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The group had been walking for days now, the kind of relentless, bone-deep travel that blurred one sunrise into the next. Their boots dragged through dirt paths and tangled undergrowth, the forest pressing in on them from all sides. The map in Bendy’s hands might as well have been written in another language—either it was hopelessly vague, or exhaustion had finally dulled his ability to make sense of it. Probably both. No one had the energy to complain about it anymore.
As they continued on, Boris began to notice something… off.
Mugman was always there.
Not just nearby—close. Too close. He walked at Boris’ side, shoulder almost brushing his arm, or lingered half a step behind him like a shadow that refused to fall away. At first, Boris didn’t question it. He barely spared it a thought. The woods were dangerous, after all. Maybe Mugman was just being cautious. Protective. That made sense, didn’t it?
Yeah. That had to be it.
Except it didn’t stop.
If anything, it grew worse.
At the faintest rustle in the bushes, the snap of a twig, or the distant echo of something moving that shouldn’t be, Mugman reacted instantly. A sharp hand on Boris’ arm, tugging him back. A clipped warning to watch where he stepped. Once, he even snapped Boris’ name like a reprimand when Boris strayed a few feet too far ahead. It would’ve almost been understandable—if Boris weren’t perfectly capable of handling himself. They both knew that. Mugman knew that.
The protectiveness felt… excessive.
Boris tried to brush it off, but the tension followed him anyway. Eventually, he asked Cuphead about it while Mugman was scouting ahead with Bendy. Cuphead only shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, saying it was probably stress. That the woods were getting to everyone. When Boris confronted Mugman directly, the answer came quick and practiced: he was just being strategic. Keeping everyone safe.
Boris didn’t buy it. Not for a second.
Still, there were bigger things to worry about than whatever was going on in Mugman’s head. Survival came first.
That night—after narrowly escaping yet another close call deep in the woods—they stumbled upon a small roadside hotel, dimly lit and worn with age, but standing solid enough to promise shelter. The relief was immediate. Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and old carpet. The woman behind the counter barely glanced up as she informed them there were only two rooms left.
Normally, the arrangement was simple. Bendy and Boris shared one room. The twins shared the other. No discussion needed.
This time, though, Mugman cut in before anyone else could speak.
He insisted—firmly, almost sharply—that he and Boris take one of the rooms together. His reasoning came out clipped and logical, something about them all needing protection, about keeping watch. “We’re supposed to be protecting you guys, right?” he said, as if that settled the matter entirely.
Bendy looked too exhausted to argue, barely managing a tired glance in their direction. Cuphead opened his mouth, then thought better of it when Mugman shot him a look sharp enough to shut him up instantly.
And just like that, it was decided.
Now, they were alone in the room. The door closed. The quiet settled in thick and heavy.
Boris lay stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the building around them. Mugman, meanwhile, sat upright beside him, stiff-backed and tense, eyes locked on the door like he expected it to burst open at any moment. He didn’t relax. Didn’t lie down. Didn’t even seem to blink.
Boris glanced at him from the corner of his eye, unease curling in his chest.
Whatever this was—stress, strategy, or something else entirely—it wasn’t over yet.
Boris let the silence stretch between them, thick and uncomfortable. The only sounds in the room were the faint hum of the lights and the muffled noise of the world outside the thin walls. Mugman remained rigid at the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the door, jaw tight. He hadn’t moved since they’d come in.
It was unbearable.
Boris shifted, then finally pushed himself up slightly, his patience wearing thin.
“What’s been going on with you?” he asked at last. The question came out sharper than he intended, edged with accusation he didn’t bother to soften.
Mugman stiffened immediately, like he’d been struck. He turned his head to look at Boris, surprise flashing across his face before it was carefully masked.
“What are you talking about?” he replied, voice too quick, too rehearsed.
Boris let out a slow, tired sigh. Of course. Playing dumb. Great.
“All of this,” he said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Being on top of me all the time. Hovering. Pulling me out of danger that I can handle just fine.” His voice stayed flat, but frustration simmered beneath it. “You’ve been overprotective, Mugman. What’s your deal?”
For a long moment, Mugman didn’t answer. His gaze slid away again, back to the door, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his gloves. The tension in his shoulders only tightened.
“It’s…” he started, then stopped. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “We’re supposed to be protecting you guys, aren’t we?”
Boris frowned, ears flicking back. “That’s what Bendy and Cuphead agreed to,” he said, not unkindly but firm. “That doesn’t mean you get to drag me around like I can’t take care of myself. I don’t need protection from every little thing.”
The words hung in the air.
Mugman exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging just a bit, like something in him was finally giving way. He stared at the floor now, avoiding Boris’ eyes altogether. He couldn’t keep dodging it—couldn’t keep hiding behind excuses. Boris wasn’t the type to let it go. He’d keep pushing until the truth came out.
And Mugman knew it.
“I just…” Mugman started, then stopped, like the words were lodged somewhere in his chest. When he tried again, his voice was low, stripped of its earlier defensiveness. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
The admission hung between them, fragile and exposed.
“It started as just protecting,” he continued, eyes fixed on the floor. “That was the job. That was easy to justify. But the more I did it, the more it stopped being about everyone.” His fingers curled and uncurled nervously. “It turned into protecting you. Keeping you close. Making sure I could see you, that you were right there.” He swallowed. “Every time you were out of sight for too long, it felt like something bad was going to happen.”
Boris stayed quiet, listening. His ears slowly lifted, surprise creeping in as the pieces began to fall into place. The hovering. The sharp warnings. The constant presence. It all started to make a frightening kind of sense.
Mugman fell silent for a beat, then finally turned to face him. He looked up at Boris, expression open in a way it hadn’t been before—uncertain, almost vulnerable.
“I don’t… want you to be far away from me.”
Something tight and unfamiliar twisted in Boris’ chest. His face felt suddenly warm, heat creeping up his neck as Mugman shifted closer, the space between them shrinking until it felt charged. This wasn’t just protection. Not anymore.
At this point, it was something else entirely.
Possession.
The realization made Boris’ head spin.
He watched Mugman fidget, hands restless, like he was bracing for rejection or reprimand. After a moment, Boris moved too—slowly, deliberately. He reached out and closed his fingers around Mugman’s wrist, grounding him, stopping the nervous motion.
“You could’ve just asked me to stay close,” Boris said quietly.
Mugman froze. His eyes widened as he looked up at Boris, breath catching as his heart skipped hard against his ribs. The simple contact sent a jolt through him—warm, dangerous, intoxicating.
And deep down, beneath the guilt and the fear he’d been trying so hard to bury, something heavier stirred. Something that didn’t want distance. Something that wanted more.
Mugman moved suddenly, like he’d reached some breaking point he couldn’t hold back from anymore. His hands came up to grip Boris’ shoulders, fingers pressing in with a mixture of desperation and certainty, and before Boris could fully process what was happening, Mugman leaned in and crushed their mouths together in a deep, forceful kiss.
Boris froze for a split second, surprise jolting through him. His breath hitched, thoughts scattering uselessly as his mind tried—and failed—to catch up. Then something inside him gave way. He softened, arms lifting on instinct to curl around Mugman’s back as he let himself be guided down, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
Mugman barely noticed. He wasn’t thinking about consequences or explanations or where this would lead. All he knew was the pull—sharp and undeniable. A need that had been building quietly for far too long, fed by glances held too long, by proximity he pretended was strategic, by restraint that had finally snapped.
He needed this.
He needed him.
To finally be close to the wolf he’d admired from afar, fixated on in ways he’d refused to name, obsessed over in the quiet moments he thought no one noticed.
The kiss deepened, hunger bleeding into it as Mugman tilted his head and pressed closer. Boris responded without hesitation, lips parting willingly as a soft, involuntary gasp slipped free when Mugman’s tongue brushed against his own. The sound sent a shiver through both of them.
Mugman’s hands began to wander, no longer content to stay still. They traced down Boris’ sides, touching, exploring, as if memorizing him by feel. His fingers found the buttons of Boris’ shirt and worked them open quickly, almost impatiently, just so his palms could press against warm fur—over Boris’ chest, his stomach—solid and real beneath his hands.
The urge behind it all was possessive, raw, and overwhelming.
And Boris, caught in the gravity of it, couldn’t even summon the thought to stop him. His grip tightened instead, pulling Mugman closer, grounding himself in the heat and closeness of him.
When they finally broke apart, it felt like coming up for air after being submerged too long. Both of them were breathing hard. Mugman leaned forward and buried his face against Boris’ neck, inhaling shakily as he tried to steady himself, his forehead resting there as though it was the only thing keeping him anchored.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Mugman stayed there for a moment, face pressed into Boris’ neck, breathing him in like he was afraid Boris might disappear if he pulled away. When he finally lifted his head, his movements were slower now—less frantic, but no less charged.
His hands returned to Boris almost reverently this time. One slid up to cradle the side of his face, thumb brushing along his cheek with a softness that felt almost at odds with the hunger that still lingered beneath it. He pressed a trail of kisses along Boris’ jaw, down his neck, lingering in places that made Boris’ breath hitch despite himself.
Boris didn’t stop him.
If anything, he leaned into it, eyes half-lidded as he let Mugman’s attention wash over him. He accepted every touch, every kiss, fingers tightening briefly in Mugman’s clothes as though to ground himself. Whatever uncertainty he’d felt earlier was gone now, replaced with a heavy, steady warmth settling low in his chest.
Mugman murmured something unintelligible against his skin, voice barely more than a breath, before shifting closer. Their bodies fit together easily, naturally, like this was something they’d been circling for far longer than either of them wanted to admit. Mugman’s hands traced familiar paths again, slower now, more deliberate, as if savoring every reaction he drew from Boris.
Boris tilted his head back slightly, giving him more room, a quiet, unspoken permission. His ears flicked once, then relaxed as he let himself be held, let himself be wanted without resistance.
The air between them felt thick, heavy with intent. Every touch lingered a little longer than necessary. Every breath felt shared.
Mugman pressed his forehead against Boris’, noses brushing, their breaths mingling. For a moment, they just stayed like that—close, connected, suspended right on the edge of something neither of them was willing to pull away from.
The world outside the room faded entirely.
And when Mugman leaned in again, hands firm and sure, Boris didn’t hesitate this time.
The door stayed closed.
The lights stayed low.
And whatever followed was something just for them, left unspoken as the night stretched on.