· ✦ ·

𝐍𝐞𝐧𝐞 | 𝟐𝟎 | 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 | 𝐌𝐲𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐍𝐨 𝐀𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 | 𝐒𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 | 𝐏𝐅𝐏 𝐛𝐲: 𝗖𝗵𝘂𝘂𝗻_𝗞𝘂𝗿𝗶 𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝗜'𝗠 𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗪𝗢𝗛𝗢𝗢

[elltournesoll]

im sorry for the stupid question, but are you taking request now are they closed

My requests aren't closed, you can send as many fics requests as you want!!!

I'm just not posting many or no fics at all for now because I'm busy with my studies and my graduation is at the end of June, I'm taking this time to study some more at home and to write some old and new requests when I'm free, so when my hiatus ends, I'll be able to post everything at the same time without a problem.

[elltournesoll]

HIIYA iz me agen!! I also have noticed that one oneshot of the Cupbros x reader^^! The one called Loved evenly? Something along the line- Is Mugman a part animal in that oneshot? Because it mentioned that "Mugman's ears twitched" So it has been stuck in my mind for a while now

SOMEONE ACTUALLY ASKED ME THIS A WHILE AGO HERE BUT DELETED THEIR COMMENT I genuinely tried to find where any parts of the fic could've mentioned any ears but I genuinely couldn't find it any.

Could've been something with Google translator if I missed it but it wouldn't make any sense since I didn't write Mugman with ears on that fic for the translator to translate it like that whatsoever.

But I'm sure nothing mentioned any of the brothers having any ears on the fic, no.

[elltournesoll]

Do you also write Cannon x Cannon fics or just Reader x Cannon?

I do write basically anything but for now, I'll post only "x reader" here on my blog, I do write canon x canon, canon x oc, oc x oc and so on, but only for friends/mutuals on discord for the giggles.

I wrote a Pupshell fic back in April when we saw Shelly and Boris meeting each other and I only posted it here because I am a huge fan of the ship and they've been my #1 duo since I read the comic for the first time in September.

But if you guys ever want any canon x canon, I won't mind writing it if you request any, just keep in mind my number one priority in this blog is the hashtag "x reader" and I'll write requests for these first!!!!!

[elltournesoll]

Hiiya!! Mmmm genuine question!! Why does Astro in every Headcanons different, like he speaks in certain terms, then another headcanon is different and so on ; u ; ?

HI!!! I never played Dandy's World and I'm not interested in playing it any time soon, so I mostly wrote him based on how my friends explained to me who he is and how he acts, I usually try to do my research and try to write them accurately to their personalities the best I can (if I don't consume the media where the character is from), my writing towards the Dandy's World characters are going to be pretty out of character if they hadn't appeared in the comic yet but now that Astro (and most of all the other characters from Dandy's World) has been properly introduced recently this year, I'll get to learn more what he's like, since any Astro fics/scenarios I posted here were actually posted before I had the chance to know what kind of character he's going to be in the comic.

[elltournesoll]

I need to ramble about this here real quick but WHY AM I SEEING SOME PEOPLE COMPARE OTHER WRITERS FANFICS WITH MINE??? Just because you like what I write and thinks my fanfics are good, that's not a reason to criticize other people's fanfics in the Myth Of The Machine community.

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

WRITE MYTH SHELLY X READER FOR ME GUYS I LWK NEED THIS SO BADLY I'M LESBIANS FOR THAT GORGEOUS BEAUTIFUL STUNNING AMAZING PERFECT WOMAN...

[elltournesoll]

Until Something Gives — Motm Rayman

Summary: A guarded newcomer finds themself unexpectedly drawn toward Rayman — charismatic, endlessly magnetic, and carrying far more beneath the surface than anyone openly speaks about. What begins as quiet conversations, sharp banter, and reluctant closeness slowly deepens into something harder to ignore, forcing both of them to confront vulnerability, trust, and the dangerous comfort of letting someone truly see them.

Pairing: Myth! Rayman x Reader

Genre: Romance, Slow-Burn, Light Fluff, Hurt / Comfort, Emotional Drama, Adventure, Fantasy, Interpersonal Drama, Psychological / Emotional Fiction and Character Study

Trope: Emotional Walls / Guarded Character, Mutual Pining, Banter-Flirting, Emotional Intimacy Before Physical Intimacy, Healing Through Love, Lingering Touches & Almost-Confessions and Overburdened Hero Who Needs Someone To Lean On.

Rating: T (Teen)

Myth! Rayman belongs to my oomf @crowberryboo !!! He's so awesome sauce and an amazing artist, go check out his art <3

You guys can learn more about Myth! Rayman on this post on Payce's blog, his character references and lore are there, basically everything Payce decided to post about him and thought it was important enough so far !!!

You notice him before anyone points him out.

Not because he’s loud, though he can be, but because everything seems to bend around him in a way that feels almost instinctive, like the room itself has decided he matters more than the rest of it.

Conversations tilt in his direction without people realizing they’ve done it, voices angling toward him, pauses forming just slightly longer when he speaks.

People watch him when they think he won’t notice, quick glances over shoulders, eyes lingering a fraction too long before snapping away. And even in a room full of noise — overlapping chatter, clinking glasses, chairs scraping against the floor — there’s a strange kind of gravity to him.

Like he’s the center point everything else keeps circling back to.

He’s leaning back in a chair like he owns the place, boots hooked over the edge of a battered table that looks like it’s seen better days.

The wood creaks under his weight, protesting softly, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he leans further into it, balancing on the back legs with careless ease.

One arm is slung lazily across the backrest, fingers draped loose and relaxed, while the other moves as he talks — quick, expressive gestures that bring his words to life.

“…And then — no, listen — then it explodes,” he says, grinning wide, eyes bright with mischief, the kind that catches and holds attention without trying. “Not a small one either, I’m talking boom, whole place gone —”

“That’s not what happened,” someone interrupts flatly.

He gasps, straightening just enough to clutch his chest in exaggerated offense, brows lifting high. “Wow. Wow. You wound me,” he says, shaking his head like he’s genuinely hurt. “I am an excellent storyteller, thank you very much.”

“You embellish.”

“I improve,” he corrects immediately, pointing a finger toward them with mock seriousness, his grin tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “There’s a difference.”

Someone laughs. Then another.

The sound spreads quickly, easy and familiar, filling the space in a way that feels practiced—like this is normal, like this is him.

You stand near the edge of the room, half in shadow, half hidden behind a support beam, watching everything unfold without stepping fully into it.

This isn’t what you expected.

You’d heard about him long before you ever arrived. Stories that carried weight, the kind people didn’t tell lightly. Stories about loss that left marks.

About anger that burned too hot, too fast. About a man who used to shine—and now burns instead.

Someone dangerous.

Someone unstable.

Someone you should be careful around.

This version of him—this easy smile, this warmth, the way he draws people in like it’s effortless—

It doesn’t match.

And yet, you can’t look away.

Because even from here, you can feel it.

There’s something underneath.

Something just slightly out of sync with everything else.

His head tilts suddenly, mid-laugh, like something invisible has brushed against him—like he’s felt a shift in the air that no one else noticed.

His gaze cuts across the room, sharp and immediate.

It lands on you.

It’s unsettling, how fast it happens.

One second he’s relaxed, loose, fully immersed in the moment—

The next, he’s focused.

Not hostile. Not suspicious.

But aware.

Of you.

You feel it immediately, the weight of his attention settling over you, pinning you in place without force.

For a split second, something instinctive tells you to look away—to pretend you weren’t watching, to break the moment before it becomes something else.

But you don’t.

And now it’s too late.

His grin doesn’t disappear—but it changes.

Softens.

Not weaker, not fading—just quieter, more deliberate. Less for the room, more… specific.

He swings his legs down from the table in one smooth motion, the chair legs hitting the ground with a soft scrape. He rolls his shoulders as he stands, stretching slightly like someone shaking off stillness, like a cat that’s decided it’s done resting.

And then he starts walking toward you.

Of course he does.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up—your posture straightens slightly, your shoulders pulling back just enough to feel it.

“Hey,” he says easily, stopping just close enough that it feels intentional. Not too close—but close enough that you’re aware of it. Of him. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Up close, it’s worse.

Or better.

His eyes are greener than you expected—bright, sharp, not soft in the way you might have imagined. There’s something behind them, something that doesn’t quite match the relaxed curve of his smile.

Like the warmth is real—

But not the whole truth.

“Just got here,” you reply, keeping your voice even.

He hums quietly, tilting his head as he looks you over. It’s not invasive, not lingering in a way that makes you uncomfortable—but it’s thorough. Intentional. Like he’s piecing something together, even if he doesn’t fully realize it.

“That’s brave,” he says after a moment, one brow lifting slightly.

“Or just stupid,” you counter, meeting his gaze without backing down.

That earns you a flash of teeth, quick and genuine, something in his expression lighting up just a little more.

“Ooh, I like that answer.” He points at you, the gesture loose but deliberate, like he’s marking something down. “Good start.”

Behind him, someone snorts—Globox, you remember from earlier introductions, his presence unmistakable even without looking.

“They’re with us, Ray,” Globox calls out, voice warm, easy, like this is all expected.

Rayman glances back over his shoulder briefly, acknowledging it with a small nod, before turning back to you.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle—barely there—but you catch it anyway.

His posture relaxes, just slightly, the edge in his gaze softening in a way that feels more genuine, less guarded.

“Then welcome,” he says, and this time the warmth in his voice settles deeper. Not just surface-level charm, not just something offered out of habit—but something quieter, more real. “Hope you like chaos, because there’s plenty of it around here.”

There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, but it’s softer now, less performative.

You exhale quietly, almost unconsciously. “I’ll manage.”

He studies you for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s testing that answer—like he’s trying to decide if you actually mean it.

Like he wants to believe you do.

Then his mouth curves again, something easier slipping back into place.

“Yeah,” he says, voice dipping just slightly. “I think you will.”

─── ⟢ · //

You don’t mean to stay near him.

It just… happens.

At first, it’s circumstantial.

The room fills faster than you expect, chairs scraping against the floor as people shift and settle, voices overlapping in a steady hum.

By the time you find somewhere to sit — a narrow stretch of space at the edge of a long, worn table — it feels less like a choice and more like necessity.

And somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, he ends up across from you.

Not directly placed there with intention—no obvious movement, no announcement. He just is there when you look up again, like he’s always been part of the scene.

Or maybe he chose it.

You can’t really tell.

But you notice it.

You notice him.

He talks a lot, that becomes clear almost immediately.

Not in a way that overwhelms the room, not in a way that demands attention. It’s subtler than that. He fills the spaces between conversations before they can settle into silence, tossing in remarks, stories, quick-witted comments that keep the energy moving.

Like he’s steering the atmosphere without anyone realizing it.

Like he won’t let things get too quiet.

He’s good at it.

Too good.

Because the more you watch — the more you stop listening to just what he says and start paying attention to how — the more you notice what slips through.

The cracks between the sparks.

The way his smile lingers just a fraction too long sometimes, like it’s holding something back—like it’s covering the edge of something that almost surfaced.

The way his gaze flickers, not away, neither distracted, but inward, like something behind his eyes pulls his focus for a heartbeat before he snaps back into the moment.

The way his fingers tap lightly against the table when no one’s paying attention, uneven and restless, like his body hasn’t quite caught up with the version of himself he’s presenting.

It’s small.

Easy to miss.

But once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

You don’t think anyone else notices.

Or maybe they do.

Maybe they’ve just decided not to say anything.

At some point — between one story and the next, between laughter and interruption — his attention shifts again.

Back to you.

“Alright,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows brushing the edge of the table. He props his chin against his knuckles, head tilted just enough to study you properly now, a faint narrowing of his eyes like he’s zeroing in. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” you echo, glancing up from where your hands rest loosely in front of you.

“Yeah.” His tone is light, but there’s something more focused underneath it now. “You’ve been sitting there all quiet and mysterious.” He gestures vaguely in your direction, lips quirking. “It’s suspicious.”

You raise a brow, unimpressed, or at least pretending to be. “Maybe I just don’t feel the need to talk constantly.”

There’s a split second where he just looks at you, like he’s deciding how to respond.

Then—

He gasps, dramatically, hand flying to his chest again as he leans back slightly in his chair. “Wow. Another attack,” he says, shaking his head slowly, like he’s deeply disappointed. “I don’t know if I can recover from this.”

“You’ll survive,” you reply, tone dry, though there’s a faint hint of amusement creeping in despite yourself.

He squints at you then, eyes narrowing just slightly, not in annoyance, but in something closer to curiosity. Like he’s recalibrating.

Then he grins.

Slow. Deliberate.

“Careful,” he says, leaning forward again just a little, voice dropping a fraction. “You keep that up, I might start liking you.”

It’s said lightly. Easily.

But there’s something beneath it.

Something that doesn’t quite pass as a joke.

Your pulse stumbles, just for a second, just enough to feel it.

You don’t let it show.

You shrug, like it doesn’t matter. “Pretty sure that’s already happening.”

And there—

There it is again.

That stillness.

So brief it almost doesn’t exist.

Anyone else might miss it completely.

The way his fingers stop tapping, the way his shoulders hold just a fraction tighter, the way his expression pauses between reactions.

But you don’t.

You catch it.

Then it’s gone.

He laughs, louder this time, easier, the sound slipping back into place like nothing happened. But it’s not quite the same as before. Not entirely.

“You’re quite bold, huh?” he says, tilting his head, one brow lifting as he watches you more openly now.

“Maybe I’m simply honest,” you correct, your tone steady, but your gaze doesn’t waver from his.

Something flickers in his expression at that, quick, unreadable.

He leans back again, exhaling softly through his nose as he shakes his head, like he’s conceding something he hasn’t said out loud.

“Dangerous combo,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“And yet,” you reply lightly, letting the words sit between you, “here I am.”

That gets his attention again. Fully this time.

His eyes settle on you, steady and intent, like he’s not looking through you anymore, like he’s actually seeing you.

Really seeing you.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

Not immediately.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs after a moment, quieter than before, something softer threading through his voice now.

His gaze lingers, just a second longer than it should.

“Here you are.”

─── ⟢ · //

The shift is gradual.

So gradual you almost miss it happening.

It doesn’t arrive with some clear moment, no sharp turn where things suddenly feel different. It’s quieter than that. Subtle. Like something easing into place without asking permission.

At first, it’s just coincidence.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The next time there’s a gathering, the room fills the same way it always does — voices overlapping, movement constant, people settling into familiar patterns. You take a seat without thinking too much about it, drawn more by availability than intention.

And then—

He ends up near you again.

Not across the room. Not at the far end of the table.

Close enough to reach, if either of you leaned in just slightly.

You notice it, distantly.

You don’t comment on it.

Neither does he.

But then it happens again.

And again.

Each time, the distance between you seems to shrink just a little more, not enough for anyone else to point it out, not enough to make it obvious. Just enough that it stops feeling accidental.

He starts directing comments your way more often.

At first, it’s small things — quick remarks tossed into conversations you weren’t fully part of, casual observations that pull your attention back in.

Then it becomes questions.

Not generic ones.

Specific ones.

“What do you think?” he asks at one point, glancing at you mid-discussion, his body already angled slightly in your direction like this was always where his attention was going to land.

You pause, just briefly, caught off guard by the sudden focus. “About what part?”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, like he expected that answer. “Fair.” He gestures loosely with his hand. “The whole thing. Don’t dodge.”

There’s something in the way he says it—not demanding, but… interested. Like he actually wants to hear what you’ll say.

So you answer.

And when you do, you don’t soften it. You don’t try to match the room or blend into the general agreement floating around the table.

You just say what you think.

He watches you while you speak.

Not in passing. Not distracted.

Focused.

And when you finish, there’s that spark again, quick, bright, unmistakable.

“Okay,” he says slowly, leaning back just enough to take you in fully, one brow lifting. “That’s… not what I expected.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Good or bad?”

“Good,” he admits easily, though there’s a hint of something else in his expression now. Something sharper. More engaged. “Just didn’t think you’d go for that angle.”

You shrug. “Most people don’t.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

After that, it becomes a pattern.

He pulls you into conversations you weren’t part of seconds before, like it’s instinct now. Tosses questions your way mid-discussion, not waiting to see if you’ll speak up on your own.

And you answer.

Every time.

You don’t let him dominate the exchange.

You don’t let yourself fade into the background, even when it would be easier, even when the room shifts in ways that might have pushed you there before.

You hold your ground.

And he notices.

You can see it in the way his expression changes — not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would call out — but in the small things.

The slight tilt of his head when you counter something he says.

The way his grin sharpens just a little when you push back instead of agreeing.

The way his attention stays locked on you, even when someone else starts talking.

There’s a spark in his eyes when you challenge him.

Not irritation.

Not defensiveness.

Something closer to excitement.

Like you’ve given him something he didn’t realize he was looking for.

“Okay, hold on,” he says at one point, cutting himself off mid-sentence as he turns fully toward you, shifting in his seat so there’s no one else between your line of sight anymore. His elbow props against the table, his body angled entirely in your direction now. “Are you arguing with me or agreeing with me?”

There’s a faint grin tugging at his mouth, but his eyes are sharper now, searching.

“…Yes,” you reply.

There’s a beat.

He blinks.

Once.

Then he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as he leans back slightly, one hand dragging through his hair in a quick, almost disbelieving motion. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, though there’s no real frustration behind it.

“Admit I’m right,” you say, watching him closely.

“Never,” he shoots back immediately, but there’s hesitation there, just enough to catch.

“You hesitated.”

“I did not—” he starts, straightening again, his expression sharpening like he’s about to defend himself.

“You did,” you cut in, calm, certain.

That stops him.

For half a second, he just stares at you.

Then he groans, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly over his eyes like he’s trying to reset himself. “I regret everything,” he mutters into his palm.

There’s a quiet ripple of amusement from somewhere nearby, but his attention doesn’t leave you.

“No, you don’t,” you reply.

He lowers his hand slowly, exhaling through his nose as he looks at you again.

And this time, the grin that forms is smaller.

Crooked.

Real.

“…No, I don’t,” he admits, voice softer now, like the words slipped out before he could dress them up into something lighter.

His gaze lingers.

Not challenging anymore.

Not playful in the same way.

And there it is again—

That softness.

Slipping through the cracks, just for a moment.

But this time—

It stays a little longer.

─── ⟢ · //

It’s later—much later—when you see the other side of him up close.

The room empties slowly, not all at once but in quiet pieces — chairs scraping back, voices fading as people drift out in small groups, laughter thinning into something softer before disappearing entirely.

The energy that once filled the space settles, leaving behind a low hum of leftover noise and the occasional clink of glass against wood.

What remains feels… different.

Quieter.

More real.

You linger.

You don’t move toward the exit when others do. You don’t follow the natural pull of the room emptying out. Instead, you stay where you are for a moment too long, then another, your gaze drifting without quite admitting what you’re looking for.

But you’re not sure why.

…Maybe you are.

He’s still there.

Not at the table anymore, his chair sits empty, slightly askew like he left without bothering to fix it.

He’s at the bar.

Leaning forward slightly, elbows resting against the counter, shoulders drawn in tighter than you’ve seen them before.

A glass sits in front of him.

Barely touched.

Though the faint ring marks on the wood and the looseness in the way his fingers hover near it tell you it hasn’t been his first.

His posture is different now.

Gone is the easy sprawl, the careless confidence, the constant motion that filled space so effortlessly. What’s left is contained.

Held together.

Like something underneath is pressing outward and he’s using everything he has to keep it from showing.

His shoulders are tense — not rigid, but tight enough that you can see it in the line of his back, in the way he breathes a little too shallow, a little too controlled.

You hesitate near the doorway.

You could leave.

Turn around, walk out, give him the space he clearly carved out for himself.

That would probably be the easier option.

The safer one.

Instead—

You move.

Your steps are quiet against the floor, almost swallowed by the stillness of the room.

You don’t announce yourself.

You don’t ask.

You just take the seat beside him.

Close enough to be noticed.

Not close enough to crowd.

He notices immediately.

Of course he does.

“You’re persistent,” he says, not looking at you, his voice lower than it was earlier, rougher around the edges. His fingers tap once against the side of the glass, then still, like he’s caught himself doing it.

“The same way you’re predictable,” you reply, settling your weight against the stool, resting one arm lightly on the counter.

There’s a beat.

Then—

A quiet huff escapes him. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

“Yeah,” he mutters, tilting his head just slightly, like he’s conceding the point without wanting to fully admit it. “Guess I am.”

Silence settles between you.

But it’s not the same kind as before.

This one doesn’t feel filled with anticipation or tension waiting to snap, it feels heavier. Slower. Like it has weight to it.

Like it matters.

You glance at the glass in front of him, watching the faint way the liquid inside shifts when his fingers brush against it again.

“You gonna drink that,” you ask, voice calm, “or just stare at it until it tells you your future?”

He lets out a soft snort, the sound almost involuntary, his head dipping just slightly as a faint smile ghosts across his face before fading again.

“If it did,” he says, voice quieter now, “I’d probably smash it.”

There’s no dramatics in it this time.

No exaggeration.

Just something dry. Honest.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “Bad future?”

He pauses.

Really pauses this time.

His gaze stays forward, but you can see the shift—the way his jaw tightens just slightly, the way his fingers curl a little more firmly around the edge of the counter.

“…Realistic one,” he says after a moment.

The word settles between you.

Heavy.

You don’t push.

Not yet.

Instead, you shift just slightly closer — not enough to be obvious, just enough that your presence is felt more clearly. You mirror his posture without thinking, resting your arms along the counter, letting the quiet stretch without forcing it to break.

After a moment, he speaks again.

“There was a time,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing each word carefully, “where I thought I had everything figured out.”

You turn your head toward him.

He’s not looking at you.

His eyes are fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused, like he’s not really seeing the room anymore.

Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“I could walk into a room, and people listened,” he continues, voice low, steady in a way that feels practiced. “Things made sense.”

His fingers tighten slightly against the edge of the counter, knuckles faintly whitening.

“I made them make sense.”

There’s a quiet pause.

A breath.

“Now?” he exhales, shoulders shifting almost imperceptibly. “Now I just try not to screw things up worse than they already are.”

There’s no humor in it.

No smirk, no deflection, no attempt to soften the weight of what he’s saying.

Just truth.

Unfiltered.

You feel it settle into your chest before you even think of responding.

You shift closer again, just enough that your shoulder almost brushes his this time. Not quite touching—just there.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” you say, voice softer now, but steady.

He huffs, a faint edge returning—not sharp, but defensive in that quiet, tired way. “That’s what everyone says.”

“Maybe everyone’s right.”

That makes him glance at you.

Really glance this time.

His eyes sharpen slightly, searching your face like he’s trying to catch something — anything — that might make your words less genuine.

“Or maybe,” he says, tilting his head just slightly, “everyone’s just being nice.”

There’s something almost challenging in it.

Like he’s testing you.

Waiting for you to back off.

“I’m not,” you reply simply.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t soften it.

That stops him.

You can see it happen.

The shift.

“Not… nice?” he asks, brows pulling together just slightly, like the concept doesn’t quite land the way he expected it to.

“Not lying,” you correct quietly.

Silence stretches again—but this time, it’s different.

He studies you.

Really studies you.

His gaze doesn’t flick away, doesn’t break, doesn’t retreat behind anything.

It lingers.

Searching.

Weighing.

Like he’s trying to find the part of you that isn’t serious.

Like he expects it to be there.

“…Why?” he asks finally, voice lower now, almost careful.

And there it is.

Not what do you mean.

Not prove it.

Just—

Why.

You swallow, your fingers shifting slightly against the counter, grounding yourself in the moment.

But you don’t look away.

“Because you care,” you say.

His brow furrows slightly, confusion flickering across his expression.

“What?”

“You care about everyone here,” you continue, your voice steady but softer now, the words coming easier the longer you say them. “You fight for them. You stay up for them. You carry things you don’t have to carry.”

You pause, just briefly.

Your gaze doesn’t leave his.

“You don’t get to act like that doesn’t matter.”

Something shifts in his expression.

It’s small.

So small most people wouldn’t catch it.

But you do.

The tension in his shoulders eases, just slightly.

His grip on the counter loosens.

His gaze flickers — not away, but down, like he’s trying to process something he didn’t expect to hear.

“…You’re annoying,” he mutters after a moment, voice quieter now, lacking any real bite. “I hope you know that.”

There’s no edge to it.

No real resistance.

Just… something softer, buried underneath the words.

You let a faint smile touch your lips. “I do.”

He exhales softly through his nose, something almost like a laugh following it—small, quiet, but real.

And even then—

Even with the walls still there, even with everything he’s not saying—

He doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t create distance.

Doesn’t shut you out.

He stays exactly where he is.

Close.

And neither do you.

─── ⟢ · //

From that point on, it’s different.

Not dramatically.

Not in a way that would make anyone stop mid-conversation and point it out, not in a way that shifts the dynamic of the room or draws attention.

Everything still looks the same from the outside, same gatherings, same conversations, same easy rhythm everyone has settled into.

But you feel it.

It settles somewhere quiet and steady, just beneath the surface.

Something has changed.

The way he leans closer when he talks to you, not enough to be obvious, not enough that anyone else would notice unless they were looking for it. But you notice the difference in distance. The way his shoulder angles slightly toward yours, the way he shifts just enough to close the space between you without fully crossing it.

Like he’s drawn in without realizing it.

Or maybe realizing it and not stopping.

The way his tone drops, just slightly, when it’s just the two of you.

Not softer exactly — just less performative. Less projected. The edge he carries in groups, the lightness he throws into his words, fades just a little. What’s left feels more grounded. More real.

You hear it in the pauses.

In the way his words don’t rush to fill every silence anymore when he’s talking to you.

Like he doesn’t feel the need to.

Like silence isn’t something he has to fight off — not with you.

And then there’s the way his attention lingers.

That’s the part you notice most.

Before, his focus moved constantly, scanning the room, tracking conversations, always aware of everything happening around him. Even when he was engaged, there was always a part of him somewhere else, keeping track, staying alert.

Now—

When he looks at you, it stays.

Not drifting.

Not splitting.

Just there.

Steady. Intent.

You feel it in the way he listens, too.

Not just waiting for his turn to speak, not just reacting — actually listening. His head tilts slightly sometimes, his brows pulling together just a fraction when you say something that catches his attention.

His fingers still occasionally against the table, but slower now, less restless when the conversation narrows down to just you.

Like something in him settles.

You catch him watching you sometimes.

It happens in small moments, when you’re not directly engaged with him, when your attention is elsewhere.

Across the room.

Between conversations.

In the quiet spaces where no one’s really paying attention to anyone in particular.

You’ll feel it before you see it.

That faint awareness, like something has shifted just slightly.

And when you glance up—

There he is.

Looking at you.

Not quickly looking away, not pretending he wasn’t.

Just… watching.

There’s nothing invasive about it.

Nothing that makes your skin prickle or your instincts sharpen.

If anything, it’s the opposite.

It’s calm.

Measured.

Thoughtful.

Like he’s not looking at you so much as he’s trying to understand something about you.

Or maybe remember it.

His gaze lingers in a way that feels careful.

Like he’s taking in details he doesn’t want to lose, the way your expression shifts when you’re thinking, the small movements you make without realizing, the rhythm of how you exist in a space.

Once, when you catch him doing it and hold his gaze instead of looking away, something flickers across his expression — surprise, maybe. Or realization.

But he doesn’t look away immediately.

He just exhales softly, almost like he’s been caught mid-thought, and tilts his head a fraction.

“What?” he asks, a faint hint of amusement threading through his voice, though it’s quieter than usual.

“You tell me,” you reply, one brow lifting slightly.

His lips twitch, not quite a full smile. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

He pauses.

And for a second — just a second — it looks like he might actually answer.

Like the words are right there, close enough to say.

But then his gaze shifts slightly, not fully away, just enough to break the intensity of the moment.

“…Nothing important,” he says, though the softness in his tone doesn’t quite match the dismissal.

You don’t call him out on it.

But you don’t fully believe him, either.

Because you’ve seen the way he looks at you.

You’ve felt the way his attention lingers, the way something in him seems to settle when you’re near.

And whatever he’s trying to figure out—

Whatever he’s trying to understand—

You have a feeling it’s not nothing.

Not even close.

─── ⟢ · //

The sparring match starts as a joke.

It’s not planned, not formal, just something that grows out of the restless energy that always seems to follow him.

A few people linger nearby, watching half-interested, half-expecting something entertaining. The space clears just enough to give you room, boots scuffing against the floor as people shift back.

“C’mon,” he says, bouncing lightly on his feet, the movement loose, almost effortless. There’s a sharp, playful grin tugging at his mouth, something bright and familiar settling back into place. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent to it — something more focused than the joke suggests. His eyes are already on you, already watching, already assessing.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” you reply, folding your arms briefly, though you don’t step away.

“You joined the resistance,” he shoots back immediately, one brow lifting as he tilts his head. “Same thing.”

There’s a lightness to it, but his stance shifts as he says it — subtle, but deliberate. His weight adjusts, feet planting more firmly, shoulders loosening in a way that feels practiced.

Ready.

You roll your eyes, exhaling quietly, but you step forward anyway.

The moment you do, something in his expression flickers.

There’s no mistaking it.

Approval.

Not loud, not exaggerated, simply real.

“Alright,” he says, straightening just slightly before settling into position, his movements smooth, controlled. His grin sharpens, though his eyes narrow just a fraction, focus tightening. “Try not to embarrass yourself too much.”

There’s a challenge in it now.

Not just teasing.

“You first,” you reply, shifting your weight, matching his stance without overthinking it.

He laughs. Short, genuine, the sound cutting through the tension before it fully settles.

“Bold,” he mutters, almost to himself, like he expected nothing less.

For a brief second, neither of you moves.

The space between you feels charged, not tense in a negative way, but alive. Anticipation curling through it, pulling tight like a held breath.

Then—

You move.

It’s quick.

Not reckless, not rushed—but decisive.

You close the distance with more confidence than he expected, and you see it the moment it registers. His eyes widen just slightly — not in alarm, but in surprise — before instinct takes over.

He shifts to the side, fast, fluid, barely avoiding your first move.

“Okay,” he says, something sharper slipping into his voice now, the grin still there but edged with something more engaged. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You should’ve,” you shoot back, pivoting immediately, not giving him time to reset.

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, stepping back just enough to regain space, his movements precise but no longer entirely relaxed.

“Yeah?” he says, circling slightly now, eyes locked on yours. “Then show me again.”

There’s something different now.

The playfulness hasn’t disappeared, but it’s layered with focus, with interest that runs deeper than the surface-level teasing.

You don’t hesitate.

You move again.

And this time—

He’s ready.

He meets you halfway, faster than before, his reaction immediate. His hand comes up, intercepting your movement with practiced ease, not forcefully, not aggressively. Controlled.

Measured.

Like he’s testing you, not trying to win.

Your movements shift in response, adjusting without thinking, and that’s when you feel it—

The way his attention sharpens further.

“Okay,” he murmurs under his breath, almost impressed, almost surprised, his grip steady as he redirects your momentum instead of stopping it outright. “You’ve done this before.”

“A bit,” you reply, breath steady despite the closeness now, despite the way the distance between you has nearly disappeared.

“Yeah,” he says softly, more to himself than to you. “I can tell.”

He releases you then, only for a second.

Just long enough for you to move again.

The rhythm builds quickly after that.

Step, shift, counter, adjust.

It stops feeling like a sparring match and starts feeling like something else, something more fluid, more instinctive. Like a conversation happening without words, each movement answered by another, each decision met with reaction.

And through it all—

He’s watching you.

Really watching you.

Not distracted. Not divided.

Focused.

There’s a spark in his eyes again, but it’s different this time.

Less teasing.

More engaged.

Like he’s enjoying this in a way that has nothing to do with winning or proving anything.

At one point, you catch him off-guard — just barely.

It’s enough.

Your movement slips through his defense, not landing fully, but close enough to count.

He stills for half a second.

Then exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he steps back, one hand lifting slightly like he’s conceding the point.

“Alright,” he says, breath a little heavier now, though he doesn’t look tired. Just more present. “That one was on me.”

“You hesitated,” you point out, echoing your earlier words without thinking.

That gets a reaction.

His head tilts, eyes narrowing just slightly before a grin spreads again. Slower this time.

“Careful,” he says, stepping closer again, voice dropping just a fraction. “You keep noticing things like that, I might start taking this seriously.”

There’s something in the way he says it.

Not quite a warning.

Not quite a joke.

Your pulse picks up — just slightly — but you hold his gaze.

“Maybe you should.”

For a second—

Just a second—

Something in his expression shifts.

Then he smiles again.

But it’s not the same as before.

─── ⟢ · //

He is extremely fast.

Faster than you expected.

It’s not just speed — it’s control. Precision. The kind that comes from experience, from repetition, from doing this so many times it’s second nature.

His movements are fluid, almost effortless, like he’s not even thinking about them anymore.

Most people wouldn’t be able to keep up.

But you’re not most people.

And you’re not unprepared.

You adjust quickly.

Not by trying to match his speed outright — that would be a mistake — but by watching him. Reading him. The subtle shifts in his stance, the way his weight moves before he does, the slight tension in his shoulders that gives away his next move a fraction of a second early.

You anticipate instead of react.

And it works.

It throws him off, just enough.

You see it in the flicker of surprise that crosses his face mid-motion, quick but unmistakable. His rhythm stutters for half a second, just long enough for you to slip past where he expected you to be.

“Okay,” he says, breath catching slightly as he pivots to follow your movement, grin widening with something sharper now, something more impressed than playful. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You should’ve,” you shoot back, already moving again, not giving him time to reset.

He dodges — fast, precise — but not cleanly. Not perfectly.

Barely.

And he knows it.

You can see it in the way his eyes narrow just slightly, the way his focus tightens, the grin on his face shifting into something more intent.

“Yeah?” he says, voice lower now, more concentrated as he steps back into position, shoulders squaring again. “Then show me again.”

There’s a challenge in it now.

Not just playful anymore.

You don’t hesitate.

You move.

Again.

Faster this time. More direct.

And this time—

He meets you head-on.

His reaction is immediate, sharper than before, like he’s fully engaged now, no longer holding anything back. His hand comes up, quick and certain—

And he catches your wrist.

Everything slows.

Not the movement itself—but the moment.

His grip is firm, steady.

Controlled.

Not tight enough to hurt—just enough to stop you.

To hold you there.

Warm.

The contact is immediate, grounding in a way you weren’t expecting.

Your breath catches.

So does his.

It’s subtle — you might not have noticed it if you weren’t this close — but you feel it in the slight hitch of his chest, the way his shoulders still just a fraction too abruptly.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The noise around you fades, not completely, but enough that it feels distant, like it’s happening somewhere else entirely.

His thumb shifts slightly against your skin.

Barely a movement.

Just a small adjustment of his grip.

But it’s enough.

A sharp, unexpected warmth flickers up your arm, quick and electric, settling somewhere deeper before you can fully process it.

His gaze lifts to yours.

And everything else disappears.

There’s no teasing in it now.

No playful edge, no performance, no carefully maintained ease.

Just him.

Open in a way you haven’t seen before.

Focused entirely on you — not as an opponent, not as part of a game — but as something else.

Something real.

Something that makes his expression soften, just slightly.

Like he’s caught off-guard by the moment too.

Like he didn’t expect it to feel like this.

Then—

Something shifts.

You see it happen.

Recognition.

Awareness.

And just as quickly as it came—

He lets go.

Fast.

Not rough, not abrupt but definite. Like he pulled back before the moment could settle into something deeper.

“Not bad,” he says, voice quieter now, a little rougher around the edges than before.

It’s meant to sound casual.

It doesn’t quite land that way.

His hand drops back to his side, fingers flexing once like he’s shaking off the feeling.

But he doesn’t step back right away.

He stays where he is.

Close.

Close enough that the space between you still feels charged, still holding onto what just happened.

And you don’t move either.

Not yet.

─── ⟢ · //

The tension doesn’t leave after that.

It doesn’t snap or dissolve or fade into something easier to ignore.

It stays.

Settling quietly into the space between you like it belongs there now, like it’s always been there, just waiting to be noticed.

It lingers.

Not loud, not overwhelming — just constant.

You feel it in the small things first.

In the space between words, where conversations don’t quite flow the way they used to. Where there’s a beat — just a fraction too long — before either of you speaks, like you’re both suddenly aware of something else layered beneath the surface.

In the pauses that stretch a second longer than they should.

Not uncomfortable.

But charged.

Like something is sitting right there, unspoken, waiting.

You notice it in the way he looks at you now.

Not just attentive, he was always that, in his own way.

But different.

His gaze lingers more openly, less guarded, like he’s stopped pretending it doesn’t. Like he’s aware of it now and not entirely trying to hide it anymore.

There’s less deflection.

Less of that easy redirection he used to rely on.

Now, when your eyes meet, he holds it.

Even when he shouldn’t.

Even when it would be easier to look away.

And sometimes—

He almost says something.

You can see it.

The way his mouth opens slightly, the way his expression shifts like he’s about to speak and then stops himself at the last second, jaw tightening just enough to give it away before he redirects, changes the subject, throws in something lighter to cover it.

Like he’s not ready.

Or doesn’t know how.

Or both.

And then there’s the contact.

Small.

Incidental.

Except it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

A brush of his hand against yours when you both reach for the same thing.

A fleeting touch at your arm when he leans past you, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before pulling back — except sometimes, he doesn’t pull back immediately.

Sometimes, he hesitates.

Just long enough for you to notice.

Just long enough for it to mean something.

Like he’s testing the boundary.

Or maybe forgetting it’s there.

Once, your hands meet again — brief, accidental.

But neither of you moves right away.

His fingers shift slightly, almost curling, like he’s about to hold on instead of letting go.

His gaze flicks to your hand, then back to your face, something unreadable passing through his expression.

“…We should probably stop doing that,” he mutters, voice quieter than usual, though there’s no real conviction behind it.

“Then stop,” you reply, just as quietly.

He huffs a soft breath — something between a laugh and something more restrained — and shakes his head, like the answer isn’t that simple.

“Yeah,” he says under his breath. “Right.”

But he still doesn’t move first.

Not immediately.

And when he finally does, it’s slower than it should be.

Careful.

Like he’s aware of exactly what he’s letting go of.

It builds.

Not all at once.

Not in a way that demands attention.

But steadily.

Every glance that lasts too long.

Every conversation that drifts a little closer than before.

Every moment where something almost happens and then doesn’t.

It stacks.

Layer by layer.

Until it’s not something you can ignore anymore.

Until it’s not something he can ignore anymore, either.

You can see it in him.

In the way his composure slips in small, fleeting moments, his usual ease faltering just slightly when you’re too close, when your voice drops, when your attention is entirely on him.

In the way his hands still sometimes, like he’s holding himself back from something instinctive.

In the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, like he’s caught between stepping forward and forcing himself to stay exactly where he is.

Like he knows where this is going.

And hasn’t decided if he should stop it.

Or let it happen.

And through it all—

You don’t step away.

Neither does he.

So the tension stays.

Building.

Slowly.

Steadily.

Until it stops being something that can sit quietly between you.

Until it demands something more.

Until something—

Finally—

Has to give.

─── ⟢ · //

It happens on the roof.

Not planned. Not deliberate.

But inevitable, in the way some things are, like you’ve both been circling this point for a while now, just waiting for the right moment to collide with it.

You didn’t mean to follow him.

You didn’t even see him leave, not exactly but you felt it. The shift. The absence. The way the space changed when he was suddenly no longer in it.

Silent.

Tense.

Gone before anyone could stop him or maybe before anyone even thought to try.

You don’t ask where he went.

You already know.

Or at least, you hope you do.

The hallway is quieter than the rest of the building, your footsteps softer here, swallowed by the stillness. When you reach the door, your hand pauses briefly against the handle, a flicker of hesitation catching up to you at the last second.

You could turn back.

Give him space.

Pretend you didn’t notice.

But your fingers tighten slightly instead—

And you push the door open.

It creaks faintly, the sound cutting through the quiet as cool night air immediately brushes against your skin, carrying with it the distant hum of the city below.

There he is.

Sitting at the edge.

Legs hanging over the side, boots resting loosely against the building’s exterior, shoulders drawn tight in a way that looks almost unnatural on him now that you know how he usually carries himself.

Still.

Too still.

You step out onto the roof, letting the door fall shut behind you with a soft click.

“You’re getting predictable,” he says without turning, his voice quieter than usual, rough around the edges like it’s been dragged through something heavy.

You don’t stop.

You walk over and sit beside him anyway, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his.

“And you’re getting avoidant,” you reply, your tone even, but softer than before.

There’s a pause.

Then a quiet huff leaves him, his head dipping slightly, like he’s acknowledging the truth in it even if he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Guess I am.”

The city stretches out in front of you — lights scattered across the darkness, flickering faintly in the distance. It’s calm up here, detached from everything below, like the world has been muted just enough to breathe.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence isn’t empty.

It’s waiting.

Then—

“I lost people today.”

The words land heavy.

No buildup. No warning.

Just… there.

You don’t interrupt.

You don’t rush to fill the space with something comforting or hollow.

You just sit there beside him, steady, present, letting the weight of it exist without trying to soften it.

“I always do,” he continues after a moment, his voice rougher now, the words pulled from somewhere deeper. “Doesn’t matter what I plan, what I try— something always goes wrong.”

His hands tighten slightly where they rest against the edge, fingers curling against the concrete like he’s grounding himself.

“Someone always pays for it.”

There’s no anger in it.

No outward frustration.

Just exhaustion.

You reach out before you can second-guess it.

Your hand finds his.

The contact is immediate — warm, solid, real.

He freezes.

Completely.

Like he wasn’t expecting it.

Like he doesn’t know what to do with it at first.

Then— slowly—

His fingers curl around yours.

Tight.

Not tentative. Not uncertain.

Like he needs it.

Like he’s holding onto something he didn’t realize he was about to lose.

“I’m so tired,” he admits.

The words are quiet.

Fragile in a way you haven’t heard from him before.

And somehow, that hurts more than everything else he’s said.

“Then rest,” you whisper, your thumb brushing lightly against the back of his hand without thinking. “Even for a little bit.”

He shakes his head immediately, a small, sharp motion. “Can’t.”

“You can.”

“You don’t get it,” he says, his voice tightening, not angry, just strained, like he’s trying to hold something back.

“Then help me understand,” you reply, turning slightly toward him, your voice steady, unwavering.

That makes him look at you.

And this time—

There’s no wall.

No mask.

No carefully maintained distance.

Just him.

Open in a way that feels almost too raw to look at directly.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he says, the words coming slower now, like they’re being dragged out piece by piece. “If I stop, everything falls apart.”

You shake your head gently, your grip on his hand tightening just slightly, not forcing, just anchoring.

“No,” you say softly. “If you stop, you heal.”

A humorless laugh slips from him, quiet and short, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to you.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Not really my thing.”

“It could be.”

He huffs, something almost bitter flickering through his expression. “Not with everything I’ve done.”

You take a breath.

Feel the weight of what he’s not saying pressing between you.

And then—

“Then let me decide that.”

The words are quiet.

But firm.

They land harder than anything else you’ve said.

He stills.

Completely.

His fingers tighten around yours without him seeming to realize it, his gaze locking onto yours like he’s trying to understand what you just offered — what you just meant.

“…That’s dangerous,” he murmurs after a moment, voice lower now, almost careful.

“Might be,” you admit.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t soften it.

Instead, you tighten your hold on his hand just slightly, grounding the words in something real.

“But I think you’re worth it.”

Something shifts in him.

You can see it.

Feel it.

Like a line he’s been holding onto finally gives way.

─── ⟢ · //

The space between you disappears all at once.

Not gradually. Not carefully.

Like something finally snaps under the weight of everything that’s been building, every glance held too long, every touch that lingered, every word that almost said too much and then didn’t.

It gives way all at once.

He moves first.

But it’s not confident.

Not smooth, not practiced the way everything else about him usually is. There’s a hitch in it, a hesitation that’s impossible to miss if you’re this close.

His fingers loosen around yours just enough for your hand to shift, not letting go entirely, but not holding as tightly either, like he’s caught between pulling you closer and giving you the chance to step away.

His body turns toward you slowly, shoulders angling in, head dipping just slightly as if he’s unsure how to bridge the last inch of distance.

Like he’s giving you time to stop him if you want to.

Like he’s expecting you to.

You don’t.

You stay exactly where you are, your hand still in his, your gaze steady on his face even as your breath catches faintly in your chest.

And when he realizes that—

When you don’t pull away, don’t hesitate, don’t break the moment—

He closes the distance.

His lips meet yours, soft at first.

Careful.

Uncertain in a way that doesn’t match anything else about him — the same man who fills rooms, who moves with confidence even when everything else is falling apart.

But not here.

Here, he’s tentative.

Testing the moment. Testing you.

His lips barely press against yours at first, like he’s waiting for a reaction, waiting to see if you’ll pull back, if you’ll change your mind.

Your breath catches, sharp and quiet.

But you don’t move away.

You don’t break it.

And when you don’t—

Something in him shifts.

You feel it before you see it.

The hesitation doesn’t disappear completely, but it loosens, just enough to let something else take its place. Something warmer. Something more certain.

The kiss deepens slightly. Not rushed, not overwhelming. Just real.

His grip on your hand steadies again, not tightening, but grounding, like he’s anchoring himself in the moment, in you.

His other hand lifts slowly, almost hesitant even in the movement. It hovers near your arm, fingers curling slightly like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure he’s allowed to, like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t know how to ask for.

You give it to him anyway.

Your free hand rises, finding his arm, your fingers settling there without hesitation. Warm. Steady.

Grounding him the same way he grounded you before.

And the second you do—

He exhales against you.

It’s shaky.

Unsteady in a way that feels almost fragile, like something inside him has just slipped loose after being held too tightly for too long.

You feel it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, the tension easing out of them in a way you haven’t seen before.

Like he’s been holding that breath for a long, long time.

Like he’s been holding everything for a long, long time.

His hand finally settles against you — tentative at first, resting lightly against your side like he’s still unsure, like he’s still half-expecting the moment to break apart.

But when it doesn’t—

When you stay, when you don’t pull away, when you lean just slightly closer instead—

His grip firms.

Not tight.

Just certain.

Real.

And for the first time since you’ve known him—

There’s no tension in the way he holds himself.

No strain in his posture, no careful control in the way he moves.

No walls.

No restraint.

Just him.

Present.

Open.

The kiss softens again, not fading, but settling into something deeper, something quieter. Something that doesn’t need to prove itself.

And when he finally pulls back, it’s only barely, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven as it brushes against your lips.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

He lets out another quiet exhale, softer this time, steadier but still real.

“…I didn’t think—” he starts, voice low, rough around the edges, before cutting himself off with a faint shake of his head, like he doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

His fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against you, grounding himself again.

Then, quieter, almost like a confession he didn’t mean to say out loud—

“…I didn’t think I’d get this.”

His gaze flickers up to yours, searching, uncertain but no longer pulling away from it.

And this time—

He doesn’t try to hide any of it.

And finally—

Finally—

He lets it go.

Author's note: I haven't proofread this again in a month, HOWEVER, I sent the Google doc link to the fic to Payce and two other friends and they told me it was great, so I'll trust their word for now, at least until I want to re-read this fic and remember how I wrote every detail in it. I wrote the wip 2 months ago and the final product last month. This lagged my phone BADLY, I had to take multiple turns from editing it through my phone and through my laptop multiple times.

I've spent the last 5 hours just editing this post because the fanfic is 42 pages long on Google Docs, Tumblr gave me a lot of trouble transferring and pasting everything here, but in the end it worked out. However, please tell me if something doesn't sound right in the fic, whether it's due to incorrect pronouns, confusing or nonsensical words, I can't always rely 100% on Google Translate and my self-taught/self-learned English with fanfics that are as long as this one.

I hope you guys enjoy it <3

[elltournesoll]

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.

I hope whoever read this enjoyed it <3

[elltournesoll]

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

[elltournesoll]

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—

Mickey stilled completely.

His breath hitched, his entire posture freezing like he hadn’t expected it, like he hadn’t prepared for this outcome no matter how close he’d pushed you.

Then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was sharp, frustrated, years of tension collapsing all at once into something neither of you had been willing to name. Your hand caught lightly at the front of his suit as you closed the distance, fingers curling into the fabric without thinking, like you needed something to hold onto just to steady yourself.

A collision more than a connection.

Mickey froze.

Completely.

Like the world had stopped moving around him.

His breath caught, sharp and unsteady, and his hand came up to your arm almost instinctively.

His fingers wrapped around your sleeve, not rough, not forceful, just firm enough to ground himself, like he needed to make sure you were real, that this was actually happening.

For a millisecond, he didn’t kiss you back.

He just felt it.

The contact.

The closeness.

The fact that you hadn’t pulled away.

Then something in him gave.

His grip shifted, sliding slightly from your arm toward your elbow, steadying, anchoring, and he leaned into you, finally kissing you back.

Not careful.

Not measured.

Everything he had been holding in — every restrained word, every look that lingered too long, every moment he chose silence instead of acknowledgment — broke through all at once.

His other hand lifted, hesitating only briefly before settling at your side, fingers pressing lightly through the fabric of your clothes, unsure at first.

Then more certain when you didn’t move away.

The kiss deepened, not in intensity alone, but in presence.

Less like a clash.

More like something neither of you could stop once it started.

Your grip on his suit tightened slightly, pulling him closer without realizing it, and that small movement seemed to undo him further. His shoulders, always so rigid, lost their sharpness completely as he leaned into you, closing whatever space remained between you.

For once, there was no distance.

No control.

No carefully maintained line.

His thumb shifted faintly where it rested at your side, a small, almost absent motion, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you there. Not searching. Not pushing. Just holding.

Like he didn’t want to lose it.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t sudden.

It was slow.

Reluctant.

Like neither of you were fully ready for it to end.

The space between you felt wrong immediately.

Too cold.

Too empty.

“That was a mistake,” you said, your voice tight, breath uneven, your hand still curled lightly in his suit like you hadn’t told your body to let go yet.

“Yeah,” he replied just as quickly, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness, quieter now, rougher around the edges.

And still—

Neither of you moved away.

Silence settled again.

But this time, it wasn’t controlled.

It was heavy with everything you hadn’t said.

Everything you still weren’t saying.

“…Do it again.”

You blinked, your breath catching slightly, your fingers loosening just a fraction against his suit.

“What?”

Mickey’s hand tightened slightly at your arm — not enough to trap you, just enough to stop you from stepping back, his gaze locked onto yours. There was nothing guarded left in it now.

No distance.

No control.

Just something raw.

“…Do it again,” he repeated, quieter this time, his voice lower, almost unsteady in a way you’d never heard from him before.

You didn’t think.

Didn’t argue.

You just leaned in again.

This time, the kiss wasn’t sharp.

Not entirely.

It started slower, more deliberate, like both of you were aware now, aware of what this was, of what it meant, and still choosing it anyway.

Your hand shifted slightly against him, no longer gripping tightly but resting there instead, fingers lightly curled as if you were holding onto something fragile.

Mickey met you halfway.

No hesitation this time.

His hand at your side steadied, his grip more certain now, no longer tentative. His thumb moved again in that same small, grounding motion, like he needed the contact just as much as the kiss itself.

His posture softened completely, leaning into you without restraint, without the rigid composure he carried everywhere else.

The kiss lingered.

Not rushed.

Not forceful.

Simply present.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like something breaking.

It felt like something being acknowledged.

When it ended, it was gradual again, both of you pulling back just enough to breathe, but not enough to separate completely.

Mickey’s forehead came to rest lightly against yours, his breath uneven, his usual composure nowhere to be found.

His hand remained where it was, steady at your side, like letting go wasn’t something he was ready to do yet.

“…We’re not pretending that didn’t happen,” he said, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it, almost uncertain, like he was testing the words as he said them.

You let out a small, breathless laugh, your hand still resting against him, not pulling away either.

“No,” you admitted softly.

“…We’re not.”

For once, neither of you argued.

Author's note: I don't read enemies to lovers like this one, usually, but writing it instead is very entertaining.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[elltournesoll]

Requested by: @rainbowshy123 !!

Stained Hands, Steady Hearts — MOTM

Summary: When the Blot begins to return, you try to keep it hidden — but the symptoms quickly spiral beyond your control. As fear and exhaustion take over, Cuphead and Mugman stay by your side through every moment, offering steady comfort, warmth, and quiet reassurance that you don’t have to face it alone.

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

Genre: Hurt / Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Sickfic, Friendship / Found Family and Light Romance

Trope: Illness Comfort, Caretaking, Emotional Breakdown, “You’re Not Alone”, Protective Friends, Soft Ending and Gentle Romantic Undertones

Rating: T (Teen)

The trembling started quietly.

So quietly that at first you thought it was just the cold creeping through their old little cottage — seeping in through the thin gaps in the windows, curling along the wooden floors, settling into your bones the way it always did when the evening stretched a little too long.

Your fingers shook faintly around the warm mug Mugman had handed you earlier.

The ceramic was almost too warm against your palms, the heat radiating outward in soft waves that should have grounded you, should have steadied you but didn’t. Steam curled lazily from the tea, brushing against your face, ghosting over your lips and cheeks with gentle warmth.

You could smell it faintly, something herbal, something calming, something Mugman had probably picked out specifically because he thought it might help you relax.

It wasn’t working.

The subtle quiver in your hands didn’t stop.

If anything, it worsened.

Porcelain clicked softly against the saucer when you set the mug down on the small wooden table beside the couch. The sound was delicate, barely more than a tap — although in the quiet of the room, it echoed louder than it should have, sharp enough to make your shoulders tense.

You stared at your fingers.

They weren’t supposed to look like that.

At first, it was faint, so faint you almost convinced yourself it wasn’t there at all. Just thin shadows beneath your skin, like bruises that hadn’t fully formed yet, like ink bleeding slowly through paper fibers from the other side.

But as you watched, the darkness deepened.

It didn’t stay still.

It moved.

Fine tendrils curled along the sides of your fingers, thin and delicate at first, creeping toward your knuckles in slow, branching lines. They spread unevenly, like cracks forming in glass, unpredictable and unnatural, each thin line spidering outward just a little more every second you looked at them.

Your stomach dropped.

No.

Not again.

A sharp, familiar dread settled heavy in your chest, pressing down on your lungs, making it just a little harder to breathe.

You quickly pulled your sleeves down, covering your hands, curling them tightly against your stomach as if hiding them might somehow stop the spreading darkness — as if out of sight could mean out of existence.

It didn’t.

It never did.

Across the room, the brothers were arguing again.

Their voices drifted from the kitchen, clear and animated, filling the small cottage with noise that usually felt warm, alive.

“You used the last of the sugar!”

“I did not!”

“There’s literally none left in the jar!”

“That’s because you put five spoonfuls in your tea every morning!”

Normally, the sound would have made you smile, maybe even laugh under your breath. Their bickering had a rhythm to it, a familiarity that made the house feel like home. It was predictable, almost comforting in its own chaotic way.

But tonight, it only made your chest tighten.

Because they didn’t know.

And you had hoped — desperately — that they wouldn’t have to.

The last time the Blot had surfaced had been awful.

Not just physically, though that had been bad enough.

The shaking, the dizziness, the way your body had felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore. It was the way the ink had spread, crawling across your skin like something alive, something invasive, something that refused to be ignored.

And you remembered the way their faces had looked when they saw it.

The fear.

The worry.

The way their expressions had shifted so quickly from confusion to concern.

You hated that expression more than the illness itself.

Your fingers trembled harder.

You squeezed your hands into fists beneath the sleeves, nails pressing into your palms, trying to ground yourself in something — anything — that felt real and controllable.

Maybe it would pass.

Maybe if you stayed quiet, if you didn’t draw attention to yourself, if you just sat still long enough, the symptoms would fade before they noticed anything was wrong.

You had gotten lucky before.

Maybe you could get lucky again.

But the darkness kept spreading.

A thin streak of black curled across the back of your hand beneath the fabric, subtle but undeniable.

Your breath hitched.

Your vision blurred faintly at the edges, like the world was losing focus, like someone had smeared ink across your sight.

The Blot was getting stronger.

“Hey.”

Your head jerked up, heart skipping painfully in your chest.

Cuphead stood in the doorway now, leaning casually against the frame like he had just wandered in without a care in the world. His posture was loose, relaxed, one foot hooked slightly behind the other, his usual easy confidence written all over him.

His red-striped straw bobbed slightly when he tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a bit as he looked at you.

He had that familiar crooked grin.

But it faded almost immediately.

Because his eyes had already dropped to your hands.

“…Whoa.”

The word slipped out quieter than usual, less playful, more uncertain.

You instinctively pulled your hands closer to your chest, curling in on yourself.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered quickly, the words tumbling out too fast to sound convincing.

Cuphead pushed himself off the doorway, his expression shifting into something more serious as he stepped closer, squinting slightly like he was trying to get a better look.

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” he said, his voice lower now, edged with concern despite the casual tone he was trying to keep.

Behind him, Mugman appeared, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, still half-focused on whatever they had been arguing about.

“What’s going on—”

His words cut off instantly.

His blue eyes locked onto your wrists where your sleeves had slipped back just enough to expose the spreading ink.

The towel slipped from his fingers and landed softly on the floor, forgotten.

“…Oh no.”

The quiet concern in his voice hit harder than anything else.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

You hated that tone.

You looked down quickly, avoiding their eyes.

“I told you,” you whispered, your voice smaller now, weaker, “it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

Mugman crossed the room quickly, his usual careful composure replaced with urgency. He knelt in front of you, movements deliberate but gentle, like he was afraid of hurting you.

He reached for your sleeve, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before carefully lifting the fabric.

The moment the black patterns were exposed, both brothers froze.

The stains had spread further.

Dark ink curled up your wrists now, branching outward like cracks spidering across porcelain, deeper and more pronounced than before.

Cuphead ran a hand over the back of his head, tension creeping into his posture.

“…The blot again?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Your silence confirmed everything.

Cuphead groaned under his breath, pacing a half-step to the side.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Mugman shot him a sharp look, brows furrowing.

“Cuphead.”

“What?” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to rein in his reaction. “I’m just saying, this thing always shows up at the worst time.”

Your hands trembled harder.

You tried to pull them away, instinctively retreating.

“I didn’t want you to see it.”

Mugman didn’t let go, his grip gentle but steady, grounding.

“Why not?” he asked softly, tilting his head slightly to meet your gaze.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Because it’s horrible.”

Cuphead blinked, caught off guard.

“Horrible?”

You swallowed hard, throat tight.

“You remember what happens when it gets bad.”

Your fingers twitched uncontrollably in his hands, small, involuntary movements you couldn’t stop.

The ink pulsed faintly beneath your skin.

“I shake… I get dizzy… the ink spreads everywhere…”

Your voice faltered.

“I hate it.”

Mugman’s expression softened immediately, his eyes warm despite the worry lingering behind them.

“You don’t have to go through it alone.”

“But you shouldn’t have to deal with it either,” you said weakly, the guilt heavy in your chest.

Cuphead crouched beside you on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning in just enough to meet your eye level.

“Too late for that,” he said with a small shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You looked up at him.

He pointed between himself and Mugman.

“You’re stuck with us.”

Mugman nodded firmly, squeezing your hands again.

“And we’re not going anywhere.”

Your chest tightened.

Their words settled somewhere deep, warm — but your body didn’t get the chance to hold onto that feeling.

Your vision suddenly spun.

The black stains darkened rapidly, spreading higher along your arms like ink poured too quickly, too much all at once.

Your breath hitched sharply.

“It’s starting.”

Cuphead straightened instantly, tension snapping through him.

“What do you mean starting?!”

A wave of dizziness slammed into you, hard and disorienting.

Your body lurched forward before you could stop it.

Cuphead caught your shoulders immediately, his grip firm, steady.

“Okay! Definitely starting!”

Mugman was already moving.

He grabbed the blanket from the armchair, unfolding it quickly before wrapping it around your shoulders, tucking the edges carefully like he was trying to shield you from something unseen.

Your arms were shaking violently now, the tremors running all the way up to your shoulders.

Ink spread across the back of your hands, gathering into darker, heavier blotches.

Your breathing came in uneven bursts, sharp inhales followed by shaky exhales you couldn’t control.

Mugman knelt in front of you again, holding your hands carefully, thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Look at me.”

You tried.

It felt like trying to focus through water.

Your vision flickered, like a broken film reel skipping frames.

“Mug…?”

“I’m here,” he said softly, leaning closer so you wouldn’t have to strain to see him.

Cuphead sat beside you, close enough that your shoulder pressed firmly against his side. You could feel the warmth of him, solid and steady, anchoring you just a little.

But the blot kept spreading.

Your fingers spasmed suddenly.

A small drop of black ink slid from your fingertip and splattered onto the wooden floor with a quiet, wet sound.

Cuphead stared at it, eyes widening slightly.

“…Okay that’s new.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered shakily, your voice trembling as much as your hands.

“For what?” Mugman asked immediately.

“For this.”

Another drop fell.

“I’m ruining everything.”

Mugman squeezed your hands gently, firm enough to ground you but careful not to hurt.

“You’re not ruining anything.”

“But the ink—”

“Is part of the illness,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the worry in his eyes.

Cuphead nodded quickly.

“Yeah. Not your fault.”

Your chest heaved, breath catching.

“But it’s ugly.”

Cuphead snorted, shaking his head.

“Buddy, we literally have straws sticking out of our heads.”

Mugman elbowed him lightly, though there was no real force behind it.

“Not helping.”

“What? I’m serious!” Cuphead shot back, throwing his hands up briefly before settling them back down, glancing at you again with a softer expression.

Despite everything, a weak laugh slipped out of you, shaky and uneven but real.

Your arms trembled harder.

Your head dropped forward.

Cuphead caught you again before you could slump sideways, one hand steady on your shoulder.

“Whoa hey—stay with us.”

“I’m trying,” you murmured, voice barely holding together.

Mugman gently wiped the ink from your hands with a cloth, careful, methodical, like the action itself might soothe you.

“It’ll pass,” he said quietly.

You shook your head weakly, exhaustion and fear tangled together.

“What if it doesn’t?”

For a moment, neither brother spoke.

The silence stretched, heavy but not empty.

Cuphead finally answered, voice quieter than before.

“Then we wait it out with you.”

Mugman nodded, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Every minute.”

Your breathing slowly began to steady.

The shaking didn’t disappear completely, but it wasn’t as overwhelming anymore, not with them there, holding you, grounding you, refusing to let you drift too far.

Minutes passed.

Slowly.

It felt like hours.

Hours that seemed to never end.

The ink crept across your forearms before finally beginning to slow, the aggressive spread easing into something more manageable.

Your body sagged against the couch cushions, exhaustion settling deep into your muscles, making everything feel heavy.

Cuphead gently pulled you closer so you wouldn’t slump off the couch, adjusting his position to support your weight.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost careful.

You nodded faintly.

“…Better.”

Mugman wrapped the blanket tighter around you, tucking it in again like he needed to make sure it wouldn’t slip.

“You did really well.”

Your eyes burned slightly.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You stayed strong,” he said softly, offering a small, reassuring smile.

“And that’s enough.”

Cuphead nudged your shoulder lightly with his own.

“I knew we are great nurses.”

Mugman rolled his eyes, though there was relief in the gesture.

“You panicked five minutes ago.”

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

Their bickering filled the room again, softer this time, less sharp, more familiar.

But now it sounded warm.

Comforting.

Safe.

Like home.

You leaned back against the couch, letting your body finally give in to the exhaustion that had been building the entire time.

Every muscle felt heavy, like it had been pulled too tight for too long and was only now allowed to loosen. The trembling had faded into faint, lingering aftershocks, small, occasional twitches in your fingers, nothing like before.

The worst of it had passed.

Your breathing slowed, evening out gradually, each inhale less strained than the last. The room felt warmer now, or maybe it was just the steady presence on either side of you.

Cuphead adjusted the blanket again, tugging it up higher around your shoulders with surprising care.

His usual rough, careless movements were softer now, more deliberate, like he was trying not to disturb the fragile calm that had settled over you.

“Get some rest,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, though still carrying that familiar edge of confidence. He leaned back slightly, one arm draped loosely along the back of the couch behind you, close enough that you could still feel the warmth of him.

Mugman hadn’t moved far at all.

He was still sitting close, gently holding one of your hands in both of his, his grip light but steady.

His thumb brushed slow, absent circles over your skin, careful of the faint traces of ink that still lingered there.

“We’ll be right here,” he added softly, his voice warm, reassuring in a way that settled deep in your chest.

For the first time since the blot had begun spreading through your veins tonight.

You believed them.

Your eyelids felt heavy, but you didn’t fully close them,not yet.

Instead, you let your head tilt slightly, resting more comfortably against the back of the couch, your shoulder still pressed lightly against Cuphead’s side.

There was a quiet pause.

Not uncomfortable.

Just still.

Cuphead glanced down at you from the corner of his eye, his usual grin softened into something smaller, more genuine. His fingers tapped lightly against the couch behind you for a second before he suddenly leaned a little closer.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You blinked slowly, looking at him.

Before you could ask what he meant, he leaned in just a bit more and pressed a quick, warm kiss against your cheek.

It was brief — almost playful in how quick it was — but not careless.

Not this time.

He pulled back just as quickly, rubbing the back of his neck with a small, slightly awkward laugh.

“…Y’know,” he said, trying to sound casual, though there was a faint pink tint creeping across his ceramic cheeks, “For… uh… morale.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise.

But before you could say anything, Mugman shifted beside you.

He hesitated.

You felt it in the way his hands paused around yours, the way his thumb stilled for just a moment, the way his shoulders tensed slightly like he was working up the courage to do something.

“Mug?” you murmured softly.

He glanced up at you, his expression gentle but clearly flustered.

“I just—” he started, then stopped, his grip tightening just a fraction. “I mean… if that’s okay…”

His voice trailed off, quieter now.

There was something different in the way he looked at you.

Softer.

Careful.

Waiting.

You gave the smallest nod.

That was all it took.

Mugman leaned in slowly, much more hesitant than Cuphead had been, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to—but you didn’t.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your other cheek.

It lingered just a second longer.

Soft.

Warm.

When he pulled back, his face was noticeably flushed, his eyes flickering away for a moment as if suddenly very interested in literally anything else.

Cuphead snorted quietly.

“Oh, c’mon, you’re blushing way worse than I—”

Mugman elbowed him lightly without looking.

“Be quiet.”

Despite everything, a small, tired smile tugged at your lips.

The warmth from those small gestures lingered, spreading through your chest in a way that had nothing to do with the blanket or the room.

Cuphead shifted again, glancing at you more directly this time.

Then, without overthinking it — because he rarely did — he reached out and gently tilted your chin up just slightly.

“Hold still,” he muttered.

Before you could question it, he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to your forehead.

This one was different.

Slower.

More intentional.

When he pulled back, his grin returned but softer around the edges.

“See?” he said, a little more quietly. “Told ya we’re great at this.”

Mugman huffed softly, but there was no real argument behind it.

Instead, he adjusted his hold on your hand again, his thumb brushing over your skin before he leaned forward just a bit.

He hesitated again — but less this time.

Then he pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead as well.

Softer than Cuphead’s.

More careful.

Like he was trying to pour every bit of reassurance he could into that single, quiet gesture.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead hovering just slightly nearer than before, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re safe,” he murmured.

The words settled into you, warm and steady.

Cuphead leaned back again, stretching one arm behind you along the couch, but he didn’t move away.

Mugman didn’t let go of your hand.

Between them, you felt held.

Not just physically.

Something deeper than that.

Your eyelids finally slipped closed.

The exhaustion didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

The lingering ache in your body didn’t feel as overwhelming.

Because now, it was softened — tempered by warmth, by quiet laughter, by gentle touches that grounded you in something real.

Something safe.

Their voices drifted faintly above you again, quieter now, softer than before.

“You panicked earlier.”

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

“Okay, maybe a little—”

You didn’t hear the rest.

Sleep pulled you under gently, without resistance.

And for once, there was no fear waiting for you in the dark.

Only warmth.

Only steady hands.

Only the lingering softness of kisses pressed against your skin—

And the quiet certainty that you weren’t alone.

Author's note: Hopefully, I've described well how the blot works based on the comic so far, I wanted to write something light to keep the comfort and the fluff the main focus here. It is what I'm known for LMAO.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[elltournesoll]

Requested by: @genisisisjustheretoday !!

Gift for: @yourlocaluuma13 <33

Controlled Chaos — MOTM

Summary: A persistent melody leads you straight into the heart of a mess you can’t ignore — and a man who refuses to stop long enough to notice he’s falling apart. What starts as irritation turns into something harder to name, as sharp words, stubborn defiance, and unexpected closeness blur the line between frustration and something far more dangerous.

Pairing: Myth Bugs x Reader

Genre: Hurt / Comfort, Light Romance, Slow Burn, Drama, Slice of Life and Romantic Tension

Trope: Workaholic Genius on the Brink, Grumpy x Grumpier (but softer underneath), "Only You Can Get Through to Me", Tension to Softness, Reluctant Caretaking, Emotional Walls Cracking and Touch-Starved Realization

Rating: T (Teen)

The music started as a whisper.

Not loud.

Not even clear.

Just a faint melody leaking through the underground hallway like smoke slipping through a cracked door.

Thin, persistent, impossible to fully ignore once you noticed it. It curled through the air in uneven strands, weaving itself between the dull mechanical hum of the base until it became something you couldn’t quite separate from everything else.

Not part of the environment but not entirely separate from it either.

At first, you didn’t notice.

The base was never truly quiet. There was always something, machines humming in distant rooms, ventilation systems rattling like they were holding secrets, the occasional echo of footsteps that never quite told you where they came from.

Pipes ticked softly as temperatures shifted, and somewhere, always somewhere, a loose panel clattered just enough to make you glance over your shoulder.

Noise was normal.

Expected.

Comforting, sometimes.

But this—

This was different.

It repeated.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Not random. Not accidental. There was structure to it, intent. A rise and fall that felt almost theatrical, like it was building toward something that never quite arrived.

It lingered on certain notes just a little too long, stretched tension thin and refused to resolve it.

By the third hour, it wasn’t background anymore.

It was there.

Pressing against your thoughts. Slipping into the spaces between them. Filling the quiet moments you didn’t realize you relied on just to think clearly.

Haunting.

You dragged a hand down your face as you walked toward the lab, your fingers pressing harder than necessary against your skin like you could physically wipe away your growing irritation.

Your nails scraped faintly over your cheek as your hand fell away, and you exhaled sharply through your nose.

Your footsteps echoed sharply against the polished concrete floor, each step a little louder than the last, not because you meant them to be, but because your patience had worn thin enough that restraint wasn’t really a priority anymore.

The fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently, casting uneven shadows along the walls. Each flicker came with that faint electrical buzz, a stuttering hum that crawled under your skin and settled there, mixing unpleasantly with the low, theatrical melody drifting from the end of the hall.

You clenched your jaw.

Your patience had been gone since yesterday.

Now?

You were running purely on spite.

Three days.

That’s how long he’d been down here.

Three days since anyone had seen him leave.

Three days since you’d last seen him in passing, when he’d brushed past you without slowing, coat swaying behind him, that infuriatingly confident grin already in place like he knew something you didn’t.

“Don’t wait up. Doc’s busy.”

The memory alone made your eye twitch faintly.

You had rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt at the time.

You were rolling them again now, though there was no one around to see it.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, your voice echoing faintly down the corridor as you shoved your hands into your pockets for a moment, only to pull one out again immediately, restless.

The music grew louder as you approached the heavy metal door at the end of the hall.

Low.

Dramatic.

Almost theatrical in a way that felt intentional, like it wanted to be noticed.

Like it wanted an audience.

Your jaw tightened further.

Of course it did.

Of course he did.

You grabbed the handle and shoved the door open harder than necessary.

It slammed against the wall with a loud CLANG that echoed through the lab, the sound sharp and violent enough to momentarily overpower the music.

Inside—

Chaos.

Not the usual kind.

Not his organized chaos, the kind where everything looked like a mess but somehow still made sense if you stared long enough.

This was different.

This was what happened when control slipped.

Coffee cups littered every available surface, some empty, some half-full, one tipped dangerously onto a pile of blueprints that had clearly once been important. The liquid had dried in uneven stains, leaving warped paper and smeared ink behind like evidence of neglect.

The air smelled stale.

Burnt coffee. Metal. Smoke. Something faintly electrical that prickled at the back of your throat.

Blueprints covered the walls in uneven layers. Some pinned, some taped, some barely hanging on. Notes were scrawled across them, hurried, messy, overlapping.

Equations.

Corrections.

Angry strike-throughs.

Ideas abandoned halfway through, replaced by something else scribbled in the margins.

Machines hummed constantly, filling the room with a low mechanical vibration you could feel in your chest. Somewhere to your left, a metal arm twitched suddenly with a sharp click, making you flinch before you caught yourself, your shoulders tightening in irritation at your own reaction.

Wires hung from open panels like exposed nerves.

And in the center of it all—

He sat like none of it mattered.

Leaning back in a rolling chair, one leg stretched out and propped casually against the workbench, like he owned the mess instead of being consumed by it, just like you.

His tie hung loose around his neck, slightly crooked.

His suit jacket was open, wrinkled in places it definitely hadn’t been before.

His sleeves were rolled up unevenly, like he’d done it absentmindedly hours ago and never bothered fixing it.

A cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, the ash long and fragile, threatening to fall at any second.

His ears twitched the moment the door slammed.

“Well, well…”

His voice was smooth.

Too smooth.

The chair turned slowly with a quiet squeak, one hand lazily guiding the motion.

His dark eyes met yours.

And that grin—

That infuriating, knowing grin. Spread across his face like nothing had changed.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

You crossed your arms instantly, shifting your weight onto one leg, your expression flattening into something unimpressed and entirely unamused.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

One eyebrow lifted, subtle but deliberate, his head tilting just slightly as if considering your response like it was genuinely interesting.

“Ouch,” he replied, pressing a hand briefly to his chest in mock offense, though the glint in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t affected in the slightest.

You stepped into the room, your boots crunching faintly against stray debris on the floor.

The smell hit you immediately — stronger now.

Your nose wrinkled.

Your eyes scanned the disaster again, slower this time, taking in details you hadn’t caught in that first glance.

“Did a tornado hit this place?” you asked, your voice edged with sharp disbelief as you nudged a fallen stack of papers aside with your foot, watching them slide across the floor in a disorganized heap.

“Creative process,” he said easily, flicking ash into a tray without even looking at it, his wrist moving with practiced ease.

You let out a dry laugh, short and unimpressed, your lips curling slightly.

“This isn’t creative,” you said, your gaze snapping back to him. “This is disgusting.”

“Yer always so dramatic,” he replied, leaning back further in his chair like he was settling in to enjoy this, one hand draping lazily over the armrest.

You walked deeper into the lab, stepping carefully around scattered materials.

A sheet of paper stuck to your shoe.

You stopped abruptly, your brows knitting together in annoyance as you lifted your foot slightly and peeled it off with two fingers.

Your eyes flicked over it.

Blueprint.

Equations everywhere.

Half of it crossed out so aggressively the paper was nearly torn through.

“You’ve been scribbling nonsense for three days?” you asked, holding it up slightly between your fingers before letting it fall back to the floor, where it fluttered down unevenly.

He leaned forward just a little, elbows resting on his knees now, his posture shifting from lazy to something more engaged.

“Nonsense?” he echoed, his tone light but with an edge of amusement threading through it.

“Yes.”

“That,” he said calmly, gesturing vaguely toward the mess with a loose flick of his hand, “is groundbreaking engineering.”

“That,” you shot back immediately, your voice sharpening as you pointed toward a stack of precariously balanced equipment, “is a fire hazard waiting to happen.”

His grin widened, slow and deliberate.

“Yer hurtin’ my feelings.”

You ignored that completely.

Instead, you stepped closer.

And this time — you actually looked at him.

Really looked.

Dark circles under his eyes.

Subtle but there.

His fur slightly uneven, like he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly, leaving faint disruptions in its usual neatness.

His fingers tapping, too fast, too restless.

Not matching the music.

Not matching anything.

Just constant movement.

Like stopping was no longer an option.

Your expression shifted.

Just slightly.

“…You look terrible,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less blunt, your arms loosening just a fraction where they were crossed.

His grin didn’t falter.

“Aw, shucks,” he replied, though his voice dipped just slightly lower, like it had lost a fraction of its earlier brightness.

He tilted his head, studying you now with more focus, his gaze lingering longer than before.

“Yer gettin’ sharper.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he might.

Your attention shifted past him again.

The machine behind him loomed large.

Incomplete.

Dangerous.

Pieces exposed, panels open, something faintly glowing deep within its structure in a way that made your instincts prickle.

“What is that?” you asked, your tone flattening again.

“A masterpiece.”

“It looks like a bomb.”

“Now yer hurtin’ my feelings again.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, your eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment as you exhaled slowly through your teeth.

“Do you ever stop talking nonsense?” you muttered, your shoulders rising and falling with the breath.

“Do you ever stop complainin’?” he shot back immediately.

Your eyes snapped back to his.

Silence stretched.

The music swelled behind you, filling the space between your words, louder now that neither of you were speaking.

“You’ve been down here for three days,” you said finally, your voice steadier now, but quieter.

“Time flies when yer brilliant.”

“You haven’t slept.”

“I took a nap.”

“When?”

“…Tuesday.”

“It’s Friday.”

He blinked once.

Twice.

“…Well ain’t that somethin’.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face again, slower this time.

“I swear you’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, that grin creeping back in full force, though there was something thinner about it now, “here you are.”

You stepped closer.

Closer than before.

The space between you shrinking until it felt intentional.

His gaze followed every movement now.

Sharp.

Attentive.

Tracking.

“You need to stand up,” you said, your voice firm.

He raised a brow slowly, his head tilting again.

“You givin’ orders now?”

“Stand up.”

He leaned back further instead, deliberately, his chair creaking under the shift.

“Make me.”

Something in your chest snapped.

You grabbed the back of his chair and shoved it forward hard.

The wheels screeched loudly across the floor.

He grabbed the desk instantly to steady himself, his posture snapping forward.

“HEY—!”

“You’re insufferable.”

He stared at you.

Then—

He laughed.

Full.

Genuine.

The sound cutting cleanly through the tension in the room.

“You shoved my chair,” he said, like he couldn’t quite believe it, one hand still gripping the desk as he looked up at you.

“You deserved it.”

“You got a temper,” he added, his grin widening again.

“You push people.”

“That’s the fun part.”

“Stand up.”

There was a beat.

Then, still smiling—

He did.

And suddenly, he was right there.

Closer than expected.

Taller than you remembered.

Your breath hitched, just slightly.

His ears twitched.

Of course he noticed.

His grin sharpened, just a fraction, his head dipping slightly as he leaned in enough to make it intentional, but not enough to close the space completely.

“What’s the matter, 'Doc'?” he murmured, his voice lower now, softer in a way that contrasted everything else about him.

You stepped forward anyway.

Refusing to back down.

Even if your heartbeat had picked up.

“You’re spiraling.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Or maybe…” he leaned in just slightly more, his voice dropping another notch, “I just like annoyin’ you.”

Your heart betrayed you with one sharp, sudden beat.

You hated that.

“Congratulations,” you muttered, your gaze flicking briefly to his shoulder before returning to his eyes. “You’re succeeding.”

He studied your face.

Closer now.

More serious than before.

“You came all the way down here just to yell at me?” he asked, quieter this time.

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda sweet.”

“It’s not sweet.”

And then, before you could overthink it.

Before you could talk yourself out of it—

You stepped forward.

And hugged him.

Everything stopped.

He froze instantly.

Completely.

“…Doc?” he said, his voice losing that smooth edge for the first time, replaced with something uncertain.

“You’re exhausting,” you muttered against him, your arms firm where they wrapped around him.

No movement.

No joke.

No comeback.

“…Three days,” you continued, quieter now, your grip tightening just slightly. “Three days with no sleep.”

“…I had a carrot,” he said weakly, like it was the best defense he could come up with.

“That doesn’t count.”

Silence.

Then slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to do this—

His arms wrapped around you.

Tentative.

But real.

“…Yer gonna wrinkle my suit,” he murmured after a moment, though there was no real complaint behind it.

“Deal with it.”

He exhaled.

Long.

Heavy.

And just like that—

Some of the tension broke.

Not all of it.

But enough.

“…That song ain’t wrong,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter now, closer to something honest.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your hands still lightly resting against him.

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes there’s a little devil in yer head tellin’ ya to keep goin’,” he said, his gaze drifting briefly past you toward the machine behind him, his jaw tightening just slightly.

You watched him.

“And sometimes,” you said, softer now, “someone has to drag you away.”

He looked back at you.

That grin, it softened.

Not gone.

But quieter.

“…Funny thing about you,” he said.

“What?”

“You drive me crazy.”

“That feeling is mutual.”

“…Yeah.”

For once, neither of you argued.

He reached over after a moment.

Flicked the switch.

The music cut off instantly.

Silence.

Finally.

The kind that felt earned.

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, shrugging it on with a small roll of his shoulders, like he was shaking off something heavier than just exhaustion.

Then he nudged you lightly toward the door with the back of his hand.

“C’mon.”

“Where?” you asked, though you were already moving.

“Food.”

A pause.

A glance.

“Maybe I’ll stop annoyin’ you for five minutes.”

You scoffed, though it came out softer than before.

“Doubt it.”

But when he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing against yours, hesitant for just a fraction of a second before lacing through—

You didn’t pull away.

And neither of you said a word about it.

Author's note: It's funny that my dad listens to this song sometimes, even though he doesn't know English, he likes how loud it is, he loves to listen it when he's working LMFAO.

I thought it fits Bugs' personality quite well in this fic because he's driven by a restless, self-destructive focus, he hides exhaustion and instability behind charm, wit, and constant motion like he’ll fall apart if he ever stops. The “devil in his head” keeps pushing him forward, but around the reader, that sharp edge softens into something quieter, almost vulnerable. With them (you), his chaos finds its only pause, someone who sees through him and stays anyway, in this case.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[malevolent-show]

“Where the tide meets us” fanfic written by @elltournesoll

Beach au by @thekaeru2 and can be read on @theinkbeach

This fanfic had me laughing so hard bro I had to draw my favorite scene. Genuinely their fics are so good I wish they had more. This is only one of my three favorites of their work!

Obscura is still a singer in these au but I like to think she didn’t disappear like in the original but just grew apart from the boys n then suddenly reconnected at the beach (yes I’m giving Obscura Lore in the beach au duh)

Can’t wait to see more lore and more fics from both these talented folk

[elltournesoll]

THIS ART IS ACTUALLY SO CUTESY I LOVE MUGMANS FACE SO MUCH JAJAJJSKSJA AMAZING

[elltournesoll]

Requested by: @definitelynothim-notalex !!

Dance, I’ll Be Admiring You — MOTM

Summary: A mesmerizing performance becomes something far more personal when five very different partners watch you belly dance.

Through soft admiration, shy affection, playful pride, and loud, unwavering support, each of them reveals how deeply they cherish you — not just for your talent, but for who you are. Every glance, every word, every reaction turns a simple dance into a moment of love, connection, and quiet devotion.

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

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comfort, Wholesome, Relationship Centered, Performance / Art Appreciation and Slice of Life

Trope: Admiring Lover, “That’s My Partner,” Soft Praise, Opposites in Expression (Shy vs Loud Love), Performer & Devoted Audience and Proud Partner Energy

Rating: G (General)

Cuphead

The music fills the room in warm, rhythmic waves, something rich with percussion and melody that seems to wrap around your body as naturally as your flowing red veils do.

It hums through the air, low and steady, like a heartbeat and somehow, it feels like the entire space bends around you the moment you step into it.

Cuphead leans back against the wall at first, arms crossed — but not in his usual cocky way. No, this is different. His posture is relaxed, one shoulder resting against the surface behind him, his head tilted just slightly as his eyes lock onto you.

The usual sharpness in his grin softens.

There’s curiosity there at first… and then something warmer.

And then you start moving.

The soft sway of your hips, the controlled isolation of your torso, the way your arms glide like ribbons in the air — slow, deliberate, mesmerizing.

He exhales a quiet, impressed whistle under his breath, eyebrows lifting.

“Would ya look at that…” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent for once, his grin tugging wider as he watches you.

One of his arms uncrosses without him even realizing, hand dropping to his side as if he needs to steady himself just to keep watching. His gaze follows every motion — every shift of fabric, every flick of your wrists.

His grin widens, but it’s not teasing. It’s proud.

You spin, the gold accents of your outfit catching the light in brief flashes, and he straightens a little, pushing himself off the wall. His boots hit the floor with a soft tap as he adjusts his stance, now standing more upright, more attentive.

His hands slip into his pockets, but his shoulders lift slightly, like he’s trying not to look too invested, even though he absolutely is.

“Hey,” he calls out, voice a little louder now, but still warm, a hint of playful confidence slipping back in. He tilts his head toward anyone else who might be around, thumb loosely jerking in your direction. “That’s my partner up there, y’know.”

There’s a playful edge to it, sure — but the way his eyes soften immediately after gives him away.

He’s not showing off.

He’s proud.

As you continue, your movements becoming sharper, more intricate, he nods along to the rhythm, almost unconsciously matching the beat with the tap of his foot. His heel taps lightly against the ground, steady, in sync with the music.

His gaze follows every detail — the way your hips snap to the rhythm, the subtle chest isolations, the delicate flick of your wrists. He leans forward just a little now, like he doesn’t want to miss a single thing.

“C’mon, look at you…” he mutters, shaking his head with a breathy laugh, one corner of his grin lifting higher. His shoulders rise and fall with a quiet chuckle. “You’ve been hidin’ that from me?”

There’s no accusation in it, just genuine amazement.

When you shift into a smoother sequence, your movements flowing seamlessly together, his expression softens even more. His tapping foot slows slightly, syncing with the calmer rhythm, his eyes narrowing just a bit, not in judgment, but in focus.

He’s studying you now.

Not critically, never, simply… admiringly.

When you glance his way mid-dance, he straightens instinctively, like he’s just been pulled into the spotlight with you.

He lifts a hand, pointing at you with a confident smirk, but his eyes are bright, soft, almost glowing with admiration.

“Keep goin’,” he says, voice steady, encouraging, his hand lowering but not fully dropping, fingers flexing slightly like he wants to reach out. “Don’t stop on my account.”

His tone is lighter than usual, lacking its usual bite. Replaced instead with something warmer, something genuine.

As your movements grow more expressive again, he nods along, more openly now. His stance shifts, weight moving from one foot to the other, completely relaxed — completely invested.

There’s a moment where he exhales through his nose, shaking his head again, quieter this time.

“…Man,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, a small, disbelieving smile forming. “You’re somethin’ else…”

And when you finish, letting the final note settle into silence—

He’s already clapping.

Not loudly, not obnoxiously — but steady, proud. His hands come together in a firm, rhythmic applause, his grin still there but softened at the edges.

He steps closer, closing the distance without hesitation now.

“That was incredible,” he says, voice more grounded, more sincere as he looks at you directly. His hands drop back to his sides, but one lifts again briefly, gesturing loosely like he’s trying to find the right words. “Seriously.”

His grin falters just a little — not disappearing, just easing into something quieter.

“You looked… amazing.”

There’s a pause, and for a second, he looks like he might say more but instead, he exhales, shoulders relaxing as his confidence dips just a fraction into something more honest.

He rubs the back of his neck, just slightly, gaze flicking off to the side before returning to you.

“…Kinda makes me wanna show you off, not gonna lie,” he admits, voice softer now, a faint chuckle following as he glances back at you again.

Then, after a beat, he adds — more quietly, almost like it slipped out on its own—

“…Not that I gotta. You already shine on your own.”

───────────────────

Mugman

Mugman wasn’t ready.

He thought he was — he really did. He had told himself he’d be calm, that he’d just watch, smile, maybe even compliment you like a normal person.

But the moment you step into the light, dressed in flowing blue fabric and gold details that shimmer with every small movement…

His brain just… stops.

Everything else fades — the room, the background noise, even his own thoughts — and all that’s left is you.

“Oh—!”

The sound slips out before he can stop it, soft but sharp with surprise, and his hands immediately come up, hovering awkwardly near his chest as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. His fingers curl slightly, then uncurl again, like he’s trying to decide whether to clasp them together or hide them entirely.

You begin dancing, slow and controlled, and he freezes.

Completely.

His eyes widen slightly as your hips sway in soft, deliberate motions, your arms lifting gracefully, wrists bending with elegant precision. The veil drapes and shifts like liquid around you, catching the light in a way that makes every movement feel… unreal.

He swallows.

Hard.

“Y-you look—” he starts, voice catching halfway through, the words tangling in his throat. His shoulders tense instantly, and he turns his head away for just a second, flustered beyond recovery. “I mean—! You look really nice—!”

The words come out rushed, almost tripping over each other.

His face is already flushed, a soft blue tint deepening as he presses his lips together for a second, trying to steady himself before forcing his gaze back toward you.

And then he doesn’t look away again.

Not even for a second.

There’s something about the way you move — so confident, so fluid, so sure of every motion — that makes his chest tighten. Not in a bad way… just overwhelming, like he doesn’t quite know how to process how much he’s feeling all at once.

His fingers fidget together, thumbs rubbing nervously as he watches your every step, every subtle movement. At some point, his hands finally settle into a loose clasp in front of him, but even then, they shift slightly, restless.

“…It’s really pretty,” he adds more quietly, almost to himself, like the thought slipped out before he could stop it.

His voice is softer now, almost drowned out by the music, but it’s sincere.

As you continue, your movements becoming a little more intricate, he leans forward just slightly without realizing it, like he’s being pulled in. His shoulders relax a fraction, though his posture still holds that nervous tension.

When your movements grow more expressive—faster, sharper accents in your hips, a playful turn of your body—he inhales softly, the breath catching in his chest before he lets it out slowly.

His shoulders tense, then relax again, like he’s trying to physically calm himself down.

He’s trying so hard to stay composed.

“You’ve… practiced this a lot, haven’t you?” he asks, voice gentle, a little breathless, his words slower this time as if he’s carefully choosing each one.

His head tilts just slightly, eyes following the rhythm of your movements, admiration clear in the way his expression softens despite his nerves.

When you meet his eyes mid-dance, he nearly short-circuits.

His posture straightens instantly, like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing, his hands tightening together for a second before loosening again.

“—!”

No sound comes out at first.

Then he blinks, quickly, and forces a smile — small, sincere, a little shy, but completely genuine.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, nodding quickly, maybe a little too quickly, like he’s trying to make sure you hear him. His shoulders lift slightly with the motion, then settle again. “R-really amazing.”

The reassurance feels a little rushed but the warmth behind it is unmistakable.

As you keep dancing, his gaze softens more and more, the initial shock slowly giving way to quiet admiration. His breathing steadies, though the faint blush never quite fades.

At one point, he lets out a tiny, almost inaudible laugh under his breath, shaking his head just slightly.

“…I didn’t know you could do all this,” he murmurs, voice full of quiet wonder, eyes tracing the flow of your movements again.

By the time you finish, letting the final note fade into silence, he’s still standing there, hands clasped together tightly in front of him.

There’s a small pause.

He doesn’t move at first.

Doesn’t speak.

It’s like he’s still catching up.

Then—

“That was really beautiful.”

His voice is soft, but steady this time. Certain.

He means it. Entirely.

His shoulders relax as he says it, like finally putting the feeling into words lets him breathe again.

“And— um—” he starts, glancing off to the side for a second, his free hand lifting to rub the back of his neck, fingers brushing lightly as he looks away with a shy smile.

“…You look lovely in that outfit, too.”

There’s a small pause after, his gaze flickering back to you, a little hesitant, but warm.

Then, quieter, almost like an afterthought he wasn’t sure he should say—

“…Really lovely.”

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

───────────────────

Bendy

Bendy notices immediately.

Even before the music fully settles into place, before the rhythm finds its footing in the room, his attention is already on you — sharp, focused, curious. It’s instinctive, the way his gaze locks in, like something about the shift in atmosphere alone was enough to pull him in.

And then you begin.

His smirk spreads slowly, almost instinctively, the corner of his mouth lifting as he leans back against his spot, arms loosely crossed. One shoulder presses into the wall behind him, posture angled just enough to look casual, but there’s nothing lazy about the way he’s watching you.

It’s attentive.

Deliberate.

Every bit of his focus is on you.

“Ohhh… I see what you’re doing,” he murmurs under his breath, voice low, amused but there’s admiration woven into it. His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studies the way you move, like he’s already picking apart the technique behind it.

Your movements are precise, fluid, confident and he recognizes that immediately.

As a performer himself, he knows how much control that takes. How much practice. How much awareness of your own body.

There’s a quiet respect in the way his expression shifts, his usual mischief easing into something more thoughtful.

His eyes track every motion, the subtle isolations, the way your hips hit each beat with intention, the elegance in your arms as they carve through the air. His gaze doesn’t wander, doesn’t flick away even for a second.

“…You’ve got rhythm,” he adds quietly, nodding once, almost to himself. One of his brows lifts slightly, impressed, as if confirming a suspicion he had the moment you started.

For a moment, his fingers twitch slightly at his side — one arm loosening just a bit from where it was crossed, like he’s tempted to step in, to join you, to mirror your movements instinctively.

There’s a flicker of that urge in his posture, a shift in his weight, the smallest lean forward.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales softly and settles back, letting his arms drop fully to his sides this time, palms flexing once before relaxing.

“This is your moment,” he says under his breath, quieter now, more certain, like a decision he’s making in real time.

His grin softens — not gone, just… warmer. Less sharp, less teasing.

More genuine.

As you continue, he tilts his head slightly, watching the way your outfit moves with you, the gold details catching light with every shift. His eyes flick briefly to the fabric as it flows, then back to your movements, clearly appreciating both the visual and the execution.

“…And you’re owning it,” he adds, voice low, almost approving, a faint hum of agreement following under his breath.

There’s pride in his voice now.

Not loud, not boastful but steady. Grounded.

At one point, he shifts his stance, one hoof sliding slightly forward as if he’s unconsciously aligning himself with the rhythm, his shoulders loosening more as he settles into simply watching.

When your dance builds, becoming more expressive, more confident, he nods along slightly, more openly now. His chin dips once, then again, in time with the beat.

“Yeah… that’s it,” he murmurs, quieter but more certain, like he’s encouraging you without interrupting the moment.

His gaze sharpens just a little again, not critical, but engaged, following the precision of your movements as they grow more intricate.

“…Clean,” he adds under his breath, almost like a performer’s note of approval, a small smirk tugging at his lips again.

When you glance at him, he doesn’t look away.

Not even for a second.

Instead, he meets your gaze directly, smirk returning but softer, less mischievous, more reassuring.

There’s something steady in it.

A silent encouragement.

A silent keep going.

He gives the faintest nod, barely noticeable, but intentional.

As if to say, I’m watching. You’ve got this.

As you continue, he stays exactly where he is, resisting that earlier urge to step in. His hands slip casually into his pockets now, but his posture remains attentive, shoulders squared just enough to show he’s fully present.

At one point, he lets out a quiet breath, almost like a small laugh, shaking his head just slightly.

“…Didn’t know you had that in you,” he mutters, tone low, impressed, his gaze flicking briefly from your movements to your face and back again.

There’s no teasing in it.

Just appreciation.

And when the music fades and you come to a stop—

There’s a brief pause.

He doesn’t move right away.

Doesn’t speak.

His eyes linger on you, taking in the final stillness after all that motion, like he’s letting the moment settle properly before breaking it.

Then he pushes himself off the wall, slow, deliberate. His posture straightens as he steps forward, boots landing softly against the floor, closing the distance between you.

“You’re good,” he says simply but the weight behind it says a lot more. His voice is steady, confident, but stripped of its usual edge.

It’s honest.

He steps a little closer, hands slipping into his pockets again, shoulders relaxed but his gaze still fixed on you.

“…Really good,” he adds, quieter this time, a small nod accompanying the words.

A small tilt of his head follows, eyes narrowing slightly, not in judgment, but in thought, like he’s replaying parts of your performance in his mind.

“Next time,” he adds, and now there’s a hint of that familiar playful challenge returning, one corner of his smirk lifting again, “I might join you.”

There’s a brief pause, his gaze flicking down and then back up to meet yours, something almost teasing, but still warm.

A beat.

“…But this one?” he gestures toward where you were dancing, one hand slipping out of his pocket briefly to motion toward the space, fingers loose, casual.

His eyes return to you immediately after.

“That was all yours.”

And the way he says it—

Makes it clear he wouldn’t have taken that moment from you for anything.

───────────────────

Boris

Boris wasn’t expecting to feel like this.

He sits a little off to the side at first, legs drawn in slightly, shoulders relaxed in his usual quiet way. One arm rests loosely over his knee, the other hanging at his side, posture calm, almost sleepy, like he’s just there to watch, nothing more.

But the moment you begin…

His ears perk.

It’s subtle at first, just a small twitch upward, but then they stay there, attentive, alert in a way that doesn’t happen often.

His eyes soften instantly.

The gentle sway of your movements seems to draw him in completely, like he’s watching something he doesn’t quite understand but deeply appreciates anyway. There’s a stillness to him now, like he’s afraid that even shifting too much might somehow interrupt what he’s seeing.

“…Oh.”

It’s barely a whisper, more breath than voice, slipping out without him even realizing he said it.

His hands rest loosely on his knees at first, fingers relaxed, but as you continue, they begin to curl slightly into the fabric of his pants, gripping just enough to anchor himself. His shoulders shift faintly, posture leaning forward just a fraction, like he’s being pulled closer without moving his feet.

Your hips shift, your torso rolling in smooth, controlled motions, and he tilts his head just slightly, watching with quiet fascination. His gaze follows the movement carefully, like he’s trying to understand how you’re doing it — how something can look so effortless and yet so precise.

There’s no judgment in his gaze. No confusion.

Just… admiration.

Soft. Quiet. Steady.

His tail begins to wag.

Slowly at first, almost unnoticeable. A small sway behind him, brushing lightly against the floor with a soft, rhythmic motion.

Thump…

…thump…

But as your movements become more expressive, more confident…

It picks up.

Thump… thump… thump…

A little faster now, a little more noticeable — though he doesn’t seem aware of it at all. His focus is entirely on you, eyes following every motion, every shift of fabric, every subtle detail.

When you add a sharper accent to your hips, he blinks, ears twitching slightly again, his grip on his pants tightening just a little.

“…Huh,” he breathes softly, almost like he’s impressed but doesn’t quite have the words for it.

When you spin, the fabric flowing around you like a soft leaf, his breath catches just a little. His shoulders tense instinctively, then relax again as the movement settles, his eyes widening just a fraction before softening once more.

“You look… really nice…” he murmurs, voice soft, almost hesitant, like he’s unsure if he should say it out loud. His words are slow, careful, as if he’s choosing them one by one.

As soon as he says it, his gaze drops for a second, flustered, ears dipping back just slightly, then they lift again almost immediately, and he looks back up.

He doesn’t want to miss anything.

The way your arms move, the way your body follows the rhythm so naturally, it leaves him a little overwhelmed. Not in a bad way, just a lot to take in all at once.

His tail is definitely wagging faster now.

Thump-thump-thump.

It brushes more noticeably against the floor behind him, a steady, happy rhythm that completely betrays how he’s feeling, even if his expression stays soft and reserved.

At one point, he shifts slightly where he sits, adjusting his position without taking his eyes off you, like he’s trying to get more comfortable but doesn’t want to break the moment.

“…It’s nice to watch,” he adds quietly after a second, voice barely above a murmur, almost like he’s thinking out loud. His fingers loosen their grip slightly, relaxing as he settles into the feeling.

When you glance at him, he freezes.

Completely.

His tail stops mid-wag for a split second.

Eyes widening slightly, ears dipping back just a little—

And then he smiles.

Small. Shy. Completely genuine.

There’s a softness in it that wasn’t there before, something a little more open, a little more vulnerable.

“…It’s really pretty,” he adds, quieter this time, his voice gentle, steady despite the faint flush creeping across his cheeks.

His tail resumes wagging almost immediately after, slower now, more relaxed, like he’s settled into the moment fully.

As your dance continues, he watches just as intently, but there’s less tension in him now. His shoulders drop slightly, his posture easing as he lets himself enjoy it without overthinking.

At one point, he lets out a small, breathy huff of air — almost like a quiet laugh — shaking his head just a little.

“…You’re really good at that,” he murmurs, voice soft with admiration, his gaze never leaving you.

By the time you finish, letting the final note fade into silence, he’s still sitting there, tail swaying gently behind him again, slower now.

There’s a soft pause.

He doesn’t move right away.

Doesn’t speak.

His eyes linger on you for a moment longer, like he’s not quite ready for it to be over.

Then he shifts, one paw lifting to rub the back of his neck, fingers brushing lightly as he looks away briefly, cheeks faintly flushed.

“…You’re beautiful.”

It comes out simple. Honest. Quiet — but firm in a way that makes it clear he means every word.

There’s no hesitation in it this time.

Just truth.

He glances back at you after a second, eyes softer than before, a small, shy smile returning to his face.

And his tail?

Still wagging.

───────────────────

Shelly

Shelly notices you before the music even fully starts.

The second you step into view — flowing brown fabric, gold accents catching the light with every small shift — her entire face lights up like someone just flipped a switch. Her posture straightens instantly, shoulders lifting, hands already coming up like she’s about to clap even though nothing’s happened yet.

Her eyes go wide.

“Oh my gosh—!”

The words burst out of her, bright and unfiltered, and she immediately brings both hands up to her mouth for half a second like she’s trying — trying — to contain herself. Her fingers press lightly against her lips, shoulders bunching up with barely-contained excitement.

It doesn’t work.

Not even a little.

Because then the music starts.

And you move.

The first sway of your hips, slow and controlled, your arms lifting gracefully, wrists turning with that soft, practiced elegance—

Shelly gasps.

Not quietly.

“LOOK AT YOU—!”

She practically bounces on the spot, heels lifting off the ground in quick, excited hops as her hands fly together in loud, rapid claps that echo just a little too much — but she doesn’t care. Not even remotely.

Her eyes are shining, wide and bright, completely locked on you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“That’s my partner!! That’s my gorgeous partner right there!!”

She points at you immediately, arm fully extended, finger unwavering like she’s presenting you to an invisible audience. Her other hand presses flat against her chest, fingers splayed, like her heart can barely keep up with how fast it’s beating.

She laughs — short, breathless, overwhelmed.

As you continue, your movements flowing into each other, the veil shifting like liquid around you, she starts jumping.

Actually jumping.

Small, excited hops in place, her shoulders bouncing with each one, her laughter bubbling out between her words as she watches you like she’s witnessing something incredible.

“YES—! Oh my gosh, yes, that was so smooth—!!”

Her hands clap again, faster this time, slightly off rhythm but full of enthusiasm, her body swaying side to side as if she physically can’t stay still. One foot taps, then the other, like she’s trying to match your energy but can’t quite keep up.

Her admiration isn’t quiet.

It’s loud, bright, overflowing.

When your movements sharpen, hips hitting the beat with more precision, she lets out another excited sound—half gasp, half squeal—as her hands fly up to her head for a second, fingers threading into her hair before dropping again.

“HOW ARE YOU SO GOOD AT THAT—?!” she calls out, voice full of disbelief and pride, her head shaking quickly like she genuinely can’t process it.

She paces a tiny bit in place, taking two quick steps to the side and back again like she has too much energy to contain in one spot, then immediately stops, eyes snapping right back to you, completely locked in again.

“That spin—! Oh my gosh, do that again—!!”

She leans forward slightly as she says it, hands clasping together under her chin for a second before she breaks into another round of clapping.

When you transition into another sequence, she nods rapidly, almost bouncing with each nod, like she’s trying to push more energy your way.

“WOAH—! That’s it, that’s it—keep going!!”

Her grin is huge, completely unfiltered, stretching across her face so wide it almost looks like it might hurt — but she doesn’t stop.

She can’t stop.

At one point, she presses both hands to her chest again, shoulders lifting as she lets out a breathy, emotional laugh, her eyes softening just for a moment.

“I’m so proud of you—!” she blurts out, voice softer this time, almost shaky, like the feeling slipped through the excitement before she could catch it.

Her fingers curl slightly into her shirt as she says it, like she needs to hold onto the emotion for just a second longer.

But then you hit another sharp movement and she’s right back to bouncing.

“OKAY—! OKAY, I SEE YOU—!!”

Her hands fling outward dramatically, then come back together in another excited clap, her whole body practically radiating energy.

When you glance her way mid-dance, she reacts instantly.

Both hands shoot up into the air, waving enthusiastically, fingers spread as if she’s trying to physically send you encouragement across the space.

“YOU’RE DOING AMAZING—!! DON’T EVEN WORRY—JUST KEEP GOING—!!”

She beams at you, eyes wide, full of nothing but encouragement, nodding so quickly it almost looks dizzying. Her shoulders lift and drop with each nod, her excitement completely uncontained.

“YOU LOOK SO PRETTY—!!”

Her voice cracks just slightly from how loud she’s being, and she immediately laughs at herself mid-cheer, one hand coming up to her chest again as if to steady her breathing, but the smile never leaves her face.

As your dance builds, becoming more expressive, more confident, she mirrors the energy without even thinking — small rolls of her shoulders, little sways of her hips, like she’s feeling it with you, even if she’s not nearly as coordinated.

“YES—! YES—THAT’S MY PARTNER—!!”

There’s something so genuine in the way she says it, her voice bright but certain, like there’s not a single doubt in her mind.

She means every word.

At one point, she leans toward you slightly, hands cupped around her mouth as if that will somehow make her voice clearer over the music.

“YOU’RE STEALING THE WHOLE SHOW—!!” she calls out, laughing right after, clearly thrilled by the idea.

By the time the music begins to wind down, she’s already clapping again, fast and excited, practically vibrating in place as she watches you finish, her heels lifting with each bounce like she’s seconds away from running over.

And the second the final note fades—

She cheers.

Loud.

Unapologetic.

“THAT WAS AMAZING—!!”

She rushes forward immediately, barely giving you a second to breathe before she’s right there, closing the distance in quick, eager steps. Her hands reach out to grab yours, fingers wrapping around them warmly as she bounces slightly on her toes.

“Oh my gosh, you were incredible—like, actually incredible—!!” she gushes, words tumbling over each other, barely spaced out as she looks at you with sparkling eyes. Her grip tightens just a little — not enough to hurt, just enough to show how excited she is.

She gives your hands a small shake for emphasis.

“I mean it—every single part, the spins, the way you moved your arms, that thing you did with your hips—HOW DO YOU EVEN DO THAT—?!”

She laughs again, breathless, shaking her head quickly, the goggles on top of her head bouncing with the motion. She doesn’t let go of your hands, like she’s afraid the moment might slip away if she does.

“I swear, I blink and you’re doing something even cooler—like, what—?!” she adds, shoulders lifting as she gestures slightly with your joined hands.

Then, softer — just for a second — her expression melts.

The excitement dims just enough to reveal something warmer, deeper, more grounded underneath.

“…You looked gorgeous,” she says, voice quieter now, but no less sincere. Her thumbs brush lightly over your hands, a gentle, affectionate motion that contrasts her earlier energy.

Her gaze lingers on you, steady and fond.

A beat.

Then the energy comes right back.

“I’m telling everyone,” she adds immediately, grin snapping back into place, eyes lighting up all over again. She straightens, bouncing once more on her toes. “I don’t even care — you’re way too good to keep that to yourself.”

She gives your hands one last excited squeeze, then lifts one of them slightly like she’s presenting you all over again, pride written all over her face.

“That’s my partner.”

And the way she says it—

Bright, loud, completely full of love—

Makes it feel like the most important title in the world.

Author's note: This was actually requested a few months ago when I first started this blog and it was just for Mugman or Boris, but I decided to write the main 5 anyways BUT I was so eager and excited to write this one because I do belly dancing sometimes, it's a great way to exercise and have some fun while doing it.

One of my amazing wives @skylersunrise drew her version of the outfit the reader is wearing on the Cupheads scenario, imagining how they would be dressed — absolutely divine.

Please go see her beautiful art, she's so freaking talented and so passionate about what she does, her art and she herself are amazing!!

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[elltournesoll]

Where The World Goes Quiet — MOTM

Summary: After another long day carrying responsibilities that never seem to end, Mickey returns home expecting distance, but instead finds quiet understanding. In the stillness of a shared space, he allows himself, just for a few hours, to rest in something he doesn’t believe he deserves, yet somehow still has: your love.

Pairing: Myth Mickey x Reader

Genre: Romance, Hurt / Comfort and Domestic Slice of Life

Trope: Yearning Partner, “I Don’t Deserve You”, Emotional Vulnerability, Soft Domestic Intimacy, Work-Weary Lover, Quiet Confessions, Gentle Physical Affection and Safe Space Relationship

Rating: G (General)

The house was quiet in a way that felt earned.

Not empty — never empty — but settled. The kind of quiet that came after long days and longer responsibilities, when the world outside finally loosened its grip just enough to let someone breathe again.

The air carried a faint warmth, lingering from earlier in the evening, and the soft creak of the floorboards seemed louder in the absence of everything else.

Mickey stood just inside the doorway for a moment longer than usual.

His hand still rested on the knob, fingers curled around it like he hadn’t fully decided to let go yet. His shoulders were squared out of habit, posture held together by routine rather than necessity.

His suit was as sharp as ever, every line deliberate, every edge controlled, a silhouette built to command attention, to carry weight, to never falter.

But here it felt like too much.

Slowly, he exhaled, the breath leaving him heavier than he expected.

And the tension slipped, just slightly.

You were there — of course you were.

Not doing anything extraordinary. Not waiting in anticipation or trying to meet him halfway with urgency.

Just there.

Existing in the space the two of you had built together, in a way that felt natural, unforced.

That was all it took.

“…Hey,” he said quietly, his voice softer than it had been all day, the word leaving him almost carefully as his grip on the door loosened and his hand finally dropped to his side.

His voice didn’t carry the same firmness it usually did. It wasn’t rehearsed or measured. Just low, a little tired, and real in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

When you looked at him, something in his chest tightened.

Not painfully.

Just enough to remind him it was still there.

Mickey closed the door behind him with a gentle click, more controlled than necessary, as if even the sound of it mattered here. He stepped inside fully this time, slower than he usually moved, his shoes quieter against the wooden floor.

There was no urgency here, no expectation waiting for him to meet it.

No one to impress.

No one to outmaneuver.

Just you.

And somehow, that felt harder.

Because you weren’t something he could control.

You were something he could lose.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked, even though you clearly weren’t asleep. His hand lifted slightly as he spoke, a small, uncertain gesture before it fell back to his side again, fingers flexing faintly like he didn’t quite know where to put them.

It was a pointless question.

But Mickey had never been good at starting conversations when they really mattered.

You shook your head gently, stepping just a little closer, your movement calm and unhurried.

“No,” you answered softly, your voice steady, grounding. “I was waiting.”

Mickey’s ears twitched faintly at that, and he nodded once, a little too quickly, like he needed to anchor himself to something simple.

“Good,” he murmured, though his gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, searching, almost cautious.

Silence followed. Not uncomfortable, just fragile.

Like if he moved too fast, it might break.

He took a few steps forward, measured and quiet, stopping just close enough that he could reach you if he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Mickey looked at you like he was trying to understand something he’d never quite been able to solve, his eyes tracing over you briefly before settling again, his posture tightening just slightly as if bracing for something unspoken.

“You’re still here,” he said finally, his voice lower now, almost careful, like the words carried more weight than he intended to show.

It wasn’t a question.

That made it heavier.

His hand twitched again at his side, the movement small but noticeable, his fingers curling inward before relaxing.

“You didn't have to be,” he added, the words coming out steady, practiced, but there was something underneath them, something thinner than he probably intended.

His shoulders shifted as he spoke, the sharpness of his posture starting to feel less like control and more like something he was holding together out of habit.

“I know I’m not—”

He stopped mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly, his gaze dropping for just a fraction of a second before lifting again.

“…Not easy to keep up with anymore,” he finished, quieter now.

That was the version he allowed himself to say.

Not the real one.

Not the one sitting heavier behind his ribs.

Mickey didn’t look away from you, but his posture shifted again — the clean lines of his silhouette softening just slightly, like the effort to stay composed was starting to slip.

“I don’t have time like I used to,” he continued, one hand lifting briefly as if to gesture, then hesitating halfway before lowering again. “And I’m not… good at this part.”

His voice faltered just enough to be noticeable.

“At the home part,” he clarified, quieter, his gaze flickering toward the floor for a moment before returning to you.

There was no bitterness in his tone.

Just honesty.

And something close to resignation.

“I thought…” he started again, his voice softer now, less certain, his shoulders easing just slightly as if the words themselves were pulling the tension out of him.

“At some point, you’d get tired of it.”

His fingers curled loosely at his side again, like he was resisting the urge to reach for you.

Of him.

He didn’t say that part out loud.

The room stayed quiet for a second longer, the weight of his words settling into the space between you.

Then you moved closer.

Not quickly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to close the distance he’d been too hesitant to cross himself.

Mickey froze for half a second — not pulling away, just still, his breath catching faintly as your presence filled the space he’d left open.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to lean into it.

When you took his hand, he let you.

Carefully.

His fingers curled around yours, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was relearning something familiar but fragile. His grip wasn’t firm, not like it could be. It was lighter, hesitant, his thumb brushing faintly against your skin as if testing whether this moment would hold.

“You’re still here,” he repeated, softer now, his voice barely above a murmur as his gaze dropped briefly to your joined hands.

He lifted your hand slowly, almost unconsciously, bringing it closer to his face.

There was a pause — just a second — like he was asking permission without words.

Then he pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering there longer than usual, the warmth of the gesture quiet but deeply felt.

Then another.

Slower.

More deliberate.

The kind of affection that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t performative.

Just real.

“I don’t deserve that kind of patience,” he admitted quietly, his voice steady but softer than before, his thumb brushing lightly over your hand as if grounding himself in the contact.

It wasn’t dramatic.

He said it like a fact he’d already accepted.

“Not with how much I’m gone,” he added, his gaze lowering slightly, his ears dipping just a fraction.

His grip shifted just slightly, not tighter, just more present.

“Not with how little I can give back most days.”

But he didn’t let go.

That said more than anything else.

The tension in his shoulders eased little by little, like something inside him was finally giving up the effort to stay rigid.

Mickey stepped closer this time.

Not because he was trying to prove anything.

Because he needed to.

His movements were slower now, more careful, his hand lifting slightly as if unsure before settling gently at your side, his touch light at first, then more certain when you didn’t pull away.

His forehead came to rest against yours, the contact soft, tentative, his posture finally losing its sharp edges completely.

“When I’m here…” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost fragile, his breath warm against you, “it’s the only time my head stops.”

A small pause followed, his grip on your hand steadying, his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded patterns.

“The only time I’m not thinking about what’s next,” he continued, his voice low, his eyes half-lidded now, like he was allowing himself to rest in the moment, “or what I missed… or what I still have to fix.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“…It’s just you.”

His fingers curled slightly more securely around yours, not tight, just certain now, like he’d finally allowed himself to believe the contact wouldn’t disappear.

“For a few hours,” he went on, a faint exhale leaving him as his shoulders dropped further, “I get to pretend that’s enough.”

There was a subtle shift in his tone, something almost self-aware, like he knew the word pretend didn’t quite fit.

Like he didn’t fully believe his own doubt.

Mickey adjusted slightly, his hand at your side settling more comfortably now, his thumb brushing faintly against the fabric near your waist in a slow, grounding motion.

“I don’t think I say it enough,” he admitted, his voice quieter, his ears dipping again as he spoke.

Another pause.

“…Or right.”

His gaze softened, something unguarded flickering there now.

“But I do… feel it.”

A soft sound escaped him then.

Not quite a squeak at first — more like his breath catching as something slipped past the control he usually held so tightly.

Then it came again.

Quieter.

Melodic.

Unintentional.

Mickey stilled slightly, his ears twitching in mild embarrassment, but he didn’t pull away this time.

Didn’t try to hide it.

Another soft note followed, almost instinctive, the sound carrying something gentle and deeply affectionate in a way words couldn’t quite manage.

He let out a faint breath that almost sounded like a quiet laugh, his forehead still resting against yours.

“Yeah…” he murmured softly, a hint of embarrassment in his voice, but not enough to retreat. “That too.”

His hand shifted slightly at your side, grounding himself there again, his grip steady now, no longer hesitant.

“You make it work,” he said after a moment, his voice low, thoughtful, his gaze lifting just enough to meet yours again.

Not we.

You.

And the way he said it carried something close to awe.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he added, quieter, his thumb brushing gently over your hand again, slower this time.

He tilted his head just enough to press another soft kiss to your knuckles, more certain now, more grounded in the moment.

“I don’t think I ever will.”

The house remained still around you, wrapped in that same soft quiet from before.

But now Mickey fit into it differently.

Not like someone passing through.

Like someone allowed to stay.

“For what it’s worth,” he added after a moment, his voice quieter now, more settled, his posture relaxed in a way it rarely was anywhere else, “these hours…”

His thumb brushed lightly against your hand again, slower, more absent-minded now.

“They’re the only ones that feel like mine anymore.”

A small pause followed, his gaze softening further.

“And you’re the only part of them I don’t feel like I have to earn.”

He didn’t say anything else after that.

Didn’t need to.

He just stayed there, close and steady, his hold on you gentle but certain now, letting himself exist in the rare space where he didn’t have to be anything more than someone who loved you—

—And, for once, someone who allowed himself to believe he might be loved back just as much.

Author's note: Just something short and sweet for the mouse lovers. I have several requests already written in my drafts and I'm still writing some more of them, procrastination in editing them is the problem here, but I'm getting back on track, don't worry!!

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[elltournesoll]

Fossils & Pancakes — MOTM

Summary: Life together should be impossible for two people as different as them, one is calm, quiet, and patient — someone who fixes things carefully and speaks only when it matters.

The other is loud, curious, endlessly energetic — a paleontologist who leaves trails of dust, misplaced boots, and scientific excitement everywhere she goes, their days are full of chaotic mornings, fossil-shaped breakfasts, dancing under string lights, and quiet evenings where neither of them really needs to say much at all.

Somehow, despite being complete opposites, they fit together perfectly — balancing each other in ways neither of them expected, because sometimes love isn’t about being similar.

Sometimes it’s about being exactly what the other person needs.

Pairing: Myth Boris x Myth Shelly

Genre: Romance, Slice of Life and Domestic Fluff

Trope: Opposites Attract, Quiet x Loud Couple, Domestic Life, Soft Romance, Comfort Relationship, Playful Teasing, Everyday Love and “They Make No Sense But It Works” Dynamic

Rating: G (General)

The house stayed quiet for a while.

Not the tense kind of quiet that meant Shelly had wandered off somewhere in the house and was about to appear holding something dangerous, historically significant, or both at the same time.

No, this was the rare, gentle quiet.

The kind that only existed when Shelly had finally, finally run out of energy.

Boris had learned there were two kinds of silence in their home.

The peaceful kind.

And the suspicious kind.

This one was peaceful.

Shelly slept curled against his side on the couch, one arm loosely hooked around his middle like sometime in her sleep she had grabbed onto him and simply decided he belonged there now.

Her fingers were lightly tangled in the fabric of his shirt, knuckles relaxed, grip absentminded but stubborn in that way people sometimes held onto something without realizing it.

She had probably done it without even waking up.

Boris didn’t move.

He rarely did when Shelly fell asleep on him.

Partly because he didn’t want to wake her.

Partly because… he didn’t actually want to move at all.

His tail thumped slowly and lazily against the couch cushion behind him, the soft rhythm almost unconscious. The movement was small, steady, the sort of quiet contentment he never really thought about but Shelly noticed every single time.

Shelly stirred slightly at the sound, her grip tightening just a little around him as if her sleeping brain had registered the familiar rhythm. Her blank slate scrunched faintly as she shifted, adjusting herself like someone searching for a more comfortable position without fully waking.

“…Boris?”

Her voice was thick with sleep, barely more than a murmur.

Boris glanced down at her, his ears tilting forward slightly as he shifted just enough to look at her face without disturbing her. His posture remained careful, shoulders barely moving.

“I’m here.”

His voice stayed low, calm, the kind of tone people used instinctively when talking to someone who was half asleep.

Shelly shifted a little, her cheek pressing more firmly against his side, face squishing slightly against the fabric of his shirt. Her hand twitched faintly where it rested against him before settling again.

Her eyes didn’t even open.

“Did we catalog the fossil?” she mumbled, the words slow and slurred together like they had to push through several layers of sleep to reach the surface.

Boris blinked once.

Of course that was what she was thinking about. Even half asleep her brain was still wandering through dig sites and museum catalogs.

“Tomorrow,” he answered quietly, one hand coming up to rest lightly against her shoulder so she didn’t accidentally roll off the couch. His thumb absentmindedly brushed the dust on her sleeve, rubbing a small line through the dirt without really thinking about it.

Shelly made a small thoughtful sound.

“…Okay.”

The word came out in a soft exhale.

And then she was asleep again almost instantly.

Just like that.

Boris watched her for a moment.

Shelly Fossilian, the most energetic person he had ever met besides his own brother, slept like someone who had completely burned through every drop of energy in her body.

Which, knowing her, she probably had.

There was still a faint layer of dust on her from the dig site earlier that day. Small grains of dirt clung stubbornly along the edge of her goggles and around her temple, catching faintly in the soft orange light coming through the window.

There was a faint smudge of dirt along the sleeve of her shirt.

Another along her cheek.

Her goggles were still crooked on the top of her head, one strap slightly twisted like she had pushed them up quickly and simply forgotten they were there afterward.

And somehow she looked perfectly comfortable like that.

Like falling asleep covered in dust and leaning against someone was the most natural thing in the world.

Boris carefully reached over with one hand, slowly pulling the blanket from the back of the couch. The motion was slow and deliberate, the same careful patience he used when adjusting delicate machine parts or tightening tiny screws inside complicated engines.

He draped the blanket gently over her shoulders.

Shelly made a quiet, content little sound in response, something soft and sleepy in the back of her throat, nuzzling slightly deeper against him like a sleepy cat finding a warmer spot.

Her hand shifted again, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

His ears flicked.

It still surprised him sometimes.

How someone so loud, so energetic, so fearless could trust him enough to fall asleep like this.

Anywhere near him.

Anywhere on him.

Shelly trusted him with complete, effortless certainty.

Like it had never even occurred to her that she shouldn’t, it has been this way since the first time they met.

His gaze softened slightly as he looked down at her.

Boris leaned his head back against the couch.

The house was dim now, the warm orange light of evening filtering softly through the windows and stretching long shadows across the wooden floor.

Dust particles floated slowly through the sunlight near the window, drifting lazily through the air whenever a small breeze slipped through the cracks.

Somewhere outside, crickets had started their slow chorus.

The faint ticking of a clock from the hallway blended into the quiet rhythm of the evening.

For a while, nothing happened.

Boris simply sat there, one arm loosely resting along the back of the couch behind her, the other still lightly resting against her shoulder beneath the blanket.

The quiet stretched peacefully.

Then Shelly started talking again.

Still asleep.

“…And trilobites…”

Boris blinked.

Her voice was soft and dreamy, words drifting out slowly like fragments of a lecture that had followed her into sleep.

“…Were very cool.”

He almost laughed.

Almost.

One corner of his mouth twitched upward before he caught himself.

Shelly mumbled something else under her breath, something about “sedimentary layers” and “amazing preservation,” her voice slurring the words together like her brain had decided to give a midnight lecture in her dreams.

Her featureless skin wrinkled slightly as she spoke, eyebrows pulling together in sleepy concentration like she was explaining something very important to an invisible audience.

“…Fossil formation takes millions of years…” she murmured faintly, voice fading in and out. “…Incredible geological patience…”

Boris glanced down at her again, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“…Yeah.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“They were.”

Shelly hummed softly in response, like she had heard him somewhere inside her dream.

Then her breathing evened out again.

The lecture ended.

The quiet returned.

Boris stayed exactly where he was.

Not moving.

Not rushing the moment.

His tail gave another slow, gentle thump against the couch cushion behind him.

And this time Shelly didn’t stir at all.

𓂃 ಄ : . 𐂯

The next morning began exactly the way it always did.

With chaos.

“BORIS.”

He was already in the kitchen.

Of course he was.

Boris stood at the counter calmly stirring something in a pan, his tail swaying slowly behind him as the smell of breakfast filled the room. The quiet sizzle of batter cooking contrasted sharply with the incoming storm he already knew was coming.

The morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen windows in long golden strips, warming the wooden floor and the cluttered countertops.

The smell of butter and syrup lingered in the air, soft and comforting.

Boris flipped another pancake with a smooth motion of the spatula.

He didn’t even look toward the hallway when the voice came again.

“WHERE ARE MY BOOTS.”

His ears flicked slightly.

He turned the pancake once more, calm as ever.

“They’re by the door.”

There was a pause in the hallway.

A thud.

Then the unmistakable sound of someone tripping over something that had definitely been on the floor for at least two days.

“OW—”

Boris didn’t react.

A moment later Shelly appeared in the kitchen doorway.

She was wearing one glove.

Her goggles were crooked again.

Her goggles had clearly been shoved onto her head in a hurry, sitting slightly askew like she had forgotten they were even there.

And she was not wearing boots.

Shelly stared at him suspiciously, narrowing her eyes like she was trying to solve a scientific mystery.

Her gaze slowly scanned the kitchen.

Then returned to him.

“How do you always know where my stuff is?” she asked, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe with exaggerated suspicion.

Boris glanced at her briefly before returning to the stove, flipping another pancake with practiced ease.

“You leave a trail.”

Shelly crossed her arms immediately.

“That’s not true.”

Boris reached for another spoonful of batter.

“You left your scarf in the refrigerator yesterday.”

Shelly froze.

Completely still.

Her expression slowly shifted from confident denial… to realization.

Her eyes drifted slightly to the side as she thought about it.

“…That explains a lot actually.”

Boris hummed quietly in acknowledgment.

Shelly wandered into the kitchen now, her socked feet shuffling lazily across the wooden floor. She scratched the side of her head absently with the gloved hand, clearly still waking up.

“Also,” she added thoughtfully, glancing toward the counter, “in my defense the refrigerator is cold. Which makes sense for preserving artifacts.”

Boris raised one eyebrow.

“…Your scarf is not an artifact.”

Shelly tilted her head.

“It could be.”

“You bought it last week.”

“Future artifact.”

Boris decided not to argue with that.

Instead, he slid a plate across the table toward her without another word.

The ceramic plate made a soft scraping sound against the wood.

Shelly walked over, still mid-thought about scarf preservation, and looked down.

Then she stopped.

Pancakes.

But not normal pancakes.

These were shaped like tiny fossils.

Little trilobites.

A spiral ammonite.

And something that suspiciously looked like a small dinosaur skull.

Shelly stared.

Her eyes slowly widened with delight.

Her jaw dropped slightly.

“…You’re ridiculous,” she said quietly, like someone witnessing something both absurd and miraculous at the same time.

Boris shrugged slightly, pouring coffee into two mugs with steady hands. Steam curled gently upward from the cups.

“You eat them.”

Shelly immediately dropped into the chair like she had been waiting her entire life for this exact moment.

The chair scraped loudly across the floor.

“Because they’re perfect,” she declared dramatically, already grabbing the syrup bottle.

She poured far too much syrup over the plate, completely drowning one unfortunate trilobite.

Then she took a bite immediately.

Her shoulders relaxed.

Her eyes closed briefly.

“Mmm.”

She pointed her fork at the plate approvingly.

“This one tastes like sedimentary excellence.”

Boris sat across from her with his coffee, watching quietly as she devoured the fossil pancakes with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered a new species.

She barely even chewed properly before going for the next one.

Syrup dripped slightly onto the plate as she stabbed the ammonite with her fork.

“This one,” she continued thoughtfully between bites, “is definitely from the Jurassic period.”

Boris took a slow sip of coffee.

“…They’re just pancakes.”

Shelly pointed the fork at him dramatically.

“Respect the science.”

He lowered the mug again, completely unimpressed.

Shelly chewed thoughtfully for a moment before suddenly pointing at him again with the same fork, syrup still dripping slightly from it.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about.”

Boris took another slow sip of coffee, eyes half-lidded.

“Sounds dangerous.”

Shelly grinned.

“Dancing.”

Boris paused mid-sip.

The mug hovered halfway to his mouth.

Slowly, very slowly, he lowered it again.

“…What.”

Shelly leaned forward across the table, elbows planted on the wood, eyes bright with excitement like she had just uncovered the greatest discovery of the century.

“There’s a band playing tonight in town,” she said quickly, bouncing slightly in her seat.

Boris slowly set the mug down.

“And?”

Shelly pointed at him again like a detective revealing the final clue in a dramatic courtroom scene.

“And we should go.”

Boris leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his arms.

“I don’t dance.”

Shelly gasped dramatically.

Actually gasped.

She clutched her chest with one hand as if personally offended by this statement.

“You absolutely dance.”

“I stand.”

“That counts.”

“It does not.”

Shelly leaned forward even further, nearly halfway across the table now, pancakes temporarily forgotten.

“You literally taught me how to swing dance.”

“You stepped on my foot.”

“You have big feet.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

Shelly’s grin only widened.

“Details.”

Boris rubbed his temple slowly like he already felt a headache forming.

Shelly stabbed another pancake triumphantly.

“So we’re going.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other across the table.

Shelly’s expression was determined, stubborn excitement radiating from every inch of her posture as she leaned forward like a challenger preparing for battle.

Boris’s expression was tired.

Completely exhausted by the conversation that hadn’t even technically started yet.

His tail wagged once behind him.

Just once.

“I'll think about it.”

Shelly slammed her hands down on the table so hard the silverware rattled.

The coffee mugs trembled.

“YES.”

She jumped up from the chair immediately like someone who had just won a championship.

“I KNEW IT.”

Boris pinched the bridge of his muzzle slowly.

“I said I will think about it.”

Shelly was already halfway across the kitchen.

“IT COUNTS.”

She grabbed her other glove from the counter.

Then froze.

Then looked back at him.

“…Wait.”

Boris looked up.

Shelly pointed toward the door.

“…My boots actually are by the door.”

Boris took another calm sip of coffee.

“Yes.”

Shelly squinted at him suspiciously again.

“…You’re weirdly powerful.”

𓂃 ಄ : . 𐂯

That evening the town square was alive with music.

Warm string lights hung between the old brick buildings, glowing softly against the darkening sky like tiny golden stars.

They swayed slightly in the gentle evening breeze, casting warm pools of light across the square below.

The wooden dance floor in the center of the square was already full of people spinning and laughing, shoes tapping against the boards in quick rhythms that matched the music drifting through the air.

A lively band played on a small wooden stage at the far end of the square. A trumpet rang bright and playful over the steady beat of the drums while a saxophone curled through the melody.

The musicians swayed with the rhythm as they played, clearly enjoying the crowd as much as the crowd enjoyed them.

Couples filled the square.

Some danced confidently with practiced steps.

Some stumbled and laughed through half-learned moves.

Others simply swayed together under the lights.

The whole place buzzed with movement and warmth and noise.

Shelly looked like she might explode from excitement.

She bounced slightly on her heels, practically vibrating with energy as she stood at the edge of the square. Her eyes darted everywhere at once, soaking in the music, the lights, the movement, the crowd.

“Ooooh this is perfect,” she whispered breathlessly, clutching Boris’s sleeve like someone witnessing the greatest discovery of their life. “Look at the band! And the floor! And the—oh my gosh someone’s doing aerials—”

Boris, meanwhile, looked like someone who had been dragged somewhere against his will.

Which, technically, he had.

He stood beside her with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, ears angled back just a little as he watched the chaos unfolding in front of him.

His tail gave a slow, uncertain flick behind him.

Shelly grabbed his hand suddenly.

“Come on!”

Boris barely moved.

“I can hear the music from here,” he said calmly, glancing toward the crowded dance floor like it might attack him if he got too close.

“That’s not the point!” Shelly protested immediately, tugging harder on his arm.

Boris planted his feet.

Shelly tugged again.

Then again.

He moved about three inches.

Shelly squinted at him suspiciously.

“…Are you resisting?”

“No.”

“You’re resisting.”

“I’m standing.”

Shelly huffed dramatically and grabbed his wrist with both hands now, leaning backward with all the determination of someone trying to drag a stubborn boulder uphill.

“Come on!”

Boris allowed himself to be pulled forward a few more steps, though the slow pace suggested he was mostly cooperating out of politeness rather than enthusiasm.

They reached the edge of the dance floor just as a couple spun past them laughing, the woman’s dress twirling out in a bright swirl of color.

People moved everywhere.

Quick footwork.

Fast turns.

Laughter everywhere.

The wooden boards thumped softly beneath the dancers' shoes as the music bounced through the square.

Shelly bounced on her toes again, practically glowing with excitement now that they were closer.

“Okay okay okay we’re starting with Shag,” she announced rapidly, pointing toward the floor like a commander giving orders.

“No.”

Shelly turned to stare at him.

“Why not?”

“It’s too fast.” Boris gestured toward the dancers practically sprinting across the floor with lightning quick steps.

“You’re too slow.”

“…Shelly."

“FINE.”

She grabbed both his hands dramatically and yanked him forward another step.

“West Coast Swing.”

Boris sighed deeply.

The kind of sigh that suggested he had already accepted his fate.

Then he stepped forward.

Shelly blinked in surprise.

“…Wait really?” she asked, her grip loosening slightly in shock.

“You wanted to dance,” Boris replied simply.

Her grin stretched from ear to ear.

The music shifted then, the band sliding smoothly into a slower rhythm. The drums softened while the bass line rolled steady and warm beneath the melody.

The crowd adjusted naturally as couples shifted into smoother movements.

Boris gently guided her into the first step, one hand steady at her waist while the other held her hand loosely. His movements were calm and practiced, the same quiet precision he used when repairing engines or adjusting delicate machinery.

Shelly immediately stumbled.

Her foot landed half a beat too early.

Then she burst into laughter.

“I told you I need someone to lead!” she said between giggles, grabbing his shoulder for balance.

“I am,” Boris replied evenly, steadying her with a gentle shift of his arm.

Shelly leaned closer to him, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Oh I noticed.”

Boris ignored that completely.

They moved slowly across the floor.

Boris was stiff at first, his posture careful and controlled as he guided the steps.

Shelly, meanwhile, was enthusiastic.

Extremely enthusiastic.

Which meant she missed about half the steps.

She spun too early once and nearly bumped into another couple.

“Sorry!” she called cheerfully as Boris smoothly redirected her back into place before disaster could strike.

Another time she forgot which foot she was supposed to move and ended up stepping directly onto Boris’s shoe.

“Ah—”

“Shelly.”

“Sorry!” she laughed again, though she didn’t look particularly sorry.

But Boris adjusted easily.

Every time she lost rhythm he simply guided her back into place with a gentle shift of his hand at her waist or a careful tug of her arm.

It was effortless for him.

Like steering a boat through slightly choppy water.

Eventually Shelly stopped focusing on the steps entirely.

Instead she started talking.

“…Did you know fossilized tree sap can preserve insects perfectly?” she asked suddenly, as if they were having this conversation over tea instead of in the middle of a dance floor.

“Yes.”

“…You’re not even surprised anymore."

“No.”

Shelly laughed softly, the sound mixing with the music around them.

A trumpet blared joyfully nearby as another couple spun past them.

They kept dancing.

Step.

Step.

Turn.

Shelly nearly forgot the turn again.

Boris gently guided her through it anyway.

“…Also technically it’s called amber,” she continued thoughtfully, swinging back toward him. “Which is basically fossilized resin and—”

“Yes.”

“You’re listening?” she asked suddenly, tilting her head with exaggerated suspicion.

“I always listen.”

Shelly smiled at that.

A real one this time.

The kind that softened her whole expression.

And slowly Boris relaxed.

The stiffness left his shoulders little by little as the music continued.

His tail began moving gently with the rhythm.

Shelly noticed immediately.

Of course she did.

Her eyes narrowed playfully.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“You are.”

Boris hesitated.

Just slightly.

“…A little bit.”

Shelly smiled warmly.

Then rested her head briefly against his chest as they continued swaying to the music, her hand still loosely clasped in his.

The movement slowed naturally with the next song.

The band softened into something gentler now, the melody slower and warmer as the night settled deeper around the square.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

For once, Shelly wasn’t talking.

For once, Boris wasn’t hiding his small smile.

They simply moved together under the soft glow of the lights, the music carrying them along like the easiest thing in the world.

𓂃 ಄ : . 𐂯

Later they walked home under the quiet night sky.

The town lights faded slowly behind them as they moved farther down the road, the glow of the square shrinking into warm golden dots in the distance. The lively sounds of the band and laughing voices gradually softened until they were nothing more than faint echoes carried on the cool night air.

Crickets chirped steadily from the grass along the roadside.

A soft breeze moved through the trees, rustling the leaves overhead.

The night felt calm.

Peaceful.

Shelly kicked a small rock along the path as she walked, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of her jacket. Each step sent the rock skittering forward along the dirt road with a soft tick tick tick against the ground.

She hummed under her breath, still riding the leftover excitement from the evening. Every now and then she gave a little bounce in her step like the music was still playing somewhere in the back of her mind.

Boris walked beside her at his usual steady pace, hands loosely in his pockets.

His tail swayed lazily behind him as he watched her kick the rock again.

It bounced slightly to the side of the path this time.

Shelly chased after it immediately.

Boris glanced down at her boots.

“Did you step in the flowerbed.”

Shelly froze mid-step.

The rock rolled another few inches before stopping.

Slowly—very slowly—she turned her head toward him.

“…Maybe.”

“You did.”

"Maybe.”

She avoided eye contact now, staring very intently at the road like it held the secrets of the universe.

Boris sighed softly, though there was no real frustration in it. Just quiet, familiar resignation.

Shelly bumped her shoulder against his playfully as she resumed walking, grinning like someone who had absolutely no intention of feeling guilty about anything.

“You love me.”

“Yes.”

Shelly froze.

Completely.

Her brain clearly buffering.

She turned slowly toward him, eyes wide.

“…Wait.”

Boris kept walking like nothing had happened, gaze forward, completely calm.

Shelly blinked once.

Then twice.

Then suddenly ran ahead of him, boots crunching lightly against the gravel. She spun around dramatically to face him while walking backwards down the road.

“YOU JUST SAID IT.”

Boris stopped walking.

He looked at her calmly.

“Said what.”

Shelly pointed at him dramatically like she was presenting undeniable courtroom evidence.

“YOU SAID YOU LOVE ME.”

Boris blinked slowly.

“…Did I?”

“Yes!”

She threw both her arms up in the air for emphasis.

“You said it! Out loud! Without me even putting you into a dramatic confession scenario!”

Boris stood there for a moment.

Then realization slowly caught up with him.

His ears lowered just a little.

“Oh.”

Shelly gasped dramatically.

“Oh?? OH??? That’s all you have to say???”

Then she lunged forward and threw her arms around him in an instant, hugging him tightly around the middle.

“YOU SAID IT.”

“Shelly.”

“I WIN.”

“You weren’t competing.”

“I was.”

Boris sighed again, the sound long and patient.

But his tail wagged.

Shelly squeezed him tighter for another second before finally stepping back, though she was still beaming like she had just uncovered the greatest discovery in the history of archaeology.

“You know what I love about us?” she said suddenly, rocking back slightly on her heels.

Boris tilted his head slightly.

“What?”

Shelly gestured between them dramatically like she was presenting a scientific diagram to an audience.

“We make no sense.”

Boris raised one eyebrow.

Shelly immediately started counting on her fingers.

“You’re quiet.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not.”

“No.”

“You fix machines.”

“Yes.”

“I dig holes.”

“Yes.”

“You cook weird food.”

“Yes.”

“I set things on fire sometimes.”

Boris paused.

“…Yes.”

Shelly grinned proudly like she had just proven a brilliant theory, looking up at Boris with love in her eyes.

“And somehow we work.”

Boris looked down at her.

For a moment he didn’t say anything.

The wind rustled softly through the trees nearby.

The glow of a nearby streetlight cast warm light across the quiet road.

Then he gently rested his chin against the top of her head, his arms loosely wrapping around her shoulders as they stood beneath the warm glow of the streetlight.

“We do.”

Shelly leaned comfortably into him, resting easily against his chest like it was the most natural place in the world to be.

They stood like that for a moment.

Two completely different people.

One loud.

One quiet.

One chaotic.

One steady.

And somehow perfectly balanced.

Shelly tilted her head slightly, looking up at him with that familiar spark already returning to her eyes.

“…Hey Boris.”

“Yes.”

“When we get home can we try making that apple cinnamon soup again?”

Boris looked down at her slowly.

“…You said it was illegal.”

Shelly shrugged casually.

“I changed my mind.”

Boris stared at her for a moment.

Then his tail wagged once.

“Okay.”

Shelly’s face lit up instantly.

She grabbed his hand again and immediately started pulling him down the road with renewed energy.

“RACE YOU.”

Boris didn’t move.

Shelly took two steps before realizing.

She turned back.

“Boris.”

“You’re going to trip.”

“I am not—”

Her foot caught on a rock immediately.

Shelly stumbled forward with a startled yelp, arms flailing slightly as she lost her balance.

But before she could fall, Boris caught her easily by the arm, steadying her like he had done a thousand times before.

His grip was firm but gentle.

Shelly blinked up at him sheepishly.

“…Okay maybe.”

Boris steadied her carefully until she was standing properly again.

Then he gently squeezed her hand.

“Come on, let's go home.”

This time they walked the rest of the way back home together.

Slow.

Comfortable.

Their steps naturally falling into the same rhythm as they moved down the quiet road beneath the night sky.

Perfectly balanced.

Author's note: I've been waiting for this moment for MONTHS as a Dogbone shipper (ship name given by some members on the myth server), I've been shipping these two for so long and talking about them as much as I could on the server and making other people see and understand my vision of how and why they would be a perfect duo, either platonically or romantically, I love them, the new update was ABSOLUTE CINEMA when it came to their first time meeting each other.

I was acting super normal on the chat when I saw Boris blushing because of Shelly, especially when she hugged him and she carried him bride style to take him to a safe place after he helped her because she saved him and his brother, and he wanted to repay her by helping her in return—

My little babies, they're literally the duo/couple tropes: brooding guy x sunshine girl, blushes easily but tries to hide it x also blushes easily but can be really obviously most of the time, doesn't smile much in front of others x naturally smiles all the time, stays on guard the whole time x tries to enjoy life the best they can, fell first and harder x fell last but still just as hard as their crush did UGHHHH 💖💖💖

I know I only post "myth x reader" here, but I also write "oc x canon" and "canon x canon" on the server. If you like these and liked this one, then I'll start posting them here too.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[elltournesoll]

Gift for: @doshi-sukiru and @chrysiskowot

Where The Tide Meets Us — Ink Beach

Summary: A simple beach day turns into something softer, warmer, and harder to ignore than expected, between failed surfing attempts, chaotic volleyball matches, and a quiet bonfire under the stars, small moments begin to mean more than they should.

And somewhere between the waves and the silence — something changes.

Pairing: Ink Beach! Mugman x Reader

Genre: Romance (Primary), Slice of Life, Comedy / Light Humor and Fluff

Trope: Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, He Falls First (Subtle), Soft Confession, "Beach Episode" / Vacation, Found Family / Group Dynamics, Bonfire Confession Scene, Clumsy Affection, Physical Near-Misses (Almost Touching), Teasing Friends as Wingmen and Comfort Through Presence (Not Words)

Rating: T (Teen)

Ink Beach belongs to: @thekaeru2 hiii twin hiii waves hello

Her au blog: @theinkbeach go check it out right now !!!

Ink Beach smelled like salt, sunscreen, and warm sand.

The scent clung to everything—your clothes, your body, even the wooden railings along the boardwalk that stretched beside the shoreline.

It lingered stubbornly, woven into the air so deeply it felt impossible to escape, like the beach itself had decided you belonged to it now.

The breeze rolling in from the ocean carried it gently through the air, threading it between the distant sounds of laughter, seagulls crying overhead, and waves breaking in soft, rhythmic crashes against the shore.

It was the kind of sound that didn’t demand your attention, but somehow never let it go either.

It had only been a few weeks since you arrived with Bendy and Boris, but the place already felt different from anywhere you’d ever been.

Quieter in some ways.

Louder in others.

The ocean itself never stopped moving, even when you tried to focus on something else, you could always hear it — rolling endlessly toward the sand like a living thing breathing in and out.

Steady and constant.

Almost comforting.

You sat cross-legged on a striped beach towel, absentmindedly dragging your fingers through the sand beside you. The grains slipped between them easily, warm from the sun, sticking faintly to your skin.

You watched the horizon.

Well—

Mostly watched one specific person.

Far out past the shallows, Mugman rode the crest of a rising wave, his surfboard slicing cleanly across the water as he leaned into the turn.

The sunlight reflected off the surface of the ocean, scattering silver light across the shifting waves, making everything shimmer like glass.

He looked completely at ease.

Focused.

Like the ocean simply belonged to him.

Every movement he made seemed instinctive, small adjustments of his stance, the subtle shift of his weight, the way he leaned just slightly before the wave curled and broke behind him.

No hesitation.

No second-guessing.

Just movement.

Just flow.

It was honestly mesmerizing.

“…You’re staring again.”

The voice beside you made you jump slightly, your attention snapping away from the water.

You turned your head and found Cuphead sprawled lazily across the sand beside you, one arm tucked behind his head while the other lazily traced patterns into the sand. His red-striped straw tilted just enough to match the smirk pulling at his expression.

A bright red volleyball rested beside him, half buried in the sand like it had been abandoned mid-game hours ago.

“I’m not staring,” you said quickly, defensively.

Cuphead didn’t even bother pretending to believe you.

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m watching the waves.”

“Sure you are.”

He didn’t even look at the ocean, his grin widened slowly, like he was savoring this.

“Because the waves definitely look like Mugman.”

You opened your mouth but immediately realized you had nothing to say.

Because unfortunately, he wasn’t really wrong.

Your gaze flickered back toward the water for half a second before you caught yourself.

“I just — he’s — surfing!” you said weakly, making desperate gestures with your hands, both towards where Mugman is surfing and towards the ocean as a whole.

“Yeah,” Cuphead nodded. “He tends to do that.”

Before you could attempt a better defense, a soft thwip sound came from the shade nearby, catching yours and Cuphead's attention away from the discussion you were having, both looking toward the source of the sound.

Boris sat beneath a large striped beach umbrella a few feet away, tossing a bright orange frisbee into the air and catching it again with quiet, effortless precision.

Up.

Catch.

Pause.

Turn.

Repeat.

Like he was operating on a completely different pace than the rest of the world.

He caught it again, turning it slowly in his hands before glancing over at you.

“You like him.”

You nearly inhaled sand.

Your entire body jerked slightly, and for a horrifying second you thought you might actually choke.

Cuphead burst into laughter so suddenly he had to sit up, one hand pressing against his side.

“Boris!” he wheezed. “You can’t just — drop that like it’s nothing!” he continued laughing, at you and at what Boris just said without any filter whatsoever.

Boris shrugged calmly.

“They keep looking at him.”

“I do not—!”

“You do,” Cuphead interrupted immediately, while still giggling to himself.

“Repeatedly,” Boris added, face still with a calm expression, but his gaze suggested he knew more than you let him know.

Your face felt hotter than the sun overhead.

“I am just— observing!”

Cuphead snorted.

“Yeah, observing him specifically.”

Before you could dig yourself any deeper into this increasingly embarrassing hole, a cheerful voice drifted in from behind.

“Well well well… Are we discussing romance without inviting me?”

Bendy dropped down beside the group like a mischievous shadow, landing in the sand with exaggerated flair like he had been waiting for the perfect dramatic entrance.

He was holding a bright blue frozen drink with a tiny umbrella sticking out of the top.

Cuphead immediately squinted at it.

“…Did you pay for that?”

Bendy took a slow sip, eyes closing like he was savoring something rare and expensive.

“Define ‘pay.’”

“You stole it.”

“I prefer the term borrowed indefinitely.”

“From who?”

Bendy gestured vaguely toward the boardwalk without even turning around.

“Technically… the smoothie stand.”

“You are going to get us banned," Cuphead groaned loudly while facepalming his face.

“They have more,” Bendy said simply, shrugging his shoulders like it's nothing and he definitely didn't just steal the drink, when he could've easily buy it with his own money.

“That is not the point!”

Cuphead argued back, the drink inside his head starting to boil with stress, as he's already imagining all of the chaos and drama this could cause to all of you.

Boris tossed the frisbee again.

Meanwhile, out in the ocean, Mugman rode another wave toward shore.

This one was bigger.

The water curved beneath him like a wall of blue glass, lifting him higher, higher, and for a moment, it looked like he wasn’t even touching it, like he was suspended there.

Balanced between sky and sea.

Then he moved.

Smooth.

Controlled.

He carved down the side of the wave in a sweeping motion, the board cutting cleanly through the water like it belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

Then the wave broke, white foam rushed forward.

He rode it all the way into the shallows before stepping off, lifting the board under one arm like it weighed nothing.

Water dripped from his arms, his shoulders, his entire porcelain body glistening under the natural light, catching the light in small, shifting reflections.

His gaze drifted across the beach.

And stopped on you, just for a second.

He lifted a hand casually.

You waved back before your brain could intervene, still staring at him and admiring how the sun shines on his now wet muscles.

Just for you to immediately regretting it.

Behind you, Bendy leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing with absolute delight, a smug smile on his face that from miles away anyone could see that it could only mean danger.

“Oh?” he whispered.

“Oh this is going to be fun.” Cuphead snorted, observing with a smirk the way that you admired his brother. “I give it two days," he says, selling a new deal.

“One,” Bendy corrected.

Boris didn’t comment but he didn’t disagree either.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ 𓇼

Mugman reached the sand a minute later.

Droplets of seawater still sliding down his arms as he leaned his board against a wooden rack near the beach entrance.

The wood creaked faintly under the weight as he settled it into place, the nose of the board tapping lightly against one of the posts before going still.

His fingers lingered briefly on the edge of it, thumb brushing absently along a faint scratch in the surface, almost like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Like part of him was still out there, somewhere between the waves and the open water, caught in that steady rhythm of rise and fall.

But maybe you're just reading too much into this.

Yeah.

“You’re back already?” Cuphead called, not even bothering to sit up from where he was sprawled across the sand, one leg bent and the other stretched out lazily.

He lifted a hand just enough to shield his eyes from the sun, squinting in Mugman’s direction without moving anything else.

Mugman glanced over, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead to clear the saltwater from his head.

“Been out there for two hours.”

Cuphead lifted his head just enough to squint at him more dramatically, his expression slowly flattening into unimpressed disbelief.

“Amateur numbers.”

Mugman stared at him.

A long, unimpressed pause.

“You’ve been lying on the sand,” he said flatly, one eyebrow raising just slightly as he crossed his arms loosely.

“Training,” Cuphead replied immediately, not missing a beat as he dropped his head back down onto the sand with exaggerated relaxation, arms spreading out like he was demonstrating a technique.

Mugman didn’t move.

“For what?”

Cuphead shifted just enough to point vaguely at the sky, like the answer was obvious.

“Superior relaxation.”

There was a beat.

A seagull cried somewhere overhead.

Bendy snorted loudly from where he was sitting cross-legged, nearly choking on his drink as he turned away to cough into his elbow.

“That’s not a real skill,” he said once he recovered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin already creeping back.

“It absolutely is,” Cuphead shot back, lifting his head just enough to glare in Bendy’s direction before flopping back again. “You just lack discipline.”

Bendy leaned back onto his hands, tilting his head with mock offense.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize lying face-down in the sand counted as training.”

“You wouldn’t get it,” Cuphead said, waving him off lazily. “It’s advanced.”

“You lack shame,” Bendy replied, raising an eyebrow.

Cuphead paused for exactly one second.

Then shrugged, with a smirk.

“That too.”

Boris tossed a frisbee, the bright orange disc spinning lazily in the sunlight before dropping neatly back into his hand.

He didn’t even look up.

“That is accurate.”

Mugman huffed quietly under his breath, shaking his head as a small, almost reluctant smile flickered across his face before disappearing again.

He wiped the remaining saltwater from his hands, brushing them against his shorts before finally looking toward you.

And something in his expression softened, just slightly.

Not enough to be obvious but it was there, a small shift in his eyes.

A quiet warmth that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“You still want to try surfing?” he asked.

His voice wasn’t loud, it didn’t really need to be.

Your stomach flipped immediately.

“…Do I really have to?” you asked, instinctively drawing your arms a little closer to yourself as if that might somehow protect you from the ocean.

Cuphead snorted from the ground, turning his head just enough to glance between the two of you.

“That’s not a no.”

Mugman ignored him completely, stepping a little closer to you instead, his attention steady and entirely focused.

“You asked yesterday.”

“That was before I realized the ocean was terrifying,” you shot back, gesturing vaguely toward the water like it was personally responsible.

“It’s not terrifying.”

“It absolutely is.”

Bendy leaned in from the side, lowering his voice dramatically as he rested his chin in his hand, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“The ocean is full of mysteries.”

You didn’t even look at him.

“Do not help.”

“Some of which,” he continued anyway, lifting one finger like he was about to give a lecture, “have teeth—”

“Bendy.”

“And some of them are probably watching us right now—”

“BENDY.”

He paused.

Then slowly broke into a grin.

“Just saying.”

Cuphead snickered.

“Liar.”

Boris tossed the frisbee again.

Mugman shook his head, exhaling softly through his nose, but there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before it faded again as he looked back at you.

There was a small pause.

A quieter one this time.

“…I’ll stay close,” he added.

His voice dropped just slightly, softer, less teasing, more real and certain, like he truly he meant it.

That did not help your heart.

At all.

Your gaze flickered up to him again, just for a second too long — long enough to catch the steadiness in his expression, the quiet sincerity there — before you looked away quickly, pretending to focus on the sand instead.

“…That’s not fair,” you muttered.

“What?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, confusion flickering across his face.

“You can’t just say that like it’s reassuring.”

“It is reassuring,” he said, a little more firmly this time, brows knitting slightly like he didn’t understand the problem.

“It is—” you started, then stopped, exhaling slowly as you rubbed the back of your neck. “It is, but that’s not the point.”

He watched you for a second longer than necessary.

Trying to figure something out, like he almost understood, but still not quite.

Behind you, Cuphead suddenly pushed himself up onto his elbows, nudging Bendy with a grin that was way too knowing.

“They’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Bendy whispered back immediately, leaning closer like this was important.

“The thing.”

Bendy’s eyes widened slightly.

Then he nodded, completely serious.

“Ohhh. The thing.”

Boris didn’t look up from the frisbee.

“They will go.”

“Yeah,” Cuphead said, settling back down with a satisfied smirk. “They always do.”

Meanwhile, Mugman had already turned back to the rack, grabbing another surfboard and pulling it free with an easy, practiced motion. The board slid loose with a soft scrape of wood, and he adjusted his grip without even thinking about it.

He glanced back at you over his shoulder.

“Come on.”

Simple and completely casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, almost like he hadn’t just completely thrown your entire emotional balance off.

You stared at him.

At the board tucked under his arm.

At the ocean stretching endlessly behind him.

At the waves rolling in like they had something personal against you.

At your rapidly declining sense of self-preservation.

Then you looked back at him.

Still waiting, still calm.

You sighed, long and dramatic enough.

“…If I die, I’m blaming all of you.”

“You won’t die,” Cuphead said immediately, not even opening his eyes.

“Statistically unlikely,” Boris added, catching the frisbee again with a soft thwap.

“Emotionally possible,” Bendy chimed in, a big smile on his face, raising his drink like he was making a toast.

You pointed at him.

“Not helping!”

“Never my goal.”

You hesitated for half a second longer, then stood anyway.

Brushing sand from your hands.

From your legs.

From all your dignity left.

“…I hate all of you,” you muttered.

“Love you too!” Cuphead called lazily.

Mugman didn’t say anything.

But as you stepped closer to him, he shifted slightly, just enough to match your pace when you started walking.

Like he had already decided he really was going to stay close.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ 𓇼

The sand grew cooler beneath your feet as you walked closer to the water.

It shifted softly with each step, warm and loose at first, grains slipping and sliding under your weight, before gradually giving way to damp, packed sand near the shoreline that held your steps more firmly.

Your pace slowed without you meaning it to, each step a little more deliberate than the last, like your body was trying to stall for time.

Your footprints became clearer there, more defined, pressed deeper into the sand before the tide crept in just enough to blur their edges away again.

Like they had never been there at all.

You glanced back at them for a second too long.

“…That’s unsettling,” you muttered under your breath.

Mugman glanced over his shoulder briefly.

“What is?”

“My footprints just disappearing like that.”

He followed your gaze, then shrugged lightly.

“That’s just the tide.”

“That’s exactly what makes it unsettling.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly.

Small waves curled across the shore, sliding over your toes before retreating back into the ocean, leaving thin trails of foam behind that clung briefly to your skin before dissolving.

The first touch of water made you tense instinctively, your toes curling slightly into the sand.

Cold, not freezing but colder than expected.

You pulled your foot back automatically.

Then forced yourself forward again.

The water looked calm from a distance.

Gentle, almost inviting.

But up close it felt much bigger.

The horizon stretched endlessly, blending into the sky in a way that made it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Endless.

Alive in a way that made your chest tighten slightly, like it was breathing, like it was aware.

“You’re thinking too much,” Mugman said, stepping into the water without hesitation.

The surfboard rested easily against his side, his grip loose and familiar as the waves brushed against him like it was nothing, showing it was something he’d done a thousand times before.

“I’m thinking about survival,” you replied, stepping in after him with much less confidence, your shoulders tensing slightly as another small wave rolled in.

The water climbed slowly up your ankles, then your calves, cool and shifting, tugging faintly at your legs as it moved past.

“You’re not going to drown.”

“You sound very confident about that,” you said, glancing at him with narrowed eyes as you carefully took another step forward.

“I’ve been surfing since I was a kid,” he said, glancing back at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly like that should settle the matter.

“That does not help me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, turning a little more toward you as he continued walking backward through the water now, watching you instead of where he was going.

“It’s supposed to.”

“Well, it’s not working.”

“You’re still walking forward,” he pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward your legs with the hand not holding the board.

You paused mid-step.

“…I don’t like that you noticed that.”

“Too late,” he said lightly, a small grin slipping through before he looked ahead again.

The water rose slowly around your legs as you followed him farther into the surf, each step a little more hesitant than the last.

It pressed against you differently now.

Stronger, not enough to knock you over but enough to make you aware of it.

Aware of how easily it actually could.

The temperature dropped just enough to make you tense, your shoulders pulling in slightly as another wave rolled past, brushing higher this time.

The movement of the ocean tugged gently at you with each passing wave.

It wasn’t strong, but it was constant.

A steady pull that made you very aware of how easily it could knock you off balance if it wanted to.

You wobbled slightly as your foot shifted in the sand beneath you.

Mugman slowed immediately.

Matching your pace without pointing it out, without making it obvious.

When you wobbled again — just a little more noticeably this time — his hand hovered near your arm for a second.

Not touching, just there.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of it, ready, just in case.

You noticed.

And somehow that made you both more and less nervous at the same time.

He stopped when the water reached his waist and lowered the board into the water with practiced ease, guiding it down so it settled flat against the surface.

The board bobbed gently, rising and falling with the rhythm of the ocean.

“Alright,” he said, steadying it with one hand.

The board drifted slightly closer to you, nudging lightly against your leg before settling again.

“Lie down.”

You stared at it like it had personally offended you.

Then at the ocean.

Then back at him.

Your expression didn’t change.

But of course, your silence said everything.

He raised an eyebrow.

“…You’re NOT going to bite it.”

“I don’t trust it.”

“It’s a surfboard.”

“It’s floating.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

“That’s suspicious.”

Mugman blinked at you.

“…What?”

You hesitated.

“If I drown, I’m going to haunt you.”

“You won’t drown.”

“…Okay.”

There was a very long pause.

You didn’t move and he didn’t either.

The board bobbed between you.

“…Probably,” he added after a second, quieter, like he couldn’t help himself.

You flinched and stared at him.

“Mugman!”

He winced slightly.

“I’m kidding.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

“…That’s fair.”

You took a breath.

Then carefully — very carefully — climbed onto the board.

It rocked immediately beneath you, the sudden shift making your entire body tense as your hands shot out to grip the sides instinctively.

“Okay, nope, I hate this,” you said immediately, fingers tightening around the edges.

“You’re too tense,” Mugman said, stepping closer, one hand already reaching out toward the board.

“I’m on a floating plank in the middle of the ocean.”

“You’re ten feet from shore.”

“That’s still ocean.”

“That’s barely ocean.”

“That is a lot of ocean.”

He laughed quietly under his breath, the sound softer this time, less teasing — more fond, if anything — as he reached out and steadied the board with one hand.

The motion was firm, the wobbling eased just slightly.

“Lift your chest,” he said, adjusting his stance to keep the board stable as another small wave passed beneath it.

His other hand hovered for a second, like he was giving you time to object.

Then gently adjusted your posture, careful and eliberate.

His fingers pressed lightly against your side, guiding you into position, then shifted to your shoulder — steady, warm, reassuring.

His touch lingered just a second longer than necessary and that was more than enough to make your brain immediately stop functioning.

“There,” he said softly.

You forgot how to breathe for half a second.

The board drifted forward slightly.

“Now paddle.”

You dipped your arms into the water, pulling awkwardly at first, your movements uneven and hesitant as you tried to coordinate everything at once.

The board wobbled beneath you again.

You made a noise somewhere between a complaint and a threat.

“This feels illegal,” you muttered.

“It’s not illegal.”

“It feels illegal.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I don’t feel fine.”

“You look fine.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughed again, quieter this time, watching you more closely now.

Then, a shift in the water behind you.

The board lifted slightly.

“Keep paddling,” Mugman called, his tone shifting just a little — more focused now.

You paddled faster immediately, your movements suddenly much less coordinated.

“Why does that sound urgent?” you asked, voice rising slightly.

“It’s not urgent.”

“That sounded urgent.”

“It’s just a wave.”

“That doesn't help!”

The wave lifted the board beneath you, higher this time.

Your stomach flipped.

Your grip tightened.

“Stand up!”

"I'm going to fall!"

“Stand up!”

“I hate this!”

“Stand up!”

You pushed yourself upright, legs shaking slightly as you tried to find your balance

And for a moment, it clicked.

Balance.

Real, actual balance.

The board steadied beneath your feet.

Wind rushed past your ears.

The ocean moved beneath you instead of against you.

The shoreline got closer.

Faster.

You felt it, that brief, impossible moment of control.

“I’m doing it!”

Then your foot slipped.

Everything tilted.

And you crashed into the water with a loud splash.

Cold rushed around you instantly, sharp and overwhelming, disorienting and loud and everywhere all at once.

You surfaced a second later, sputtering and soaked, pushing wet hair out of your face with both hands as you tried to catch your breath.

“Okay!” you coughed. “I hate everything!”

Mugman was laughing, not teasing or mocking.

Just bright, unfiltered.

Head tilted back slightly, shoulders shaking, completely unguarded in a way you hadn’t really seen before.

The kind of laugh that made your chest feel warm instead of embarrassed.

“You lasted four seconds,” he said, still grinning.

You wiped water from your eyes, trying very hard not to smile.

“That’s four seconds of greatness.”

“That’s four seconds of improvement.”

“I’m retiring while I’m ahead.”

“You’re not allowed to retire after one attempt,” he said, stepping closer as the board drifted back toward him.

“I absolutely am.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, still smiling faintly as he reached out instinctively when another small wave rocked the board again.

His hand found yours without hesitation, his grip firm enough to ground you without pulling, helping you balance again as your feet found the sand beneath you.

“You’re trying again.”

“That sounds like a threat,” you said, glancing up at him, your voice softer now, less frantic.

“It’s encouragement.”

“It sounds like a death trap.”

“You’ll get it,” he said, more quietly this time.

There was a small pause.

“…Eventually,” you added.

“Eventually,” he agreed.

The water shifted gently around you both.

The board bobbed between you.

His hand was still holding yours.

Neither of you said anything about it.

Neither of you moved away.

And for a second—

Everything slowed.

The noise of the beach faded slightly.

The teasing voices from shore blurred into the background.

It was just the ocean.

The steady push and pull of the waves.

The warmth of his hand wrapped around yours.

The way his thumb shifted slightly, almost absentmindedly against your knuckles.

Then, from the distance—

“ROUND TWO!” Cuphead shouted.

Bendy’s voice followed immediately after.

“DON’T DIE!”

You blinked.

The moment shattered.

You exhaled, looking away slightly, your grip loosening just a fraction before tightening again without thinking.

“…I’m going to pretend they don't exist,” you said.

“Good plan,” Mugman replied, though there was still a hint of a smile in his voice.

But neither of you let go right away.

And somehow—

That felt more important than anything else.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ 𓇼

When you returned to shore, the volleyball net had appeared like it had always been there.

You slowed slightly as you stepped out of the water, sand clinging to your damp feet as they sank lightly with each step. The shift from the cool ocean to the warm air made your skin prickle, droplets of water still sliding down your arms and shoulders.

“…That wasn’t there before,” you said, squinting at the net like it had personally betrayed you.

Mugman followed your gaze, dragging a hand through his body, still catching his breath slightly from the water.

“…Nope,” he muttered.

Cuphead stood beneath it, spinning the volleyball lazily in his hands, the motion smooth and practiced as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Like he’d been waiting, as if he planned this.

“Perfect timing,” he said, flashing a grin that immediately set off alarms.

Mugman groaned before you could even respond, dragging both hands down his face.

“No,” he said flatly, already turning like he was about to walk the other direction.

“Yes,” Cuphead replied instantly, tossing the ball lightly from one hand to the other.

Mugman pointed at him, narrowing his eyes.

“I just got out of the ocean.”

“And now you’re warmed up,” Cuphead shot back, completely unfazed.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re alive.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

Mugman let his arms fall to his sides with a quiet, defeated exhale.

“…You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told,” Cuphead said proudly, placing a hand against his chest like it was an achievement.

Bendy bounced on his hooves nearby, sand kicking up slightly around his feet as he leaned forward with barely contained excitement.

“I volunteer for chaos,” he announced, raising one hand dramatically like he was being sworn into something important.

Cuphead didn’t even look at him.

“You’re not good at volleyball.”

Bendy gasped, placing a hand over his heart.

“I’m good at enthusiasm.”

“That’s worse.”

“It’s a strength.”

“It’s a liability.”

Bendy leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.

“It’s unpredictable.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

Meanwhile, Boris sat a few feet away in the sand, legs stretched out in front of him, holding the frisbee upright against his chest like it was some kind of official badge.

His gaze moved slowly between all of you, calm and observant.

“Teams,” he said simply.

And somehow that settled it.

Teams formed quickly.

Cuphead and Bendy on one side.

Cuphead cracked his knuckles like he was about to enter a tournament.

Bendy stretched dramatically, nearly losing his balance in the process before catching himself at the last second.

“I’m ready,” he declared.

“You’re never ready,” Cuphead said.

“Emotionally, I am.”

“Same thing.”

Mugman and you on the other.

Mugman stepped into the sand with a quiet sigh, rolling his shoulders slightly like he was bracing himself.

You stood beside him, arms still slightly damp, brushing sand off your hands as you eyed the net.

“…I feel like we’re at a disadvantage,” you said.

“We are,” Mugman replied immediately.

“Wow. Okay.”

“But,” he added, glancing at you briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, “we might survive.”

“…That’s not comforting.”

“It’s realistic.”

Boris adjusted his grip on the frisbee, lifting it slightly.

“I will observe.”

“You’re the referee now?” Cuphead called.

Boris gave a small nod.

“Yes.”

“…Who decided that?”

“I did.”

Cuphead blinked.

“…Fair enough.”

The game began.

Cuphead stepped back, bouncing the ball once against the sand before catching it again, his posture shifting — more focused now.

More intense.

Way too intense for what this was.

“Ready?” he called.

“No,” Mugman said immediately.

“Great,” Cuphead replied.

He served.

Hard.

The ball cut through the air faster than expected, spinning slightly as it shot straight toward you.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Oh no—”

You swung wildly, arms flailing with zero coordination.

The ball connected, but not in the direction you intended.

It flew sideways.

Fast.

—And smacked directly into Mugman’s face.

The sound was solid.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Mugman didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

He just stood there, head tilted slightly from the impact.

Bendy collapsed instantly, dropping to his knees in the sand as he burst into laughter, one hand slapping the ground.

“I— I can’t!” he wheezed.

Cuphead doubled over, clutching his stomach as he laughed.

“That was perfect!”

Boris calmly raised one finger.

“Point.”

Mugman slowly lifted a hand to his face, rubbing the spot where the ball had hit, his expression completely blank.

“You’re banned from sports,” he said, voice flat.

“I tried!” you said, stepping toward him slightly, hands hovering like you didn’t know whether to apologize or defend yourself.

“That was an attack.”

“It was not!”

“You aimed.”

“I panicked!”

“That felt intentional.”

“It was not intentional!”

Bendy was still laughing in the background.

“I’ve never seen someone take out their own teammate so fast!”

“Silence,” Mugman muttered, not even looking at him.

The game continued anyway.

It was chaos.

Absolute, unstoppable chaos.

Bendy dove dramatically for balls he had absolutely no chance of reaching, launching himself across the sand with full commitment.

“I had it!” he shouted mid-air.

Before immediately faceplanting into the sand, a small cloud puffed up around him.

He stayed there for a second.

Then lifted his head slightly.

“…I almost had it,” he added, voice muffled.

“You were six feet away,” Cuphead said.

“It was a strategic dive.”

“You dove into absolute nothing.”

“I dove into potential.”

Cuphead didn’t respond.

He just shook his head and served again.

Harder.

Every spike from him felt like he was trying to win a championship match, his movements sharp and precise as he jumped slightly to hit the ball down with unnecessary force.

“Why are you like this?!” you called from your side.

“Winning builds character!” Cuphead shouted back.

“This is a beach!”

“Exactly!”

You hit the ball again—

This time successfully sending it over the net.

“…I did it!” you said, surprised.

Mugman glanced at you.

“Nice—”

The ball came back immediately.

Fast.

You reacted on instinct.

Swung again.

The ball ricocheted—

—And hit Mugman.

Again.

This time in the shoulder.

There was another pause.

Longer than the first.

Mugman didn’t even flinch.

He just looked at you slowly.

“…That’s two,” he said.

“I said I was sorry!”

“That felt personal.”

“It’s not personal!”

“It’s becoming personal.”

“I don’t control the ball!”

“You absolutely don’t.”

Bendy was back on his feet now, still grinning.

“This is my favorite game.”

“Of course it is,” Mugman muttered.

The rally continued.

Somehow.

Just barely.

You managed to hit the ball once more—

And somehow—

Somehow—

It hit Mugman again.

A third time.

This time, he didn’t even react.

Didn’t blink, didn’t even bother to speak.

He just stood there in silence.

Processing.

“…I’m switching teams,” he said finally.

“No you’re not,” Cuphead called immediately.

“Please take me,” Mugman added, already stepping toward the net.

“Denied,” Cuphead said.

“You don’t want me on that side.”

“I really don’t.”

“Understandable.”

Boris, still seated in the sand, slowly lowered the frisbee.

He watched the scene for a moment longer.

Then set it down beside him.

“I will stop counting,” he said.

“No one’s winning anyway.”

“Correct.”

The game dissolved from there.

Not officially but functionally.

Points stopped mattering, rules simply stopped existing.

It became less about volleyball—

And more about dodging, shouting, laughing, and occasionally surviving.

Somehow, that made it better.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ 𓇼

By the time the sky began turning orange with sunset, everyone had collapsed onto the sand in a tired, tangled mess of limbs and laughter.

It hadn’t even been coordinated.

One moment you were all still moving — half-heartedly tossing the ball, arguing over points that no longer mattered — and the next, it was like the energy just… gave out all at once.

Cuphead dropped first, falling backward into the sand with a dramatic groan, one arm thrown over his face like he’d just survived something life-threatening.

“I’m never moving again,” he declared, voice muffled slightly.

“You say that every time,” Bendy said, immediately flopping down beside him — except less gracefully, his limbs landing at odd angles before he adjusted, kicking up sand in the process.

“This time I mean it.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You won’t.”

There was a beat.

“…Okay, maybe I won’t,” Cuphead admitted.

Boris lowered himself down more carefully, sitting first before leaning back onto his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him with a quiet exhale.

“I'm exhausted just from watching this,” he said.

Mugman dropped down a second later, sitting first before leaning back slightly, bracing himself on his hands, shoulders rising and falling a little heavier than usual.

You followed, easing down into the sand near him, your muscles still humming faintly from the day, your limbs feeling pleasantly heavy.

The air felt warmer now, softer.

The sharp brightness of the afternoon had faded into something golden.

Like the whole beach had taken a breath.

Bendy stretched dramatically, arching his back and reaching his arms high above his head, fingers spread wide.

“You know what this day needs?” he announced, glancing around like he was about to deliver something profound.

Cuphead groaned immediately, dragging his arm off his face just enough to squint at him.

“If you say fireworks—”

“A bonfire.”

There was a pause.

Cuphead blinked.

Then shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbows.

“…Actually that’s not terrible.”

“I have good ideas,” Bendy said, pointing at himself proudly.

“You have ideas,” Cuphead corrected.

“Rude.”

Driftwood was gathered in uneven stacks.

At first, it was chaotic.

Bendy picked up pieces that were far too small.

Cuphead grabbed ones that were unnecessarily large.

You carried a few in your arms, brushing sand off them as you brought them over, occasionally glancing toward Mugman, who was doing the same but more efficiently — stacking them nearby before stepping back.

Boris took over without saying much.

He knelt in the sand, adjusting the pieces with quiet precision, turning them, stacking them, building something that actually resembled a structure instead of a pile.

Bendy hovered nearby, hands on his hips.

“I am supervising,” he said.

“You are in the way,” Boris replied calmly, not even looking up.

“I am contributing.”

“You are not.”

“I am contributing morale.”

“Step back.”

Bendy stepped back.

Immediately stepped forward again.

“What if we add this one—”

“No.”

“…Okay.”

The fire crackled to life slowly.

It started small.

A flicker.

Then another.

Until the flames caught properly, curling upward in warm shades of orange and gold, the light dancing across all of your faces as the sky deepened into richer hues.

The ocean rolled gently nearby, its earlier intensity softened into something calm and steady, the waves quieter now—less forceful, more rhythmic.

The air carried a faint mix of salt and smoke.

Comforting.

Stars began appearing overhead.

One by one.

Faint at first.

Then brighter.

More of them, scattered across the darkening sky like they’d always been there — just waiting.

You sat beside Mugman on a large piece of driftwood, the surface rough beneath you, worn smooth in places by time and water.

Close enough that your shoulders almost brushed.

But not quite, not yet.

You were both aware of it.

Neither of you said anything.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The fire popped softly, sending small sparks upward that disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared.

The waves filled the silence, steady and familiar.

Grounding.

Mugman shifted slightly beside you, adjusting his posture, one hand resting loosely against the wood, the other tracing faint, absent patterns in the sand near his feet.

“You did good today,” he said eventually, his voice quieter now — less playful than before.

You glanced at him briefly, then back at the fire.

“I hit you with a volleyball.”

“Not the part I meant,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.

You let out a small breath that almost passed for a laugh.

“I liked surfing,” you admitted, your voice softer, your gaze fixed on the flames as they flickered and shifted.

“I knew you would,” he said.

There was something quiet in his voice.

Not teasing or even smug, just certain.

Across the fire, Bendy leaned toward Cuphead, lowering his voice in a way that was absolutely not subtle.

“I bet five bucks that they'll confess tonight,” he whispered, eyes flicking toward you and Mugman with poorly concealed interest.

Cuphead didn’t even hesitate.

“I’ll take it,” he said, just as quietly, though his grin gave him away.

Boris, sitting nearby with a stick carefully rotating a marshmallow over the fire, didn’t look up.

“Of course they will,” he said calmly.

Neither of you noticed.

Mugman stared at the sand for a moment, drawing small, uneven lines in it with a stick, the tip dragging slowly as if the motion itself was helping him think.

Helping him stall.

“I’m glad you came here,” he said quietly.

You turned your head slightly toward him.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

A pause settled between you.

Not uncomfortable.

Simply heavier, more noticeable, the kind that made everything else feel quieter by comparison.

“I don’t usually…” he started, then stopped, his grip tightening slightly on the stick before he exhaled and let it drag another line into the sand.

You didn’t interrupt.

You just waited.

He exhaled softly.

“I don’t usually let people get this close.”

Your chest tightened at that, your fingers curling slightly against your palm.

“Then… why me?” you asked, your voice quieter than before.

He briefly glanced at you, almost like holding your gaze for too long would make this harder.

“…You stayed,” he said.

The memory flickered — standing on the shore, watching him out in the water, waiting.

“You didn’t have to,” he added, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful.

“I wanted to,” you replied, just as quietly.

Another pause.

Closer now, warmer, the space between your hands felt smaller somehow.

“I quite like you,” he said.

It came out quieter than before.

Less certain, although more real, like he wasn’t hiding behind anything this time.

Your heart stumbled — actually stumbled.

“I…” you started, then stopped, your breath catching slightly as you tried to find something that didn’t feel too small.

Too clumsy.

Too obvious.

Words felt inadequate.

So you tried again.

“I quite like you too.”

Across the fire, Cuphead silently pumped his fist, biting back a grin.

Bendy immediately covered his mouth, leaning toward him.

“I told you,” he whispered, barely containing his excitement.

Boris calmly ate his marshmallow.

Mugman let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, his shoulders relaxing slightly like something he’d been holding onto all day had finally eased.

Like he hadn’t entirely expected that answer.

And then, slowly—

He reached for your hand.

Not confidently.

Not smoothly.

A little hesitant.

His fingers paused just short for half a second, giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

Your fingers curled around his.

His grip tightened just slightly once he realized you weren’t pulling away, his thumb brushing lightly against yours in a small, almost absentminded motion.

Your heart did something completely unreasonable.

Neither of you looked at each other right away.

That would’ve been too much.

Too obvious.

Too real.

Instead, your shoulders shifted just slightly closer.

Barely noticeable but just enough.

Enough that this time—

They brushed.

Lightly.

And neither of you moved away.

The ocean breeze drifted through the night air, soft and warm against your skin, carrying the quiet rhythm of the waves with it.

The fire crackled.

The waves rolled in quietly against the shore.

Laughter still lingered faintly in the background.

And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything felt still.

Like the moment had settled into place.

Like it was meant to be there.

Like maybe… just maybe…

You had found somewhere you belonged.

And someone, too.

Author's note: I think you guys can already imagine how afraid of the sea I am from the detailed descriptions of the reader going surfing for the first time. That's exactly how I felt putting my feet in the sea for the first time this year, and I definitely won't stop being afraid of it, even though I enjoyed my time floating there LMFAO.

Also, someone requested this a long time ago but I can't remember or find out who it was, but I hope you guys enjoyed this one <3

By the way the reader is so down bad for Mugman here on this one, I know how OUT OF SHAME you guys — especially the creator HERSELF of said au — are when it comes to Ink Beach Mugman, shame on all of you !!! /jk/aff

[dadjokingpunk]

Wanna See A Magic Trick?

Good! Abracadabra!!

But wait! There’s more!

Ever read a story so good it brings you out of your burnout just to draw fanart?

[elltournesoll]

OMGOMGOMGOMGGGG AGAIN??????????? DUDE YOU KEEP COOKING SO HARD THIS IS AMAZING I HAD TO MAKE MY FRIENDS DROP EVERYTHING THEY WERE DOING TO SEE THIS I LOVE YOUR ART 💖💖💖

[elltournesoll]

Gift for: @doshi-sukiru and @chrysiskowot

Where The Tide Meets Us — Ink Beach

Summary: A simple beach day turns into something softer, warmer, and harder to ignore than expected, between failed surfing attempts, chaotic volleyball matches, and a quiet bonfire under the stars, small moments begin to mean more than they should.

And somewhere between the waves and the silence — something changes.

Pairing: Ink Beach! Mugman x Reader

Genre: Romance (Primary), Slice of Life, Comedy / Light Humor and Fluff

Trope: Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, He Falls First (Subtle), Soft Confession, "Beach Episode" / Vacation, Found Family / Group Dynamics, Bonfire Confession Scene, Clumsy Affection, Physical Near-Misses (Almost Touching), Teasing Friends as Wingmen and Comfort Through Presence (Not Words)

Rating: T (Teen)

Ink Beach belongs to: @thekaeru2 hiii twin hiii waves hello

Her au blog: @theinkbeach go check it out right now !!!

Ink Beach smelled like salt, sunscreen, and warm sand.

The scent clung to everything—your clothes, your body, even the wooden railings along the boardwalk that stretched beside the shoreline.

It lingered stubbornly, woven into the air so deeply it felt impossible to escape, like the beach itself had decided you belonged to it now.

The breeze rolling in from the ocean carried it gently through the air, threading it between the distant sounds of laughter, seagulls crying overhead, and waves breaking in soft, rhythmic crashes against the shore.

It was the kind of sound that didn’t demand your attention, but somehow never let it go either.

It had only been a few weeks since you arrived with Bendy and Boris, but the place already felt different from anywhere you’d ever been.

Quieter in some ways.

Louder in others.

The ocean itself never stopped moving, even when you tried to focus on something else, you could always hear it — rolling endlessly toward the sand like a living thing breathing in and out.

Steady and constant.

Almost comforting.

You sat cross-legged on a striped beach towel, absentmindedly dragging your fingers through the sand beside you. The grains slipped between them easily, warm from the sun, sticking faintly to your skin.

You watched the horizon.

Well—

Mostly watched one specific person.

Far out past the shallows, Mugman rode the crest of a rising wave, his surfboard slicing cleanly across the water as he leaned into the turn.

The sunlight reflected off the surface of the ocean, scattering silver light across the shifting waves, making everything shimmer like glass.

He looked completely at ease.

Focused.

Like the ocean simply belonged to him.

Every movement he made seemed instinctive, small adjustments of his stance, the subtle shift of his weight, the way he leaned just slightly before the wave curled and broke behind him.

No hesitation.

No second-guessing.

Just movement.

Just flow.

It was honestly mesmerizing.

“…You’re staring again.”

The voice beside you made you jump slightly, your attention snapping away from the water.

You turned your head and found Cuphead sprawled lazily across the sand beside you, one arm tucked behind his head while the other lazily traced patterns into the sand. His red-striped straw tilted just enough to match the smirk pulling at his expression.

A bright red volleyball rested beside him, half buried in the sand like it had been abandoned mid-game hours ago.

“I’m not staring,” you said quickly, defensively.

Cuphead didn’t even bother pretending to believe you.

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m watching the waves.”

“Sure you are.”

He didn’t even look at the ocean, his grin widened slowly, like he was savoring this.

“Because the waves definitely look like Mugman.”

You opened your mouth but immediately realized you had nothing to say.

Because unfortunately, he wasn’t really wrong.

Your gaze flickered back toward the water for half a second before you caught yourself.

“I just — he’s — surfing!” you said weakly, making desperate gestures with your hands, both towards where Mugman is surfing and towards the ocean as a whole.

“Yeah,” Cuphead nodded. “He tends to do that.”

Before you could attempt a better defense, a soft thwip sound came from the shade nearby, catching yours and Cuphead's attention away from the discussion you were having, both looking toward the source of the sound.

Boris sat beneath a large striped beach umbrella a few feet away, tossing a bright orange frisbee into the air and catching it again with quiet, effortless precision.

Up.

Catch.

Pause.

Turn.

Repeat.

Like he was operating on a completely different pace than the rest of the world.

He caught it again, turning it slowly in his hands before glancing over at you.

“You like him.”

You nearly inhaled sand.

Your entire body jerked slightly, and for a horrifying second you thought you might actually choke.

Cuphead burst into laughter so suddenly he had to sit up, one hand pressing against his side.

“Boris!” he wheezed. “You can’t just — drop that like it’s nothing!” he continued laughing, at you and at what Boris just said without any filter whatsoever.

Boris shrugged calmly.

“They keep looking at him.”

“I do not—!”

“You do,” Cuphead interrupted immediately, while still giggling to himself.

“Repeatedly,” Boris added, face still with a calm expression, but his gaze suggested he knew more than you let him know.

Your face felt hotter than the sun overhead.

“I am just— observing!”

Cuphead snorted.

“Yeah, observing him specifically.”

Before you could dig yourself any deeper into this increasingly embarrassing hole, a cheerful voice drifted in from behind.

“Well well well… Are we discussing romance without inviting me?”

Bendy dropped down beside the group like a mischievous shadow, landing in the sand with exaggerated flair like he had been waiting for the perfect dramatic entrance.

He was holding a bright blue frozen drink with a tiny umbrella sticking out of the top.

Cuphead immediately squinted at it.

“…Did you pay for that?”

Bendy took a slow sip, eyes closing like he was savoring something rare and expensive.

“Define ‘pay.’”

“You stole it.”

“I prefer the term borrowed indefinitely.”

“From who?”

Bendy gestured vaguely toward the boardwalk without even turning around.

“Technically… the smoothie stand.”

“You are going to get us banned," Cuphead groaned loudly while facepalming his face.

“They have more,” Bendy said simply, shrugging his shoulders like it's nothing and he definitely didn't just steal the drink, when he could've easily buy it with his own money.

“That is not the point!”

Cuphead argued back, the drink inside his head starting to boil with stress, as he's already imagining all of the chaos and drama this could cause to all of you.

Boris tossed the frisbee again.

Meanwhile, out in the ocean, Mugman rode another wave toward shore.

This one was bigger.

The water curved beneath him like a wall of blue glass, lifting him higher, higher, and for a moment, it looked like he wasn’t even touching it, like he was suspended there.

Balanced between sky and sea.

Then he moved.

Smooth.

Controlled.

He carved down the side of the wave in a sweeping motion, the board cutting cleanly through the water like it belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

Then the wave broke, white foam rushed forward.

He rode it all the way into the shallows before stepping off, lifting the board under one arm like it weighed nothing.

Water dripped from his arms, his shoulders, his entire porcelain body glistening under the natural light, catching the light in small, shifting reflections.

His gaze drifted across the beach.

And stopped on you, just for a second.

He lifted a hand casually.

You waved back before your brain could intervene, still staring at him and admiring how the sun shines on his now wet muscles.

Just for you to immediately regretting it.

Behind you, Bendy leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing with absolute delight, a smug smile on his face that from miles away anyone could see that it could only mean danger.

“Oh?” he whispered.

“Oh this is going to be fun.” Cuphead snorted, observing with a smirk the way that you admired his brother. “I give it two days," he says, selling a new deal.

“One,” Bendy corrected.

Boris didn’t comment but he didn’t disagree either.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ 𓇼

Mugman reached the sand a minute later.

Droplets of seawater still sliding down his arms as he leaned his board against a wooden rack near the beach entrance.

The wood creaked faintly under the weight as he settled it into place, the nose of the board tapping lightly against one of the posts before going still.

His fingers lingered briefly on the edge of it, thumb brushing absently along a faint scratch in the surface, almost like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Like part of him was still out there, somewhere between the waves and the open water, caught in that steady rhythm of rise and fall.

But maybe you're just reading too much into this.

Yeah.

“You’re back already?” Cuphead called, not even bothering to sit up from where he was sprawled across the sand, one leg bent and the other stretched out lazily.

He lifted a hand just enough to shield his eyes from the sun, squinting in Mugman’s direction without moving anything else.

Mugman glanced over, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead to clear the saltwater from his head.

“Been out there for two hours.”

Cuphead lifted his head just enough to squint at him more dramatically, his expression slowly flattening into unimpressed disbelief.

“Amateur numbers.”

Mugman stared at him.

A long, unimpressed pause.

“You’ve been lying on the sand,” he said flatly, one eyebrow raising just slightly as he crossed his arms loosely.

“Training,” Cuphead replied immediately, not missing a beat as he dropped his head back down onto the sand with exaggerated relaxation, arms spreading out like he was demonstrating a technique.

Mugman didn’t move.

“For what?”

Cuphead shifted just enough to point vaguely at the sky, like the answer was obvious.

“Superior relaxation.”

There was a beat.

A seagull cried somewhere overhead.

Bendy snorted loudly from where he was sitting cross-legged, nearly choking on his drink as he turned away to cough into his elbow.

“That’s not a real skill,” he said once he recovered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin already creeping back.

“It absolutely is,” Cuphead shot back, lifting his head just enough to glare in Bendy’s direction before flopping back again. “You just lack discipline.”

Bendy leaned back onto his hands, tilting his head with mock offense.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize lying face-down in the sand counted as training.”

“You wouldn’t get it,” Cuphead said, waving him off lazily. “It’s advanced.”

“You lack shame,” Bendy replied, raising an eyebrow.

Cuphead paused for exactly one second.

Then shrugged, with a smirk.

“That too.”

Boris tossed a frisbee, the bright orange disc spinning lazily in the sunlight before dropping neatly back into his hand.

He didn’t even look up.

“That is accurate.”

Mugman huffed quietly under his breath, shaking his head as a small, almost reluctant smile flickered across his face before disappearing again.

He wiped the remaining saltwater from his hands, brushing them against his shorts before finally looking toward you.

And something in his expression softened, just slightly.

Not enough to be obvious but it was there, a small shift in his eyes.

A quiet warmth that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“You still want to try surfing?” he asked.

His voice wasn’t loud, it didn’t really need to be.

Your stomach flipped immediately.

“…Do I really have to?” you asked, instinctively drawing your arms a little closer to yourself as if that might somehow protect you from the ocean.

Cuphead snorted from the ground, turning his head just enough to glance between the two of you.

“That’s not a no.”

Mugman ignored him completely, stepping a little closer to you instead, his attention steady and entirely focused.

“You asked yesterday.”

“That was before I realized the ocean was terrifying,” you shot back, gesturing vaguely toward the water like it was personally responsible.

“It’s not terrifying.”

“It absolutely is.”

Bendy leaned in from the side, lowering his voice dramatically as he rested his chin in his hand, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“The ocean is full of mysteries.”

You didn’t even look at him.

“Do not help.”

“Some of which,” he continued anyway, lifting one finger like he was about to give a lecture, “have teeth—”

“Bendy.”

“And some of them are probably watching us right now—”

“BENDY.”

He paused.

Then slowly broke into a grin.

“Just saying.”

Cuphead snickered.

“Liar.”

Boris tossed the frisbee again.

Mugman shook his head, exhaling softly through his nose, but there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before it faded again as he looked back at you.

There was a small pause.

A quieter one this time.

“…I’ll stay close,” he added.

His voice dropped just slightly, softer, less teasing, more real and certain, like he truly he meant it.

That did not help your heart.

At all.

Your gaze flickered up to him again, just for a second too long — long enough to catch the steadiness in his expression, the quiet sincerity there — before you looked away quickly, pretending to focus on the sand instead.

“…That’s not fair,” you muttered.

“What?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, confusion flickering across his face.

“You can’t just say that like it’s reassuring.”

“It is reassuring,” he said, a little more firmly this time, brows knitting slightly like he didn’t understand the problem.

“It is—” you started, then stopped, exhaling slowly as you rubbed the back of your neck. “It is, but that’s not the point.”

He watched you for a second longer than necessary.

Trying to figure something out, like he almost understood, but still not quite.

Behind you, Cuphead suddenly pushed himself up onto his elbows, nudging Bendy with a grin that was way too knowing.

“They’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Bendy whispered back immediately, leaning closer like this was important.

“The thing.”

Bendy’s eyes widened slightly.

Then he nodded, completely serious.

“Ohhh. The thing.”

Boris didn’t look up from the frisbee.

“They will go.”

“Yeah,” Cuphead said, settling back down with a satisfied smirk. “They always do.”

Meanwhile, Mugman had already turned back to the rack, grabbing another surfboard and pulling it free with an easy, practiced motion. The board slid loose with a soft scrape of wood, and he adjusted his grip without even thinking about it.

He glanced back at you over his shoulder.

“Come on.”

Simple and completely casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, almost like he hadn’t just completely thrown your entire emotional balance off.

You stared at him.

At the board tucked under his arm.

At the ocean stretching endlessly behind him.

At the waves rolling in like they had something personal against you.

At your rapidly declining sense of self-preservation.

Then you looked back at him.

Still waiting, still calm.

You sighed, long and dramatic enough.

“…If I die, I’m blaming all of you.”

“You won’t die,” Cuphead said immediately, not even opening his eyes.

“Statistically unlikely,” Boris added, catching the frisbee again with a soft thwap.

“Emotionally possible,” Bendy chimed in, a big smile on his face, raising his drink like he was making a toast.

You pointed at him.

“Not helping!”

“Never my goal.”

You hesitated for half a second longer, then stood anyway.

Brushing sand from your hands.

From your legs.

From all your dignity left.

“…I hate all of you,” you muttered.

“Love you too!” Cuphead called lazily.

Mugman didn’t say anything.

But as you stepped closer to him, he shifted slightly, just enough to match your pace when you started walking.

Like he had already decided he really was going to stay close.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ 𓇼

The sand grew cooler beneath your feet as you walked closer to the water.

It shifted softly with each step, warm and loose at first, grains slipping and sliding under your weight, before gradually giving way to damp, packed sand near the shoreline that held your steps more firmly.

Your pace slowed without you meaning it to, each step a little more deliberate than the last, like your body was trying to stall for time.

Your footprints became clearer there, more defined, pressed deeper into the sand before the tide crept in just enough to blur their edges away again.

Like they had never been there at all.

You glanced back at them for a second too long.

“…That’s unsettling,” you muttered under your breath.

Mugman glanced over his shoulder briefly.

“What is?”

“My footprints just disappearing like that.”

He followed your gaze, then shrugged lightly.

“That’s just the tide.”

“That’s exactly what makes it unsettling.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly.

Small waves curled across the shore, sliding over your toes before retreating back into the ocean, leaving thin trails of foam behind that clung briefly to your skin before dissolving.

The first touch of water made you tense instinctively, your toes curling slightly into the sand.

Cold, not freezing but colder than expected.

You pulled your foot back automatically.

Then forced yourself forward again.

The water looked calm from a distance.

Gentle, almost inviting.

But up close it felt much bigger.

The horizon stretched endlessly, blending into the sky in a way that made it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Endless.

Alive in a way that made your chest tighten slightly, like it was breathing, like it was aware.

“You’re thinking too much,” Mugman said, stepping into the water without hesitation.

The surfboard rested easily against his side, his grip loose and familiar as the waves brushed against him like it was nothing, showing it was something he’d done a thousand times before.

“I’m thinking about survival,” you replied, stepping in after him with much less confidence, your shoulders tensing slightly as another small wave rolled in.

The water climbed slowly up your ankles, then your calves, cool and shifting, tugging faintly at your legs as it moved past.

“You’re not going to drown.”

“You sound very confident about that,” you said, glancing at him with narrowed eyes as you carefully took another step forward.

“I’ve been surfing since I was a kid,” he said, glancing back at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly like that should settle the matter.

“That does not help me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, turning a little more toward you as he continued walking backward through the water now, watching you instead of where he was going.

“It’s supposed to.”

“Well, it’s not working.”

“You’re still walking forward,” he pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward your legs with the hand not holding the board.

You paused mid-step.

“…I don’t like that you noticed that.”

“Too late,” he said lightly, a small grin slipping through before he looked ahead again.

The water rose slowly around your legs as you followed him farther into the surf, each step a little more hesitant than the last.

It pressed against you differently now.

Stronger, not enough to knock you over but enough to make you aware of it.

Aware of how easily it actually could.

The temperature dropped just enough to make you tense, your shoulders pulling in slightly as another wave rolled past, brushing higher this time.

The movement of the ocean tugged gently at you with each passing wave.

It wasn’t strong, but it was constant.

A steady pull that made you very aware of how easily it could knock you off balance if it wanted to.

You wobbled slightly as your foot shifted in the sand beneath you.

Mugman slowed immediately.

Matching your pace without pointing it out, without making it obvious.

When you wobbled again — just a little more noticeably this time — his hand hovered near your arm for a second.

Not touching, just there.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of it, ready, just in case.

You noticed.

And somehow that made you both more and less nervous at the same time.

He stopped when the water reached his waist and lowered the board into the water with practiced ease, guiding it down so it settled flat against the surface.

The board bobbed gently, rising and falling with the rhythm of the ocean.

“Alright,” he said, steadying it with one hand.

The board drifted slightly closer to you, nudging lightly against your leg before settling again.

“Lie down.”

You stared at it like it had personally offended you.

Then at the ocean.

Then back at him.

Your expression didn’t change.

But of course, your silence said everything.

He raised an eyebrow.

“…You’re NOT going to bite it.”

“I don’t trust it.”

“It’s a surfboard.”

“It’s floating.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

“That’s suspicious.”

Mugman blinked at you.

“…What?”

You hesitated.

“If I drown, I’m going to haunt you.”

“You won’t drown.”

“…Okay.”

There was a very long pause.

You didn’t move and he didn’t either.

The board bobbed between you.

“…Probably,” he added after a second, quieter, like he couldn’t help himself.

You flinched and stared at him.

“Mugman!”

He winced slightly.

“I’m kidding.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

“…That’s fair.”

You took a breath.

Then carefully — very carefully — climbed onto the board.

It rocked immediately beneath you, the sudden shift making your entire body tense as your hands shot out to grip the sides instinctively.

“Okay, nope, I hate this,” you said immediately, fingers tightening around the edges.

“You’re too tense,” Mugman said, stepping closer, one hand already reaching out toward the board.

“I’m on a floating plank in the middle of the ocean.”

“You’re ten feet from shore.”

“That’s still ocean.”

“That’s barely ocean.”

“That is a lot of ocean.”

He laughed quietly under his breath, the sound softer this time, less teasing — more fond, if anything — as he reached out and steadied the board with one hand.

The motion was firm, the wobbling eased just slightly.

“Lift your chest,” he said, adjusting his stance to keep the board stable as another small wave passed beneath it.

His other hand hovered for a second, like he was giving you time to object.

Then gently adjusted your posture, careful and eliberate.

His fingers pressed lightly against your side, guiding you into position, then shifted to your shoulder — steady, warm, reassuring.

His touch lingered just a second longer than necessary and that was more than enough to make your brain immediately stop functioning.

“There,” he said softly.

You forgot how to breathe for half a second.

The board drifted forward slightly.

“Now paddle.”

You dipped your arms into the water, pulling awkwardly at first, your movements uneven and hesitant as you tried to coordinate everything at once.

The board wobbled beneath you again.

You made a noise somewhere between a complaint and a threat.

“This feels illegal,” you muttered.

“It’s not illegal.”

“It feels illegal.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I don’t feel fine.”

“You look fine.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughed again, quieter this time, watching you more closely now.

Then, a shift in the water behind you.

The board lifted slightly.

“Keep paddling,” Mugman called, his tone shifting just a little — more focused now.

You paddled faster immediately, your movements suddenly much less coordinated.

“Why does that sound urgent?” you asked, voice rising slightly.

“It’s not urgent.”

“That sounded urgent.”

“It’s just a wave.”

“That doesn't help!”

The wave lifted the board beneath you, higher this time.

Your stomach flipped.

Your grip tightened.

“Stand up!”

"I'm going to fall!"

“Stand up!”

“I hate this!”

“Stand up!”

You pushed yourself upright, legs shaking slightly as you tried to find your balance

And for a moment, it clicked.

Balance.

Real, actual balance.

The board steadied beneath your feet.

Wind rushed past your ears.

The ocean moved beneath you instead of against you.

The shoreline got closer.

Faster.

You felt it, that brief, impossible moment of control.

“I’m doing it!”

Then your foot slipped.

Everything tilted.

And you crashed into the water with a loud splash.

Cold rushed around you instantly, sharp and overwhelming, disorienting and loud and everywhere all at once.

You surfaced a second later, sputtering and soaked, pushing wet hair out of your face with both hands as you tried to catch your breath.

“Okay!” you coughed. “I hate everything!”

Mugman was laughing, not teasing or mocking.

Just bright, unfiltered.

Head tilted back slightly, shoulders shaking, completely unguarded in a way you hadn’t really seen before.

The kind of laugh that made your chest feel warm instead of embarrassed.

“You lasted four seconds,” he said, still grinning.

You wiped water from your eyes, trying very hard not to smile.

“That’s four seconds of greatness.”

“That’s four seconds of improvement.”

“I’m retiring while I’m ahead.”

“You’re not allowed to retire after one attempt,” he said, stepping closer as the board drifted back toward him.

“I absolutely am.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, still smiling faintly as he reached out instinctively when another small wave rocked the board again.

His hand found yours without hesitation, his grip firm enough to ground you without pulling, helping you balance again as your feet found the sand beneath you.

“You’re trying again.”

“That sounds like a threat,” you said, glancing up at him, your voice softer now, less frantic.

“It’s encouragement.”

“It sounds like a death trap.”

“You’ll get it,” he said, more quietly this time.

There was a small pause.

“…Eventually,” you added.

“Eventually,” he agreed.

The water shifted gently around you both.

The board bobbed between you.

His hand was still holding yours.

Neither of you said anything about it.

Neither of you moved away.

And for a second—

Everything slowed.

The noise of the beach faded slightly.

The teasing voices from shore blurred into the background.

It was just the ocean.

The steady push and pull of the waves.

The warmth of his hand wrapped around yours.

The way his thumb shifted slightly, almost absentmindedly against your knuckles.

Then, from the distance—

“ROUND TWO!” Cuphead shouted.

Bendy’s voice followed immediately after.

“DON’T DIE!”

You blinked.

The moment shattered.

You exhaled, looking away slightly, your grip loosening just a fraction before tightening again without thinking.

“…I’m going to pretend they don't exist,” you said.

“Good plan,” Mugman replied, though there was still a hint of a smile in his voice.

But neither of you let go right away.

And somehow—

That felt more important than anything else.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ 𓇼

When you returned to shore, the volleyball net had appeared like it had always been there.

You slowed slightly as you stepped out of the water, sand clinging to your damp feet as they sank lightly with each step. The shift from the cool ocean to the warm air made your skin prickle, droplets of water still sliding down your arms and shoulders.

“…That wasn’t there before,” you said, squinting at the net like it had personally betrayed you.

Mugman followed your gaze, dragging a hand through his body, still catching his breath slightly from the water.

“…Nope,” he muttered.

Cuphead stood beneath it, spinning the volleyball lazily in his hands, the motion smooth and practiced as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Like he’d been waiting, as if he planned this.

“Perfect timing,” he said, flashing a grin that immediately set off alarms.

Mugman groaned before you could even respond, dragging both hands down his face.

“No,” he said flatly, already turning like he was about to walk the other direction.

“Yes,” Cuphead replied instantly, tossing the ball lightly from one hand to the other.

Mugman pointed at him, narrowing his eyes.

“I just got out of the ocean.”

“And now you’re warmed up,” Cuphead shot back, completely unfazed.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re alive.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

Mugman let his arms fall to his sides with a quiet, defeated exhale.

“…You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told,” Cuphead said proudly, placing a hand against his chest like it was an achievement.

Bendy bounced on his hooves nearby, sand kicking up slightly around his feet as he leaned forward with barely contained excitement.

“I volunteer for chaos,” he announced, raising one hand dramatically like he was being sworn into something important.

Cuphead didn’t even look at him.

“You’re not good at volleyball.”

Bendy gasped, placing a hand over his heart.

“I’m good at enthusiasm.”

“That’s worse.”

“It’s a strength.”

“It’s a liability.”

Bendy leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.

“It’s unpredictable.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

Meanwhile, Boris sat a few feet away in the sand, legs stretched out in front of him, holding the frisbee upright against his chest like it was some kind of official badge.

His gaze moved slowly between all of you, calm and observant.

“Teams,” he said simply.

And somehow that settled it.

Teams formed quickly.

Cuphead and Bendy on one side.

Cuphead cracked his knuckles like he was about to enter a tournament.

Bendy stretched dramatically, nearly losing his balance in the process before catching himself at the last second.

“I’m ready,” he declared.

“You’re never ready,” Cuphead said.

“Emotionally, I am.”

“Same thing.”

Mugman and you on the other.

Mugman stepped into the sand with a quiet sigh, rolling his shoulders slightly like he was bracing himself.

You stood beside him, arms still slightly damp, brushing sand off your hands as you eyed the net.

“…I feel like we’re at a disadvantage,” you said.

“We are,” Mugman replied immediately.

“Wow. Okay.”

“But,” he added, glancing at you briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, “we might survive.”

“…That’s not comforting.”

“It’s realistic.”

Boris adjusted his grip on the frisbee, lifting it slightly.

“I will observe.”

“You’re the referee now?” Cuphead called.

Boris gave a small nod.

“Yes.”

“…Who decided that?”

“I did.”

Cuphead blinked.

“…Fair enough.”

The game began.

Cuphead stepped back, bouncing the ball once against the sand before catching it again, his posture shifting — more focused now.

More intense.

Way too intense for what this was.

“Ready?” he called.

“No,” Mugman said immediately.

“Great,” Cuphead replied.

He served.

Hard.

The ball cut through the air faster than expected, spinning slightly as it shot straight toward you.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Oh no—”

You swung wildly, arms flailing with zero coordination.

The ball connected, but not in the direction you intended.

It flew sideways.

Fast.

—And smacked directly into Mugman’s face.

The sound was solid.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Mugman didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

He just stood there, head tilted slightly from the impact.

Bendy collapsed instantly, dropping to his knees in the sand as he burst into laughter, one hand slapping the ground.

“I— I can’t!” he wheezed.

Cuphead doubled over, clutching his stomach as he laughed.

“That was perfect!”

Boris calmly raised one finger.

“Point.”

Mugman slowly lifted a hand to his face, rubbing the spot where the ball had hit, his expression completely blank.

“You’re banned from sports,” he said, voice flat.

“I tried!” you said, stepping toward him slightly, hands hovering like you didn’t know whether to apologize or defend yourself.

“That was an attack.”

“It was not!”

“You aimed.”

“I panicked!”

“That felt intentional.”

“It was not intentional!”

Bendy was still laughing in the background.

“I’ve never seen someone take out their own teammate so fast!”

“Silence,” Mugman muttered, not even looking at him.

The game continued anyway.

It was chaos.

Absolute, unstoppable chaos.

Bendy dove dramatically for balls he had absolutely no chance of reaching, launching himself across the sand with full commitment.

“I had it!” he shouted mid-air.

Before immediately faceplanting into the sand, a small cloud puffed up around him.

He stayed there for a second.

Then lifted his head slightly.

“…I almost had it,” he added, voice muffled.

“You were six feet away,” Cuphead said.

“It was a strategic dive.”

“You dove into absolute nothing.”

“I dove into potential.”

Cuphead didn’t respond.

He just shook his head and served again.

Harder.

Every spike from him felt like he was trying to win a championship match, his movements sharp and precise as he jumped slightly to hit the ball down with unnecessary force.

“Why are you like this?!” you called from your side.

“Winning builds character!” Cuphead shouted back.

“This is a beach!”

“Exactly!”

You hit the ball again—

This time successfully sending it over the net.

“…I did it!” you said, surprised.

Mugman glanced at you.

“Nice—”

The ball came back immediately.

Fast.

You reacted on instinct.

Swung again.

The ball ricocheted—

—And hit Mugman.

Again.

This time in the shoulder.

There was another pause.

Longer than the first.

Mugman didn’t even flinch.

He just looked at you slowly.

“…That’s two,” he said.

“I said I was sorry!”

“That felt personal.”

“It’s not personal!”

“It’s becoming personal.”

“I don’t control the ball!”

“You absolutely don’t.”

Bendy was back on his feet now, still grinning.

“This is my favorite game.”

“Of course it is,” Mugman muttered.

The rally continued.

Somehow.

Just barely.

You managed to hit the ball once more—

And somehow—

Somehow—

It hit Mugman again.

A third time.

This time, he didn’t even react.

Didn’t blink, didn’t even bother to speak.

He just stood there in silence.

Processing.

“…I’m switching teams,” he said finally.

“No you’re not,” Cuphead called immediately.

“Please take me,” Mugman added, already stepping toward the net.

“Denied,” Cuphead said.

“You don’t want me on that side.”

“I really don’t.”

“Understandable.”

Boris, still seated in the sand, slowly lowered the frisbee.

He watched the scene for a moment longer.

Then set it down beside him.

“I will stop counting,” he said.

“No one’s winning anyway.”

“Correct.”

The game dissolved from there.

Not officially but functionally.

Points stopped mattering, rules simply stopped existing.

It became less about volleyball—

And more about dodging, shouting, laughing, and occasionally surviving.

Somehow, that made it better.

𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪ 𓇼

By the time the sky began turning orange with sunset, everyone had collapsed onto the sand in a tired, tangled mess of limbs and laughter.

It hadn’t even been coordinated.

One moment you were all still moving — half-heartedly tossing the ball, arguing over points that no longer mattered — and the next, it was like the energy just… gave out all at once.

Cuphead dropped first, falling backward into the sand with a dramatic groan, one arm thrown over his face like he’d just survived something life-threatening.

“I’m never moving again,” he declared, voice muffled slightly.

“You say that every time,” Bendy said, immediately flopping down beside him — except less gracefully, his limbs landing at odd angles before he adjusted, kicking up sand in the process.

“This time I mean it.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You won’t.”

There was a beat.

“…Okay, maybe I won’t,” Cuphead admitted.

Boris lowered himself down more carefully, sitting first before leaning back onto his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him with a quiet exhale.

“I'm exhausted just from watching this,” he said.

Mugman dropped down a second later, sitting first before leaning back slightly, bracing himself on his hands, shoulders rising and falling a little heavier than usual.

You followed, easing down into the sand near him, your muscles still humming faintly from the day, your limbs feeling pleasantly heavy.

The air felt warmer now, softer.

The sharp brightness of the afternoon had faded into something golden.

Like the whole beach had taken a breath.

Bendy stretched dramatically, arching his back and reaching his arms high above his head, fingers spread wide.

“You know what this day needs?” he announced, glancing around like he was about to deliver something profound.

Cuphead groaned immediately, dragging his arm off his face just enough to squint at him.

“If you say fireworks—”

“A bonfire.”

There was a pause.

Cuphead blinked.

Then shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbows.

“…Actually that’s not terrible.”

“I have good ideas,” Bendy said, pointing at himself proudly.

“You have ideas,” Cuphead corrected.

“Rude.”

Driftwood was gathered in uneven stacks.

At first, it was chaotic.

Bendy picked up pieces that were far too small.

Cuphead grabbed ones that were unnecessarily large.

You carried a few in your arms, brushing sand off them as you brought them over, occasionally glancing toward Mugman, who was doing the same but more efficiently — stacking them nearby before stepping back.

Boris took over without saying much.

He knelt in the sand, adjusting the pieces with quiet precision, turning them, stacking them, building something that actually resembled a structure instead of a pile.

Bendy hovered nearby, hands on his hips.

“I am supervising,” he said.

“You are in the way,” Boris replied calmly, not even looking up.

“I am contributing.”

“You are not.”

“I am contributing morale.”

“Step back.”

Bendy stepped back.

Immediately stepped forward again.

“What if we add this one—”

“No.”

“…Okay.”

The fire crackled to life slowly.

It started small.

A flicker.

Then another.

Until the flames caught properly, curling upward in warm shades of orange and gold, the light dancing across all of your faces as the sky deepened into richer hues.

The ocean rolled gently nearby, its earlier intensity softened into something calm and steady, the waves quieter now—less forceful, more rhythmic.

The air carried a faint mix of salt and smoke.

Comforting.

Stars began appearing overhead.

One by one.

Faint at first.

Then brighter.

More of them, scattered across the darkening sky like they’d always been there — just waiting.

You sat beside Mugman on a large piece of driftwood, the surface rough beneath you, worn smooth in places by time and water.

Close enough that your shoulders almost brushed.

But not quite, not yet.

You were both aware of it.

Neither of you said anything.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The fire popped softly, sending small sparks upward that disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared.

The waves filled the silence, steady and familiar.

Grounding.

Mugman shifted slightly beside you, adjusting his posture, one hand resting loosely against the wood, the other tracing faint, absent patterns in the sand near his feet.

“You did good today,” he said eventually, his voice quieter now — less playful than before.

You glanced at him briefly, then back at the fire.

“I hit you with a volleyball.”

“Not the part I meant,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.

You let out a small breath that almost passed for a laugh.

“I liked surfing,” you admitted, your voice softer, your gaze fixed on the flames as they flickered and shifted.

“I knew you would,” he said.

There was something quiet in his voice.

Not teasing or even smug, just certain.

Across the fire, Bendy leaned toward Cuphead, lowering his voice in a way that was absolutely not subtle.

“I bet five bucks that they'll confess tonight,” he whispered, eyes flicking toward you and Mugman with poorly concealed interest.

Cuphead didn’t even hesitate.

“I’ll take it,” he said, just as quietly, though his grin gave him away.

Boris, sitting nearby with a stick carefully rotating a marshmallow over the fire, didn’t look up.

“Of course they will,” he said calmly.

Neither of you noticed.

Mugman stared at the sand for a moment, drawing small, uneven lines in it with a stick, the tip dragging slowly as if the motion itself was helping him think.

Helping him stall.

“I’m glad you came here,” he said quietly.

You turned your head slightly toward him.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

A pause settled between you.

Not uncomfortable.

Simply heavier, more noticeable, the kind that made everything else feel quieter by comparison.

“I don’t usually…” he started, then stopped, his grip tightening slightly on the stick before he exhaled and let it drag another line into the sand.

You didn’t interrupt.

You just waited.

He exhaled softly.

“I don’t usually let people get this close.”

Your chest tightened at that, your fingers curling slightly against your palm.

“Then… why me?” you asked, your voice quieter than before.

He briefly glanced at you, almost like holding your gaze for too long would make this harder.

“…You stayed,” he said.

The memory flickered — standing on the shore, watching him out in the water, waiting.

“You didn’t have to,” he added, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful.

“I wanted to,” you replied, just as quietly.

Another pause.

Closer now, warmer, the space between your hands felt smaller somehow.

“I quite like you,” he said.

It came out quieter than before.

Less certain, although more real, like he wasn’t hiding behind anything this time.

Your heart stumbled — actually stumbled.

“I…” you started, then stopped, your breath catching slightly as you tried to find something that didn’t feel too small.

Too clumsy.

Too obvious.

Words felt inadequate.

So you tried again.

“I quite like you too.”

Across the fire, Cuphead silently pumped his fist, biting back a grin.

Bendy immediately covered his mouth, leaning toward him.

“I told you,” he whispered, barely containing his excitement.

Boris calmly ate his marshmallow.

Mugman let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, his shoulders relaxing slightly like something he’d been holding onto all day had finally eased.

Like he hadn’t entirely expected that answer.

And then, slowly—

He reached for your hand.

Not confidently.

Not smoothly.

A little hesitant.

His fingers paused just short for half a second, giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

Your fingers curled around his.

His grip tightened just slightly once he realized you weren’t pulling away, his thumb brushing lightly against yours in a small, almost absentminded motion.

Your heart did something completely unreasonable.

Neither of you looked at each other right away.

That would’ve been too much.

Too obvious.

Too real.

Instead, your shoulders shifted just slightly closer.

Barely noticeable but just enough.

Enough that this time—

They brushed.

Lightly.

And neither of you moved away.

The ocean breeze drifted through the night air, soft and warm against your skin, carrying the quiet rhythm of the waves with it.

The fire crackled.

The waves rolled in quietly against the shore.

Laughter still lingered faintly in the background.

And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything felt still.

Like the moment had settled into place.

Like it was meant to be there.

Like maybe… just maybe…

You had found somewhere you belonged.

And someone, too.

Author's note: I think you guys can already imagine how afraid of the sea I am from the detailed descriptions of the reader going surfing for the first time. That's exactly how I felt putting my feet in the sea for the first time this year, and I definitely won't stop being afraid of it, even though I enjoyed my time floating there LMFAO.

Also, someone requested this a long time ago but I can't remember or find out who it was, but I hope you guys enjoyed this one <3

By the way the reader is so down bad for Mugman here on this one, I know how OUT OF SHAME you guys — especially the creator HERSELF of said au — are when it comes to Ink Beach Mugman, shame on all of you !!! /jk/aff