SUMMARY: A lovely quarrel between two friends, nothing more.
WARNING: 16+ Recommended! contains descriptions of nausea, violence, cuphead's weird way of flirting and slight suggestiveness.
NOTE: hii ! terribly sorry if the characterization isn't good or if this is too short, getting in the swing of writing for the public and its a lot of pressure. enjoy!
The demon's chest rises and falls with caution, like any move could set off the beast on top of him at any moment. A growing pit drills itself into his stomach, down to a bottomless pit that had nothing but nausea ruminating its walls. In fact, if he swallowed whatever was left in his parched mouth down to his brittle throat, he’d be able to feel the sour taste of acid and disgust hit his own tongue.
But the acid wasn’t for the man pining him, his snarl caught between his vision, it was also for himself.
Disgust for how he let himself freeze, and he’s letting himself meet his own eyes with the others. The other who was sinking his gloved fingers into his rubber-like skin, making a silhouette of his body against the ground beneath him.
Cupheads breath doesn’t move with hesitance, it doesn’t even hitch. It doesn’t flow into his nose and seeps out gently through his lips, it escapes roughly in and out through his entire mouth, like an animal holding itself from sinking its canines into its prey. Like a threat waiting to pierce Bendy in his little heart.
He looked manic, he was manic. His hands were graciously bigger than Bendy’s entire body, so he easily had his palm only nearly cupped along his waist line, and the other dug into the dirt, his thumb only lightly grazing Bendy's high hip. He paralyzed him in a way muscle prodding or a bullet to his leg couldn’t; the glimmer of his teeth, its ends thinned out for the thrill of it, did enough damage to Bendy’s psychological torment than any other threat ever could.
His pupils looked like red dots in a sea white void of nothingness, his eyes lidded but he was in no mood the demon considered calm or drunken for that matter. His eyes, his bared teeth.
Cuphead could probably rip him apart, kill him with bare teeth alone. And that idea alone keeps Bendy from moving a singular muscle, from breathing too hard, from letting even a tiny wince slip past his tongue.
“You and I don’t get to talk much like this,” the cup jests. “I like it, I like you like this.”
And what in the 9 hells is that supposed to mean?
“We don’t talk at all.” A tightness formed around Bendy’s eyes. “I’d like to keep it that way.”
That’s not true. Well—half true. They talked, but not with words, more so with sharp glances and pinched mouths, and the tension in the air that could act as a dartboard. When they did speak normally, it was rather teasing and one-offs than an actual conversation. Bottomline, they tolerated each other, but not in a way that set peace between them.
Cuphead couldn’t help but snicker to himself at Bendy’s defense, “You’re not still mad at me, right?” He cooed as if he were a father trying to soothe his child, but Bendy knew better.
This was nothing gentle or heavenly; this was humiliation, embarrassment. Cuphead was using everything in his power to remind him he was still a twig that could be snapped over his knee at any point. He hated how he was just curling his hand around his body like he was a ragdoll, and he hated how he subconsciously abided by his touch from intimidation alone.
He doesn’t answer Cuphead's question, he doesn't even subtly answer with his eyes like he always does. He just stares down at his legs entangled with the others in spite.
“You’re still mad about that?”
“Don’t be a priss, I let you get away.”
His breath hitches at the comment, and without nary a thought his body jolts up to defend himself. To strike him with his knee, to slap him, to do something.
As quickly as his body rose however, it went back down with a slam against the dirt and an even tougher grip on his body.
Any previous jesting intent that was in his voice or his eyes quickly sunk away and out crawled who he really was beneath his porcelain surface. His palm no longer laid flat against the ground, but chained itself around Bendy’s shoulder, locking him into place with no effort. His gloves tight and thick materials curled in Bendy’s skin again, a twitch snapping his head against the tree behind him and a shiver curling down his spine like trickling poison.
Cuphead felt like poison, he was poison. He loomed closer into the demon's space, his chest just maybe two feet away from the others. His eyelids don't shoot open, in fact they stay the way they were before, but it’s all much different now.
If he moves, he’ll die. If he speaks, he’ll die.
That leather glover around his hip is no longer there as a tease, but as a warning. It mimics the other, curling into the mechanics skin and drawing a bit of blood from force alone. He pushes his fingers deeper into Bendy’s skin, watching the demon below him tense up and suck thick air in between his teeth.
Bendy felt simultaneous pricks of pain on his back, the fresh wounds splitting open from black skin making tears prick in his eye ducts. It’s a reminder to him, a promise, a love letter.
“I could’ve done worse.” He tightens his fingers, and blood draws further from his back. Bendy clamps down on his own jaw, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth to soother the feeling of his flesh being forced to open.
Cuphead leans in closer, a hushed tone, “Stop what?”
“Stop treating me like a fucking animal.”
“I wouldn’t do this to an animal.”
Another dig and the mechanic instinctively kicks his knee up in defense, Cuphead curls inwards a bit from the contact but laughs it off nonetheless. He hushes Bendy’s winces, and releases the pressure between Bendy's back and his fingers. Blood comes easier now, still running down in trails before stopping halfway to drip onto the forest floor beneath them. The feeling of fresh air against a hot wound causes the demon to squint, his tail lightly thumping beneath him.
Cuphead takes note of the discomfort and takes his hand back over to the wound caused by his fingers, covering his palm over it like a makeshift bandaid. Bendy felt nothing but nausea again; for his body not twitching enough in disgust, not kicking enough, for accepting the cup's touch with ease like it wanted to be in this predicament.
That was some self-exploration he needed to figure out for himself.
“You’re sick .. you know that?”
“Maybe, but you’re the one who's lettin’ a guy loom over you like this.”
The demon's breathing reverts back to its state beforehand, cautious and soft. He makes no sudden moves or eye contact with the cup, but he leans his burning side into the touch of his palm, accepting its “apology”. The heels of his boots are dug into the ground at a weird angle, and his head starts to become a sore being formally thrown and parked against raw tree bark.
Meanwhile Cuphead presses his palm firmly against the wound, like he's medically equipped to work around a wound. The warmth from this gloved hand almost embraces the fresh cuts, protecting it with its life. He's now only inches away from Bendy really, his head hung beside Bendy’s so he can hear his breath and faint giggling. The hand that was then locked on his shoulder moved to the ground again, giving Bendy a bit of grace.
The nausea never left him, in fact there was still a pit in his stomach that made him feel like at any moment he could be devoured by the beast he called Cuphead at any moment.
It’s the ideal love, really.
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