Nyx @midnyaght - Tumblr Blog

Intro!

Hai hai! My name is Nyx! This is the secondary blog of @daymewm used for my myth stuff!

I use he/they + neos! Also the hashtag woke twin

I mainly make cute little reaction images and repost pupcup!

I do enjoy seeing my little reaction images flout around, but credit is much appreciated! (but not necessary)

My reaction image master list! (I take requests!)

My motm oc!

My toyhouse!

d1v1ne01

i am actually so funny guys

doshi-sukiru

i kid you not this au has been bothering and giving me a reason to keep drawing them

myth pressure au i made with @thatstickcharacter after I convinced them to join me on pressure- we've been menaces since

also doomed blueink i've just been lazy with blueink drawings

thatstickcharacter

Dont hide in the tags stinky

Boris has a design made by @midnyaght

Doshi just hasnt drawn it yet LMAO

Hes mixed with dogfish, otter, and basking shark

midnyaght

Here is the sketch for him!! (His ears were cropped in this au thats why they r pointed)

elltournesoll

He'll Always Be My Man — MOTM

Summary: In a small, oil-scented garage tucked away from a harsh and uncaring world, love grows in quiet ways. While Boris works with the same care he gives everything fragile, the reader sees what he cannot — a good man carrying too much weight alone.

As danger echoes outside and doubt lingers between them, a simple truth is spoken: he doesn’t have to face the world by himself anymore. A soft, grounding moment of devotion unfolds — not loud, not dramatic, but deeply certain.

Pairing: Myth Boris x Reader

Genre: Romance, Hurt / Comfort and Slice of Life

Trope: “He’s My Person” / Claimed Love, Gentle Giant, Quiet Devotion, Emotional Reassurance, Love as Anchor, Soft Touch Healing, “You Don’t Have to Carry It Alone”, Moral Man in a Harsh World and Pre-Tragedy Warmth

Rating: G (General)

The garage always smelled like oil, metal, and something warm underneath it all — like worn fabric, engine heat, and the faintest trace of soap that never quite beat the grease.

You liked that smell.

It meant he was there.

The low hum of a radio played somewhere in the back, half static, half music, the signal fading in and out like the world itself couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay. Some old love song drifted through the interference, the singer’s voice distant and scratchy, like it had traveled a long way just to reach this little pocket of quiet.

You leaned against the doorway, shoulder to the frame, watching him from across the room.

Boris didn’t notice you at first.

He was hunched over an engine block, sleeves rolled up, dark fur smudged with grease, broad back curved like he was trying to make himself smaller than he actually was. His tail lay heavy and still behind him, the tip twitching every now and then when a bolt resisted him. Big hands moved with slow, careful precision — not the hurried, frustrated movements of someone trying to get a job done, but the patient touch of someone who believed things deserved the chance to work right.

He worked like everything mattered.

Like every bolt he tightened was a promise he didn’t say out loud.

Quiet. Focused. Gentle with machines the way some people were with animals.

You’d learned that about him fast.

He treated everything fragile like it deserved protection.

Even if he didn’t think he did.

“You’re staring,” he muttered without looking up.

You smiled. “You like it.”

A pause. A tiny ear twitch.

“…Don’t start.”

But his voice had already softened, rough edges worn down just from knowing you were there.

You pushed off the doorway and walked in fully, footsteps echoing faintly on the concrete. The world outside the garage was loud, sharp, cruel in that dull, constant way — people cutting corners, stepping on others to survive, pretending not to see when things went bad.

Boris never pretended.

That’s what made him different. That’s what made him dangerous. A good man in a place that didn’t reward goodness.

You came up beside him, hip brushing his arm. He stilled for just a second, like your touch rewired something inside him — like his whole nervous system had to pause and recalibrate around you.

“You been at this all day?” you asked, peering into the engine.

“Mm.” Tightening a bolt. “Car won’t run right if I rush it.”

“You say that about everything.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s true.”

You tilted your head, watching his profile — the permanent tiredness in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows that never fully left, like he was always bracing for something. For the world to take one more thing from him. For someone to need help he wouldn’t be able to give in time.

“You don’t rush people either,” you said quietly.

That made him look at you.

And there it was — that look. Like he didn’t understand why you were here. Like he was waiting for the punchline, for you to realize you could’ve picked someone easier. Someone lighter.

“I’m not good with people,” he said.

“You’re good with me.”

His ears lowered slightly, shy. Defensive. Vulnerable in that way he hated being.

“You just don’t know better.”

You snorted. “I know exactly what I’m choosing.”

His jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the engine, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore.

Boris didn’t like when you said things like that. Not because he didn’t feel it back — but because he did. Deep. Heavy. Permanent. And permanence scared him more than bullets ever could.

Outside, someone shouted. A crash echoed down the street — metal hitting metal, then voices rising, sharp and panicked. The kind of noise that usually made people pretend they didn’t hear.

Boris froze.

You felt it — the shift. His whole body went alert, shoulders tense, ears angled toward the sound. Instinct pulling him toward the door before thought could catch up.

“Don’t,” you said softly, touching his wrist.

His eyes flicked to you. Torn. Guilt already forming for something he hadn’t even done yet.

“Someone could be hurt.”

“I know,” you said. “And I know you. You’ll help if it’s needed. But you don’t have to throw yourself into every fire alone.”

His ears dipped. He hated that you saw through him. Hated that you knew he carried the weight of a broken world like it was his personal failure.

“…Can’t just stand by,” he muttered.

“I’m not asking you to stop being you.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles, wiping away a smear of grease. “I’m asking you to remember you’re not by yourself anymore.”

That hit him harder than anything.

You saw it in the way his breath caught. In the way his hand turned, slowly, carefully, until his fingers curled around yours instead.

Big hand. Careful grip. Like you were something he was scared to break.

“You shouldn’t stick with someone like me,” he said, voice low and rough, like the words had scraped on the way out. “I got too much baggage. Too many… things.”

You stepped closer, until your chest brushed his arm.

“Too bad,” you said, soft but certain. “He’s my man.”

The words landed between you, simple and steady.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just true.

Boris stared at you like you’d just handed him something priceless he didn’t know how to hold. His ears went red at the tips, tail giving a small, betrayed flick behind him.

“…You’re stubborn,” he muttered.

“Learned from the best.”

He huffed — almost a laugh. It rumbled low in his chest, warm and surprised, like he hadn’t meant to let it out.

Then, after a second, he leaned forward.

Carefully.

Like approaching something sacred.

His forehead rested against yours, eyes closing. His hands came up to your arms, big and warm and steady, thumbs rubbing slow, absent lines like he was grounding himself through you.

“I don’t know how to be… what you deserve,” he said.

You tilted your head slightly, brushing your nose against his.

“You already are.”

Silence filled the garage, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick, safe, shared. The radio crackled. A car drove past outside. Somewhere, a dog barked.

The world kept being loud, unfair, messy.

But in here?

It was just oil-stained hands, quiet breathing, and a man who refused to lose his morals even when the world lost its own.

A man who thought he wasn’t worth choosing.

You reached up, brushing your fingers through the fur at the back of his neck. He stiffened for half a second — still not used to being touched gently — then melted, shoulders dropping, a quiet breath leaving him that sounded almost like relief.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightened just a little.

“…Stay a while?” he asked, voice softer than the radio static. Like he was afraid the question itself might be too much.

You smiled, pressing a small kiss to the corner of his mouth — warm, lingering, real.

“Not going anywhere.”

And for once, Boris let himself believe it.

He didn’t rush back to the engine.

He didn’t go running toward the noise outside.

He just stood there, holding you in the middle of a grease-stained garage, while an old love song fought through the static — and for the first time in a long time, he let the world be someone else’s problem for a minute.

Just one.

Just enough to breathe.

Just enough to feel what it was like to be chosen — and stay.

Author's note: In January, while I was still traveling, I asked the server which character they would like me to write a fanfic about inspired by the song "He's My Man," and everyone chose Boris.

So, here it is, after so long.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

midnyaght

I NEED HIM NOW GODDDDDD

elltournesoll

He'll Always Be My Man — MOTM

Summary: In a small, oil-scented garage tucked away from a harsh and uncaring world, love grows in quiet ways. While Boris works with the same care he gives everything fragile, the reader sees what he cannot — a good man carrying too much weight alone.

As danger echoes outside and doubt lingers between them, a simple truth is spoken: he doesn’t have to face the world by himself anymore. A soft, grounding moment of devotion unfolds — not loud, not dramatic, but deeply certain.

Pairing: Myth Boris x Reader

Genre: Romance, Hurt / Comfort and Slice of Life

Trope: “He’s My Person” / Claimed Love, Gentle Giant, Quiet Devotion, Emotional Reassurance, Love as Anchor, Soft Touch Healing, “You Don’t Have to Carry It Alone”, Moral Man in a Harsh World and Pre-Tragedy Warmth

Rating: G (General)

The garage always smelled like oil, metal, and something warm underneath it all — like worn fabric, engine heat, and the faintest trace of soap that never quite beat the grease.

You liked that smell.

It meant he was there.

The low hum of a radio played somewhere in the back, half static, half music, the signal fading in and out like the world itself couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay. Some old love song drifted through the interference, the singer’s voice distant and scratchy, like it had traveled a long way just to reach this little pocket of quiet.

You leaned against the doorway, shoulder to the frame, watching him from across the room.

Boris didn’t notice you at first.

He was hunched over an engine block, sleeves rolled up, dark fur smudged with grease, broad back curved like he was trying to make himself smaller than he actually was. His tail lay heavy and still behind him, the tip twitching every now and then when a bolt resisted him. Big hands moved with slow, careful precision — not the hurried, frustrated movements of someone trying to get a job done, but the patient touch of someone who believed things deserved the chance to work right.

He worked like everything mattered.

Like every bolt he tightened was a promise he didn’t say out loud.

Quiet. Focused. Gentle with machines the way some people were with animals.

You’d learned that about him fast.

He treated everything fragile like it deserved protection.

Even if he didn’t think he did.

“You’re staring,” he muttered without looking up.

You smiled. “You like it.”

A pause. A tiny ear twitch.

“…Don’t start.”

But his voice had already softened, rough edges worn down just from knowing you were there.

You pushed off the doorway and walked in fully, footsteps echoing faintly on the concrete. The world outside the garage was loud, sharp, cruel in that dull, constant way — people cutting corners, stepping on others to survive, pretending not to see when things went bad.

Boris never pretended.

That’s what made him different. That’s what made him dangerous. A good man in a place that didn’t reward goodness.

You came up beside him, hip brushing his arm. He stilled for just a second, like your touch rewired something inside him — like his whole nervous system had to pause and recalibrate around you.

“You been at this all day?” you asked, peering into the engine.

“Mm.” Tightening a bolt. “Car won’t run right if I rush it.”

“You say that about everything.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s true.”

You tilted your head, watching his profile — the permanent tiredness in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows that never fully left, like he was always bracing for something. For the world to take one more thing from him. For someone to need help he wouldn’t be able to give in time.

“You don’t rush people either,” you said quietly.

That made him look at you.

And there it was — that look. Like he didn’t understand why you were here. Like he was waiting for the punchline, for you to realize you could’ve picked someone easier. Someone lighter.

“I’m not good with people,” he said.

“You’re good with me.”

His ears lowered slightly, shy. Defensive. Vulnerable in that way he hated being.

“You just don’t know better.”

You snorted. “I know exactly what I’m choosing.”

His jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the engine, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore.

Boris didn’t like when you said things like that. Not because he didn’t feel it back — but because he did. Deep. Heavy. Permanent. And permanence scared him more than bullets ever could.

Outside, someone shouted. A crash echoed down the street — metal hitting metal, then voices rising, sharp and panicked. The kind of noise that usually made people pretend they didn’t hear.

Boris froze.

You felt it — the shift. His whole body went alert, shoulders tense, ears angled toward the sound. Instinct pulling him toward the door before thought could catch up.

“Don’t,” you said softly, touching his wrist.

His eyes flicked to you. Torn. Guilt already forming for something he hadn’t even done yet.

“Someone could be hurt.”

“I know,” you said. “And I know you. You’ll help if it’s needed. But you don’t have to throw yourself into every fire alone.”

His ears dipped. He hated that you saw through him. Hated that you knew he carried the weight of a broken world like it was his personal failure.

“…Can’t just stand by,” he muttered.

“I’m not asking you to stop being you.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles, wiping away a smear of grease. “I’m asking you to remember you’re not by yourself anymore.”

That hit him harder than anything.

You saw it in the way his breath caught. In the way his hand turned, slowly, carefully, until his fingers curled around yours instead.

Big hand. Careful grip. Like you were something he was scared to break.

“You shouldn’t stick with someone like me,” he said, voice low and rough, like the words had scraped on the way out. “I got too much baggage. Too many… things.”

You stepped closer, until your chest brushed his arm.

“Too bad,” you said, soft but certain. “He’s my man.”

The words landed between you, simple and steady.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just true.

Boris stared at you like you’d just handed him something priceless he didn’t know how to hold. His ears went red at the tips, tail giving a small, betrayed flick behind him.

“…You’re stubborn,” he muttered.

“Learned from the best.”

He huffed — almost a laugh. It rumbled low in his chest, warm and surprised, like he hadn’t meant to let it out.

Then, after a second, he leaned forward.

Carefully.

Like approaching something sacred.

His forehead rested against yours, eyes closing. His hands came up to your arms, big and warm and steady, thumbs rubbing slow, absent lines like he was grounding himself through you.

“I don’t know how to be… what you deserve,” he said.

You tilted your head slightly, brushing your nose against his.

“You already are.”

Silence filled the garage, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick, safe, shared. The radio crackled. A car drove past outside. Somewhere, a dog barked.

The world kept being loud, unfair, messy.

But in here?

It was just oil-stained hands, quiet breathing, and a man who refused to lose his morals even when the world lost its own.

A man who thought he wasn’t worth choosing.

You reached up, brushing your fingers through the fur at the back of his neck. He stiffened for half a second — still not used to being touched gently — then melted, shoulders dropping, a quiet breath leaving him that sounded almost like relief.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightened just a little.

“…Stay a while?” he asked, voice softer than the radio static. Like he was afraid the question itself might be too much.

You smiled, pressing a small kiss to the corner of his mouth — warm, lingering, real.

“Not going anywhere.”

And for once, Boris let himself believe it.

He didn’t rush back to the engine.

He didn’t go running toward the noise outside.

He just stood there, holding you in the middle of a grease-stained garage, while an old love song fought through the static — and for the first time in a long time, he let the world be someone else’s problem for a minute.

Just one.

Just enough to breathe.

Just enough to feel what it was like to be chosen — and stay.

Author's note: In January, while I was still traveling, I asked the server which character they would like me to write a fanfic about inspired by the song "He's My Man," and everyone chose Boris.

So, here it is, after so long.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

elltournesoll

Quiet Things, Big Feelings — MOTM

Summary: Instead of crowded restaurants or grand gestures, Boris chooses something far more personal for Valentine’s Day — a quiet night at home, planned with careful hands and a heart that feels more than it says.

In the warmth of soft light, homemade food, and small thoughtful details, love shows itself not in spectacle, but in presence, patience, and the simple act of choosing someone — gently, fully, and without conditions.

Pairing: Myth Boris x Reader

Genre: Romance, Domestic Fluff and Slice of Life

Trope: Quiet Love, Acts of Service as Love Language Soft Domestic Intimacy, “I Chose You”, Gentle Giant, Home Date, Emotional Vulnerability and Comfort Relationship

Rating: G (General)

Boris had been nervous all day.

He hid it the way he hid everything — by being useful.

The garage had never been cleaner. He reorganized a drawer that didn’t need reorganizing. Oiled hinges that didn’t squeak. Rewound an extension cord twice because it “looked messy.”

Customers noticed he was quieter than usual. One even asked if he was sick.

“…Fine,” he’d muttered, not looking up.

But his ears stayed angled back, thoughts somewhere else entirely.

Every time he checked the clock, his stomach did a small, uncomfortable flip. Not dread — never that. Just the heavy weight of wanting something to go right. Wanting to give you something good in a world where good things didn’t come easy.

He closed early.

The bell above the garage door jingled as the last customer left, and the quiet that followed rang in his ears. He stood there for a long second, rag in hand, staring at nothing.

“…Okay,” he told himself under his breath.

Then he went home.

When you knocked, he was already near the door.

He’d been pretending to wipe the counter for the past five minutes just so he wouldn’t pace.

The sound made his heart kick against his ribs.

He opened the door, and there you were.

Warm. Familiar. Real.

For half a second, he just looked at you like he needed visual confirmation you existed.

“…Hey,” he said, voice softer than intended.

You smiled up at him, and some of the tightness in his chest eased.

When you stepped inside, cold air slipping past you, he caught the way your shoulders relaxed immediately. Like this place — his place — felt safe to you.

That did something to him he didn’t have words for.

You smelled the food almost right away, and he watched your expression change — surprise melting into that soft look you got when you were touched by something.

Worth it, he thought instantly.

Every bit of it.

The kitchen light glowed warm, reflecting off the clean counter. He’d wiped it three times. Moved the lamp from the living room closer so the space wouldn’t feel harsh or clinical.

He didn’t know anything about “ambience.”

He just knew he didn’t want the room to feel like a workshop.

He wanted it to feel like a place you’d want to stay.

The tablecloth had taken him ten minutes to iron flat with his hands because he didn’t own an iron. The jar with the flower was an old bolt container, scrubbed until the glass stopped smelling like metal.

He’d almost gone to buy something nicer.

But that didn’t feel like him.

So he picked the flower himself on the walk home, careful not to crush the stem in his grip.

While you ate, he barely touched his own food at first.

He watched you instead.

Not in a creepy way — just… focused. Reading every little expression. The way your eyebrows lifted when you liked something. The small hum in your throat.

Each time you smiled at him across the table, his tail would move before he could stop it.

When your foot brushed his under the table, he froze, then slowly let his foot rest there.

Testing.

When you didn’t pull away, he didn’t either.

At the sink, when you insisted on helping, he stood close enough that your shoulders touched every time you moved. The warmth of you seeped through his sleeve.

It grounded him.

He dried each plate carefully, movements slower than usual, just to stretch the moment. Domestic. Quiet. Shared.

He’d never had this before.

Not like this.

Not without it being temporary.

When you told him you loved him, the world didn’t explode.

It went quiet.

So quiet he could hear the heater clicking on in the other room.

The words hit him in the chest, heavy and warm and terrifying all at once. Love meant loss, in his experience. Meant someday the world taking it away.

But you were standing right there.

Hands on him. Eyes steady. Not flinching.

When he kissed you, he did it like he handled engines — careful, deliberate, like he was afraid of damaging something precious. But underneath that caution was certainty.

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t need to.

His arms came around you fully this time, big frame curving around yours like a shield without thinking. His chin brushed the top of your head as he held you, breathing slow, deep.

Memorizing.

The lamp hummed softly. The dishes dried on the rack. The flower leaned slightly in its jar.

Nothing grand.

Nothing loud.

Just warmth in the middle of a small kitchen, in a world that rarely slowed down long enough for moments like this.

“…Stay the night?” he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid to push his luck.

You smiled into his chest.

“Yeah.”

His grip tightened just a little.

And Boris, who spent most of his life braced for impact, let himself unclench — just enough to feel what it was like to have something good, and not have it disappear.

Not tonight.

Tonight, love didn’t have to be big.

It just had to be real.

Author's note: My last Valentine's Day special fic before the date comes because some friends asked for these last two, and I already have a big surprise for Valentine's Day anyway.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

frechiiie

last post i swear...pupcup, thats it

manuslop

psst. any pupcup headcanons to share with the class

cuphead is actually the easily flustered one! he might not get when strangers hit on him or flirt with him but when it is someone he actually likes (boris) anything he does makes him flustered lol

boris enjoys giving piggyback rides to cuphead and enjoys carrying him in general!

blackiearry

Boris is the yellow one

elltournesoll

Love and fun, doubled! — MOTM

Summary: You and your boyfriends went to a local café to read a book that the three of you might enjoy together, but perhaps your day together could be more chaotic than just a quiet reading session.

Pairing: Myth Cuphead x Reader x Myth Boris

Genre: Fluff and Romance

Rating: T (Teen)

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the small café, mingling with the sweet smell of still-warm apple pies and cookies. The tables creaked slightly under the weight of the cups, and the clinking of silverware created a soft melody.

Seated at a table near the window, Cuphead, you, and Boris were perfectly settled, as if that corner had been made just for the three of you.

Boris held a thick, dark blue book, turning the pages with calm, precise movements. His serious eyes sparkled occasionally, reflecting the soft afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.

You leaned against him, feeling the safe warmth of his body, the light scent of coffee and damp earth mingled with the wolf's perfume.

Cuphead leaned forward, his legs swinging excitedly, his eyes gleaming with curiosity and mischief. He observed Boris's every gesture, his every movement, but also subtly tried to steal attention.

"And then he said, 'Even in the darkness, the light can come from within us,'" Boris read, his voice firm and calm, yet full of gentleness, almost like a melody.

You sighed softly. "I love it when you read like that… your voice makes everything more beautiful."

Cuphead snorted, feigning indignation, but his eyes sparkled. "I bet I can read better! I bet you won't even notice if I stumble over a word!"

Boris raised an eyebrow, his expression unchanging. "No need to prove anything, Cuphead. Just listen and enjoy."

"Oh, how boring! I just want to join in the fun!" Cuphead said, leaning toward you, a mischievous grin on his lips. "Teach me how to read these difficult words?"

You laughed, taking the book with him. "Sure, but don't expect to read like Boris. He has the voice of a professional narrator!"

Boris's firm touch on his arm made Cuphead flinch slightly, but the mischievous smile didn't disappear. He leaned in to rest his head on the wolf's shoulder, and you intertwined your hands, forming that little triangle of affection.

The soft clinking of cups and the jingle of cutlery sounded like the scene's soundtrack, filling the space with coziness.

Between laughs, explanations of words, and little teasing, the reading flowed. Each of Cuphead's giggles and each of Boris's calm words created an almost magical harmony. Three such different personalities, and yet perfectly fitted together.

"You know," Cuphead began, looking alternately at the two of you, "hearing you two together makes everything more fun. It feels like… everything tastes better."

You squeezed Boris's hand lightly. "For me too, Cuphead. Your laugh, Boris's voice… everything makes everything special."

Cuphead tilted his head toward you, winking, and snuggled a little closer between you. Every touch, every smile, every gesture made the atmosphere feel warmer, even with the iced afternoon coffee.

The afternoon sun illuminated the park, tinging the leaves with gold and copper. The fresh air carried the scent of wet grass and newly opened flowers.

You walked along a path, the soft ground creaking underfoot. Boris walked in the middle, steady and confident. You held one of his hands, while Cuphead clung to the other, jumping from stone to stone, laughing with each small leap.

"Careful, Cuphead, you're going to trip!" Boris said, with the calmness that only he possessed.

"I won't! I'm just exploring the ground!" Cuphead replied, spinning around, laughing, while the wind made his long coat move slightly.

You watched, enchanted. "He always turns any walk into fun."

Boris sighed softly, and a small smile appeared on his lips. "And yet, I like that… the way he turns everything into laughter."

Cuphead threw himself into Boris's arms, playful but comfortable. "Hey! Don't get all cute without me!"

Boris simply placed a firm hand on his back, keeping him safe. "You're here, Cuphead."

"But I want attention too!" Cuphead said, turning to you.

You laughed and pulled him close, wrapping him in a side hug. The cool breeze rustled through the trees, and every gesture, every touch, every laugh seemed to take on a life of its own in that moment.

"It's strange how the three of us manage to complement each other so much… each one different, but together it makes sense," you whispered, resting your head on Boris's shoulder.

Boris squeezed your hand. "Exactly. We don't need to be the same, we just need each other."

Cuphead grinned widely. "So we're a perfect trio!"

"Perfect, with laughter, affection, and mischief," you replied, kissing his forehead.

Boris finally smiled visibly. "Yes… perfect."

At night, the cool wind rustled lightly against the windows, but inside the room, the warmth was reserved for the three of you. The large sofa was covered in fluffy blankets, and the soft light from a lamp created a cozy atmosphere.

Boris settled in the middle, you sat on one side, and Cuphead curled up between the two of you, heads and arms forming a tangle of tenderness.

"This is where the fun begins!" Cuphead said, stretching his arms and twirling before settling down.

You laughed. "Last time, you knocked over half the cups… and still made it fun."

Boris just looked at him calmly, holding his hands and resting the other on Cuphead's arm. "He makes everything seem fun. It's part of his charm."

Cuphead winked at Boris. "So even you, who never truly smiles, can't resist me?"

Boris didn't answer, just squeezed his arm and ran his hand through his head, in a gesture full of silent affection.

In the kitchen, the sweet aroma of chocolate and dough filled the air. The three of you decided to make desserts together: Cuphead excited, Boris focused, and you balancing the two.

"Look at this!" Cuphead said, holding a ball of shortcrust pastry.

Boris raised an eyebrow. "It's not perfect. But it's edible."

"Edible?! That's all?" Cuphead made a dramatic face.

You laughed. "It's great. It's fun, like you."

Boris smiled slightly. "I admit… you make anything more interesting. But we'll still have to fix the dough."

Amidst laughter, hugs, and playful teasing, the dessert turned out delicious. More importantly, the love between the three of you filled the kitchen, making every gesture and glance infinitely warmer.

That evening, you went out onto the balcony, each wrapped in a blanket, watching the starry sky. The light breeze rustled the blankets, carrying the scent of the cool night and the wet grass of the garden.

"That star looks like a teacup… just like me!" Cuphead pointed, laughing.

You smiled. "And it seems to smile at you."

Boris held both of your hands. "Perfect… nothing surpasses what we have together."

Cuphead snuggled between you. "Even mischievous, even serious… I love you both more than any star!"

You kissed his head. "And we love you. Always."

Boris, finally smiling visibly, added: "The three of us. Always together. That's how it should be… perfect."

There, under the starry sky, you intertwined in a warm embrace, where every laugh, touch, breath, and heartbeat created a melody of love.

Your love was simple, deep, fun, and complete. It existed in the differences, in the small gestures, and in the shared moments.

Nothing else mattered. The three of you were one, a love that needed no explanation. Just presence, tenderness, and complicity. Under the stars, the whole world seemed made for you.

Author's note: I'm sorry if my last fanfics have been too "cheesy", I've just been meaning to write something that would make you all smile when you're done reading it <:)

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

midnyaght

OH MY GODDDDDS JMBLOWING UP THISIS SO PEAK