MIAA ✮

Where the Forest Went Quiet — MOTM

Summary: After a dangerous chase through the forest over a stolen map, you and Cuphead hide beneath a weeping willow while Mugman leads your pursuers away.

As the adrenaline fades, teasing turns into a soft, intimate moment filled with shared memories, guilt, and unspoken feelings — ending with Cuphead quietly asking if you know what it’s like to be in love.

Pairing: Myth Cuphead x Reader

Genre: Romance, Adventure / Action (Soft Stakes, Chase Scene), Emotional Slice of Life and Comfort with Underlying Angst

Trope: Post-Chase Quiet Moment, Friends to Something More, Teasing as Affection, Physical Closeness Realization and Sudden Vulnerable Question

Rating: T (Teen)

I can't run any longer!

My lungs burn like I’ve swallowed fire, every breath scraping my throat on the way in. My heart is practically leaping out of my chest, pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. My legs feel like they’re made of stone, heavy and trembling from running so much, and my body is starting to sag under its own weight.

The sound of footsteps crashing through leaves and snapping twigs behind me is getting closer — too close. Each thud against the forest floor feels like a countdown.

How can all this be happening to me?

That’s the only thing circling through my head right now, over and over, loud and panicked. I’m tired of running. Tired of fleeing over something I have absolutely nothing to do with.

Cuphead and Mugman are beside me, their usual energy long gone. Their breathing is ragged, shoulders rising and falling fast, shoes pounding the dirt path in uneven rhythm. Even they’re getting worn down, and that says a lot.

The reason for all this commotion?

A map — a blessed, stupid map. A wrinkled piece of paper that somehow turned our evening into a life-or-death chase. We came here to retrieve it — more like steal it back from Bendy and Boris — but now they’re the ones hunting us like we’re prey. I don’t even know how or why I ended up in this situation.

I’m just friends with the two cup bros, but still, somehow, inexplicably, I always find myself dragged into their chaos. It’s like trouble has their names written on it — and mine scribbled underneath in smaller letters.

“Duck!” Cuphead yells.

Before I can even react, his hand clamps around my wrist, warm and firm, the other arm clutching the map to his chest. He yanks me down as we keep moving, forcing my body to dip low while still stumbling forward. Something whistles past where my head had been a second ago.

A twig.

Just a twig.

But my pulse doesn’t care — it’s still racing.

“GIVE BACK THE MAP, IT’S NOT YOURS EITHER!” Bendy’s voice echoes through the trees, distorted and furious.

Boris scoops up a rock from the ground, fingers curling around it. He throws it — not to hit us, but to distract, to make us lose balance. It smacks against a tree trunk nearby, the crack of impact sharp in the quiet forest.

Mugman grabs Cuphead’s sleeve — which is still gripping me — and pulls us sharply to the left, off the path and deeper into thicker woods. Branches slap against my arms and face, leaves brushing my cheeks, some twigs tugging painfully at my clothes as we push through.

Suddenly Mugman skids to a stop.

We almost crash into him.

His eyes dart around fast, sharp and focused. Then they lock onto something.

“There! Up ahead!”

He points toward a massive weeping willow, its long curtain of leaves swaying like green silk in the wind.

“You two stay here and watch the map,” he says quickly, voice low but firm. “I’ll make sure they go the other way.”

His hand presses gently against my back, guiding me toward the tree. “Get into the leaves and hide. Don’t move too much.”

He and Cuphead exchange a quick look — the kind that says everything without words — and Mugman disappears into the trees, straw already shifting into the shape of his weapon.

Silence falls fast after he leaves.

Not peaceful silence.

The kind that waits.

Cuphead parts the hanging leaves and gestures for me to slip inside. The air beneath the willow feels cooler, damp earth and crushed grass filling my nose.

I sink down onto the ground, legs weak, leaning back against the rough bark. The tree trunk presses solid and grounding against my spine.

Cuphead stays standing at first, peering through the leaves, body tense.

“Aren’t you going to sit? We ran a lot… even I’m tired,” I joke weakly.

He exhales through his nose and leans back too, folding his arms. “I’m fine… but you look wiped out.”

I roll my eyes, but my body sinks further into the tree.

We bicker lightly, the teasing familiar, comforting. It almost makes the fear fade.

Almost.

When he says he didn’t mean to drag me into this, I say it’s okay.

But it’s not.

And he knows it.

The conversation shifts, softer now, more honest. His voice loses its edge. The guilt in his expression sits heavy, real.

The forest around us hums with distant insects and rustling leaves. A breeze moves through the willow branches, the long strands brushing against each other with a whispering sound.

Then, slowly, the tension eases.

Memories surface. Laughter replaces fear.

The frog story makes us both lose it.

Our shoulders bump. Our laughter echoes too loud, and we try to muffle it, leaning into each other, breathless.

His hand settles at my waist — warm, steady. My hand rests on his leg, grounding.

The moment stretches soft and fragile. The world feels far away.

Wind moves the leaves like a curtain swaying, sunlight barely slipping through the green.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently.

I nod, moving closer without thinking.

He teases me for it, but his arm tightens around me anyway, pulling me in.

My head rests on his shoulder. I can hear his breathing. Slow. Even. His chest rises against my temple.

For a moment, nothing else exists.

Just warmth.

Just quiet.

Then his voice breaks it, softer than before.

“Hey…”

I lift my head.

His eyes aren’t joking now.

“You… do you know what it’s like to be in love with someone?”

… What?

Author's note: I originally posted this on AO3 a few weeks ago for some friends on the Myth Of The Machine server, but I thought it was time to post my writing here as well.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

Request made by: @zer0-tm !! waves hello zero <3

The Shape of Love That Fits — MOTM

Summary: During a quiet evening walk, Cuphead nervously confesses that he’s aroace and doesn’t experience love in a traditional romantic way.

Still, being with you makes him feel calm, safe, and able to truly be himself. Afraid that won’t be “enough,” he’s relieved when you reassure him that love doesn’t have to follow one script.

Together, you choose to build a relationship based on comfort, trust, and intentional closeness, sharing gentle affection under the streetlights.

Pairing: Myth Cuphead x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Slice of Life and Comfort

Trope: Aroace Character in a Queerplatonic/Nontraditional Romance, Confession Under the Streetlight, “I Love You — In My Own Way”, Emotional Safety/“You Don’t Have to Perform With Me” and First Gentle Physical Affection

Rating: G (General)

Evening didn’t fall all at once. It drifted down slowly, like the sky was lowering a blanket over the world.

The last light of sunset painted everything in soft, melting colors — peach bleeding into lavender, gold thinning into dusk. The edges of buildings caught the glow and held it for a moment longer, windows reflecting the sky like sheets of warm glass. The air felt calm in a way that only came after a long day finally let go, when the heat faded from concrete and the breeze stopped feeling restless. Even the usual background noise of the city seemed muted, distant, like the world had taken a breath and decided to hold it.

Your footsteps echoed lightly against the pavement.

One set steady.

One set restless.

Cuphead walked beside you, hands shoved into his gloves, shoulders doing that tiny bounce they did when he had too much energy and nowhere to put it. Except tonight, it wasn’t energy. It was nerves. His grin kept flickering on and off like a sign with faulty wiring, stretching wide for a second before faltering, then snapping back again like he was trying to convince himself.

You’d seen him fight monsters twice his size without blinking.

You’d seen him laugh while everything was falling apart.

You had never seen him like this.

“You’re weirdly quiet,” you said, nudging his arm with yours.

The contact was light, but he jolted like you’d set off a firecracker at his feet. “What?! No I’m not! I’m being— uh— mysterious. Cool. Brooding. Like those dramatic hero types!”

“You look like you swallowed a bug,” you said.

“I would never. Unless it looked heroic.”

You smiled, but you didn’t look away. You were watching him too closely for him to hide. You noticed the way his gaze kept darting ahead, then toward you, then away again. The way his steps would speed up for half a second before matching yours again, like his body couldn’t decide whether to run or stay.

His fingers flexed again inside his gloves, fabric creasing at the knuckles.

He stopped walking.

The sudden stillness felt louder than the footsteps had.

You did too.

The sky above you deepened another shade, the first star barely visible — a tiny pinprick of silver just beginning to exist. The streetlamp a few feet away buzzed faintly, casting a warm circle of light that made everything just inside it feel closer, more intimate.

A breeze slipped down the street, cool enough to brush against your skin and stir the fabric of your clothes. It carried the faint scent of night air, distant rain on warm asphalt, and something sweet from a bakery closing somewhere blocks away. Somewhere far off, a car horn sounded, then faded. The world felt big.

This moment felt small.

Important.

“Okay,” he said, voice wobbling under forced confidence. “I gotta say something. And if I don’t say it right now, I’m gonna combust. Like full cartoon explosion. Smoke cloud. Shoes left behind. The works.”

You turned toward him fully. Your expression softened instantly, shoulders relaxing, your whole attention settling on him like you had nowhere else to be.

“Okay,” you said gently. “I’m here.”

That did it.

That was the push.

“I don’t know what love is,” he blurted.

The words rushed out of him like they’d been clawing at his chest, like holding them in had taken physical effort.

You blinked once. “Oh.”

“Not like people say it!” he added fast, hands flying up as if he could physically catch the misunderstanding before it formed. “I get the idea. Hearts, flowers, big dramatic music swells, all that. But I’m aroace! That stuff doesn’t click in my brain like that. No lightning bolt. No swoony nonsense. I don’t look at someone and feel fireworks, okay?!”

He was breathing fast now, chest rising and falling under the soft amber glow of the streetlamp. The light caught in his eyes, making them look brighter, more open than usual. His voice wobbled, not from doubt about you — but from the fear of being misread.

But he didn’t stop.

“But when I’m with you,” he said, voice softer now, cracking at the edges, “everything gets… quieter. My head stops buzzing. I don’t feel like I gotta perform. I don’t have to be the funny one or the brave one or the loud one. I can just stand there. And breathe. And that’s enough.”

Your chest ached — not sharp, not painful. Just full. Like something warm had nowhere else to go, pressing gently against your ribs.

“I wanna be around you all the time,” he admitted. “Like stupid amounts. Like if there’s a choice between literally anything else and you, my brain just goes ‘yeah, that one.’ And I don’t know what that is! Friendship-plus? Secret third option? Brain glitch??”

You laughed.

Warm. Soft. Bright.

The sound felt like it melted the tension in the air, like it gave his words somewhere safe to land.

He stared at you in betrayal. “Why are you laughing?! I’m baring my emotional soul here!”

“I know,” you said, reaching for his hands. Your fingers slid against the soft fabric of his gloves before finding his grip. “And you’re doing amazing.”

His breath hitched when your fingers laced with his. His hands were warm — warmer than the air — and you could feel the faint tremor in them, the last of his nerves humming under the surface.

“You don’t have to feel love like anyone else,” you said. “You don’t have to follow anyone else’s script. What you just described? Choosing someone. Feeling safe. Wanting to stay. That’s real.”

He looked like the ground had tilted beneath him.

“…It is?”

“It is.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction, like invisible strings holding them up had finally been cut. The tightness in his posture eased, bit by bit.

Silence stretched — not awkward, not empty. Just full of breathing and streetlight glow and the quiet hum of a city settling into night. A moth fluttered lazily near the lamp above, wings whispering.

Then you added quietly, “I love you too.”

His brain stopped.

Fully.

You could almost see the pause — the way his eyes widened, the way his mouth opened just slightly before closing again.

“Wait— romantically??”

“Yes,” you said, smiling softly. “In the sappy way. The poetry way. The heart-squeeze way.”

He looked like he might faint. “But I don’t feel it like that!”

“I know,” you said. “And I don’t need you to.”

That hit him harder than anything else.

You felt it in the way his fingers tightened around yours — not crushing, just anchoring, like he needed to hold onto the reality of what you were saying.

“I just want you,” you said. “Your version. The way you love.”

His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His throat moved when he swallowed. His eyes shone — not with tears, but with relief so big it didn’t know how to sit quietly.

“I was scared,” he admitted in a small voice. “That you’d want something I can’t give. That I’d mess it up just by being… me.”

“You being you is the point,” you said.

The tension in him broke all at once.

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for weeks. His shoulders sagged, his stance widening just a little, like he finally felt steady.

“…Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I can do that. I can choose you. That makes sense in my head.”

You smiled.

He raised a shaky hand toward your face. Hovered. Hesitated. His usual boldness was gone, replaced with carefulness that felt almost reverent, like he was approaching something fragile and precious.

“Still allowed?” he asked.

“Always.”

His fingers touched your cheek like you were something sacred.

His glove brushed warm against your skin, the contact featherlight. His thumb shifted just slightly, a barely-there movement, like he was mapping the feeling, committing it to memory.

He went still.

Like the moment stunned him.

Then you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

He stiffened in surprise—

Then melted.

It happened in stages. His shoulders loosened first. Then his arms came up slowly, unsure at first, before settling around you. One hand rested between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying like he wanted to cover as much of you as possible. The other curled into your clothes, bunching the fabric slightly.

He held you tighter by the second, like he was learning the shape of you by memory.

“Oh,” he breathed into your hair, voice warm and hushed. “Oh, I really understand this part.”

You smiled against him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah… this is… wow. This is good. This makes sense in my bones.”

You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart through both your chests, the warmth of him soaking into you. The world outside your little circle of light felt far away, blurred.

You stayed like that long enough for the sky to darken fully, stars multiplying overhead like quiet witnesses. The streetlamp buzzed faintly above you, its glow turning the moment soft and golden.

Eventually, he pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you.

His expression wasn’t flashy. No exaggerated grin.

Just open. Soft. Real.

“Can I try something else?” he asked nervously.

You nodded.

He leaned down and pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

Soft.

Careful.

Like a promise he was scared to make too loud.

His lips were warm, the contact brief but lingering, like he didn’t want to rush away from it.

When he pulled back, he searched your face anxiously, eyes scanning like he was waiting for a sign he’d misstepped.

You were glowing.

Your eyes were warm, your expression so fond it made his breath catch.

“…I liked that,” he admitted shyly.

“Me too.”

His small, real smile appeared — the one just for you. The one that didn’t stretch too wide or perform. The one that felt like something he protected.

“Guess I love you,” he said, still sounding a little confused by himself. “In my weird, non-fireworks, brain-quiet, standing-here-breathing way.”

You laughed softly. “Guess you do.”

He intertwined your fingers again, more naturally this time.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles in an absent, thoughtful motion, like he was grounding himself in the simple fact that you were still there.

“So what happens now?”

“Now?” you said. “We keep choosing each other.”

He nodded slowly, gaze dropping to your joined hands like the answer lived there.

“…That’s not scary.”

“No.”

“It’s actually kinda nice,” he murmured. “Like a decision I get to keep making.”

“Exactly.”

He squeezed your hand.

And under a sky full of quiet stars, you kept walking — slower now, shoulders brushing every few steps, hands swinging gently between you. No rush, no performance, just warmth, closeness, and two hearts learning a shape of love that didn’t look like anyone else’s… but fit perfectly anyway.

Author's note: As an aroace person, writing this was really fun after the creators of the comic said on the server that Cuphead's sexuality is aroace from their perspective, and to me, it makes a lot of sense.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

Gift for: @dynamited3v !!

Cool Under Pressure — Toon Racer

Summary: Cuphead is known on the racing circuit as the calm, unshakable driver who never loses his cool under pressure. Off the track, however, that composure falls apart fast — especially around you.

Between post-race adrenaline, awkward compliments, and a dinner he’s trying way too hard to survive, the “coolest guy on the grid” proves he might be great at high-speed turns… but absolutely hopeless when it comes to real feelings.

Pairing: Racer Cuphead x Reader

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Slice of Life, Comedy and Light Character Study

Trope: Cool Guy Is Actually a Disaster, Flirt Who Can’t Handle Being Flirted With Competent in One Area, Useless in Another, Post-Race Adrenaline, Accidental Insults as Compliments, Opposites Energy (Composed You / Chaotic Him), “I’m Smooth” → Immediately Not Smooth and Soft Realization Moments

Rating: General (G)

Racer AU belongs to my brother: @dynamited3v

His blog for his work: @toon-racers

The racetrack roared.

Engines screamed down the straightaway, tires biting asphalt, heat rippling off the ground like the air itself couldn’t keep up. In the middle of it all—

Cuphead was calm.

Helmet on, visor down, hands steady on the wheel like it was an extension of him. No wasted movement. No shouting over the comms. Just a relaxed, easy “Copy that,” to his team, like they were discussing lunch plans instead of flying toward a turn at terrifying speed.

People on other teams hated that.

He didn’t trash talk mid-race. Didn’t lose his cool. Didn’t slam into people out of spite. He just drove clean, smooth, almost lazy-looking — and still pulled ahead.

He had this way of drifting through tight corners that made it look like the laws of physics politely stepped aside for him. Late braking, smooth throttle, no jerky corrections. The commentators always said the same thing:

“Effortless.”

It wasn’t. You’d seen the hours. The blistered hands. The nights he stayed after everyone left, helmet resting on the hood of the car while he replayed laps on a tablet, muttering to himself.

But out there?

Ice.

“Man’s got ice in his veins,” someone once muttered in the pit lane.

You knew better.

Because the second the race ended—

“THAT GUY CUT ME OFF ON PURPOSE, I SWEAR—”

Helmet off. Hair a mess. Gloves halfway yanked off with his teeth. Pacing like an offended cat.

You leaned against the pit wall, arms crossed, trying not to smile. “You won.”

“That’s not the point!”

“It literally is.”

He turned toward you, jabbing a finger in the air. “It’s about principles.”

“Your principle is ‘if I’m mildly inconvenienced I will complain for twenty minutes.’”

“That is slander.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

He stopped. Blinked.

“…Okay maybe a little.”

You snorted.

Cuphead rubbed the back of his neck, cooling down fast like he always did. His anger never lasted — flared bright, burned out, gone. He glanced at you, then away, then back again.

“…You were watchin’, right?”

“Of course.”

His shoulders lifted just a bit. Subtle. Proud.

“Yeah,” he said, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Thought so.”

You noticed the way his fingers drummed against his arm — leftover adrenaline. The race never really left his body right away. His leg bounced. His jaw worked like he still had something to say, something to argue with the air about.

“Your overtake on lap twelve was stupid,” you added.

He lit up. “Right?!”

“Stupidly risky.”

“Stylish.”

“Heart-attack inducing.”

“Iconic.”

You shook your head, smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only on weekdays.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“…I contain multitudes.”

On the track, he was untouchable. Smooth. Controlled. Focused.

Off the track?

Disaster.

Certified.

The paddock slowly shifted from chaos to after-race buzz — tools clinking, radios crackling, people laughing louder now that the tension had broken. The smell of rubber and fuel still hung thick in the air.

You were helping coil cables near the garage when he wandered over later, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. His racing suit was tied around his waist now, undershirt sticking slightly to his skin from sweat, hair still messy from the helmet.

“So,” he said.

“So?”

“You, uh. Saw that overtake on lap twelve?”

“The one where you almost clipped the barrier?”

“I didn’t almost clip—”

“You did.”

“Okay but it looked cool.”

“It looked like a heart attack.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but like… a stylish one.”

You shook your head, smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only on weekdays.”

“You already used that one.”

“…I contain reused multitudes.”

You laughed under your breath, continuing to wind the cable. He watched your hands for a second like he was building up to something.

“You comin’ to the team dinner later?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?? That’s a dangerous answer.”

“Why?”

“’Cause now I gotta impress you enough that it becomes a yes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He puffed up slightly. “I’m very charming, y’know.”

You deadpanned, “Convince me.”

He froze.

You actually watched the moment his brain short-circuited.

“…Uh.”

You waited.

He pointed at you. “You. Have… good. Face.”

You stared.

He panicked. “Not like in a weird way— I mean your face is shaped well. Structurally. Symmetrical probably— I mean I don’t know that for sure—”

You burst out laughing, nearly dropping the cable.

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I was doin’ so good.”

“You said I have ‘good face.’”

“I was trying to compliment you!”

“By reviewing my bone structure??”

He pointed helplessly. “I get nervous!”

“You? The guy who flirts with literally everyone?”

“That’s DIFFERENT!”

“How?”

“I don’t expect them to flirt back!”

You tilted your head. “Ohhh. So you can dish it out but can’t take it?”

“I—” He faltered. “That’s not— okay maybe a little.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He made a small, distressed noise. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk like that.”

“Like what?”

He looked everywhere but at you, like eye contact had suddenly become illegal. “Like you actually mean it.”

The teasing faded just a bit.

You softened. “I do.”

He went quiet.

Around you, a mechanic rolled a cart past. Someone laughed loudly near the next garage. A radio squawked.

Cuphead, who called strangers “sweetheart” and “darlin’” without blinking… had nothing.

His thumb rubbed nervously at the seam of his glove.

“…Oh,” he said.

You bumped his arm gently. “Relax, racer boy.”

He exhaled, laughing weakly. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“On the track or off?”

“Off,” he said immediately. “On the track I got this. Out here? I’m fightin’ for my life.”

You smiled. “You’re doing fine.”

He glanced at you sideways. “…Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His grin came back, softer this time. Less performance. More real.

“Cool,” he said, nudging your shoulder again. “Then I’ll save you a seat at dinner.”

You started walking past him. “That sounds like a yes.”

He lit up. “Wait it is??”

You looked over your shoulder. “Better impress me.”

He pointed at you, determined. “I’m gonna say something smooth later, just you wait.”

“I’m sure you will.”

He nodded seriously. “Eventually.”

And as you walked away, you heard him mutter to himself—

“Good face… man, I gotta retire that one.”

Later — Team Dinner

The restaurant the team picked was loud, warm, packed with other crews still wearing half their uniforms. Laughter bounced off the walls, glasses clinked, someone arguing about tire strategy three tables over.

You slid into the seat beside Cuphead.

He went ramrod straight.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hi.”

“…You okay?”

“Yep.”

“…Why are you sitting like you’re in a job interview?”

“I am being normal.”

“You look like you’re waiting to be graded.”

He shifted. “I just. Y’know. Saving you a seat like I said.”

“You did.”

“Yeah.”

“Smooth.”

He blinked. “…That counted??”

“Sure.”

His confidence inflated slightly. Dangerous.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to lean back coolly — and immediately knocking his knee against the table.

He hissed under his breath. You bit back a smile.

Dinner was loud, chaotic, teammates talking over each other. But every few minutes, you’d catch him glancing at you — like he was checking you were still there. Still beside him.

At one point, someone across the table teased, “Yo Cup, you’re quiet. Miracle.”

“I’m chill,” he said.

“You’ve said three words in ten minutes.”

“I’m conserving.”

“For what??”

He gestured vaguely. “Later.”

You nudged his leg under the table. “You still planning that smooth line?”

He whispered, “Working on it.”

“Any progress?”

“…No.”

You laughed softly.

He looked at you, really looked, and his voice dropped. “I just don’t wanna mess it up.”

Your smile faded into something gentler. “You don’t have to perform, you know.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t build your whole personality on bein’ a charming idiot.”

“You’re more than that.”

He stilled.

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He held your gaze a second too long, then broke it, flustered again. “Okay, wow, that’s illegal, you can’t just say stuff like that mid-pasta.”

You grinned. “You fold way too easy.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, smiling into his glass, “you hit like a truck.”

And for once, he didn’t try to follow it with a joke. He just stayed there, shoulder pressed lightly against yours, letting it be enough.

Author's note: I love loVE LOVE my friends and siblings au's, it's so much fun to write about their characters and try to stay as accurate to their personalities as much as I can.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

Gift for and requested by: @zer0-tm !! HAPPY BDAY <33

Your Cotton Candy Kisses — MOTM

Summary: For your birthday, Cuphead takes you to his favorite place in the world — the carnival — determined to make it the best day you’ve ever had.

Between chaotic game booth victories, dizzying rides, shared sweets, and his signature mix of bravado and soft-hearted devotion, the night becomes a whirlwind of laughter, lights, and love. But as the carnival slows and the stars come out, one final ride brings everything to a quiet, unforgettable moment.

Pairing: Myth Cuphead x Reader

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Slice of Life and Light Comedy

Trope: Birthday Date, Amusement Park Date, Soft Chaos Boyfriend, “Acts Cool but Is Deeply in Love”, Protective but Playful, Sharing Food, First Kiss / Sweet Kiss Scene, Emotional Nighttime Confession Vibes and Ferris Wheel Moment

Rating: G (General)

The first thing you notice when you step outside is the noise.

Music drifting through the evening air, brassy and cheerful. Distant laughter rolling in waves. The metallic clank of rides starting up. The pop-pop of a cork gun. The sugary smell of caramel and fried dough clinging to the breeze.

And right beside you — vibrating like he drank five sodas too fast —

Cuphead.

He’s holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but his grip is just a little tighter than usual. His thumb keeps brushing over your knuckles in quick, absent little movements, like he has too much excitement and it has to go somewhere.

“Okay, okay, no peeking ahead yet!” he says, hopping in front of you and gently steering you by the shoulders so you’re facing him instead of the glowing lights down the street. His grin is huge, straw tilted at an angle that screams I’m trying to act casual and failing miserably. “Birthday protocol. You gotta act surprised.”

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be surprised about yet.”

“That’s the spirit!”

He steps aside with a dramatic arm sweep.

The carnival sprawls out in front of you, alive and glowing. Strings of lights loop between poles. Booths painted in bright reds, blues, and yellows. Rides spinning against the deep purple sky. The Ferris wheel rising high above it all, gold lights outlining every spoke like a halo.

Your breath catches.

Cuphead sees it. His expression softens instantly, the teasing edge fading.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand. “That face right there? That’s why this place is my favorite. Everything feels big. Loud. Bright. Like the world’s trying really hard to be happy.”

Then his grin snaps back on. “And tonight it’s your world. Birthday VIP pass. Emotional fireworks included.”

He doesn’t walk once you’re inside.

He ricochets.

“Okay! Strategy time,” he says, pointing around like a general planning battle. “We hit games first while my straw's fresh. Then snacks. Then rides. Then more snacks because rides burn calories, obviously.”

“You just want an excuse to eat twice.”

“Three times. Don’t limit my potential.”

The first booth is ring toss. He narrows his eyes at the bottles like they personally offended him.

“You watch,” he mutters. “I’ve got beef with this game.”

“You say that about every game.”

“Because they started it.”

He throws the rings with dramatic, over-the-top focus — tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, one eye squinted. The first misses. The second wobbles. The third lands perfectly.

He gasps like he just performed a miracle.

“YOU SAW THAT, RIGHT?! NATURAL TALENT.”

He ends up knocking down enough to win a prize, and after scanning the options, he picks the softest, roundest plush he can find.

“This one,” he says, placing it into your arms with surprising gentleness. “For emotional support. In case the bumper cars get intense.”

“You’re the one who makes them intense.”

“Self-awareness is important.”

You drag him to a balloon dart game next. He insists he’s “built different” and immediately misses the first two throws.

“Okay, the air pressure’s weird,” he mutters.

“You hit the wall.”

“THE WIND.”

He eventually wins that too — barely — and hands you a tiny plastic trinket like it’s priceless treasure.

“For luck,” he says, softer. “Birthday luck.”

You slip it into your pocket like it really is.

The rides come next.

The spinning teacups are a mistake.

Halfway through, Cuphead is laughing so hard he’s clinging to the wheel, eyes squeezed shut, straw flopping wildly.

“THIS WAS YOUR IDEA—”

“YOU SPUN IT—”

“I TRUSTED YOU—”

When it finally stops, he stumbles out, dizzy, and nearly walks into a sign.

You catch his sleeve. He blinks at you, swaying.

“…Worth it,” he declares.

The roller coaster has him trying to act cool in line, arms crossed.

“I don’t scream,” he says confidently.

The drop happens.

He screams.

Loud.

High-pitched.

Clutching your hand the entire time.

When it ends, his grin is wild and breathless. “Didn’t scream. That was… wind resistance.”

Snacks are non-negotiable.

One funnel cake. Two forks. Powdered sugar everywhere.

He tries to feed you a bite and completely misses your mouth, getting sugar on your cheek instead.

“Oh— hold still—”

You wipe some off his face in return. He freezes mid-motion, eyes widening just a little.

There’s a flicker of something soft and unguarded in his expression before he coughs and looks away.

“Yeah. Uh. Gotta maintain my cool carnival persona.”

“You don’t have one.”

“I absolutely do. It’s just… off-duty.”

You play until your feet ache and your hands are full of small prizes. The sky deepens into full night, and the lights seem warmer now, wrapping everything in gold.

Your pace slows. His energy softens. Your fingers stay laced together like it’s automatic.

Cuphead glances at you, then ahead.

“Got one last thing,” he says.

You already know.

The Ferris wheel turns slowly, glowing against the stars.

“You remembered,” you say quietly.

“Course I did,” he replies, just as quiet. “You mentioned it once. That you always wanted to be up high when everything’s lit up below.”

The cart rocks gently as you sit. The safety bar clicks.

Up you go.

Below, the carnival becomes a swirl of lights and tiny moving shapes. The noise fades into a distant hum.

Cuphead’s leg presses against yours. His hand never leaves yours.

For a while, you just look.

Then he speaks, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

“…You happy?”

You turn to him. His usual grin is smaller now. Nervous. Hopeful. Like this answer matters more than anything.

“Yeah,” you say. “I really am.”

Relief washes over his face so fast it’s almost visible.

“Good. ‘Cause I was this close to renting a parade.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Details.”

The cart reaches the top and pauses.

You’re suspended between stars and glowing earth.

Cuphead shifts closer, shoulders touching. His thumb draws slow circles on your hand.

“Okay,” he says, taking a steadying breath. “Final birthday gift.”

You smile. “Oh?”

“Yeah. It’s, uh. Kinda sappy. But birthdays are legally allowed one sappy moment.”

You lean toward him.

He stills — then lifts a hand to your cheek, careful, gentle, like you’re something precious.

The kiss is soft. Sweet. Warm with carnival air and powdered sugar and everything the night has been.

When you pull back, he looks dazed, straw crooked.

“…Best idea I ever had,” he murmurs.

The Ferris wheel starts to descend.

He rests his forehead against yours, smiling in that quiet, unguarded way he doesn’t show often.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

And below you, the carnival keeps glowing.

Author's note: I'm REALLY sorry if this one isn't very good or long enough, I had to write it in a hurry while I was busy because SOMEONE forgot to tell me days before that it was their birthday today /silly.

I remembered that Fly said recently that Cuphead's favorite place to go on a date with his partner on Valentine's Day would be a carnival, especially on the ferris wheel.

So I thought this would be perfect since Valentine's Day is coming up anyways.

I hope you enjoyed this one, Zero <33

Pupcup!

+ Blueink

feeling a little stressed today, have a free doodle of the myth gang craving soup :]

hey yall its your trusty neighborhood mod @flygutzz :DDD no i am not late!!! Me, Nort, and a couple of our "Stars" wanna thank everyone for sticking with us for a whole year now! and to those who have just recently joined us, thank you also for joining us whenever you can!!!

I'm not as good with my words as Nort so along with their whole speech, all I can say is: DITTO!

Miles does another piece of art after years

MOTM OC: HONEY CALLAWAY THE SKUNK !!

Inspired by 1930s fashion, I gave the gals a bit of a update and I quite like them more :]