Take your time, I have all the time in the world for you."
You took one slow breath, then another.
Finally, you carefully pulled the cloth away. The fabric slipped gracefully to the floor.
Shelly stopped moving, entirely. The room became completely silent.
Even her bouncing on her feet froze. Her smile disappeared — not because she disliked it but because she simply couldn't seem to find words.
"...Shelly?" You ask in a low, slightly insecure voice, a thousand thoughts already racing through your head. Maybe she didn't like something you drew in the painting?...
She didn't answer. She took one slow step forward instead and another one.
Her eyes never left the portrait.
"...You..." Her voice sounded strangely small, almost fragile. "...painted me?" She points to herself, still staring intently at the painting, focusing her gaze on you; you can see her eyes sparkle. She certainly expected everything but a painting of herself.
You rubbed the back of your neck nervously.
Another silence, long enough for self-doubt to begin creeping back in.
"I know it's probably not very—"
"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Shelly suddenly spun around so quickly that her scarf whipped dramatically through the air, pointing directly at you with such conviction that you instinctively took half a step backward. "There will be NONE of that sentence."
"I know exactly where you were going with this." She pointed harder.
"I was just going to say—"
"'It's probably not very good.'" She crossed her arms. "Most likely incorrect."
"'I couldn't quite capture—'"
"Wrong again." She waved both hands dramatically as she sighs deeply and looks at you with a judgmental gaze, not accepting or even believing that you would say those things in front of her like this.
"Absolutely illegal." She pointed even more dramatically.
"Shelly..." You couldn't help smiling a little.
"No." She slowly turned back toward the painting, her expression completely changed, the playful grin disappeared, her shoulders relaxed. One of her hands slowly lifted toward the canvas before stopping just short of truly touching the painting, her eyes shimmered.
"You made me look so..." A tiny laugh escaped her. Not as a result of anything considerably "funny" in the painting, instead, she was suddenly trying very hard not to cry. "...Brave, I never imagined somehow would ever see me this way."
"...Because that's how I see you." You looked down at your shoes.
The room fell silent again.
Shelly looked from the portrait, to you, then back to the portrait again.
"You..." She shook her head in disbelief. "You really think that's the real me?" She placed one hand lightly against her chest.
"When I look at you..." You hesitated. "I don't see someone who's loud or chaotic, much less someone who's annoying to be around with. Quite the opposite, actually."
"You don't?" Her brows furrowed slightly.
"I see someone who's scared sometimes but chooses to smile anyway." You smiled softly, feeling your face get hot the more you confess how you feel for her. "I see someone who throws themselves into helping other people before they've even thought about themselves, someone who walks into every room determined to make everyone laugh, even on days when they're struggling to laugh themselves."
Shelly's lower lip trembled. Genuinely taken by surprise by your sincerity and honesty about your view of her, she would never, ever think that you don't love her for who she is. But she certainly didn't expect you to see her as if she had hung the stars in the sky, judging by the way you're looking into her eyes and describing her now.
"So..." You looked back at the portrait. "I painted the person I know."
Not the person everyone else assumed she was based on her looks or behavior, but the person you fell in love with.
Before you could say another word, Shelly launched herself at you.
"You magnificent little sweetasaurus!"
The hug hit with enough enthusiasm to nearly knock you completely off your feet. Both of her arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders while she buried her face against your neck, squeezing you with every ounce of affection she possessed.
"Shelly, you're squeezing me!"
"I KNOW!" She somehow hugged even tighter. "I'M JUST SO EMOTIONAL RIGHT NOW!"
"YOU ARE CRUSHING MY SPINE!"
She laughed through suspiciously watery eyes before finally loosening her grip just enough for you to inhale, placing her hands on your waist, pulling her body close to yours, closing the minimal distance both your bodies might otherwise have.
"This..." She looked back toward the painting over your shoulder, her voice slightly cracked. "...is the nicest thing..." Another tiny, almost shy laugh. "...anyone has ever done for me."
You felt your own eyes beginning to sting — not because you thought she wouldn't like the surprise, Shelly would literally love anything you did or gave her, even a single rock you saw on the street. But because she genuinely understood what you meant by it, she understood and comprehended your insecurities in case she didn't like the painting, as that's just a reflection of your own insecurities instead.
"I kept worrying..." You rubbed your arm sheepishly. "...that I couldn't capture how amazing you are."
Shelly immediately pulled back, both hands gently cupped your face — not dramatically or playfully — tenderly.
"My little stego-sweetie." Her thumbs slowly brushed beneath your eyes. "You know what I see?"
"I see someone..." She smiled through her kind eyes, full of love and softness. "...who loves people so much..." Her forehead gently rested against yours. "...that they literally paints them the way their heart sees them."
A tiny laugh escaped her.
"Do you have any idea how incredible that is?"
"Not exactly." You started shaking your head again and you giggled.
"That means..." She smiled, lightly tapping your chest with one finger. "...every brushstroke was never about getting my face exactly right." Then she looked toward the portrait.
"It was about showing me how loved I am."
She nuzzled her forehead against yours with a tiny affectionate nudge on your nose.
"And that means every single brushstroke..." Her smile became impossibly warm. "...was already perfect." You can feel her breath lightly touching your mouth, ready to kiss you.
Before you could even process what she'd said or did—
She suddenly spun around, scooped the painting up with both arms and proudly declared,
"THIS IS GOING ABOVE OUR FIREPLACE!."
"Shelly—" Your eyes widened in absolute horror, remaining frozen in place, caught off guard.
She was already halfway across the room.
"The paint needs to rest for another 24 hours to dry completely!"
"..." She froze, completely, and very carefully...
She lowered her eyes toward the edge of the canvas, there, smeared ever so slightly across one corner was a fresh streak of orange paint.
"...OH MY CELESTIALS." The horrified yell echoed through the room.
"I HURT THE BABY." Shelly gasped dramatically, almost ready to cry as she looked at what she did.
"You called the painting our baby?"
"I'M PANICKING!" She frantically — but somehow incredibly gently — held the canvas farther away from herself, terrified of accidentally touching another wet section.
"I'm sorry!" She looked at the painting. "I'm so sorry!" Then she looked at you. "I'm sorry to you too!" And then back to the portrait once again. "You didn't deserve this!"
You tried to stay serious.
But the way she stood there apologizing profusely to an inanimate canvas with the genuine guilt of someone who had committed a terrible crime was simply too much.
A laugh escaped you, followed by another one... and another one. Soon you were doubled over laughing.
Shelly looked at you for one second before the panic dissolved into laughter too.
"Oh my stegosaurus..." She giggled helplessly. "I literally waited weeks..." Another laugh interrupted her. "...and I almost ruined it in two seconds."
"I KNOW!" She laughed so hard she had to carefully kneel onto the floor to keep the painting steady, still holding it like the most precious treasure in the world.
When the laughter finally faded into quiet chuckles, she looked down at the portrait once more before lifting her eyes back to yours. Her smile this time was smaller — gentler, filled with a kind of gratitude that words couldn't quite carry.
"I don't think I'll ever be able to look at myself the same way again." She whispered softly.
"What do you mean?" You tilted your head.
"Because every time I see my reflection now..." She carefully glanced between the portrait and you, her eyes shimmered. "...I'm going to remember..." She smiled once again with so much tenderness in her eyes. "...that somewhere in this world someone looks at me..." She reached over with her free hand, gently intertwining her fingers with yours. "...and sees someone brave who also deserves protection and affection."
She squeezed your hand gently, her grin slowly returned, bright enough to fill the whole room once again.
"And I think that's the most beautiful gift anyone could ever give me.”
Author's note: THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE AND POST IH MY FREAKING GOODNESS!!!! Tumblr kept lagging every time I left the app for a few seconds and saved all my written progress, but it is finally here.
I used real facts given by the creators for the nicknames that Bendy, Boris, and Shelly use with the reader; Mugman doesn't feel confident enough to use any nicknames and the nicknames Cuphead uses are just variations of the other person's name, or "nicknames" that aren't considered romantic enough, such as "boogers" (after someone sneezed all over themself) LMFAO.
I hope you guys enjoyed it because this one made me crash out SO BAD by the amount of times I had to re-write it again and again for days straight <3
Taglist (?): @malevolent-show
If you guys want a taglist for specific fics and want to get added to it, just tell me.
