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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

Rating: G (General)

Cuphead

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.

"This one's awful."

Into the corner.

"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.

Or at least...

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.

Only silence.

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.

Cuphead tilted his head.

"What doesn't?"

You practically jumped, grip tightened around the brush.

"Nothing!"

The answer came much way too quickly.

"...Really?" He raised one eyebrow.

"Yep." You nodded far too fast.

"...'Nothing'."

"Totally nothing."

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.

"Hey."

Silence.

"You've been painting me?"

Your entire body froze.

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.

"But I can't."

Cuphead blinked.

"...What?"

"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.

And finally...

"You know what I see?"

You swallowed hard, before answering. "...No."

"I see a painting made by my favorite artist in the entire world."

Your shoulders tensed.

"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.

"This...is already me."

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.

"Sure it does."

"It doesn't."

"It does."

"But it really doesn't."

He grinned.

"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."

"So?"

"The colors doesn't seem natural."

"I know."

"The proportions are still a little weird."

"I noticed."

You frowned.

"...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.

"If this..."

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.

"Oh."

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.

"You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"I've never looked this handsome before."

You snorted.

"Oh, c'mon."

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.

"So..."

He smiled warmly.

"Finish my portrait."

You hesitated. "...Really?"

"Absolutely."

"What if it isn't perfect?"

Cuphead looked genuinely puzzled by the question, then he smiled.

"It already is."

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.

─── ⟢ · //

Mugman

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.

THAT had been the plan.

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.

It was the easel.

"...Oh wow."

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.

"Mugman!—"

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.

"Is that..."

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.

Dozens.

There were dozens.

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.

"Wrong sweet smile."

"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.

Instead...

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.

Towards you instead.

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?"

He smiled, gently.

"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."

You blinked, confused.

"...What?"

He nodded gently.

"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.

"But why?"

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.

He was right.

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.

A long silence followed.

"...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.

"Oh—"

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.”

─── ⟢ · //

Bendy

"...Ah."

The single word echoed through your room with far more confidence than it had any right to.

You immediately froze.

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.

And there he was.

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?"

"No!"

"You sure?"

"Very."

"Of course."

"Yeah."

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.

"Hm?"

"DO NOT."

"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."

"I am."

"Stop??? Walking???"

"I could..."

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."

"Bendy."

"My sweet darlin'."

"NO PEEKING!"

His tail twitched innocently as he blinks his eyes at you.

"I'm not peeking."

"You are absolutely peeking."

"I'm simply observing, that's a natural thing to do."

"THAT'S THE SAME THING!"

"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."

"I see..."

He leaned slightly to one side.

You mirrored him.

He leaned the other direction.

So did you.

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.

"...You're so adorable."

"I'M SERIOUS!"

"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.

"No."

"A microscopic peek."

"Definitely not."

"A molecular peek."

"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.

"...Sweetie."

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.

He blinked once.

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.

"So am I."

You blinked.

"...What?"

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.

He stepped closer.

"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.

Instead...

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.

"You succeeded."

"No, I didn't."

"You absolutely did."

"I really didn't."

"I look like I'm a beautiful poetry."

"And you're not?"

"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.

Then, without warning...

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."

Your heart lurched.

"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."

"I don't care."

"The anatomy—"

"I don't care."

"The lighting isn't realistic."

"I don't care."

"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."

He looked back at you.

"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.'"

You snorted.

"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.

You blinked.

"...Really?"

He nodded immediately.

"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.

"It's proof."

"Proof of what?"

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.”

─── ⟢ · //

Boris

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.

This silence felt heavy.

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.

Just like your thoughts.

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.

Nearly, though.

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.

Boris.

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.

Neither of you moved.

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.

"...I'm scared."

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.

You swallowed.

"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.

A small pause.

"...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.

Finally, he stood.

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.

You stared down at him.

"...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.

You blinked.

"...Showing me what?"

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.

Your heart ached.

"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..."

He shook his head.

"I don't think those are the things I remember." His eyes remained fixed gently on yours.

You felt your throat tighten.

"They're not?"

He smiled.

"No."

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.

"You already did."

You frowned.

"I did?"

He nodded.

"I knew exactly who this painting was before I even saw my own face."

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

"...How?"

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,

"I promise..."

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.”

─── ⟢ · //

Shelly

"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...

It was Shelly.

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."

"...Allegedly."

"Shelly."

"...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."

"No."

"A microscopic hint."

"No."

"The first letter?"

"No."

"The color?"

"No."

"The shape?"

"No."

"The emotional significance?"

"Shelly."

"I had to try!"

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.

"I heard that laugh!"

"I know you did."

"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 are not."

"Hm..."

You could practically hear the gears turning inside her head.

"...Is it food?"

"No."

"A handmade sweater?"

"No."

"A sculpture?"

"No."

"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.

Your smile softened.

"...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.

She giggled.

"Okay! Don't miss me much, love you!."

Then, much quieter...

"I will wait."

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.

"... Seriously?"

She froze like a child caught stealing cookies.

"...I tried?"

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."

Silence.

Then—

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?"

"No."

"I'm gonna guess anyway."

You sighed.

"It's definitely..."

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 dragon!"

"No."

"A dragon painting."

"No."

"A painting of me riding a dragon."

"...No?"

"Aw dang it."

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."

Shelly blinked.

"I have literally liked all your art."

"I know."

"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.

"..."

Your stomach dropped.

"...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.

"...Yeah."

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."

"What?" You blinked.

"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.

"'Maybe I should've—'"

"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.

You nodded quietly.

"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!"

"I LOVE YOUR SPINE!"

"THAT'S NOT HELPING!"

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?"

You shook your head.

"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.

She looked back at you.

"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.

"Shelly!"

"What??"

"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.

You really did.

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."

"You almost did!"

"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 OH MY FREAKING GOODNESS!!!! Tumblr kept lagging every time I left the app for a few seconds and would reset 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.

Requested by: Anon !! It's very short, but I hope it's sweet enough

Between Smoke and Whiskey — MOTM

Summary: Overworked and drowning in responsibility, Mickey has little patience left for interruptions — especially from his reckless right-hand man, Felix. But when a routine office visit turns unexpectedly personal, a single drink, a stolen cigarette, and one daring smile begin to chip away at walls built over years of stress, regret, and buried emotions.

Pairing: Mickey x Felix

Genre: Romance, Slow Burn, Drama, Workplace Fiction and Slice of Life

Tropes: Boss × Employee, Old Friends to Lovers (or Longtime Partners to Lovers), Grumpy × Flirty, Emotional Walls, Caretaking Through Small Gestures, Tension-Filled Conversations, Mutual Pining (?) and Stoic Character Softens

Rating: T (Teen)

Mickey huffs, stressed by all the papers on his desk.

Requests from local city residents, bar patrons making demands, idiots thinking they have a chance of working with any of the stars. As if.

The office door slowly opens, as if someone were being careful enough to ensure that no noise disturbed or bothered the mouse working inside.

The noise makes Mickey lift his head from the papers he was reviewing, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, already preparing to scold whoever decided to interrupt him. "I made it VERY CLEAR that no one could enter my office without knocking—"

"Sorry, boss."

Felix, the one who decided to interrupt Mickey's work, quickly apologizes to him.

Mickey grunts, facepalming as an irritated expression already appears on his face, both because of all the stress he is going through with the paperwork in his hands and because Felix decided to interrupt him, knowing he was forbidden from doing so, regardless of the reason.

"What do you want, Felix? Tell me quickly before I lose what little patience I have left for your nonsense," Mickey demands, placing the papers he was holding on the table directly in front of him.

He throws the cigarette he was smoking in the trash and takes a new one from one of the drawers, lighting it with a match. Inhaling and exhaling the smoke from the cigarette, he joins both hands together and places them on the table, facing Felix directly so that the cat could quickly tell him what he needed.

"I just wanted to check if everything was alright, sir. You haven't left your office for hours now," Felix says, with one hand behind his back, hiding something. Mickey looks at him suspiciously. "And Betty was asking if you'd like something to drink."

Felix finishes, revealing what he had been hiding behind his back. A drink in his hand, Mickey's favorite, which he has been drinking for years, ever since they met and started working together.

A time when life was easier, lighter, and at least, naturally happier.

At least that's how life seems when you're still young and unaware of the cruel reality of adult life.

Mickey quickly shakes his head, as if trying to rid himself of these thoughts and memories before they went too far and reminded him even more of what else he had lost in his life.

"It's not like you to be so 'generous' and bring me something to drink if you haven't done anything I will find unpleasant." The mouse prepares to rise from his chair, ready to head towards Felix and take the drink from his hands.

He knows he can't afford to neglect his responsibilities (which are literally all on his desk) to drink some alcohol that's been brought to him, but the papers will still be there when he returns to his desk. Besides, he hasn't drunk that drink in years because of... past memories.

Before he could take the drink from Felix's hands and put his cigarette in the ashtray next to his desk, the cat acted first, placing Mickey's drink in his hands, letting them touch lightly, the mouse's hand now holding the bottom of the glass and Felix holding the top.

In a bold move, the cat snatches the cigarette from Mickey's lips, a smug smile on his face. "Be careful with how much you smoke without taking breaks, boss. Your office is full of smoke." He throws the cigarette into the trash can right behind Mickey, making Felix bring his chest slightly closer to his boss's, smelling the mouse's cigarette odor while still maintaining eye contact with him—again, a bold move.

"You'll end up activating the sprinklers like this." He finishes and gives Mickey one last bold smile, quickly leaving the room before Mickey could react, leaving a stunned mouse behind.

Mickey takes only a few seconds to regain his senses, a confused yet still stressed expression on his face. A light blush on his cheeks.

He quickly downs the entire drink in his hands in one gulp to calm and distract himself from the heat he was feeling on his face and, consequently, throughout his entire body.

Author's note: This was a joke at first but then I realized I could just post this here for one of my requesters, Mickey x Felix is a funny ship to think about.

Requested by: Anon !!

Loved Exactly As You Are — MOTM

Summary: Feeling insecure about your body has become harder to hide. Whether it's avoiding mirrors, pulling at your clothes, or brushing off compliments, your partner notices long before you say anything. Each loved character responds in their own unique way — with humor, patience, heartfelt reassurance, and unwavering affection — reminding you that love isn't something you have to earn.

Pairing: Cuphead x Reader, Mugman x Reader, Bendy x Reader, Boris x Reader and Shelly x Reader (SEPARATELY)

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Slice of Life and Body Positivity

Tropes: Insecure Reader, Chubby Reader, Comfort After Emotional Distress, Words of Affirmation, Physical Affection, Healthy Established Relationship, Emotional Vulnerability, Love Languages, "Let Me Remind You You're Loved" and Domestic Fluff

Rating: G (General)

Cuphead

He noticed it immediately.

Not because you said anything — you hadn’t, you wouldn't — but because you stopped looking at yourself in mirrors for too long.

You tugged at your sleeves more often now, like you were trying to hide inside them. Shifted awkwardly whenever people brushed past you in public. Even your laugh sounded quieter tonight, softer around the edges, like you were holding part of yourself back.

And Cuphead was observant in the weirdest ways.

He noticed when your favorite clothes suddenly stayed folded in the closet.

Noticed how your shoulders curled inward whenever you caught your reflection by accident.

Noticed the way you’d brush off compliments too quickly.

So by the time the two of you ended up alone in the kitchen later that night, he already knew something was wrong.

“Hey.”

He leaned sideways against the kitchen doorway, spinning a poker chip smoothly over his fingers while watching you carefully from across the room. His usual cocky grin softened when you didn’t answer right away, the playful confidence in his posture easing into something quieter and more attentive.

“You’ve been acting kinda funky all evening.” He tilted his head slightly, one brow raising while the poker chip clicked rhythmically between his fingers. “What’s up?”

You hesitated.

Your hands tightened slightly around the mug you were holding before you muttered quietly, “I just… for some reason, I don’t really like how I look today.”

Cuphead blinked.

Then blinked again.

The poker chip nearly slipped from his fingers.

“…What?”

You avoided his eyes immediately, rubbing your arm nervously while staring down into your drink. “I don’t know. I just don't feel like myself lately.”

The poker chip stopped spinning entirely.

Cuphead pushed himself off the doorway without another word, sneakers scraping lightly against the floor as he crossed the kitchen. He positions himself behind your back and embraces your body from behind, burying his face in your neck, but the expression on his face had completely changed now.

Gone was the usual smug teasing grin.

Now he just looked genuinely confused — almost offended on your behalf — like your words genuinely didn’t make any sense to him.

“Baby.” His voice dropped softer now, unusually sincere as he leaned toward you slightly. “You serious?”

You shrugged weakly, shoulders curling inward again. “A little bit.”

Cuphead stared at you for another second before letting out a disbelieving laugh under his breath, shaking his head slowly.

“No, c’mon.” He places both hands on you waist, gently tickling you, while smiling crookedly while trying to coax your attention back toward him. “You look amazing! Like— genuinely amazing.”

He pulls both your bodies apart slightly, turning your front body towards him so that he can look directly into your eyes, pointing vaguely toward you with exaggerated seriousness.

“I thought I was supposed to be the attractive one in this relationship,” He joked, placing a dramatic hand against his chest. “But you’re making it real difficult for me lately.”

You snorted despite yourself, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Cuphead immediately lit up, smirk growing bigger by the sound of your laugh.

“There it is!” He pointed at you dramatically the second your expression cracked, grin widening triumphantly. “That smile. See? You got me losin’ my composure over here.”

You rolled your eyes a little, but your expression still looked uncertain around the edges.

And your lover noticed that too, of course he would.

The teasing in his face softened almost instantly.

Slowly, he positions one arm around your body completely, this time enveloping you in an intimate and close embrace, his other hand now on your face, his thumb making gentle movements on your cheek, something completely out of character for him, as if you were something fragile that needs to be touched softly and with care.

The space, which was already small, between your bodies is now completely gone; all you can feel is each other's physical touch and both your faces just a few inches apart from each other.

“Listen.” His tone lost almost all teasing now, voice quieter and steadier than before. “I know I joke around a lot, but I mean this.”

He squeezed your waist gently.

“You are gorgeous to me.” His gaze stayed fixed on yours, unwavering. “Not ‘despite’ anything. Not ‘in a cute way.’ Just…”

He smiled softly.

“Gorgeous.”

You swallowed hard, your face warming under the sincerity in his voice.

“And honestly?” A smaller grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I love how your body looks. Makes hugging you way better, you're so, so soft.”

Before you could even respond, he shamelessly places the hand that was on your face, now resting around your waist as well, gently caressing it with up and down movement. His nose rubbings yours in a little eskimo kiss, while he squeezed you even closee with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever.

He let out an exaggerated, content hum.

“See?” He grinned while maintaining eye contact. “Peak comfort. Ten outta ten. Would cuddle forever.”

You laughed quietly, embarrassed warmth creeping across your face.

Cuphead immediately perked up again at the sound, like hearing you laugh was its own reward.

“There we go.” He flashed a victorious grin, arms still looped securely around your waist. “That’s my sweetheart.”

And for the rest of the night, he stayed close.

An arm thrown around your waist whenever you walked together. Fingers intertwined with yours under the table. Random, but still genuine compliments every few minutes like he physically couldn’t help himself.

“You look so cute in that outfit.”

“I like these jeans on you.”

“C’mere, lemme hold your hand.”

“You know you’ve got a really nice smile, right?”

And every single time he said those things, he meant them completely.

Not because he pitied you.

Not because he thought you needed some kind of "fixing".

But because, in Cuphead’s eyes, loving you loudly and openly was the most natural thing in the world.

─── ⟢ · //

Mugman

He actually noticed long before you ever admitted anything.

He noticed the way you went quiet whenever the topic of appearances came up around other people. The way your posture curled inward sometimes, shoulders folding into yourself like you were trying to seem smaller. The way you’d tug your clothes down nervously when you thought nobody was looking, smoothing fabric over yourself with tense hands before quickly pretending you hadn’t done it at all.

And Mugman always looked.

Not judgmentally, but carefully.

Because he loves you enough to notice the most little things.

So when you quietly admitted one night, “I don’t think I look as good as before,” the poor man looked genuinely heartbroken.

“What?” His eyes widened immediately as he sat up straighter on the couch, concern washing across his face so fast it was almost painful to watch. “No, no— hey, don’t say that, my love.” He says it in a low, trembling voice, as if he doesn't want to believe that you feel this way about yourself.

You tried shrugging it off, attempting a weak laugh like maybe it wasn’t a big deal, but Mugman was already scooting closer to you on the couch. His scarf shifted around his shoulders as he moved, his expression full of worried tenderness.

“I mean it,” you murmured quietly, staring down at your lap instead of him. “I just feel… not as beautiful sometimes.”

Mugman’s entire expression crumbled.

The hurt in his eyes was immediate — not because he was offended, but simply because the idea of you thinking so badly about yourself genuinely upset him.

If hearts could physically break, Mugman would be certain that's exactly what happened to his at this very moment.

“Oh, sweetheart…” His voice turned incredibly soft, barely above a whisper now.

He reached for your hands carefully, almost hesitant, like he was worried you might pull away from him if he moved too quickly. When you didn’t, he exhaled quietly in relief before intertwining his fingers with yours, the texture of his gloves bringing you some comfort.

“You... really think that?” His brows furrowed sadly while his thumbs slowly brushed against your knuckles.

You looked away for a second and nodded once.

Mugman went quiet for a moment after that, not because he didn’t know what to say but because he was trying very hard to say the right thing.

His gaze stayed fixed on your joined hands while he gathered his thoughts, shoulders tense with concern.

Then, he started talking.

And, oh, this man can talk, because he absolutely refused to let you sit alone with thoughts like that.

“Okay, first of all,” he adjusted himself until he was fully facing you now, knees touching yours while his grip on your hands tightened slightly “you are genuinely one of the prettiest people I’ve ever met, I truly mean it.”

He spoke carefully, earnestly, every word deliberate and sincere.

“And I know you probably think I’m just saying that because I love you,” his expression softened even more “but I do love you, and that means I notice things.”

His thumbs continued brushing gently over your knuckles in slow, soothing motions.

“I notice how nice your smile is when you’re actually relaxed, how warm your body feels when it hugs mine, how your eyes light up when you get excited talking about some clothes that you like..."

The longer he spoke, the softer his voice became, like every sentence was coming straight from the deepest, most honest part of him.

“I notice how safe I feel around you.” His gaze flickered up to yours briefly before dropping again, a shy blush dusting across his face. “And honestly… I love your body too.”

You looked away immediately, embarrassed warmth rushing to your face, but Mugman gently guided your attention back toward him by squeezing your hands softly.

“No, listen to me.” His expression stayed firm despite the obvious nervous blush spreading across his cheeks. “I mean it.”

He swallowed once before continuing.

“I love all of you. Not parts of you. Not ‘acceptable’ pieces of you.” His voice shook slightly with emotion. “I love you.”

Your eyes started watering a little at the sheer sincerity in his voice.

Mugman immediately panicked.

“Oh gosh— no no, did I say something wrong?” He scooted even closer automatically, scarf slipping slightly off one shoulder while he fussed nervously. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

You laughed weakly through the emotion and shook your head quickly.

That seemed to calm him down almost instantly.

“Oh.” He exhaled softly in relief, shoulders finally relaxing. “Okay. Okay, that's good…”

Slowly, carefully, Mugman wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest like you were something fragile and precious. One arm settled securely around your waist while the other rubbed slow, comforting circles along your back.

“You don’t have to look a certain way to deserve any love,” he whispered quietly, his cheek rested lightly against the top of your head while he held you close. “And you definitely don’t have to change for me, you don't have to change for anyone, for that matter.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last sentence, because he meant it that much and he stayed there with you for a long time afterward.

Rubbing your back slowly while you talked, listening carefully whenever you needed to vent.

Stopping you every single time you insulted yourself without truly realizing just to gently remind you that the harsh voice in your head wasn’t telling the truth.

Sometimes he’d hold your face carefully in both hands and say things like:

“You’re being too hard on yourself again.” His brows would knit together with quiet concern while his thumbs brushed softly against your cheeks.

Or:

“Hey, look at me.” His voice always softened when he said it. “You are so loved. For who you are, not for what you look like.”

And every single time those insecurities came creeping back afterward, Mugman made sure you never had to face them alone again.

─── ⟢ · //

Bendy

He figured it out basically instantly.

You were quieter than usual tonight, barely reacting to half of his silly jokes. You kept avoiding eye contact whenever he looked at you for too long, and every few minutes your hands would drift down to tug nervously at your clothes before quickly pulling away again.

And Bendy?

He was way too observant for his own good.

“So.” He casually sits down next to you, placing one arm around your shoulders while his tail flicked lazily behind him. “What upset you?”

You blinked at him from your spot. “What?”

“Something definitely upset you.” His grin sharpened knowingly while he pointed vaguely in your direction. “Or…” his eyes narrowed playfully “you upset yourself.”

You looked away immediately and that told him everything.

The smug grin slipped just a little, replaced by something quieter and more understanding.

“…Ah,” he murmured softly.

You sighed, shoulders drooping. “I just feel bad about how I look, that's all.”

Bendy stared at you for a second, then he let out the most dramatic gasp imaginable.

“Excuse me?” He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest like you’d personally offended him. “My partner? Looking this good? Saying nonsense like that?”

You groaned immediately, covering your face with both hands out of embarrassment.

Bendy reacted instantly.

He practically folded himself over the couch before sliding down beside you, throwing an arm around your shoulders with exaggerated determination.

“Nope. Absolutely not.” He shook his head firmly, tail swishing behind him. “We are not letting you bully yourself today, not ever."

“I’m serious...”

“So am I.” His teasing tone softened noticeably under the words.

Carefully now, Bendy reached over and gently pulled your hands away from your face. The dramatic attitude faded almost completely once he saw how genuinely upset you looked.

His expression turned surprisingly tender, kneeling in front of you and looking deep into your eyes.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” He tilted his head slightly, smiling faintly while his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles. “Someone stunning.”

You rolled your eyes weakly, though your face still warmed a little.

“Nope, too late, can’t escape now.” He poked your cheek lightly with a grin. “You’re gorgeous. End of discussion.”

You snorted quietly despite yourself, and he immediately looked victorious.

“There we go.” His grin widened smugly. “See? I'm already making your sadness go away."

You shoved his shoulder weakly. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he placed another dramatic hand over his chest “you continue to adore me.”

Even while joking around, though, his other hand never left yours, and when you still looked unconvinced, Bendy’s flirtier side came out in full force.

“You kidding me?” He gestured dramatically toward you like he was presenting the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve got the whole 'breathtaking sweetheart who makes me lose my mind’ thing going on.”

You immediately buried your face in your hands again with an embarrassed groan.

“Oh, don’t hide now.” He laughed softly while trying to tug your hands back down again. “I’m serious!”

“You flirt with everyone.”

“Yeah, but with you I mean it extra and sincerely.” He winked shamelessly.

You laughed despite yourself, the sound finally genuine this time.

“Just like that.” His grin widened triumphantly while his tail curled happily behind him. “See? That’s better.”

But then his expression softened again, you could even say his tail is forming a heart just from the way he looks at you, like you're everything.

“Hey.” His voice lowered noticeably as he shifted closer beside you. “Seriously though right now.”

He reached up slowly, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek while looking at you with an unusual amount of sincerity.

“You don’t have to earn being lovable, neither do you have to shrink yourself to deserve affection, much less need to look different for me to think you’re gorgeous.”

The teasing was completely gone now.

Every word came out quiet and honest, like he needed you to truly understand them. The sincerity in his voice hit harder than expected.

Your expression faltered slightly, emotion creeping into your face before you could stop it.

And Bendy noticed immediately.

His own smile softened into something smaller and warmer as he leaned forward until his forehead rested lightly against yours. His tail curled lazily behind him while one of his hands settled carefully against your lap now.

“And for the record?” A tiny grin returned to his face. “I’m always gonna flirt with you. Especially when you’re feeling bad.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” He kissed your forehead dramatically afterward, grinning against your skin. “That’s the price of dating me, sweetheart.”

You laughed quietly again, shaking your head while he pulled you closer against his side.

And honestly?

It became almost impossible to stay insecure for long when Bendy looked at you like you hung the stars yourself.

Not with the way he kept sneaking kisses against your forehead between jokes.

Not with the way he’d casually compliment you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Not with the way he held you so naturally, so affectionately, like loving you was never something he had to think about twice.

To Bendy, you were beautiful in the easiest, most effortless way imaginable, and he was going to make sure you never forgot it.

─── ⟢ · //

Boris

The big wolf noticed quietly.

He always did.

You’ve been quieter lately, your shoulders tense almost all the time now whenever you two would go on dates together. Your eyes would drop whenever you passed reflective windows, and your hands kept adjusting your outfit like you were trying to make yourself way smaller than him without realizing it.

Boris never pushed immediately — he wasn’t the type to do that.

But he did notice every tiny change.

The quieter laughs, the hesitation before entering crowded rooms, the way your expression dimmed whenever compliments were directed at you, and each time he noticed, concern settled a little deeper into his chest.

So later that evening, when he found you sitting alone in the living room, just staring at your hands, clearly looking upset, he approached carefully.

“You okay?” His voice was low and gentle as he sat beside you, careful not to crowd your personal space.

You hesitated before shrugging weakly, eyes now fixed somewhere on the floor instead of him.

Boris waited patiently.

He didn’t feel like rushing to fill the silence, nor he did pressure you to answer immediately. He just stayed beside you quietly, hands resting loosely together in his lap while his tail flicked faintly behind him.

Eventually you muttered, barely above a whisper, “I just don’t feel good about myself lately.”

The second those words left your mouth, Boris’s ears lowered slightly.

“Oh.”

Not judgmental or shocked.

Just quietly saddened that you’d been hurting alone this whole time.

His expression softened immediately, concern settling visibly across his face while he glanced down at his hands for a moment, like he hated knowing you felt that way.

He stayed silent briefly before speaking again.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” His voice stayed calm and careful while he looked at you attentively, giving you an easy out if you didn’t want to.

And when you finally started venting — about your body, your appearance, the insecurity constantly eating at you lately — Boris listened to everything.

No interrupting.

No dismissing your feelings.

No rushing to immediately “fix” things.

Just patient, careful, comforting listening.

Every now and then he nodded softly so you knew he was paying attention, his brows furrowing slightly whenever your voice grew more upset. Sometimes his hands tightened faintly together in his lap, like hearing you speak so harshly about yourself genuinely hurt him.

And even when you stumbled over your words or apologized for rambling, Boris would quietly shake his head.

“It’s okay.” His voice remained soft and reassuring. “Keep going, if you want to.”

So you did.

You let everything out.

All the frustration, the embarrassment, the ugly little thoughts you usually kept trapped inside your head.

And Boris listened to every single word, because to him, you mattered more than anything.

When you finally finished, emotionally exhausted and embarrassed by how much you’d admitted aloud, Boris looked at you with the gentlest expression imaginable.

“I’m sorry you’ve been feeling that way,” he said quietly, the sincerity in his voice made your chest ache.

Then, slowly, cautiously, he reached for your hand resting beside you.

“But…” His thumb brushed lightly across the back of your hand once he held it. “I don’t see you the way you see yourself.”

You looked up slightly at that.

Boris rubbed the back of your hand with his thumb again, visibly nervous now despite how sincere he sounded. His ears twitched faintly while he searched for the right words.

“I think you’re beautiful.” His voice grew quieter after admitting it aloud. “Honestly.”

You immediately opened your mouth to protest, but Boris gently shook his head before you could speak.

“No. Let me finish.” A tiny, nervous smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

His grip on your hand tightened slightly.

“You’re so kind, warm and always make people feel safe.”

His voice stayed calm and steady the entire time, every word spoken with quiet certainty.

“And I love your body too.” He looked shy admitting it, gaze flickering away briefly while his ears lowered again. "You’re very soft… comforting.”

A small smile tugged at his face.

“Holding you when I need some love feels really nice.”

The honesty in his voice nearly made you cry right then and there.

Boris noticed immediately.

“Hey, hey…” Concern crossed his face as he scooted closer without hesitation, gently pulling you against his chest. “It’s okay.”

His arms wrapped securely around you, warm and protective, like he wanted to physically shield you from every cruel thought in your head.

One of his hands settled carefully against your back, rubbing slow soothing circles between your shoulders while the other kept you tucked safely against him.

“You don’t have to look 'perfect',” he murmured softly. His snout gently stroking the top of your head while he held you close. “You already mean everything to me.”

Your breathing finally started evening out slowly against him and Boris stayed there as long as you needed.

Quietly comforting you without making you feel rushed.

Listening patiently whenever the insecurity came creeping back again, holding your hand absentmindedly whenever he noticed you getting stuck in your own head.

Sometimes he’d quietly remind you:

“You’re being too hard on yourself again.” His thumb would brush softly across your knuckles while he said it.

Or:

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.” His voice always sounded so heartbreakingly sincere when he admitted that.

And every single time you doubted yourself afterward, Boris made absolutely sure you never had to face those thoughts alone ever again.

─── ⟢ · //

Shelly

She reacted in approximately three seconds.

“...YOU THINK YOU’RE WHAT?!” She practically exploded out of her chair, horrified, nearly knocking a cushion onto the floor in the process while staring at you like you’d just confessed to committing a crime.

You immediately regretted saying anything.

“I just feel insecure sometimes, that's normal—”

“NO.” She pointed dramatically at you like she was personally offended by the statement itself. “Absolutely not. Illegal. Incorrect. Fake news.”

Her expression was so genuinely scandalized that you couldn’t help laughing a little despite yourself.

Shelly gasped dramatically the second she heard it.

“Oh my gosh, there’s the smile!” She lunged forward and grabbed both your hands enthusiastically before you could hide your face again, practically vibrating with excitement. “See?? Absolutely adorable!”

“Shelly—”

“Nope, I’m not done.” She bounced excitedly on her heels while still holding your hands, scarf slipping slightly off from around her neck from all the movement. “I have THOUGHTS about this.”

Before you could even respond, Shelly released your hands only so she could immediately start pacing around the room like she was preparing to deliver the world’s most passionate motivational speech.

Her hands flew wildly while she talked, expression full of absolute determination.

“You are literally so gorgeous it makes me emotional sometimes.” She gestured dramatically toward you with both hands before clutching her chest like the very thought overwhelmed her. “Like— HELLO?? Your face?? Your smile?? You as a whole??”

She spun around mid-rant to point at you again.

“And don’t even get me STARTED on your eyes when you laugh.” Her voice rose dramatically in volume. “I see that and immediately lose the ability to function properly.”

You groaned softly and buried your face in your hands, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of the compliments.

Shelly immediately hurried back over the second you hid again.

“No hiding!” She carefully tugged your hands away from your face once more, grinning brightly while crouching slightly so she could look directly at you. “I need you to understand something very important.”

Then her expression softened.

The dramatic energy in her face slowly eased into something warm and sincere, her bright eyes suddenly filled with quiet concern instead of playful chaos.

“You deserve kindness from yourself too, you know?” she said quietly.

The sudden sincerity caught you completely off guard.

Shelly squeezed your hands warmly between hers, thumbs brushing gently across your knuckles while her brows furrowed slightly with concern.

“I know it’s hard sometimes.” Her voice stayed softer now, more careful and deliberate. “I know people can be cruel and our brain can be mean.”

She glanced downward briefly before looking back up at you again, expression unbearably earnest now.

“But when I look at you…” Her smile softened at the edges. “I don’t see any kind of flaws.”

The room felt quieter for a moment after that.

Her grin slowly returned afterward, smaller this time but no less genuine.

“I see my favorite person.”

You felt your face heat up immediately.

And Shelly noticed instantly.

“There it is again!” She giggles while pointing excitedly at your expression like she’d discovered proof for her argument. “That cute embarrassed look! You keep proving my point for me here!”

You laughed harder this time, shoulders finally relaxing a little.

“And ALSO,” she added loudly, immediately recovering all of her usual chaotic energy as she sprang dramatically back to her feet “you give incredible hugs. Ten outta ten. Elite. Amazing. World-changing, actually!”

“Oh my celestials—”

“I’m serious!” (She threw both arms dramatically into the air while pacing again.) “Your hugs could solve international conflicts.”

You snorted loudly at that.

“THERE IT IS!” (She pointed excitedly again like she’d just won a competition.) “That laugh! I win!”

“You are unbelievable.”

“And yet,” (she placed a dramatic hand against her chest) “you continue to adore me.”

Before you could even come up with a response, Shelly practically launched herself at you and pulled you into the tightest hug imaginable, nearly lifting you completely off the floor from pure enthusiasm alone.

“You’re stuck with me now,” she declared proudly, small scarf flopped dramatically behind her while she squeezed you even tighter, cheek pressed happily against yours. “And I’m gonna hype you up forever.”

You could still hear the grin in her voice as she spoke.

And honestly?

She absolutely meant it.

From that point on, Shelly made complimenting you part of her daily routine.

Not in a forced way.

Just constantly.

“You look so cute today!” Usually shouted from across the room before you’d even fully woken up, immediately followed by her dramatically flopping onto the bed beside you.

“I LOVE this outfit on you.” Followed instantly by her grabbing your shoulders for emphasis while staring at you like you’d personally blessed her day.

“Oh no, my partner is being adorable again. This is devastating for me personally, my heart can't take so much cuteness.” Usually accompanied by exaggerated fake crying while she clung dramatically to your arm.

Sometimes she’d just stare at you for a few seconds before blurting out things like:

“You know you have a really nice smile, right?” Her tone would soften unexpectedly every time she said it.

Or:

“You make rooms feel warmer when you walk into them.” Said casually, like it was the most obvious fact in the world.

And every single compliment came with complete sincerity shining through underneath the theatrics.

With Shelly constantly showering you in affection, dramatic praise, enthusiastic reassurance, unbearably tight hugs, and endless reminders that you were loved exactly as you were, it slowly became easier to see yourself through kinder eyes.

Because when someone looked at you with that much genuine love and admiration every single day…

It became harder and harder to believe the cruel voice in your own head instead.

Author's note: The words of comfort I put in Mugman's and Shelly's scenarios are my personal favorite ones, it was nice to re-read them while editing this after a stressful night.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

Requested by: @shiningazures !!

Rewrite the Stars With Your Love — MOTM

Summary: The stage is where you shine brightest. Every performance leaves audiences spellbound, every spotlight seems destined to find you. But behind the curtains, five different hearts carry feelings they can't quite put into words. As dreams, fears, and impossible hopes intertwine beneath dazzling circus lights, each must decide whether some stars are simply too far apart — or whether destiny can be rewritten.

Pairing: Cuphead x Reader, Mugman x Reader, Bendy x Reader, Boris x Reader and Shelly x Reader (SEPARATELY)

Genres: Romance, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Slice of Life, Performing Arts and Anthology

Tropes: Rewrite the Stars Inspired, Show Person Reader, Gender-Neutral Reader, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Unrequited Feelings... Maybe, "I'm Not Good Enough for You", Emotional Repression, Hidden Feelings, Longing, Yearning, Opposites Attract, Performer × Performer (Bendy), Backstage Moments, Quiet Confessions, Almost Love Confessions, Shared Glances, Bittersweet Romance, Happy Ending (Scenario Dependent) and Five Separate Scenarios

Rating: T (Teen)

Cuphead

The spotlight absolutely adored you.

Every night, the velvet curtains parted and the audience erupted into applause before you had even finished your first spin.

The cheers seemed to follow you wherever you moved, swelling louder with every graceful step across the stage.

You belonged beneath the stage lights, wrapped in gold, glitter and impossible dreams. The spotlight always found you, as though it knew exactly where you were meant to be.

You were a star yourself.

And Cuphead knew that.

Maybe that was the problem.

The carnival lights painted streaks of red and amber across the rooftops as he sat on the edge of a building, elbows resting on his knees while one foot swung absently over the side. The cool night air tugged at his sleeves and rustled the collar of his coat, but he barely noticed it.

His attention remained fixed on the glowing circus grounds below.

Below, the circus glowed like a living shooting star.

Bright.

Warm.

Alive.

And somewhere inside it—

There was you.

His fingers drummed restlessly against his arm, tapping out an uneven rhythm he wasn't even aware of. Every few seconds he stopped, only for the movement to begin again moments later.

The nervous habit seemed impossible to shake tonight.

He had been telling himself for months that he was over it.

That whatever strange feeling settled in his chest whenever you smiled beautifully at him would eventually disappear.

That enough time would make it just... easier.

That eventually you would just become another friend of his.

It hadn't.

Not even close.

If anything, it had only gotten worse.

A distant melody drifted upward from the circus tent.

Your voice.

Oh... Your perfect voice.

The sound carried surprisingly far through the night air, soft but unmistakable, which, inevitably, made Cuphead freeze.

His fingers stopped moving.

And, for just a second, everything else seemed to fade into the background.

Then he let out a bitter laugh through his nose and shook his head, looking toward the glowing canvas roof.

"Of course." He leaned back on his palms, forcing a crooked grin onto his face even though nobody was around to see it. His eyes squeezed shut briefly before reopening, with a soft look. "Why wouldn't that be you?"

His grin appeared automatically.

The same grin he wore around everyone.

The same grin that convinced people everything was fine.

The same grin that hid absolutely everything.

"You just had to be flawlessly talented too," he muttered, letting his head tilt back toward the starry sky. He tried to sound amused, but the words came out softer than intended.

Almost fond.

The joke fell flat the moment it left his mouth.

His smile lingered for a few seconds before fading at the corners.

His shoulders slumped slightly as he stared toward the glowing tent. Through the distant fabric walls, shadows moved and lights flickered like pieces of a dream he could never quite reach. Every flash of gold made him wonder if it was you dancing across the stage.

You belonged somewhere beautiful.

You belonged somewhere bright.

Not beside a recovering gambler and murderer who still trusted luck more than common sense.

The thought settled heavily in his chest.

His gaze lowered toward his hands.

The hands that had lost souls

Took the lives of innocent toons.

Started fights.

Made mistakes.

Way too many mistakes.

He flexed his fingers slowly before curling them into loose fists.

The memories came too easily — bad decisions, reckless bets, promises broken almost as soon as they were made. Things he laughed off in public suddenly felt a lot less funny when he was alone.

His thumb rubbed absently across his knuckles, as though he could somehow scrub away the past.

For a moment he imagined what it would be like...

Walking into the circus and crossing the distance he'd spent months pretending didn't matter.

Taking your hand.

Asking you to stay and to choose him.

The thought made his stomach twist.

His grip tightened around the edge of the rooftop, not because he couldn't imagine you saying yes.

Because you would.

Probably.

Definitely.

And that terrified him more than rejection ever could.

He swallowed hard.

The knot in his throat only grew tighter.

His chest tightened as the fantasy continued despite himself, imagining your hand in his, warm and steady.

He imagined that smile you always gave him when he showed up backstage. Imagined hearing you say his name like it meant something special.

Like he meant something special for you.

The image felt dangerously easy to picture.

Because if you said yes—

Then he'd become responsible for your happiness.

And Cuphead had never been good at keeping things he cared about safe.

Not even himself.

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumped in his cheek.

The grin was gone now.

Completely gone.

No jokes for himself.

No clever remarks.

No pretending.

Just the uncomfortable truth sitting heavily in his chest.

The thought of disappointing you someday felt worse than never being with you at all.

Worse than staying silent.

Worse than... never knowing.

A gust of wind rattled his coat, making the fabric snap softly behind him.

He adjusted it automatically before pulling his knees closer to his chest. The movement made him feel smaller somehow.

Like he was just a little boy once again, dealing with his own feelings alone.

The circus music continued below.

Bright.

Hopeful.

Beautiful.

Everything he wasn't.

He stayed exactly where he was.

Watching.

Wanting.

Though, never moving.

The distance between the rooftop and the circus wasn't far.

A few streets.

Just a few minutes.

That was all.

Yet it felt impossible to cross.

Like there was an invisible wall between your world and his.

And no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn't find a way through it, and down inside the tent...

For the briefest moment—

You looked toward the rooftop.

Your movements faltered for barely a second, eyes lifting above the crowd as though drawn by something unseen. The spotlight caught the glitter woven into your costume, making you shine like a constellation against the darkness.

And for an instant, the noise of the audience seemed distant compared to the simple act of you looking up.

As if you somehow just knew he was there.

Cuphead's breath caught.

His entire body went still.

His fingers tightened against the edge of the roof until his knuckles ached.

The hopeful part of him stirred before he could stop it.

Maybe you saw him.

Maybe you didn't.

Maybe, for just one second, you had been looking for him too.

Cuphead never found out.

Because before he could even think about standing up, before he could convince himself to wave or call your name, you turned back toward the audience, smiling as they cheered your name.

The crowd roared.

The music swelled.

The spotlight followed you once more.

And he remained where he was.

Hidden in the dark.

Watching the star that could never belong to him.

Or perhaps—

The star he would never allow himself to reach for.

─── ⟢ · //

Mugman

The young man isn't too fond of crowds.

But, for some reason, you loved them.

The crowd itself loved you.

And that alone should have made everything impossible.

You thrived beneath the roar of applause, basking in the attention of hundreds of strangers.

Every cheer seemed to make you shine brighter, every standing ovation another reminder that the stage was where you belonged. It was as natural as breathing for you.

You never seemed intimidated by the sea of faces watching your every move. If anything, you looked happiest when the entire room was focused on you.

Mugman, meanwhile, usually spent your entire performances trying not to think about how many people were packed into the same room as him.

The crowded rows.

The constant noise.

The feeling of being surrounded on all sides.

Normally he would have avoided it entirely, yet, somehow, he still found himself sitting through every single performance.

Every.

Single.

One.

Even when he was exhausted, when he had work tomorrow, when his anxiety screamed at him to leave before the curtains even opened.

Because you smiled whenever you spotted him in the audience.

And somehow that made everything worth it.

One single glance.

One soft smile.

One quick small wave from the stage when nobody else was looking.

That was all it took for him to forget the discomfort of being surrounded by strangers.

At least for a little while.

The theater had long since emptied, the final applause had faded and the musicians had packed away their instruments while the stage lights were already going dark.

Only a few lanterns remained lit backstage, casting pools of warm golden light across the otherwise quiet corridor. Their glow reflected faintly against the polished floorboards, stretching long shadows across the walls.

Mugman stood awkwardly near a stack of wooden crates, scarf pulled higher around his face.

His fingers kept fidgeting with the fabric.

Pulling and adjusting it repeatedly without realizing it, the motion had become automatic by now.

Whenever he was nervous, his hands always needed something to do and right now, they definitely needed something to do.

You had invited him backstage hours ago.

And he still hadn't found the courage to knock on your dressing-room door.

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.

He stared at the brass handle from the opposite end of the hallway as though it might suddenly become less intimidating if he looked at it long enough.

Of course it didn't.

The stupid thing somehow looked even scarier now, somehow.

A soft laugh escaped him as he facepalmed his face.

"You've fought toons a thousand times bigger than you," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself while rubbing the back of his neck. His shoulders hunched slightly as he glanced around the empty corridor, thankful nobody was around to witness this conversation.

He rubbed the top of his head.

"You literally fought monsters once." His shoulders sagged as he let out another breath, staring at the floorboards. "Monsters. Giant ones."

He paused, as if waiting for some kind of revelation.

Nothing happened.

Another sigh.

"But talking to them is where you draw the line?" He gestured vaguely toward the dressing-room door as if presenting evidence in an argument against himself. One hand slipped free from his scarf long enough to point accusingly at it.

His voice echoed faintly through the empty corridor.

The silence afterward somehow felt louder, almost judgmental.

Then, the door opened, and you finally came outside.

For a moment both of you froze.

Mugman's eyes widened immediately.

His entire body locked up.

Every thought he had completely vanished.

Every word he practiced while watched you perform simply disappeared.

His posture straightened so quickly he nearly stumbled backwards over his own feet.

"Oh."

Brilliant.

Fantastic opening.

"Oh."

The word left his mouth before his brain could stop it.

His eyes squeezed shut for half a second.

Wonderful.

Years of conversation experience and that was the best he could manage.

A single syllable.

He resisted the urge to immediately walk away and pretend this entire interaction had never happened.

Your smile appeared instantly.

Warm.

Effortless.

Beautiful.

The same smile that always destroyed his ability to think, the one that somehow managed to make him feel seen every single time.

His heart immediately started racing.

He feared that.

He loved that.

Both at once.

"Hey," he managed, lifting one hand in a small awkward wave before immediately lowering it again as though he'd suddenly forgotten how greetings worked.

His voice cracked.

Just wonderful.

His shoulders immediately tensed as he cleared his throat, way far too late to save himself.

Could this get any worse?...

Probably.

The fact that he was already imagining every embarrassing thing he might say next certainly wasn't helping.

You stepped closer.

Close enough that he could smell traces of makeup powder and perfume lingering after the performance.

To the point he noticed tiny flecks of glitter still clinging to your costume, sparkling whenever you moved beneath the lantern light, making his carefully rehearsed thoughts immediately scattered like frightened birds.

Every sentence he'd practiced on the walk here vanished.

Every single one.

Gone.

Just like that.

His throat tightened.

Because standing here, beneath the soft backstage lights, you looked so happy.

So full of life.

The excitement from performing still lingered in your eyes.

Your smile hadn't faded, posture remained relaxed and confident in a way Mugman had always admired.

Like you had finally found where you belonged.

Like the stage had been waiting for you all along.

And Mugman—

He... had spent most of his life feeling like he belonged nowhere.

Not quite brave like Cuphead.

Not quite confident.

Not quite charming.

Not quite enough.

The realization hurt more than he expected as his gaze lowered.

Not because he wanted to look away, but because looking directly at you for too long felt overwhelming, since, every time he did, his chest felt too tight.

Like his heart was trying far too hard to make itself known.

"You're... amazing up there."

His voice came out quieter this time, honest and sincere.

His fingers tightened around the edge of his scarf as he spoke, bunching the fabric tightly in his hands.

"You always are."

He forced himself to meet your eyes for a moment after saying it.

Just long enough for you to see that he meant it.

Every word, though, he felt they were too simple, nowhere near enough.

A pause.

Then another.

The silence stretched.

Although not uncomfortable.

Heavy with everything he wasn't saying, his fingers clenched around the edge of his scarf, because there was so much more he wanted to tell you.

That he watched every performance.

Even the ones that ended late. The ones after exhausting days. The ones where he spent half the show trying not to panic because the theater was too crowded and loud.

That he remembered every song, from every dance to every costume.

That he noticed every nervous habit you thought nobody saw.

The way you adjusted your gloves before walking onstage, how you always took one deep breath before the curtains opened and your smile growing just a little brighter whenever you spotted familiar faces in the audience.

And to the way your shoulders relaxed whenever a performance went well and how you sometimes still hummed quietly to yourself backstage.

His face grew warmer, because the truth went even deeper than that.

That he loved hearing you laugh.

Loved seeing you happy.

Loved watching your eyes light up whenever you talked about your next performance.

Loved—

No.

Not tonight.

Maybe never.

His breath caught, the words remained trapped behind his teeth, hidden safely behind fear.

Because saying them out loud would make them real, and real things... could be lost.

Real things could be rejected.

Real things could break.

And if you looked at him differently afterward—

If your smile ever changed—

He wasn't sure he'd ever survive it.

So, instead, he stood there beneath the lantern light, holding onto his scarf like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And as you continued smiling at him—

Patiently.

Fondly.

So... full of love.

As though simply seeing him had brightened your evening—

Mugman wondered if perhaps you already knew, maybe you could hear it in his voice.

Perhaps you could see it every time he showed up to another performance, how it written all over his face.

How it might had been for months.

His heart pounded painfully against his chest.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Absolutely terrified.

Or maybe you only thought he was a friend.

And somehow that possibility hurt far more than it should have.

─── ⟢ · //

Bendy

The demon was a performer once.

Although, people forgot that.

Time had a way of erasing certain things, smoothing over rough edges and leaving only the stories people preferred to remember.

You didn't.

You remembered the old posters. The stories. The faded photographs tucked away in forgotten corners.

Even the way his eyes still followed every stage light like they were good old friends.

How his grin always seemed a little brighter whenever he was standing beneath one, his posture unconsciously straightened whenever he stepped onto a stage, no matter how abandoned it was.

As though some part of him never truly left the spotlight behind, almost like the performer he used to be was still there, hidden somewhere beneath the jokes, the charm, and the carefully crafted confidence he showed the world.

The abandoned stage creaked softly beneath your footsteps.

Dust floated through the pale moonlight pouring from the broken ceiling, drifting lazily through the air like tiny stars. The theater had long since been forgotten by everyone else, but somehow it still felt alive when the two of you were there.

As if it remembered what it used to be.

As if Bendy did too.

The empty rows of seats stretched out before you, swallowed by darkness. Torn curtains hung motionless at the sides of the stage, and yet the place never felt truly deserted.

Not when Bendy was there with you, both of your presences somehow filling every empty corner.

As if you could make an old, empty theater that once felt like a home for Bendy, feel like opening night with nothing more than a grin and a clever remark.

Bendy lounged across the edge of the stage with his usual effortless confidence.

One arm draped behind him and one leg dangling lazily over the edge, his posture relaxed.

Comfortable and careless, at least, that's what it looked like.

You were one of the few people in his life who knew it was mostly an act.

A very convincing act, but, still an act.

Because real confidence didn't require constant performances, and Bendy was always performing, even when there wasn't an audience, despite the fact when it was just you.

Sometimes especially when it was just you.

His golden eyes followed your movements, always sharp and observant.

Far more observant than he liked admitting.

He noticed everything when it came to you.

The way you moved, how your smile appeared before you even realized you were smiling and excitement brightened your face whenever you talked about performing.

Especially when it was about you performing with him.

Watching your eyes lit up whenever you describe future shows and you always ends up moving your hands around when you get excited, as you paced slightly whenever an idea made you passionate.

Things he pretended not to pay attention to, though he remembered them anyway, far too well.

"You know," he drawled lazily, stretching his arms behind his head while leaning backward against an old spotlight stand. The movement looked casual, almost lazy, but his gaze never left you for a second.

His head tilted slightly forward, attentive despite the relaxed posture. "You're becoming awfully popular."

The words came out light. Playful. Almost teasing.

But there was something underneath them, quieter and softer.

His eyebrow lifted slightly, the corner of his grin tugged upward.

Like he was teasing, as if he didn't care, almost like the observation meant absolutely nothing.

His smile widened.

The, so popular, charming smile.

The one everyone fell for. The one he used whenever something bothered him. The one he hid behind whenever he cared too much.

You laughed.

The sound echoed across the empty theater, bouncing off crumbling walls and empty rows of seats.

And something in his chest squeezed painfully, a sharp uncomfortable feeling.

Brief.

But still impossible to ignore.

Because you looked so happy, beautiful, as if the spotlight seemed to follow you even when there wasn't one.

Given that eventually somebody else was going to notice too.

If they hadn't already.

Someone talented, successful, who belonged in your world.

A toon who could stand beside you beneath those lights without feeling out of place.

Who wasn't—

His thoughts stopped there, abruptly, way before they could go anywhere dangerous.

His gaze lingered on you a second longer than intended, then he quickly looked toward the stage curtains.

As though the old fabric had suddenly become fascinating, seemingly like he hadn't nearly gotten caught staring, and his chest hadn't tightened at all.

"You ever think about performing somewhere else in the future?" he asked, the question slipped out before he could stop it.

His tail flickered immediately afterward, smile faltering for half a second, for a moment he almost looked surprised by his own words.

Almost.

One claw beneath his gloves tapped once against the wood beneath him, grin replaced with a soft smile and look on his face now.

But for the briefest second, his eyes betrayed him.

You paused.

The air seemed to shift, silence followed way too heavy than the theater where he used to perform at itself.

His expression didn't change, not in the slightest.

His soft, melancholic smile remained exactly where it was, a masterpiece of deception.

But internally—

He hated it, because he knew exactly why he'd asked.

The silence stretched.

Long enough for regret to settle into his stomach, for him to wish he could snatch the question right back out of the air because he realized he'd accidentally revealed more than intended.

You tilted your head.

Confused.

Bendy looked away first.

A rare occurrence.

His gaze drifted toward the dusty window on the other side of the room, following a beam of moonlight cutting across the stage.

Anywhere but you.

Anywhere but your eyes.

"It's nothing." His voice sounded lighter now as he waved a hand dismissively, forcing out a chuckle that sounded almost convincing. His wrist flicked casually through the air as though brushing the entire conversation aside. "Just pure curiosity."

He even flashed his grin back.

Quick.

Easy.

Practiced.

The one that usually just worked.

His shoulders rolled into a casual shrug, that always made people stop asking questions.

Yet beneath that casual gesture, his claws dug slightly deeper into the edge of the stage.

The wood creaked softly beneath his grip.

Tiny cracks forming beneath claws that were suddenly pressing much harder than intended.

Because he knew exactly what he was asking and why he was asking it.

Not whether you'd leave the town.

Not whether you'd chase bigger stages.

Not whether you'd become internationally famous.

Whether you'd leave him.

If someday the spotlight would carry you somewhere he couldn't follow. If one day you'd outgrow old theaters and midnight conversations.

Which would maybe make you realize you deserve much better, making you eventually stop looking back.

The thought sat heavily in his chest.

You belonged among stars.

Bendy, now, belonged among shadows.

And shadows weren't meant to keep stars.

No matter how badly they wanted to.

No matter how tightly they held on.

Eventually, stars kept moving, twas what they were meant to do.

His grin returned completely.

Bigger this time, more convincing, although as false as before.

The kind of smile that looked effortless to everyone except the people who knew him best.

Which would be his brother and you.

"Besides," he chuckled, leaving his lounging position behind and swinging his legs over the stage edge once again. He threw one arm dramatically across his chest and placed his free hand against his forehead like a silent-film actor. "Who'd wanna leave this charming face?"

He spun slightly as he said it, presenting himself with exaggerated flair.

A performer to the very end.

He pointed toward himself with a flourish.

Theatrical.

Confident.

Extremely ridiculous.

Exactly the kind of joke people used to expect from him.

His grin sharpened, tail flicked lazily behind him.

Yet his eyes never quite left yours. Watching. Waiting.

Hoping for something he wasn't brave enough to name.

Although, the joke landed, thankfully.

You laughed.

Everyone always used to laugh.

That was the problem.

He'd spent so long making people laugh that nobody ever noticed when he was serious, no toon ever stopped to ask what he was truly hiding underneath all the jokes.

And Bendy laughed too, a smooth, familiar sound.

As easy and as carefree as ever.

The kind of laugh he'd perfected years ago for the audience.

Because it was easier than taking accountabily of his own emotions and admitting the truth.

Much easier than saying that every time you talked about future performances, something uncomfortable twisted inside his chest, easier than admitting he was afraid.

Afraid of losing you, of needing someone this much.

Afraid that one day you'd stop looking at him the way you do now, that one day, you'd leave and he'd be left standing exactly where he'd always been.

Alone.

The conversation drifted elsewhere after that, lighter and softer topics.

The kind that didn't leave bruises, the ones that neither of you had to think too hard about.

But Bendy found himself paying less attention to the words and more attention to the sound of your voice.

The rhythm and warmth of it, the way it filled the empty theater.

Trying to memorize it, memorize your laugh, the shape of your smile, the way the moonlight caught against your outfit.

Just in case one day it wasn't there anymore.

When you finally left that night, he remained sitting alone on that old stage that was his and his old partner's once.

The theater fell silent around him.

Dust drifted through the moonlight, the doorway stood empty.

Still, he kept staring at it.

Watching the place where you'd disappeared long after you were gone.

As if expecting you to come back, refusing to accept that the night was over.

His grin had vanished by then.

So had the jokes, the performance.

His shoulders sagged slightly.

The confidence disappeared, the dancer finally stepped offstage.

Leaving only the quiet truth he never let anyone see.

And for the first time all evening, the abandoned theater felt exactly what it was.

Empty.

Just like the space beside him on the stage.

─── ⟢ · //

Boris

The stage was loud.

The wolf preferred quiet, although, both you and his brother were the only exceptions.

The sounds of distant music drifted through the workshop windows, softened by distance until they became little more than a faint melody floating through the night.

Somewhere outside, the stage was still alive with laughter, applause, and bright lights. The occasional burst of cheering carried on the wind before fading again, becoming part of the background hum of the evening.

But inside the workshop, everything felt calmer and safer.

The scent of machine oil and sawdust lingered in the air, familiar and comforting. Tools hung neatly along the walls, each one carefully returned to its place.

A lantern glowed softly above one of the workbenches, bathing the room in warm golden light and leaving the corners wrapped in comfortable shadows. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air whenever the lantern flame flickered.

And in the middle of it all sat Boris.

He sat on a workbench, turning a wrench between his fingers.

The metal repeatedly clicked softly.

A nervous habit of his, one of many.

The wrench rotated between his palms as his foot tapped faintly against the wooden leg of the bench. Every now and then he stopped, only to begin again a few seconds later without realizing it.

His ears twitched every so often, reacting to distant sounds he wasn't truly paying attention to.

He wasn't really working, hadn't been for almost twenty minutes.

The half-finished project beside him remained untouched, a loose bolt sat exactly where he'd left it as the toolbox beside him remained open.

Nothing had changed, because his thoughts kept wandering back to you.

As usual.

Every attempt to focus lasted only a few seconds before his mind drifted right back.

Back to your smile, to your laugh, to the way you always greeted him as though seeing him was the best part of your day.

Back to the way your eyes brightened whenever you spotted him in a crowd.

His ears lowered slightly, embarrassed by the realization, even when nobody was around to see it.

A sheepish smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing as quickly as it appeared. His thumb rubbed nervously against the smooth metal of the wrench as if the motion alone could distract him from his own thoughts.

Then the workshop door creaked open.

You softly stepped inside, looking around with curiosity.

Immediately his entire body stiffened.

The wrench nearly slipped from his hand, quickly grabbing it awkwardly as he immediately pretended nothing happened.

Which only made it more obvious.

A faint blush spread beneath his dark fur.

His ears twitched nervously, one folded back for a second before quickly returning upright.

You brightly smiled at him.

Boris instantly looked away, almost as if eye contact itself had become dangerous, like looking at you for too long might reveal every secret he'd spent months trying to hide, from both you and himself.

His tail gave one traitorous wag, then stopped.

Just to wag again once more.

He mentally cursed himself.

The tail clearly hadn't received instructions from the rest of his body.

You happily walked toward him, already talking and with a big smile on your face, telling him about tonight's performance.

Your hands moved animatedly as you spoke, describing moments from the show with obvious excitement.

Every story seemed to make your face brighten further. The sparkle in your eyes was impossible to miss, and Boris found himself smiling simply because you were. Even when he didn't fully understand the details, hearing you talk about something you loved made it impossible not to listen.

And Boris listened, really listened.

Not the polite kind of listening, the kind where someone waits for their turn to talk.

Simply the genuine kind, where every word mattered, every detail, every excited gesture and every beautiful expression of yours.

His gaze followed your movements attentively. A small smile gradually appeared without him noticing, growing softer whenever your excitement spilled into laughter.

His ears angled toward your voice, subtle but unmistakable, instinctively tracking every word as though he never wanted to miss a single one, because, you always listened to him too.

Even when he struggled finding words, when conversations became awkward, when silence stretched between sentences, when his answers seemed way too short.

Even when he wasn't sure how to explain what he meant.

You never seemed bothered, didn't bother to rush him, never looked impatient, the opposite, actually.

You simply waited.

And somehow that made talking easier, made being around you easier, that was exactly why this hurt.

Because kindness wasn't love, listening wasn't love, smiling wasn't love.

Yet some foolish part of him hoped otherwise, a dangerous hope.

The kind he usually avoided but that still grew stronger every time you sought him out first.

Every time you sat beside him and smiled at him like he mattered, as though out of everyone in your theater, you had chosen to spend your evening here.

With him.

You sat beside him.

Shoulder brushing shoulder.

A tiny touch, barely anything.

Yet Boris froze completely, his entire body went rigid, the wrench nearly slipped from his hand again.

His heartbeat stumbled.

Then sped up.

Fast enough that he was convinced you could even, maybe, probably hear it.

The warmth of your shoulder lingered through the thin fabric of his sleeve. Such a small thing. Such an insignificant thing. Yet it felt impossibly important.

His tail stopped moving entirely, his breath caught for a second, carefully exhaling through his nose.

Trying — and failing — to act normal.

His fingers tightened slightly around the wrench handle before he forced them to relax.

He was suddenly aware of everything; the warmth beside him, the space between you, even the way your sleeve brushed against his whenever either of you shifted.

For several long seconds neither of you spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable.

Just quiet, gentle and warm, like it always has been between you two.

The kind of silence Boris secretly loved, the one that didn't demand anything and simply allowed two people to exist beside each other.

His favorite kind.

Outside, distant music continued drifting through the night air.

Inside, only the soft ticking of a nearby clock could be heard.

The occasional creak of old wood, the faint hum of the lantern.

Nothing else.

His gaze drifted toward you.

Then away and back to you once again, quick little glances, each one lasting a fraction longer than the last.

Long enough to notice details, how the lantern light softened the edges of your smile, tiny flecks of glitter still lingered on your outfit from the performance, the way your expression seemed more relaxed here than it did anywhere else.

The lantern light caught against your features, it softened the edges of your smile, it made you seem... almost unreal.

Almost as if something beautiful that had wandered into his quiet little corner of the world by mistake, and for one fleeting moment—

He almost reached for your hand.

His fingers barely shifted, just a tiny movement.

The beginning of a decision and of enough courage, almost.

His hand hovered for the briefest second before stopping, before doubt caught up with him and every terrible possibility rushed into his mind at once.

Instead his fingers curled into his own fist, holding himself back while gripping the fur tightly.

As though restraint required physical effort.

His shoulders tensed beneath the motion. His jaw tightened slightly before he forced himself to relax again, staring down at his own hands as though they had nearly betrayed him.

Because if he crossed that line—

Everything could change, maybe for better or for the worse.

Perhaps you'd even smile or just pull away.

You'd possibly look at him differently afterward, maybe this comfortable silence would disappear forever.

The uncertainty terrified him.

And Boris wasn't brave enough to gamble with something this important.

Not yet. Not when simply having you here already meant so much. Not when losing this friendship felt unbearable.

His ears lowered slightly again.

His thumb rubbed absent circles against the fur gathered in his fingers.

A nervous gesture, though, a grounding one, that has helped him keep his thoughts from running away completely.

The workshop remained quiet.

Neither of you moved away, although neither of you moved closer either.

The distance between your shoulders never changed and somehow, for some reason, that made it harder.

Because for the first time all evening, Boris became painfully aware of how small that distance actually was, just a few inches.

A few inches and a thousand fears, with every word he couldn't say.

A few inches and every feeling he carefully kept hidden behind shy smiles and nervous silences.

A few inches and a future he wanted badly enough to dream about but not quite enough to risk losing what he already had.

So he stayed exactly where he was.

Sitting beside you beneath the warm lantern light.

Listening to your voice.

Memorizing the moment, the warmth, the feeling of your shoulder against his and wondering how something so simple could make his heart ache this much.

─── ⟢ · //

Shelly

She loved discovering things.

Ancient civilizations. Lost artifacts. Forgotten histories. Entire lifetimes hidden beneath layers of dust and stone.

She could spend weeks chasing a single clue.

Months studying a single mystery.

Even Years searching for answers.

The thrill of uncovering something lost never faded. Every fragment of pottery, every faded inscription, every buried relic held a story waiting to be told.

Yet, you were the only mystery she couldn't solve, and perhaps the most frustrating part was that she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.

Because mysteries eventually had answers, they ended.

Whatever this feeling was, she wasn't certain she wanted it to.

The circus had already packed up for the night, with most performers having gone home already.

The colorful tents stood quiet beneath the moonlight, their bright daytime energy replaced by a peaceful stillness. The distant sounds of workers finishing their tasks drifted through the cool evening air before fading into silence.

Shelly hadn't left.

She rarely remembered to leave when something interesting, such as the performances, captured her attention.

And unfortunately—

You had captured her attention months ago, far more thoroughly than any ancient artifact ever had.

She sat cross-legged atop a wagon filled with excavation notes, journal pages scattered around her like fallen leaves.

Books lay open around her.

Maps were spread across the wooden surface.

Several loose sketches threatened to slide off the edge entirely.

A lantern illuminated her face.

Its warm glow reflected in her eyes as she scribbled notes in the margins of an already overcrowded journal, the page was already packed with observations.

Half-finished theories.

Tiny diagrams.

Arrows pointing in every direction.

Only Shelly could understand most of it, probably.

Her eyes darted rapidly across a notebook, and stopped.

Not because of the notes but because she heard you approaching.

Immediately she brightened, like somebody had lit a second lantern.

The tired concentration vanished from her expression so quickly it was almost impressive.

Her eyes widened, her posture straightened and she just couldn't stop waving her hands around before she even fully processed why.

"Oh!"

The word escaped her before she could stop it.

She nearly dropped the notebook while scrambling upright.

The journal slipped from her lap with several papers flew into the air, one landed directly on her face. Another drifted off the wagon entirely, a third somehow became tangled around her goggles.

For a moment she simply froze.

Blinking.

Processing.

Trying to determine how exactly she'd managed that.

Then reached up awkwardly to remove the page from her face.

Only for two more sheets to slide off the wagon while she was distracted.

You laughed.

Shelly laughed too.

Though mostly because you were laughing, the sound immediately pulled a wide and genuine smile onto her face, completely helpless.

Her excitement always became stronger around you, stronger than she could properly control.

And, unfortunately for her, that excitement often came with a complete loss of coordination.

"You're still awake?" she asked, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees while staring at you with open curiosity. Her head tilted to one side as though the answer genuinely fascinated her.

She kept bouncing on her seat, happy to just see you in front of her, almost impossible to keep herself and her feelings still.

One foot bounced lightly against the wagon.

Her claws tapped absent-mindedly against the cover of her notebook, every part of her seemed to vibrate with energy.

She always stared, not rudely, no.

Just intensely.

Like she was trying to memorize every detail, every expression of yours, every minimal movement, every single little thing.

Almost as if she looked away for too long, she might miss something important, something worth remembering.

Something she'd wish she'd paid attention to later.

You answered. Shelly listened.

Her attention never wandered, not even once, most people became distracted with something else eventually.

Shelly didn't.

Especially not when it came to you.

The moment you began speaking, the rest of the world seemed to disappear completely

The notebook sat forgotten. The maps forgotten. The excavations notes forgotten.

Even the paper still tangled around her goggles remained there.

Because you were talking, and right now, that was infinitely more important.

Then she asked another question.

And another.

And another.

As usual.

Every answer only seemed to create three more questions.

Her notebook somehow ended up back in her hands.

Without thinking, she began jotting things down as you spoke.

A sentence, then another, then a small note in the margin and she stopped.

Realized what she was doing, quickly shutting the journal.

A blush dusted her cheeks.

"Sorry," she said with an embarrassed laugh, clutching the notebook against her chest so tightly the pages crinkled slightly. "Habit."

She rubbed the back of her neck.

Her smile grew sheepish.

"You say lovely interesting things."

A beat passed, her eyes widening, because somehow, that sounded worse.

Much worse.

"Not that other people don't say interesting things!" she blurted immediately, waving her free hand frantically.

The notebook nearly slipped again.

"I mean they do. Sometimes. It's just—"

She stopped just to start once again.

"No, that's not what I meant!"

Another pause, her fingers flickering anxiously and she could feel her face get even hotter with embarrassment.

"Oh dear."

Her shoulders slumped.

You laughed again and felt yourself blush at the woman's nervous rambling.

Shelly only groaned dramatically and covered part of her face with the notebook.

The sound only made her smile anyway.

A smile she couldn't seem to stop, even when she desperately wanted to look less obvious.

Eventually she stopped mid-sentence, a rare occurrence, actually

A very rare one.

Normally Shelly could talk for hours without noticing, she always knew what she wanted to say next, especially when there was always another question for her to ask.

Another theory.

Another fascinating fact.

But this time the words simply... disappeared.

Her expression shifted to a thoughtful and vulnerable one.

For once, there was no excitement to hide behind, no fascinating discovery, no historical tangent and definitely no distraction.

Just you.

The silence stretched unexpectedly.

Long enough for her to become painfully aware of her own heartbeat, for her fingers to tighten around the journal in her lap and for nervousness to settle into places excitement normally occupied.

"You know..."

She hesitated.

Actually hesitated.

A miracle, they say.

The words came slower than usual.

Carefully.

Like she was afraid of them.

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her journal, the worn leather cover bent slightly beneath her grip.

Eyes lowering briefly before returning to yours, then lowering again, and returning, and lingering once again.

"I think you're my favorite discovery."

The words escaped before she could stop them.

Before she could rethink them and bury them beneath twelve other sentences, because the moment they left her mouth, she knew there was no taking them back.

Immediately her eyes widened.

Panic.

The kind usually reserved for collapsing ruins or accidentally triggering ancient traps.

A bright blush spread across her cheeks, heat rushed all the way to her entire face.

Her hand holding the notebook completely froze, as though even if it had forgotten how to function, she just looked ready to launch herself off the wagon and bury herself underground.

"Wait—"

She pointed frantically.

Then stopped.

Then pointed again.

Then accidentally pointed at herself.

Then at you.

Then... nowhere in particular.

"I didn't mean—"

Pause.

Her hands flew up, the notebook nearly escaped her grip, she gave herself another try again.

"I mean, I did."

A longer pause now.

Her face somehow became even redder, practically ready to explode with how hot it was and how shy she now feels in your presence.

"Oh no."

She buried her face in both hands.

The notebook dropped into her lap.

"I absolutely meant it."

Her voice came out muffled through her fingers

"Oh this is a disaster." A tiny groan escaped her as she confessed her feelings to you, like they're the most embarrassing thing she ever had to talk about.

The embarrassment only intensified.

Her shoulders hunched inward, the notebook nearly slipped from her hands again, for someone capable of exploring dangerous ruins without fear, she suddenly looked moments away from fainting.

Meanwhile her heart hammered against her ribs, because of the simple fact there wasn't a mystery for once.

No ancient puzzle.

No hidden meaning.

No coded language.

No forgotten civilization waiting to be interpreted.

Just the simple truth.

Raw, exposed, and terrifying, as she'd spent months studying every detail about you.

Learning your habits.

Remembering your stories.

Treasuring every conversation.

Looking forward to seeing you more than she'd ever admit aloud.

And now, all of that was suddenly visible.

Every feeling she'd carefully hidden between questions and observations, every glance that lasted too long, every excuse she'd invented to talk to you again.

Slowly she lowered her hands.

Looking at you through her fingers.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Dreading.

All at once.

Her breath caught.

The world seemed unusually quiet.

Even the night air felt still.

For perhaps the first time in her life, Shelly wasn't searching for answers, she was waiting for one, and that was somehow much scarier than anything else.

Whatever happened next—

Neither history books nor archaeologists would ever record it, no museum would preserve it and no scholar would write about it centuries later.

But Shelly suspected she'd remember that moment forever.

Every second of it, every heartbeat, every single word. As clearly as any discovery she'd ever made, perhaps, even more clearly.

Author's note: I wrote the reader working in a theater instead of a circus in Bendy's and Boris's scenarios because of their past involvement with theater/performances.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

The reason why I drew the 3 of them in separated fanarts is simply because I wanted to make something special for each one of them as individuals and as characters, as if they were on the stage under the spotlights together and these are posters/magazine in the Showbiz and Souls AU for other toons to see.

Some changes were made in Alice's and Bendy's fanarts while I was drawing Boris, if you guys want to go check them out again.

Once again, AU belongs to @biposi, thank you everyone for all the support and love towards my art 💖

The AU belongs to @biposi 💖

This AU brought back and made me feel again all the joy and love I felt for drawing when I was a child, it belongs to @biposi and the user of the blog is @showbiz-and-souls.

I can't thank them enough for this incredible creation, along with their friends who also help a lot with the project, thank you for making me feel passionate about drawing again after so many years feeling depressed just imagining drawing anything at all.

THEY ALL WORK SO HARD TO PROVIDE US AMAZING FANFICS!!!!!!! I'll never stop loving and supporting my friends/moots/local writers who spend hours, days, weeks, even months, just writing for all of us in this community, YOU ALL DESERVE EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD FOR PROVIDING US SUCH GOOD CONTENT FOR FREE!!!!! 💖💖💖

It's actually such a joy to see so many people writing and even drawing FANARTS of other people's/their own fanfics while I'm on my hiatus, because they're feeding you guys and even ME.

I LOVE writing for this community, I genuinely do, writing "myth x reader" is such a joy for me but I also want to read what other people write here sometimes, you know?? I like opening Tumblr and think "I wonder if anyone wrote any new myth x reader fanfics today" and check out everyone's amazing works!!!

This is not directed towards anyone in specific, but I've seen this happen before and I don't want this to happen again, I enjoy reading fanfics as much as everyone else here and just want others to have fun writing for this whole community with me as well, we're all humans creating something original with our hands, please guys, never stop writing any kind of fanfiction if you put your love and passion into it.

Can it be canon x oc, canon x canon, oc x oc or canon x reader, it doesn't matter. KEEP WRITING FANFICTION!!!! You don't know how much this means to a lot of readers and how awesome it is to find something to read here related to your favorite community/fandom.

Never feel insecure others might not like or give the attention you wish they could if your fanfics don't get lots of likes and reblogs, because there will always be at least one person who will read your work, genuinely enjoy it and want more, never give up on your blogs!!!!

It takes a while (it can even take years) to get the attention we want for our work, but it comes with time and it's all worth it at the end of the day, trust me.

── ⟢ ・ //

ALSO

Loved Softly, Hidden Carefully — BTTWNS

Summary: In the sleepy town of Woodbrook, life feels safe, warm, and comfortably familiar — especially in the steady presence of Sam, the dependable local hardware store owner everyone trusts. Around you, she is softer than anyone expects: protective, affectionate, and quietly devoted in ways that make ordinary days feel impossibly gentle.

But as your relationship deepens, someone nearby begins watching more closely. Nigel, a familiar face returning to town, notices things others overlook — the strange tension beneath small moments, the unsettling intensity hidden behind tenderness, and the feeling that something in Woodbrook is not quite as peaceful as it seems.

As quiet jealousy, buried fascination, and dangerous secrets begin intertwining beneath the town’s cozy routines, love and trust blur into something far darker than they first appear.

Pairing: Samantha Strong x Reader

Genre: Slice-of-life, Domestic romance, Soft romance with unsettling undertones, Obsessive relationship drama, Psychological Thriller, Romantic Thriller, Dark Romance, Small-Town Mystery, Cozy Horror / Quiet Horror, Suspense and Character Study

Trope: Secret Double Life / Hidden Monster, “Only Soft For You,” Protective & Possessive Love Interest, Domestic Fluff with Dark Undertones, Obsessive Admiration / Unhealthy Fixation, Love Triangle (Psychological / Emotional Tension) and Morally Grey-to-Dark Characters navigating hidden violence, secrecy, jealousy, and dangerous devotion beneath an otherwise warm and peaceful relationship

Rating: M (Mature / +16 or +17)

!! Warning !! Beneath the Trees Where Nobody Sees is a cozy horror/psychological thriller graphic novel about a bear in a small-town who is secretly living as a serial killer behind a wholesome woodland façade. The target audience is older teens and adults (+17 / +18), especially for people who enjoy dark thrillers, horror, and twisted cozy settings.

The fanarts on the header belong to kayakoto enterprises on pinterest, go check it out and support their beautiful art <33

The bell above the door of the little hardware store chimed softly the moment you stepped inside, the warm scent of scented candles, raw wood, and canned paint settling around you almost immediately.

Outside, Woodbrook carried on with its usual sleepy rhythm — slow conversations on sidewalks, bicycles rattling past storefronts, the distant sound of someone laughing near the cafeteria across the street — but here, everything felt quieter somehow. Safer.

And at the front counter stood Sam.

She looked up the second she heard the bell, broad shoulders relaxing the moment her eyes landed on you.

The bear’s expression softened in that subtle way she always did around you, the corners of her mouth lifting into something gentler than the polite smiles she gave everyone else in town.

“Well, there’s my favorite customer,” she said warmly, one large paw resting against the countertop as she leaned forward slightly, voice low and smooth in a way that always made your chest tighten pleasantly. “You’re early today.”

You smiled back almost instantly, unable not to when she looked at you like that. “I didn’t know there was a schedule.”

“Oh, there is,” Sam replied easily, amusement flickering across her face while she straightened one of the canned paints displaying beside the register. “You just don’t know about it yet.”

The comment made you laugh softly under your breath, and Sam’s eyes lingered on you for a second longer than necessary afterward.

Not intense enough to draw attention from anyone else who might be in the store, not suspicious, not strange — just affectionate. Familiar. Like she’d already memorized every little expression you made.

That was the thing about Sam.

Everyone in Woodbrook loved her.

Parents trusted her. Elderly neighbors adored her. Children waved at her every morning on their way to school. She helped carry groceries for people without being asked, remembered birthdays without writing them down, checked on lonely neighbors during storms.

To the town, Samantha Strong was dependable, caring, steady as the trees surrounding Woodbrook itself.

And with you, she was softer.

Not dramatically. Sam was never dramatic.

But there were little things.

The way she’d automatically reach for your paw when nobody was paying attention. The way she always walked on the outside edge of the sidewalk beside you. The way her deep voice lost some of its roughness whenever she spoke directly to you, like she was handling something delicate without even realizing it.

You’d only been together for a few months, but it already felt strangely natural.

Easy.

Like the relationship had simply slipped into place instead of being forced there.

“Have you eaten lunch yet?” Sam asked casually, opening a small refrigerator under the counter before pulling out a glass of banana milk, specifically for you. “Or are you still surviving entirely on snacks and coffee?”

“I had toast this morning.”

Sam gave you a look.

You laughed again. “Okay, fine. One piece of toast.”

“Mhm.” She set the glass in front of you before folding her arms across her chest, one brow raising knowingly. “You’re lucky I like taking care of you.”

There was something so comfortable about the way she said it. No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just quiet certainty.

Your face warmed a little anyway, taking the glass in your hands and taking a quick sip, letting out a sigh of satisfaction at the taste.

Before you could answer back, the door chimed again.

A mouse stepped inside carrying a paper bag beneath one arm, smiling almost immediately once he noticed Sam behind the counter.

“There you are,” he greeted cheerfully, voice light and easy. “My mom said you forgot to take a slice of cake when you visited us.”

“Nigel,” Sam greeted, tone instantly familiar. Warm in a different way than it was with you, older and more nostalgic. “Tell your mother I said thank you.”

Nigel smiled wider as he approached the counter, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater absentmindedly. He looked young — much younger than Sam — with tidy fur, bright eyes, and the kind of friendly demeanor people instinctively trusted. The sort of person who laughed easily and greeted everyone first.

Even if half the town couldn’t quite remember him properly.

“Oliver, right?”

“Miguel?”

“Nathan?”

You’d heard it all before from various townsfolk.

Nigel never corrected them harshly. Just laughed politely and moved on.

His eyes shifted toward you then, and his smile remained perfectly pleasant.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “Sorry, I didn't realize I was interrupting.”

“You aren’t,” you answered quickly and smiled at him.

Sam rested one paw near yours on the counter. “We were just talking.”

Nigel nodded once.

Then his gaze dropped.

Just for a quick second.

To Sam’s paw beside yours.

And he stopped moving.

It was subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t have noticed. Barely even a pause. But something in his expression flickered strangely still before disappearing behind that same easygoing smile again.

“Well,” he said casually, setting the jar with slices of cake down. “Nice seeing you both.”

Sam hummed in acknowledgment while turning to place it next to the counter.

You missed the way Nigel looked at her then.

Not at you.

At her.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Like he was trying to understand something.

Or losing something.

The moment passed quickly enough that you didn’t think twice about it.

But Nigel lingered by the door a little longer than necessary before leaving.

And when he stepped back outside into the cool afternoon air, the smile finally slipped from his face.

Not entirely.

Just enough.

Across the street, townsfolk continued chatting beside flower displays and the newspaper stand, completely unaware of the way Nigel stood still beneath the awning for several silent seconds.

His grip tightened slightly around the empty paper bag under his arm.

Sam’s laugh drifted faintly through the shop window.

Soft.

Real.

Not fake.

Not the polite version she gave everyone else.

Something private.

Something meant for you.

Nigel stared through the glass a second longer before finally walking away.

Slowly.

Thoughtfully.

The first time Nigel saw Sam kill someone, he thought he’d imagined it.

It happened a while after he’d returned to Woodbrook to help his mother around the house. Everyone had welcomed him back warmly enough, even if most people barely remembered him properly anymore.

The cheerful mouse who used to follow Lola around as a kid. The quiet son who left for college and suddenly came back years later.

Nobody looked at him too closely.

Which made things easier.

He noticed Sam almost immediately after returning.

Of course he did.

His mother talked about her constantly.

“Sam helped fix the fence.”

“Sam brought soup over during the winter.”

“Sam checked on me yesterday.”

Always Sam.

Always wonderful Sam.

And Nigel had already admired her long before he truly understood her when he was just a little kid.

Because Samantha Strong never seemed fake.

Not really.

Not the way everyone else did.

The people in the big city smiled too much. Lied too easily. Pretended constantly.

Nigel remembered his college full of people like that — smug classmates with shallow voices and shallow morals, acting kind while mocking each other the second backs were turned.

He hated them.

Every single one of them.

But Sam…

Sam always felt genuine.

Even before he knew why.

Then one day in the small city, after he started stalking her while he was passing by her store from time to time, he followed her car after seeing she needed to buy new utensils for her store in the big city once again.

And watched her disappear into a small alley with someone else.

Curiosity kept him moving after them.

Nothing more.

At first.

He remembered the chilly air vividly. The concrete beneath his shoes. The silence between the tall apartment buildings.

Then—

A scream.

Brief.

Sharp.

Cut off suddenly.

Nigel froze behind a wall, heart pounding violently against his ribs while he stared through the darkness of the alley.

Sam stood over a body.

Breathing steadily.

Calmly.

A wet cloth in her hands, as she now carried the person's body in her arms to her car.

And she looked…

Relieved.

Not panicked.

Not horrified.

Simply satisfied.

Nigel should’ve run.

Instead, he watched.

Watched her drag the body into her car with terrifying efficiency. Watched her take it deep into the woods, kill the person instantly, with frightening precision. Watched her clean whatever stains fell on her hands and face afterward in the river. Watched her walk back to her car towards the town like nothing had happened.

And somehow—

Somehow—

He understood her better after that.

More than anyone else in Woodbrook ever could.

Because she wasn’t pretending.

Not entirely.

Underneath the kindness and the warm smiles and the pie dishes and neighborly concern, there was something vicious living inside her.

Something honest.

Something real.

Nigel never confronted her.

Never told her what he saw.

But he kept watching.

Not obsessively.

Not at first.

Just enough to confirm it hadn’t been a mistake.

Then enough to realize it was a pattern.

People disappeared in the nearby big city sometimes. Cruel people. Violent people. Ugly people hiding behind polite masks.

And every now and then Sam would leave Woodbrook for a day or two.

Then come back calmer.

Lighter.

Nigel understood more every time.

He admired her for it.

Admired how controlled she was. How careful. How unapologetically herself beneath everything.

And maybe…

Maybe he wanted her to notice him too.

Not as Lola’s son.

Not as the forgettable mouse nobody remembered correctly.

But as someone who understood her.

Someone like her.

Then you appeared.

And suddenly Sam started smiling differently.

“You’re staring again.”

Nigel blinked quickly, turning toward his mother from across the dinner table.

Lola sipped her tea calmly, whiskers twitching with amusement.

“At what?” he asked lightly.

“Towards Sam's store at the end of the street,” she replied. “You’ve looked out that window six times.”

Nigel smiled faintly. “Just thinking.”

“Mhm.”

Lola didn’t press further.

She rarely did.

The house remained quiet afterward except for the ticking wall clock and distant evening crickets outside the windows.

Nigel pushed food around his plate absentmindedly.

Thinking.

He’d seen you with Sam almost every day lately.

Walking together through town.

Sharing coffee outside the local bakery.

Laughing quietly while shopping for groceries.

Small things.

Normal things.

But Sam never acted like that with anyone else.

Not even with Lola.

And Nigel hated how much it bothered him.

Not because he wanted you gone specifically.

He barely even knew you.

But because Sam had let someone in.

Someone ordinary.

Someone unaware.

You looked at Sam with affection and trust while standing inches away from a predator you couldn’t even comprehend, and somehow, that closeness irritated him more every day.

Because Nigel understood her.

You didn’t.

Yet Sam chose you anyway.

His fingers tightened subtly around his fork.

Lola glanced at him again.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine,” Nigel answered immediately, a smile returning so naturally it almost convinced even him. “Just tired.”

But later that night, lying awake in his childhood bedroom, he found himself staring at the ceiling while thoughts twisted restlessly through his mind.

He remembered Sam in the woods.

Blood on her paws.

Breathing calmly.

Beautifully composed.

And then he remembered the way she’d looked at you earlier.

Soft.

Protective.

Possessive.

Something ugly curled low in his chest.

Not anger exactly.

Something deeper.

Something aching.

Because no matter how much Nigel watched her, understood her, admired her—

Sam still looked through him.

Like he was just another harmless boy from town.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe harmless people didn’t interest Samantha Strong.

And by late evening, the town had quieted considerably.

Woodbrook always slept early.

Streetlights cast soft golden pools over empty sidewalks while distant porch lights glowed warmly between trees, their light flickering faintly against rain-damp pavement. Somewhere far off, a screen door creaked shut. Crickets hummed softly beneath the steady rustle of pine branches overhead.

The cool night air carried the earthy scent of wet soil and pinewood through the sleepy little town.

You walked beside Sam at an unhurried pace, your paw tucked comfortably in hers while the two of you wandered down the near-empty street without any real destination in mind.

Her paw was huge compared to yours.

Warm.

Steady.

Protective without being overbearing.

Even the way she held your hand felt deliberate, her claws carefully tucked away while her thumb brushed slow absentminded strokes across your knuckles every few seconds like she couldn’t quite stop touching you once she started.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Sam observed softly after a while, her deep voice carrying easily through the stillness as she glanced down at you.

Her thumb caressed your paw again almost unconsciously, the motion gentle enough to make warmth bloom in your chest despite the chilly air.

You looked up at her through the dim streetlight glow, shoulders lifting slightly in a tired shrug. “Just tired.”

“Mhm.” Sam gave your hand one soft squeeze, her pace slowing instinctively to match yours more closely. “Long day?”

“A little.”

The answer was simple, but Sam still looked at you like she was trying to read the exhaustion hidden underneath it.

She always did that.

Always paid attention.

The bear slowed even further until your shoulders brushed lightly as you walked, her gaze lingering on your face with that same quiet attentiveness she wore whenever you seemed even remotely off. The expression softened her naturally intimidating features in a way nobody else ever really got to see.

“Are you sleeping okay?” she asked, voice lower now, quieter. Concern threaded naturally through the question while her ears angled slightly toward you, fully focused.

“I sleep fine.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your mouth after that, faint and sleepy but genuine all the same.

Sam noticed instantly.

Of course she did.

“There it is,” she murmured softly, the corners of her mouth lifting as she watched your expression change.

You blinked up at her. “What?”

“That pretty smile.”

The fondness in her voice made heat creep embarrassingly fast into your face, and Sam looked unfairly pleased with herself the moment she noticed your reaction.

A low amused hum rumbled quietly in her chest while she looked forward again, though her grip on your paw tightened just slightly.

“You know,” she said casually after a moment, though the teasing warmth never left her tone, “you get embarrassed awfully easy for someone who flirts with me constantly.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “I do not flirt constantly.”

Sam snorted softly under her breath, shoulders shaking faintly with contained amusement. “You absolutely do.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying — and failing — to sound annoyed.

“And you like me anyway.”

You glanced at her again then.

At the easy confidence in her expression.

At the softness hidden underneath it that only seemed to appear around you.

And your chest tightened pleasantly before you answered in a quieter voice, honest without even trying to be.

You giggle. “I do.”

Something shifted in Sam’s expression then.

Tiny.

But real.

The teasing faded just enough for something warmer to settle underneath it instead, her eyes softening while she looked down at you beneath the dim glow of the streetlights.

The bear’s pace slowed until you were both nearly standing still beside the sidewalk, cool wind stirring the fur along her shoulders while distant night insects buzzed softly somewhere in the grass nearby.

Then Sam lifted your joined hands carefully between both of hers.

The motion was slow enough to make your heartbeat stumble before she even did anything else.

And then—

She lowered her head and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.

Gentle.

Deliberate.

Lingering just long enough for warmth to spread all the way through you.

Your breath caught quietly in your throat.

Sam noticed immediately.

Always noticed.

“There’s that look again,” she murmured, her voice dropping lower with quiet amusement as she lifted her gaze back to yours. Her nose brushed lightly against the back of your paw before she let your hand fall back between you again.

You tried to recover despite the way your face burned. “What look?”

“The one that makes me want to spoil you.”

You laughed softly at that, a little breathless around the edges, but Sam kept looking at you afterward with such open tenderness it nearly made your chest ache.

Like you were something precious.

Something worth handling carefully.

Worth protecting.

Her paw slipped from yours, only long enough for her arm to settle around your shoulders instead, naturally pulling you closer against her side as the two of you resumed walking.

The warmth of her body bled easily through your clothes, grounding and comforting all at once.

You leaned into her automatically.

And Sam’s entire posture softened the second you did.

Across the street, partially hidden beside the darkened local florist shop, Nigel stood motionless beneath the shadow of the awning.

Watching.

His expression remained calm.

Neutral.

But his stomach twisted painfully at the sight before him.

Sam never looked distracted around other people.

Never vulnerable.

Neither gentle in ways that felt real.

Yet here she was, beneath soft streetlights with you tucked safely against her side, holding your hand like it genuinely mattered to her. Looking at you with warmth so natural it almost seemed impossible coming from someone like the Samantha Strong.

Nigel’s chest tightened sharply.

He hated it.

Not because Sam looked happy.

But because someone else had managed to reach her first.

His gaze lingered helplessly on the way Sam touched you despite her size — careful, restrained, instinctively protective.

The way her broad frame subtly shifted whenever a car passed by, automatically placing herself between you and the street without even seeming aware she was doing it.

Protective.

Affectionate.

Real.

And suddenly Nigel understood something terrible.

You weren’t temporary.

This wasn’t casual amusement or fleeting affection.

Sam genuinely cared about you.

The realization settled heavy and sickening inside his chest while he remained hidden in the dark, rainwater dripping quietly from the edge of the awning above him.

Then Sam’s ears twitched slightly.

Nigel stiffened instinctively.

For one brief moment, her eyes shifted toward his direction.

Sharp.

Alert.

The same eyes he’d seen in the woods.

Predatory.

For a split second it felt like being pinned in place beneath the gaze of something ancient and dangerous, something that saw far more than it should.

But then you said something softly beside her, your voice gentle and sleepy as you leaned more fully into her side.

And the expression vanished almost immediately.

Sam looked back down at you instead, her features softening with almost frightening ease before a small smile tugged faintly at her mouth again.

Nigel stayed perfectly still until the two of you disappeared farther down the street together, Sam’s arm still wrapped securely around your shoulders while your laughter drifted faintly through the cool night air.

Only then did he finally move.

His heartbeat felt strangely loud.

Uneven.

He looked down slowly at his own trembling hands.

Small mouse paws.

Harmless.

Forgettable.

Unless—

Unless he changed that.

Slowly, Nigel’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Because maybe understanding Sam wasn’t enough anymore.

Maybe he needed to prove something.

Not to the town.

Not to himself.

To her.

That he wasn’t soft like everyone else.

That he could understand the ugly parts too.

That he could become someone worth noticing.

And somewhere deep inside him, beneath the cheerful smiles and polite laughter and harmless small-town demeanor, something dark quietly began unfolding its wings.

The rain started sometime after midnight.

Not heavy.

Just steady enough for the sound to settle across Woodbrook in a soft endless hush, tapping against rooftops and gutters while the town slept beneath layers of fog and darkness. Streetlights glowed dimly through the rainwater, blurring gold against wet pavement and empty sidewalks beyond the windows.

Sam liked nights like this.

People stayed inside when it rained.

Curtains closed. Doors locked. Everyone tucked safely away in their warm little homes pretending the world outside stopped existing after dark.

It made things quieter.

Cleaner.

And tonight, with you curled against her side on the couch beneath a blanket, the sound of the storm almost felt domestic.

Normal.

The television murmured softly in the background, some old black-and-white detective movie neither of you were really paying attention to anymore.

One of your legs rested lazily over hers while Sam sat reclined into the corner of the couch, broad arm draped comfortably behind your shoulders. Every so often her claws lightly brushed the fabric of your sleeve whenever she shifted, careful even in unconscious movements.

Large.

Warm.

Safe.

To you, at least.

“You’re staring again,” you murmured sleepily without opening your eyes, your voice muffled slightly against the front of her sweater while your fingers lazily curled against her chest.

Sam’s gaze didn’t move from your face. “Can you blame me?” she asked quietly, the deep rumble of her voice softening around the edges in a way it only ever seemed to around you.

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time,” Sam replied immediately, a faint amused smile tugging at her mouth while her paw drifted absentmindedly through your fur. The motion was slow and repetitive, soothing enough that she doubted you even realized she was doing it anymore.

You huffed a quiet laugh beneath your breath, shifting slightly closer until your shoulder pressed more firmly into her chest.

Sam adjusted immediately to accommodate you without hesitation, one arm tightening instinctively around your waist to keep the blanket from slipping off your shoulders.

That was another thing you loved about her.

Sam looked intimidating to outsiders sometimes — towering height, broad frame, deep voice that could make most people straighten up automatically when she spoke — but she handled you like something delicate without ever making it feel patronizing.

Like she genuinely wanted to be gentle with you.

One of her paws rested lazily against your knee now, claws tucked safely away while her thumb rubbed slow absentminded circles through the fabric of your pajama pants. The repetitive motion made warmth spread sleepily through your chest every single time she touched you like that.

“You know,” Sam said quietly after a while, eyes still fixed on your face like she couldn’t help herself, “you could stay here tonight.”

You finally glanced up at her then, brows lifting slightly with sleepy amusement. “I practically already live here.”

“Mhm.” Sam’s mouth twitched faintly as she looked down at you. “But technically you still leave sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” you agreed teasingly, smiling when Sam gave your waist a light squeeze in response.

“You say that like I’m supposed to be happy about it.”

“You miss me that much?”

Sam snorted softly, though her gaze warmed immediately at the sound of your laugh. “You say that like you don’t text me the second you get home.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

Paused.

Then frowned dramatically instead. “Stop making good points.”

A low laugh rumbled quietly in Sam’s chest beneath your cheek, warm enough that you felt the vibration through her sweater. Without really thinking about it, she leaned down and pressed a brief kiss against the top of your head afterward.

Affectionate.

Natural.

The kind of thing she’d started doing without even realizing it lately.

Outside, thunder rumbled somewhere far away.

Then—

Three sharp knocks echoed from the front door.

You blinked in surprise, lifting your head slightly from Sam’s chest.

Sam didn’t move immediately.

But something subtle shifted in her posture beneath you.

Not dramatic enough for most people to notice.

Just stillness and alertness.

Her paw stopped moving against your knee while her eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway.

“Who’s visiting this late?” you asked softly, pulling the blanket closer around yourself while glancing toward the darkened doorway.

“No idea,” Sam answered, though she already sounded distracted now, ears angled toward the sound of the rain outside.

The knocks came again.

Polite.

Measured.

Sam sighed quietly through her nose before squeezing your knee once, her touch lingering there for half a second longer than necessary.

“Stay here a second,” she murmured.

You nodded, sitting up enough for her to stand, though your fingers caught lightly against the sleeve of her sweater before letting go.

Even relaxed, Sam moved with a kind of natural heaviness that made floorboards creak softly beneath her weight. She crossed the living room calmly, one paw briefly brushing the small of your back as she passed the couch — a tiny absentminded touch that still made your chest warm embarrassingly fast.

You watched her glance through the narrow window beside the front door before finally opening it.

Rain drifted in immediately from outside, cool air slipping into the warm apartment.

And standing beneath the porch light was Nigel.

His sweater and fur were damp from the storm, little droplets of water clinging to his whiskers while he offered Sam an apologetic smile that looked almost sheepish beneath the yellow porchlight.

“Sorry,” he said lightly, though his voice sounded quieter than usual tonight. One paw rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I know it’s late.”

Sam leaned one shoulder against the doorway, broad frame nearly filling it completely. “Something wrong with Lola?”

“No, no,” Nigel answered quickly, shaking his head. “She’s fine. It's just…” His eyes flicked briefly past Sam toward the living room before returning to her face again. “Mom realized she gave you the wrong slices of cake she made.”

Sam stared at him for a moment.

Then sighed softly through her nose, sounding deeply unimpressed.

“Nigel.”

“I know it sounds stupid.”

“It’s midnight.”

“I noticed that on the walk over.”

Despite the dry response, Nigel smiled a little anyway, small and easy in a way that made him look younger than he already was.

You watched from the couch while Sam reluctantly stepped aside enough to let him inside. Rainwater dripped softly from Nigel’s sleeves onto the wooden floor as he entered the house carefully, paws tucked into his pockets against the cold.

Then his eyes found you.

“Oh,” he said pleasantly, expression warming instantly. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you greeted with a small smile, pulling the blanket more securely around yourself. “You’re still awake too, apparently.”

“Barely,” Nigel admitted with a quiet laugh, rubbing tiredly beneath one eye. “Your timing’s better than mine though. At least you’re already warm.”

Sam shut the door behind him with slightly more force than necessary.

“You could’ve brought the right cake tomorrow,” she muttered while locking the door again.

“I could’ve,” Nigel agreed easily, shrugging out of his damp jacket. “But then I would’ve had to listen to Mom complain all morning.”

Sam rolled her eyes faintly, though there was an old familiarity there that made the exchange feel practiced somehow.

The familiarity between them stood out immediately whenever they talked. Older than your relationship with Sam. Older than most things in town, honestly.

Nigel had known her practically his entire life.

You remembered Lola once mentioning Sam used to babysit him occasionally when he was little.

The image was strangely adorable.

“You want some hot chocolate?” you asked politely as Nigel hovered awkwardly near the doorway.

Nigel looked genuinely surprised by the offer, ears lifting slightly. “Oh. Sure, if it’s not a bother.”

“Oh of course not, it’s fine.” You smiled softly before slipping out from beneath the blanket and standing from the couch. Sam instinctively reached out to steady your arm when your sock slid slightly against the wooden floor, her paw lingering against your elbow until you regained balance.

“Careful,” she murmured automatically.

Your chest warmed immediately at the quiet concern in her voice.

Nigel noticed that too.

You disappeared into the kitchen a second later while the two remained near the hallway.

The moment you were out of sight, Nigel’s smile faded slightly.

Sam noticed immediately.

“What?”

Nigel looked at her quietly for a second.

Up close, the differences between them felt even more obvious tonight.

Sam was huge compared to him. Confident. Steady. Every movement deliberate and controlled. Meanwhile Nigel still carried that soft youthful awkwardness people instinctively overlooked.

But his eyes weren’t awkward right now.

They were sharp.

Studying her carefully.

“You like them a lot,” Nigel said softly, voice almost thoughtful.

Sam’s expression flattened almost instantly.

“Is that any of your business now?”

Nigel lifted his paws lightly in surrender, though his gaze never fully left her face. “Just making conversation.”

“You’re bad at it.”

A small smile tugged faintly at the corner of Nigel’s mouth despite the cold response.

“She makes you different.”

Sam’s gaze narrowed slightly.

“Careful.”

There it was.

That tone.

Low.

Warning.

Nigel felt his pulse jump violently at the sound of it.

Not fear.

Never fear.

Excitement.

He loves that feeling.

Because underneath the warm shopkeeper routine, the real Samantha Strong he knew was still there.

The real version.

The dangerous version.

And Nigel wanted her to acknowledge him so badly it physically hurt sometimes.

“She’s good for you,” he said quietly after a moment, glancing briefly toward the kitchen where your voice hummed softly beneath the sound of cabinets opening and plastic packages being opened.

Sam stared at him for another long second before answering.

“She’s none of your concern.”

The words should’ve stung more than they did.

Instead, Nigel found himself staring at the way Sam’s posture shifted subtly toward the kitchen while speaking. Protective without even thinking about it.

Protective of you.

Something ugly twisted inside his chest again.

You returned moments later balancing three mugs carefully in your hands, steam curling upward into the warm dim apartment air. The tension in the hallway vanished so quickly you almost thought you imagined it entirely.

Nigel smiled at you immediately, warm and harmless again.

“Thanks,” he takes the mug from your hands, using the warm temperature around it to warm his own hands.

“No problem.”

Sam took her mug last, though her eyes remained on Nigel longer than necessary before finally moving back toward you. Her free paw brushed briefly against the small of your back once you sat beside her again, instantly pulling you close enough that your shoulder rested comfortably against her arm.

The mouse sat cautiously on the edge of the armchair across from the couch afterward while rain continued pouring steadily outside.

Conversation came easier once you started it.

Mostly because you were good at that.

You asked Nigel about his mom. About how he’d been settling back into Woodbrook. About whether he missed the city.

Nigel answered smoothly enough, smiling politely while drinking his hot chocolate absentmindedly.

But every now and then, you noticed him glancing toward Sam.

Watching her.

Not openly enough to seem strange.

Just… frequently.

And every single time Sam noticed too. Even when she pretended not to.

“You know,” Nigel said suddenly, looking toward you with a faint grin as he cradled his mug between both paws, “Sam used to terrify and amaze me at the same time when I was a kid a little bit.”

You looked delighted immediately, turning toward Sam with open amusement sparkling in your eyes. “Seriously?”

Sam groaned softly and leaned back against the couch cushions. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Nigel continued, clearly enjoying himself now. “She used to stare at rude people until they backed up.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“You were dramatic.”

“You chased a raccoon with a hammer once.”

“He stole Lola’s tomatoes.”

Nigel laughed openly at that, shoulders shaking slightly while you stared at Sam in disbelief.

“You chased someone with a hammer over tomatoes?”

“He deserved it, Lola started planting her own vegetables and fruits only a month before.”

“You are unbelievable,” you laughed, nudging lightly against her side with your shoulder.

Sam looked unbearably smug about your reaction instead of embarrassed, one paw lazily settling over your knee again while the corner of her mouth lifted faintly.

And for a moment, everything almost felt normal again.

Warm.

Comfortable.

Domestic in a strange quiet way.

Until Nigel smiled faintly into his hot chocolate and said, “You know what I always liked about Sam?”

Sam visibly stiffened.

Not enough for you to notice.

But Nigel noticed.

Of course he did.

“She never pretended to be nice,” Nigel continued softly, eyes lowering toward the steam rising from his mug while rain tapped steadily against the windows behind him. “Most people do. Especially in places like this.” His smile dimmed slightly. “But Sam’s honest underneath it all.”

Silence settled briefly across the room.

You looked toward Sam curiously, leaning slightly against her side beneath the blanket again. “What does that mean?”

Sam answered before Nigel could.

“It means he’s tired and talking nonsense, maybe it's time for him to go home to sleep, my love,” she said smoothly, though her voice had lost some warmth now.

Nigel’s eyes flicked back toward her.

And there it was again.

That warning.

Sharp enough this time that even he finally backed down.

“Probably, the icy rainwater left me exhausted.” he agreed lightly.

But underneath the table, his fingers tightened hard around the ceramic mug.

Because Sam knew.

Not everything.

But enough.

Enough to realize Nigel saw parts of her nobody else did.

Enough to realize he wasn’t entirely harmless anymore.

And somehow—

Somehow—

That made him feel closer to her than ever before.

Even if she still looked at you with tenderness she’d never once directed toward him.

Later, after Nigel finally left and the house grew quiet again, you stood beside the kitchen sink drying dishes while Sam wiped down the counters nearby.

“You two sure have weird conversations,” you commented casually, glancing over your shoulder toward her with faint amusement.

Sam snorted softly under her breath. “You noticed that, huh?”

“He seems nice though,” you can't help but smile when you think of the young man, who seems to have a bright and peaceful future in the small town with his mother.

Sam didn’t answer immediately.

The silence stretched just slightly too long while she continued drying her paws carefully with the towel.

“He’s lonely, there aren't many young people of his age around here, the other neighbors are usually younger or older than him.” she said finally, voice quieter now.

You glanced toward her. “You don't sound too sad about that.”

Sam kept her eyes on the countertop while folding the towel slowly between her paws.

“Nigel grew up here,” she said. “Then left. Came back expecting things to feel the same.” Her expression flattened faintly. “And they didn't.”

There was something oddly distant in her voice suddenly.

Thoughtful.

You leaned lightly against the counter beside her, shoulder brushing her arm. “You care about him, even if just a little bit.”

Sam looked at you then.

Directly.

And whatever emotion had been lingering in her expression softened almost immediately once her eyes met yours.

“I care about very few people,” she said quietly.

Your heartbeat stumbled a little at the honesty in her voice.

Sam stepped closer afterward, large paw settling carefully against your waist while her thumb brushed slowly over the fabric of your shirt.

“But I care about you.”

The words came so simply.

So honestly.

No dramatics. No hesitation.

Just honest truth.

Your entire expression softened instantly. “That’s good,” you murmured, reaching up to smooth your fingers lightly against the front of her sweater.

Sam’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again.

“You trust me a lot,” she murmured, her voice lower now.

“I do.”

“Even though I’m older than you.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Even though half this town probably thinks our relationship is awfully uncommon.”

You laughed quietly, stepping closer until you were nearly pressed against her chest. “You literally run a carpentry store for years and help old ladies cross the street, I don't think anyone would judge our relationship because of our age difference.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

You tilted your head slightly before resting it lightly against the front of her shoulder.

“I just know you treat me well,” you admitted softly. “You make me feel safe.”

Something complicated flickered across Sam’s face then.

Gone almost instantly.

But heavy enough that you noticed.

“What?”

Sam stared down at you quietly for a second before one paw lifted to gently tilt your chin upward.

“Nothing,” she murmured.

Then she leaned down and kissed your forehead softly.

Lingering there for just a moment longer than necessary.

Like she needed the contact as much as you did.

But later that night, long after you’d fallen asleep curled against her side upstairs with one arm draped loosely across her chest, Samantha Strong remained awake staring at the rain beyond her bedroom window.

Thinking.

About Nigel.

About the way he looked at her and talked about you.

As if you were a problem in their relationship.

About the dangerous curiosity growing sharper behind his cheerful little smiles.

And worst of all—

Regarding the fact that he reminded her that she must remain vigilant so that nothing and no one takes away the peaceful life she now has with you.

It doesn't matter who she has to remove from her path.

You will be kept in the dark about who she really is.

Author's note: I AM NOT BACK FROM MY HIATUS BUT I LOVE SAM AS A CHARACTER SO MUCH. SHE WAS SO WELL WRITTEN ON THE FIRST BOOK GRGRGRR. I totally recommend the first book for adults to read, it's genuinely amazing and everything that happens in it grabs your attention completely until the end. I loved everything from beginning to end, I have no complaints about the first book whatsoever.

Some of my followers here are my friends and mutuals on discord, so you guys know I'm a huge lesbian for Shelly, so it's no surprise here the main character in BTTWNS grabbed my attention INSTANTLY the moment I saw her, I HAD to write a fanfic of Sam in a romance with us so I could rest in peace knowing she never learned what love is and never will, this is who she really is, an emotionless serial killer.

Requested by: @rainbowshy123 !! Another one LMAO

Split Evenly, Loved Fully — MOTM

Summary: A simple afternoon in Toon Town turns into something unexpectedly meaningful when Cuphead and Mugman both insist on spending time with you.

What starts as playful arguing slowly softens into shared moments, quiet gestures, and unspoken feelings — proving that not everything needs to be a competition, especially when it comes to the heart.

Pairing: Myth Cuphead x Reader x Myth Mugman (NOT POLY)

Genre: Comedy, Slice of Life, Light Romance, Cartoon / Toon Logic, Friendship, Fluff, Drama (Light) and Comfort

Trope: Love Triangle (Soft / Non-Competitive), Shared Love Interest, Sibling Rivalry, “We Both Like Them” Dynamic, Equal Attention / Fairness, Gentle Slow Burn, Bickering Means Caring, Soft Jealousy (Non-Toxic), Quiet Acts of Love vs Grand Gestures and Ambiguous Ending / Open Choice

Rating: G / T (General / Teen)

In the world of toontown, chaos usually came from toons dancing to jazz too hysterically, terrible gambling decisions, random attacks from unknown creatures and toons dying from an incurable disease.

Today, however?

It came from two brothers.

Specifically: Cuphead and Mugman.

And they were arguing.

Again.

“No, no, no—see, you’re missing the point!” Cuphead insisted, walking backwards in front of you while gesturing wildly with both hands.

His coat swayed dramatically with every exaggerated movement, the fabric flaring behind him like he was performing for an invisible audience.

The striped straw in his cup-head bobbed sharply with each word, punctuating his argument like an accusing finger. His grin was confident — too confident — as if he had already decided he was right and was just waiting for reality to catch up.

“You didn’t ask,” Mugman snapped, marching beside you with his arms crossed tightly against his chest.

His scarf shifted with each brisk step, fluttering slightly in the breeze, though the tension in his posture made it seem more like it was bristling.

His brow was furrowed in that familiar, deeply concentrated way, the one that always appeared when Cuphead was being especially insufferable. “You announced you were stealing them for the afternoon.”

“That counts!” Cuphead shot back instantly, spinning on his heel mid-step without losing his balance, now walking forward again as if he hadn’t just reversed direction twice in ten seconds.

“It does not!” Mugman’s voice rose slightly, sharp with disbelief.

You sighed.

A long, tired sigh that came from somewhere deep in your chest, the kind that carried the weight of having witnessed this exact argument more times than you could count.

The three of you were walking down the street, and several bystanders had already slowed down to watch the spectacle unfold. A couple leaned against a storefront window, whispering to each other. Someone else had outright stopped walking, clearly invested now.

Which was understandable.

Because the twins were currently bickering like two overgrown children fighting over the last cookie.

Except the “cookie” was you.

Cuphead suddenly spun around dramatically and pointed at Mugman, arm extended like he was delivering a grand accusation in a courtroom.

“You had all morning!”

“I had breakfast with them!” Mugman shot back, his hand uncrossing just long enough to gesture toward you before snapping back into place.

“Exactly!” Cuphead shouted, throwing his hands up like this was the most obvious injustice imaginable. “You got breakfast! That’s prime bonding time! That’s peak quality hours!”

“You were sleeping!”

“I was recovering!” Cuphead corrected immediately, placing a hand over his chest like he’d just been personally attacked.

“From what?” Mugman demanded, incredulous.

“Life!”

Mugman stopped walking for half a second just to stare at him, then resumed, dragging a hand slowly down his face like he was physically trying to erase the conversation from existence.

You considered simply… walking away.

Just quietly stepping to the side, slipping out of their orbit, and seeing how long it would take them to notice.

Probably ten minutes.

Maybe fifteen if they escalated into a full debate about “life recovery rights.”

Cuphead suddenly reached out and grabbed your waist, pulling you a step closer to him without warning.

“Look, see? They’re clearly standing closer to me right now,” he said smugly, tilting his head with a victorious little grin.

“That’s because you dragged them!” Mugman snapped instantly, grabbing the other side of your waist with surprising quickness. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm — determined. “Don’t manipulate the evidence!”

Now you were being gently tugged between them like the world’s most confused rope in a tug-of-war.

Your body kept getting pulled in opposite directions as they each leaned back just enough to assert their claim without actually hurting you.

“Guys.”

Neither listened.

Cuphead grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself now. “They didn’t complain.”

“That’s because they’re polite!” Mugman fired back, tightening his hold just a fraction.

“They like me more.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh yeah?” Cuphead leaned down toward you with a dramatic tilt of his head, his face suddenly much closer, eyes bright with mischief. “Tell him.”

You blinked.

Mugman leaned in immediately from the other side, just as close, his expression far more serious.

“Don’t answer that.”

“Hey!” Cuphead protested.

“They’re not getting dragged into your ego contest!” Mugman snapped.

“You’re the one who started it!”

“I did not!”

“You totally did!”

“I only said I was going to take them to the market!”

“And I said I’d take them to the boardwalk!”

“Exactly!”

“So I should go!”

“That makes no sense!”

The argument continued as if you weren’t physically between them.

At this point several pedestrians had fully stopped to watch. Someone nearby leaned closer to another person and whispered, “Are they always like this?”

You didn’t even look over.

“Yes.”

Cuphead tugged your waist again, trying to gently pull you forward. “Come on, we’re going to the boardwalk.”

“No we’re not,” Mugman said immediately, pulling you in the opposite direction. “We’re going to the market.”

“Boardwalk!”

“Market!”

You planted your feet.

Firmly.

Your shoes pressed against the ground with enough force that neither brother could move you an inch.

The sudden resistance caught them both off guard.

Cuphead blinked.

Mugman blinked.

They both looked down at your unmoving stance.

Then slowly looked up at you.

You stared at them.

“…What?” Cuphead asked cautiously, his voice dropping just slightly as if he sensed he may have crossed a line.

“Let go.”

Both released you immediately.

Not even a second of hesitation.

You place your arms on your waist and stretch your body from side to side, easing out the tension.

“You’re both being ridiculous.”

“Hey—” Cuphead started, lifting a finger defensively.

“No,” you said, pointing directly at him.

He stopped instantly.

Mugman smirked, just a little.

You turned your finger toward Mugman next.

“And you’re not better.”

The smirk vanished so fast it might as well have never existed.

“…I—” he started, then stopped himself, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Now,” you continued, folding your arms calmly, “why exactly are we fighting about this?”

Cuphead opened his mouth.

Mugman opened his mouth.

Both froze.

They glanced at each other.

Then back at you.

“…Because,” Cuphead said slowly, scratching the back of his head, “I wanted to hang out.”

“So did I!” Mugman argued immediately.

“With them!”

“With them!”

They pointed at you at the exact same time.

You stared at them.

They stared at each other.

Then both turned back to you again.

Cuphead crossed his arms, shifting his weight slightly.

“Look, it’s simple. I just want five minutes alone with them.”

Mugman scoffed, raising a brow. “Five minutes? That’s suspicious.”

“How is that suspicious?”

“You never want five minutes.”

Cuphead frowned slightly.

“…Okay, maybe ten.”

“Aha!” Mugman pointed accusingly.

“That’s not a crime!”

“You’re clearly plotting something!”

“I’m not plotting!”

Mugman turned to you very seriously, lowering his voice slightly like he was sharing something important.

“He’s plotting.”

“I’m not plotting!”

“You’re always plotting!”

Cuphead gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest as if deeply wounded.

“Name one time.”

“Bar night.”

“That was strategy!”

“You dropped a tray of drinks on a costumer!”

“It was a learning experience!”

“You learned nothing!”

“I learned how important balance is!”

“You laughed in his face!”

“How could I not?? The guy was balding!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Okay. New plan.”

Both brothers turned to you instantly.

“What?” they asked in unison.

“You both get time.”

Cuphead and Mugman exchanged suspicious looks.

“How much?” Cuphead asked, narrowing his eyes slightly like he was already negotiating.

“Equal,” Mugman said quickly, before Cuphead could push for more.

“Yes,” you replied. “Equal.”

Cuphead tilted his head thoughtfully, tapping his chin.

“…Define equal.”

“Ten minutes each.”

“That’s not enough time,” he protested immediately, shoulders dropping in exaggerated disappointment.

“Cuphead, that’s double what you asked for.”

He paused.

“…Fair.”

Mugman frowned slightly, thinking it through. “But how do we enforce it?”

You thought for a moment.

Then you pointed across the street toward the park.

“Bench.”

They both followed your finger.

A quiet little park sat just beyond the road, trees swaying gently, a fountain trickling in the distance, a few scattered benches catching the sunlight.

Then they looked back at you.

“Okay?” Cuphead said.

“We sit,” you explained. “One of you goes to buy snacks or something.”

“Why do I have to go?” Mugman asked immediately, narrowing his eyes.

“Because you volunteered,” Cuphead said instantly, without missing a beat.

“I did not!”

“You totally did!”

“Flip a coin,” you said.

Both paused.

Cuphead immediately pulled a coin from his pocket.

Mugman squinted.

“…Why do you have that ready?”

“For dramatic moments.”

“Of course you do.”

Cuphead flipped it high into the air.

It spun in the sunlight, catching the light with each rotation.

Clink.

He caught it and slapped it onto his wrist.

“Tails,” Mugman said, watching closely.

Cuphead lifted his hand.

Heads.

Mugman groaned loudly, shoulders slumping.

“Yes!” Cuphead shouted, throwing both arms up like he’d just won the lottery.

“You’re unbelievable,” Mugman muttered.

Cuphead grinned at you and put one of his arms around your shoulders, pulling your body closer to his in a casual, almost triumphant gesture.

“Looks like I win.”

“Ten minutes,” you reminded him, glancing up at him.

“Ten minutes,” Mugman echoed, pointing at him threateningly. “If you’re not back when I return—”

“What are you gonna do?” Cuphead challenged, raising a brow.

Mugman cracked his knuckles slowly.

Cuphead nodded once.

“…Fair point.”

Mugman walked off toward the snack stand across the park, still muttering under his breath. Every few steps, he glanced back, sharp, watchful, like a suspicious guard dog making sure nothing shady was happening.

Cuphead watched him go.

Then immediately turned to you with the biggest grin imaginable.

“Finally!”

“You act like he’s guarding me,” you said, walking toward the bench.

“He basically is.”

You sat down, the wood of the bench warm from the sun.

Cuphead dropped beside you with a satisfied sigh, leaning back and stretching his arms across the backrest behind you — close, but not quite touching.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Which was rare.

The breeze rustled the trees softly. Somewhere nearby someone was feeding birds, little coos and fluttering wings filling the air. Children laughed near the fountain, their voices bright and distant.

Cuphead glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“I had no plan.”

You turned to look at him fully.

“You fought your brother for ten minutes… for nothing?”

“Not nothing,” he said cheerfully, turning his head toward you. His expression softened just slightly, grin easing into something quieter. “This.”

He gestured vaguely between the two of you.

“…Sitting?”

“Exactly!”

You laughed despite yourself.

Cuphead looked very pleased — more pleased than he probably should have been for something so simple.

“Besides,” he added, glancing toward the snack stand, “if I had a plan, Mugman would’ve sniffed it out immediately.”

“True.”

“You’re easier to trick than he is.”

“Hey.”

“Kidding!” he said quickly, lifting his hand defensively, though the grin never left his face.

You nudged his shoulder.

He nudged you back, light, playful, but it lingered for just a second longer than necessary.

Across the park, Mugman was still in line.

And staring.

Very intensely.

Cuphead squinted toward him.

“…Wow.”

“What?”

“He’s glaring like we’re committing crimes.”

“You did steal ten minutes.”

“Borrow,” Cuphead corrected.

“He would disagree.”

From across the park, Mugman suddenly cupped one of his hands around his mouth, the other clutching in a fist.

“I CAN SEE YOU TWO LAUGHING!”

Cuphead waved cheerfully, completely unbothered.

“LOVE YOU TOO!”

Mugman buried his face in his hands.

You laughed again, softer this time.

Cuphead leaned back against the bench, turning his head slightly toward you again.

“…You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “he really does just want to spend time with you too.”

“I know.”

There was no irritation in your tone. Just understanding.

Cuphead nodded slightly.

“…We’re not trying to make it weird.”

“I know.”

“…We just—” He stopped himself, scratching the back of his head. “You’re… important.”

Your expression softened.

Across the park, Mugman was still watching but now his expression had shifted. Less suspicious. More thoughtful.

Cuphead cleared his throat, suddenly a bit more animated again.

“Anyway!” he said, clapping his hands once. “We’ve still got—what, seven minutes?”

“About that.”

His eyes lit up again.

“Oh sweet, we’re keeping track.”

From the snack stand Mugman shouted:

“I HEARD THAT!”

Cuphead leaned closer to you, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.

“…I’m gonna need a rematch later.”

You snorted.

Across the park Mugman shouted again:

“I DEFINITELY HEARD THAT!”

Cuphead only grinned wider, leaning back again like he’d already won something.

And honestly?

Judging by the way both brothers kept glancing at you, one from across the park, one right beside you—

Maybe they had.

Just not in the way they thought.

Yep.

Totally worth it.

A few minutes passed, footsteps approached from across the park.

Not rushed.

But not slow either.

Measured. Careful.

The kind of pace someone kept when they were trying very hard not to mess something up.

Cuphead didn’t even need to turn his head to know who it was.

“…Guard dog’s back,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough that it barely carried past you, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward into something faintly amused.

His eyes flicked sideways anyway, just to confirm what he already knew.

You glanced up just as Mugman came into view, carefully balancing a small tray in his hands.

A couple of drinks sloshed slightly with each step, the liquid shifting dangerously close to the rims every time his foot hit the ground just a little too hard.

A paper bag was tucked under his arm, crinkling softly every time he adjusted his grip to keep everything steady.

His focus was entirely on not spilling anything.

Eyes narrowed slightly. Shoulders tense. Movements controlled.

Which, for him, was already impressive considering how often Cuphead had proven that exact task could go catastrophically wrong.

“I didn’t drop anything,” Mugman said immediately as he reached the bench, like he was defending himself before anyone could even accuse him. His voice carried a hint of preemptive irritation, though the relief underneath it was obvious.

Cuphead sat up a little straighter, squinting at the tray like he was inspecting it for hidden flaws.

“…Questionable,” he said slowly. “You sure those are ours?”

Mugman rolled his eyes, setting everything down carefully on the bench between you, making sure the drinks were stable before letting go.

“Yes, they’re ours,” he replied, already opening the bag and handing you something first without hesitation.

His movements were instinctive, automatic, like you were his first priority without him even thinking about it. “I’m not poisoning you.”

“Wow,” Cuphead said, placing a hand over his chest dramatically, leaning back slightly as if personally offended. “The trust issues in this family—”

“You started them.”

“Did I?” Cuphead tilted his head, feigning innocence.

“Yes.” Mugman didn’t even hesitate.

Cuphead paused.

“…Yeah, I did.”

You couldn’t help but snort as Mugman handed you your drink next, making sure it was secure in your hand before letting go. His fingers lingered for just a second — barely noticeable — but there.

A quiet pause.

Careful.

Always careful.

Cuphead immediately grabbed his own drink, taking a sip before leaning back again with a satisfied sigh, stretching his legs out slightly in front of him.

“Alright,” he said, relaxing into the bench. “This is nice.”

Mugman sat down on your other side, a little closer than before but not enough to crowd you. His shoulder brushed yours briefly as he settled, the contact light but noticeable.

This time, he didn’t immediately pull away.

He hesitated.

Then stayed.

Cuphead obviously noticed.

Of course he did.

His eyes flicked over for half a second, taking in the subtle shift, the lack of distance this time, the quiet confidence in it.

He didn’t say anything, though.

Just smirked faintly to himself and took another sip of his drink, like he was filing that information away for later.

For a while, things were just calm.

Surprisingly so.

The three of you sat there, sharing food, exchanging small comments here and there, nothing loud, neither chaotic.

Just easy conversation that drifted naturally, like it didn’t need effort to exist.

Mugman asked if the snack tasted alright, glancing at you briefly before looking away again.

Cuphead made a comment about how he definitely would’ve picked something better, leaning back with an exaggerated air of confidence.

Mugman told him to go pick something then, barely even looking at him when he said it.

Cuphead paused mid-sip.

Then slowly turned his head toward him.

“…Don’t tempt me.”

Mugman raised a brow, unimpressed.

“I’m not.”

You glanced between them.

Cuphead grinned.

That grin meant trouble.

“…Actually,” he said, setting his drink down and standing up in one smooth motion, brushing off his coat like he’d just come to a very important realization. “That’s a great idea.”

Mugman blinked.

“…You’re serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

“You literally laughed at a man's face just because he got no hair right after spilling drinks on them”

“And I stand by that, I wasn't able to take the situation seriously after seeing his bald head glistening from the drinks I dropped.” Cuphead pointed at him like that settled everything.

“You lost money because of that.”

“I gained experience.”

“You gained embarrassment.”

Cuphead pointed again.

“Character building.”

Mugman sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“…Unbelievable.”

Cuphead stretched his arms once, shoulders loosening, before glancing down at you.

His grin softened. Just slightly.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Gonna grab something better.”

“Better?” Mugman repeated, skeptical.

“Better,” Cuphead confirmed.

“…That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise.”

And with that, he turned and headed off toward another stand further down the park, hands tucked into his pockets, completely confident in whatever he had planned.

Mugman watched him go.

Then looked at you.

Then back at Cuphead.

Then back at you again.

“…He’s definitely plotting something,” he muttered, voice quieter now.

You laughed softly.

“Probably.”

Mugman huffed quietly, though there was no real annoyance behind it.

“…He always does that,” he said after a moment, picking at the edge of the paper bag absently, fingers tracing the crinkled seam like he needed something to do with his hands.

“Does what?”

“Acts like he doesn’t care… then does something over the top anyway.”

You glanced at him.

Mugman didn’t look at you this time.

His straw flicked slightly, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead — distant, thoughtful.

“…He just… doesn’t like saying things directly,” he added, quieter now.

There was a pause.

“…You do,” you said gently.

Mugman blinked, glancing at you.

“…Not really,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck again, shoulders shifting slightly. “I just… don’t want to mess things up by saying the wrong thing.”

His voice was softer now.

More honest.

“I’d rather… show it, I guess.”

Another pause.

Then he shifted slightly, reaching into the bag again and pulling out something else, another small item he must’ve gotten earlier.

He hesitated for half a second before holding it out to you.

“…Here,” he said.

It was one of your favorite snacks.

You don't get the chance to eat it all the time because it's too expensive, but it always makes you happy when you can have it every once in a while.

Surprised, you took it.

“You already gave me something.”

“…Yeah,” he said, shrugging one shoulder slightly. “But… I saw this too.”

His gaze flickered away immediately after.

“…Thought you’d like it.”

There it was again.

Not flashy.

Not dramatic.

Just thoughtful.

Quiet effort.

You smiled softly.

“Thank you.”

Mugman’s straw twitched.

“…Yeah,” he mumbled, though there was the faintest hint of relief in his posture now.

Silence settled again but this time it felt warmer.

Closer.

After a moment, Mugman spoke again.

“…He’s not trying to compete with me, you know.”

You looked at him.

“I know.”

“He just…” Mugman hesitated, searching for the right words. His fingers curled slightly against his palm. “He shows things differently.”

“And you don’t mind?”

Mugman paused.

His fingers, which had been lightly gripping the edge of the paper bag, stilled completely.

His shoulders lifted just slightly with a quiet inhale, like he was bracing himself for something he wasn’t entirely sure how to say.

Then he shook his head slowly, gaze dropping to the ground for a moment.

“…No,” he said, voice quieter now, softer around the edges. “As long as…”

He stopped.

The words seemed to catch somewhere between thought and speech, his straw flicking faintly as if betraying the hesitation he wasn’t saying out loud.

“…As long as what?”

He glanced at you.

Just for a second.

Then away again almost immediately, like holding eye contact for too long might make everything feel too real, too vulnerable. His hand shifted slightly against the bench, fingers curling and uncurling once.

“…As long as you’re okay with it,” he finished quietly, the last part barely above a murmur.

Your expression softened.

“I am.”

The answer came easily. Gently.

That seemed to settle something in him.

It was subtle but there.

His shoulders relaxed just a little more, the tension easing out of them like he’d been carrying something heavier than he let on. His posture shifted, no longer as guarded, no longer bracing for something to go wrong.

“…Good,” he said, exhaling softly, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding that breath in the first place.

A beat passed.

The kind that stretched just long enough to feel important.

“…Can I—”

He stopped himself again.

His brows knit slightly, frustration flickering for a split second, not at you, but at himself.

At the way words never seemed to come out quite right when they mattered most.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him with quiet patience.

“Can you...?”

Mugman hesitated.

Then, slowly — carefully — he reached out.

Not grabbing.

Not pulling.

Just letting his hand rest lightly against yours on the bench.

The contact was tentative at first, barely there, his fingers brushing against yours like he was testing the space between you, making sure it was okay to close that distance.

Giving you time to pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

His fingers curled just slightly around yours.

Warm. Steady.

There was a faint tremor at first, small, almost unnoticeable but it faded as he realized you weren’t pulling away.

That you were staying.

His thumb brushed faintly once across your knuckles, hesitant, but intentional. Like he was grounding himself in the moment.

“…Okay?” he asked quietly, finally lifting his gaze just enough to meet yours, searching your expression for any sign of discomfort.

“Okay,” you replied.

His grip relaxed just a little but didn’t disappear.

Instead, it settled.

More natural now. Less uncertain.

It stayed there.

Gentle.

And real.

“Alright!”

Cuphead’s voice cut cleanly through the moment as he returned, far more energetic than before, footsteps light and confident as he approached.

Mugman immediately pulled his hand back, too quickly this time.

Like he didn’t want to get caught holding onto something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to keep yet.

Cuphead noticed that too.

Of course he did.

His eyes flicked down briefly, just enough to catch the movement, the way Mugman’s hand withdrew, the faint shift in your posture.

But instead of commenting—

Instead of teasing—

He just grinned.

Wide. Knowing.

“I bring offerings!” he announced, lifting his arms slightly to present the three ice creams like some kind of grand prize, his posture practically radiating triumph.

Mugman groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“…You were gone for ten minutes,” he said, voice flat, though there was a faint hint of disbelief in it.

“Quality takes time,” Cuphead replied immediately, stepping closer and lowering himself back onto the bench with an easy, practiced motion.

“You stood in a different line,” Mugman pointed out, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

“Exactly.”

“That’s not impressive.”

“It is when you look this good doing it,” Cuphead shot back, flashing a grin as he tilted his head slightly, clearly pleased with himself.

Mugman buried his face in his hand.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered into his palm.

Cuphead handed you your ice cream first, expression softening just slightly as his hand brushed yours during the exchange.

“Careful,” he said, voice a little quieter now. “This one melts fast.”

Then he turned, handing one to Mugman with a quick flick of his wrist.

“Don’t drop it.”

“I’m not going to drop it,” Mugman replied immediately, lowering his hand and taking it carefully.

“You look like you might.”

“I won’t.”

“We’ll see.”

Mugman took a bite immediately just to prove a point, his jaw setting slightly like this was suddenly a matter of pride.

Cuphead laughed, the sound light and unrestrained, leaning back against the bench again like everything had gone exactly how he wanted it to.

The three of you ended up staying there longer than planned.

Time stretched in that quiet, comfortable way that only happened when no one was trying to rush it.

Talking. Laughing.

Cuphead’s comments weaving in and out of the conversation, animated and easy.

Mugman’s quieter additions, softer but just as present, slipping in at the right moments.

Sharing small moments that didn’t feel rushed or divided anymore.

Not “your time” or “his time.”

Just time together.

Eventually, the sky darkened fully.

The warm gold of evening gave way to deep blues and soft shadows.

The streetlights flickered on one by one, casting gentle halos of light across the pavement.

And the walk back began.

This time they didn’t argue over where to walk.

Didn’t pull you in different directions.

Didn’t try to claim more space than the other.

They just stayed close.

One on each side.

Like before.

Balanced.

Easy.

When you finally reached your door, everything slowed.

The conversation faded naturally, words trailing off into something quieter.

The movement paused.

None of you seemed in a hurry to be the first to step away.

There was a quiet moment where none of you spoke.

Cuphead rubbed the back of his neck, his usual confidence dipping just slightly as his gaze shifted away for a second.

Mugman looked down, hands slipping into his pockets like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them.

When suddenly—

Cuphead stepped forward first.

Not rushed or overwhelming.

Just confident.

There was something deliberate in the way he moved, like he’d already made up his mind and wasn’t going to second-guess it now.

His shoulders squared just slightly, his usual easy grin dimming into something quieter, more focused as he closed the small distance between you.

He reached out, tilting your chin up slightly with two fingers, his touch light, deliberate, careful in a way that didn’t match his usual impulsive nature.

It lingered just enough to feel intentional, but not enough to trap you there.

Not a demand but an invitation instead.

Giving you every chance to stop him if you wanted.

You didn’t.

His eyes flickered briefly between yours, searching — just for a second — before he leaned in.

His kiss was soft.

Brief.

But warm in a way that lingered just a second longer than expected, like he was letting himself be just a little more honest than usual.

There was no teasing in it, no showmanship but something genuine, something he didn’t dress up with jokes or charm.

When he pulled back, his fingers slipped away just as gently as they had touched you.

His grin returned but softened now.

Less showy.

More real.

“…Worth it,” he murmured, voice low, almost to himself, like the words had slipped out before he could filter them. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he straightened slightly, slipping back into something more familiar.

Mugman huffed quietly beside him, though there was no real bite to it.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, arms loosely crossing before uncrossing again like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Show-off…” he muttered, glancing away, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Cuphead smirked, the familiar confidence slipping back into place like it had never left. He leaned slightly toward Mugman, bumping his shoulder lightly.

“Your turn.”

Mugman froze.

Completely.

His straw flicked upward in surprise, making a "!" shape, posture going rigid as he turned his head toward Cuphead.

“…What?”

“You heard me,” Cuphead said easily, shrugging one shoulder as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

His tone was casual, although there was something knowing underneath it.

“I—no, I didn’t—” Mugman stammered slightly, his voice catching as he looked between Cuphead and you, clearly thrown off balance.

Cuphead nudged him forward slightly with his elbow, not forceful, just enough to push him out of his hesitation.

“Go on,” he said, quieter this time, but just as certain.

Mugman shot him a look, somewhere between disbelief and mild panic, brows pulling together as if silently asking why he was being put on the spot like this.

Then he glanced at you.

Then back at him.

Then — slowly — stepped closer.

Each step measured. Careful.

Like he was afraid of getting it wrong.

His shoulders were slightly tense, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides before one finally lifted, hesitating midair for just a second before resting gently against your face, tucking your hair behind your ear.

Grounding himself.

Asking without words.

Waiting.

His touch was light, like he was giving you every opportunity to move away if you wanted.

When you didn’t pull away…

Something in him softened.

Just a little.

He leaned in.

Slower than Cuphead had.

More hesitant.

His eyes lowered slightly just before the distance closed, like he couldn’t quite hold your gaze through it.

His kiss was softer.

More careful.

But no less meaningful.

It lingered just slightly, like he was trying to get it right, like he didn’t want to rush something that mattered this much to him.

His hand tightened just a fraction against your face, not gripping, just holding onto the moment.

When he pulled back, expression a little flustered, gaze dropping immediately to the ground like he couldn’t quite face you yet.

“…Sorry,” he mumbled automatically, rubbing the back of his neck again, shoulders hunching just slightly inward.

Cuphead blinked, genuinely caught off guard this time.

“…Why are you apologizing?” he asked, tilting his head, one brow raising in confusion as he looked at him.

“I don’t know,” Mugman admitted, voice quieter, almost sheepish, his fingers still lingering at the back of his neck like he didn’t know where else to put them.

“…Unbelievable,” Cuphead muttered, though there was no real frustration in it, just a kind of fond disbelief.

You laughed softly.

The sound broke through the tension easily, light and warm.

They both looked at you.

At the same time.

Then at each other.

And for once—

They didn’t argue.

Didn’t compete.

Didn’t try to one-up each other.

The moment just settled.

Quiet.

“Get inside safe,” Mugman said quietly, finally lifting his gaze again to meet yours. His voice was steady now, even if the faint flush of embarrassment hadn’t quite faded from his expression.

“Yeah,” Cuphead added, putting his hands behind his head as he rocked back slightly on his heels, trying to play it casual again. “We’ll… see you tomorrow.”

There was a small pause after that, like neither of them was entirely ready to leave, but neither of them knew how to say it out loud.

You nodded.

The door closed behind you.

And outside—

They stood there for a second.

Neither moving right away.

Cuphead glanced sideways at Mugman.

Mugman glanced back.

A quiet, shared understanding passing between them without words.

Then, almost in sync, they turned and walked off together.

Still talking.

Still teasing.

Their voices fading into the distance, familiar and easy, like nothing between them had changed, even if everything had, just a little.

Still…

The same.

And inside—

You stood there.

The quiet settling around you now that they were gone, the echo of their presence still lingering in the air, in the warmth left behind.

Thinking.

Because the choice?

…Was still yours.

Author's note: I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

Requested by: @kirbyhoneycomb !!

Where Profissionalism Ends — MOTM

Summary: Working as Mickey’s personal assistant means navigating sharp words, strict schedules, and constant tension but also a growing connection neither of you acknowledges. As control starts to slip and emotions push through carefully built walls, the line between frustration and something deeper becomes impossible to ignore.

Pairing: Myth Mickey x Reader

Genre: Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Workplace Drama, Emotional Tension and Slow Burn

Trope: Mutual Pining, “Why Do You Care?”, Denial of Feelings, Power Dynamic (Boss/Assistant), Emotional Walls, Forced Proximity, Heated Arguments = Hidden Feelings, The “One Moment” Breaking Point, Hate to Love and Hate Kiss

Rating: T (Teen)

The first thing people noticed about Mickey was the way he carried a room.

Not his height — never that — but the sharpness of him. The cut of his suit, all angles and precision, every line pressed to perfection like even fabric had expectations to meet under him.

The way his voice landed clean and firm, every word measured like it had already been negotiated before it left his mouth, leaving no room for interruption, no space for misinterpretation.

He didn’t demand attention.

He commanded it.

The second thing they noticed was you.

Not because you demanded attention.

Because you never did.

You didn't need to.

You stood just behind him, clipboard in hand, posture straight but never rigid, eyes always moving — watching, calculating, adjusting. You anticipated what he’d need before he asked, sometimes before he even realized it himself.

Meetings ran smoother when you were there. Schedules stopped slipping. People stopped wasting time under your quiet, watchful efficiency.

You didn’t speak unless necessary.

But when you did, it mattered.

You made him more efficient.

And he hated how much he relied on that.

Not openly — not something anyone else would ever notice — but in the slight pause before he spoke when you weren’t immediately beside him. In the way his gaze flicked toward where you should be, even when he didn’t turn his head.

It was a dependence he refused to acknowledge.

Which only made it worse.

“Mickey, your 3:30 has been moved to 4:00,” you said, not looking up from your notes as you walked beside him down the hallway, your steps steady and in perfect rhythm with his, your voice even and unhurried despite the pace he set.

He didn’t slow.

“Why.”

Not a question. A demand. Flat. Immediate.

You flipped a page, the soft sound of paper cutting through the quiet tension.

“Because your 2:00 ran over by twenty-three minutes,” you replied calmly, eyes scanning the schedule, “and your 3:30 requested additional prep time after reviewing the numbers you sent.”

A pause followed — brief, but noticeable.

Then, sharper—

“You approved that adjustment without asking me?”

You stopped walking.

So did he.

The hallway seemed to still around the two of you, distant conversations fading into background noise as attention, subtle but present, shifted.

Slowly, Mickey turned to look at you.

That was the thing about him, he didn’t raise his voice often. He didn’t need to. The weight of his attention was enough. It pressed, demanded, expected.

You met it without flinching, lifting your gaze from the clipboard to him, expression steady.

“You hired me to manage your time,” you said calmly. “I did.”

Your grip on the clipboard didn’t tighten. Your posture didn’t change. You didn’t give him anything to push against.

For a moment, the air between you held.

Tight.

Measured.

Like a line drawn neither of you were willing to step back from.

Then his eyes narrowed just slightly, something calculating passing through them.

“…Don’t make a habit of deciding things for me,” he said, voice quieter now but no less firm.

“And don’t make a habit of running meetings over,” you replied just as evenly, tilting your head a fraction as you held his gaze.

That did it.

Something flickered in his expression — not anger exactly. Something sharper. Something almost impressed.

It was gone just as quickly as it appeared.

He turned away first, breaking the tension.

“4:00,” he said shortly, already moving again.

“Yes, sir,” you answered, falling back into step beside him without hesitation.

That was how it always was.

Push.

Pull.

Edges meeting edges.

Neither of you willing to soften first.

And neither of you willing to step away.

Weeks passed like that.

Then months.

Days blurred into schedules and meetings, into clipped exchanges and quiet observations. Into moments where your hands brushed passing files and neither of you acknowledged it. Into conversations that lingered just a second too long before ending.

And somewhere in between the tight schedules, the controlled voices, and the constant proximity—

Something started to shift.

It didn’t happen all at once.

It never did.

“Cancel my lunch.”

You didn’t even look up this time, pen moving steadily across the page as you finalized the next block of his schedule.

“No.”

Silence.

Heavy.

It stretched just long enough to feel deliberate.

“…Excuse me?” Mickey’s voice dropped slightly, not louder, but sharper, his pen pausing mid-signature as he looked up at you.

“You’ve skipped three meals this week,” you said, flipping through your planner with practiced ease, tapping the page lightly with your pen. “Your next meeting isn’t for forty minutes. You’re eating.”

Mickey stared at you.

Actually stared.

His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you like you were something unfamiliar.

Like he couldn’t decide if you’d just overstepped or done exactly what he needed.

“…You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, arms resting against the armrests but not relaxed.

“And you don’t get to collapse in the middle of your own schedule because you refuse to take care of yourself,” you replied, finally looking up at him, your tone sharper than usual, a flicker of frustration slipping through.

For a second, you thought you’d gone too far.

The silence stretched.

Then—

“…Forty minutes,” he said, turning his gaze back to the papers on his desk, though his pen didn’t move.

Not quite agreement.

But not refusal either.

That was the first crack.

After that, things didn’t get easier.

If anything, they got worse.

Because now there was something underneath it.

Something neither of you addressed.

Something that lingered in the spaces between words.

“You’re late.”

“I’m on time,” you corrected, setting a file down on his desk with a soft but deliberate motion. “You’re early.”

“That’s not how that works,” he replied, glancing up at you, one brow lifting slightly.

“It is when I control your schedule,” you said, folding your arms lightly, weight shifting to one foot.

Mickey leaned back in his chair, studying you, something unreadable sitting just beneath the surface of his expression.

“…You’re insufferable.”

“You’re welcome.”

A beat passed.

Then—

“…Sit down.”

You hesitated.

That wasn’t part of the routine.

Your fingers tapped lightly against your arm.

“…Why,” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly.

“Because I said so,” he replied, though there was less edge to it than usual.

“You usually say a lot of things.”

His gaze sharpened slightly, leaning forward just a fraction.

“And you ignore most of them.”

“And yet everything still runs perfectly,” you countered, tilting your head.

Silence.

“…Sit,” he repeated, quieter this time, his gaze not leaving yours.

You held it for a second longer.

Then you did.

It was small.

But it was different.

“You’re not taking enough time off,” he said suddenly, not looking at you as he flipped through a report, though his grip on the paper tightened slightly.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“That’s not of your concern.”

“It is when it affects your performance,” he replied, tone even, but his pen stilled.

“My performance is fine.”

“…It could be better.”

You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms.

“Is this your way of saying you’re worried about me?” you asked, a faint edge of challenge in your voice.

That got his attention.

His pen stopped completely.

He looked up at you.

“…Don’t push it.”

But he didn’t deny it.

That was the second crack.

It built like that.

Slow.

Unspoken.

Impossible to ignore.

One evening, the office was quieter than usual.

Most people had gone home hours ago.

The lights were dimmer, the usual noise replaced with the soft hum of distant machinery and the occasional shuffle of paper.

But not you.

And not him.

“You’re still here,” he said from his desk, voice lower now, less formal without the presence of others.

You didn’t look up.

“So are you.”

“I didn’t say it was a good thing,” he replied, standing slowly, stretching his shoulders just slightly as tension pulled through them.

You hummed faintly.

“Neither did I.”

Silence settled between you again but not the sharp kind.

Something heavier.

Something tired.

“You could’ve left,” he said after a moment, walking around his desk, adjusting his sleeves as he moved, his steps slower now.

“So could you.”

“…I had work.”

“So did I.”

That should’ve ended it.

It didn’t.

Mickey stopped near your desk, close enough that you could feel his presence without looking.

“You don’t have to stay just because I do,” he said, quieter now, one hand resting lightly against the edge of your desk.

You finally looked up.

“I’m not.”

A pause.

“I stay because the work isn’t finished.”

Another pause.

“And because if I leave it to you, you’ll stay all night,” you added, your voice softer now but no less certain.

That made him stop.

Right in front of your desk.

“…You think you know me that well?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his eyes narrowing.

“I know your patterns.”

“And what’s that one?”

“You don’t stop unless someone makes you.”

Complete silence.

“…And you think that someone’s you?” he asked, stepping just a fraction closer.

You stood.

Now you were close.

Too close.

“I think,” you said evenly, meeting his gaze without hesitation, “someone has to do it.”

The air shifted.

Sharpened.

But not like before.

This was something else.

Something heavier.

“You’re crossing a line,” he said quietly, though he didn’t step back.

“So are you.”

“I’m your employer.”

“And I’m the one making sure you don’t burn yourself into the ground,” you shot back, your voice low but steady.

His jaw tightened.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“And you don’t get to pretend it doesn’t matter.”

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you stepped back.

“Why do you care so much?” he asked suddenly, his voice dropping, something real slipping through the edges.

It wasn’t an accusation.

It was a question.

And that made it worse.

You hesitated.

Just for a second.

Your fingers curled slightly at your side.

That was all it took.

Mickey noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze sharpened, stepping closer without thinking, closing the last of the distance between you.

“…There it is,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, more certain.

Your breath caught.

“You’re imagining things,” you said quickly, but your voice wasn’t as steady as before.

“No,” he said, just as quiet, his eyes locked onto yours. “I don’t think I am.”

The tension snapped.

“Then what do you think this is?” you shot back, your voice sharper now, frustration finally breaking through. “Because I’ll tell you what it’s not—”

Your words cut off as he stepped even closer.

Too close.

Close enough that you could feel the shift in his breathing.

“You tell me,” he said, his voice dropping, composure cracking at the edges. “Because you’re the one who keeps staying.”

Something in your chest twisted.

Hard.

“You’re impossible,” you said, but it came out quieter now, your voice softer than you intended.

“So are you.”

Neither of you backed down.

Neither of you looked away.

“Say it,” he pressed, softer now, but more intense than before, his gaze searching yours.

“Say what you think this is.”

You should’ve stepped back.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached for him.

And for a second— just one—