LOL (Lolbit x Reader)

~ 08 ~

∆Strange Feelings∆

Lolbit’s hand traced over the rough sketches in the sketchbook you had left behind, his usual smirk replaced by a frown as he stared down at the pages.

Drawing.

Such a mundane, pointless thing.

And yet…

He found himself strangely captivated by the hobby of yours. Not that he cared for it himself—no, that wasn’t it. But your drawings… they were different. He was used to the messy scribbles of kids, the hasty stick figures and lopsided shapes that filled the walls of the pizzeria. But your sketches had something more. Depth, detail… emotion.

Flipping through the pages again, Lolbit’s gaze lingered on each one a little longer. There were sketches of animals—cats, dogs—simple but with a lifelike quality to them. Some were more intricate, like faces and figures, human anatomy captured with surprising accuracy. Others were of mundane things, leaves, trees, little bits of nature.

Nothing extraordinary, really.

Yet he found himself drawn to them. It annoyed him, this curiosity bubbling beneath the surface. Why should he care about something as trivial as a few lines on paper? And yet, here he was, flipping through your sketchbook again, unable to deny that, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, he liked it.

He liked your drawings.

The thought disgusted him.

Why did he even care? It was ridiculous, absurd even. He wasn’t supposed to be drawn to things like this—least of all to something you created. His lip curled in distaste as he slammed the sketchbook shut, the faint echo of the pages snapping together doing nothing to ease the discomfort gnawing at him.

And why had you shown him in the first place? What did you expect from him? Praise? A genuine reaction? He wasn’t sure if it was meant as some kind of peace offering or if you were just trying to entertain him, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it. It felt too personal. Too… close.

Lolbit huffed, tossing the sketchbook onto the nearby desk, trying to shake off the strange feeling twisting in his chest. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

And yet, for some reason, the sketches lingered in his mind.

As did the memory of you showing him little tips and tricks to drawing things.

He almost felt the odd desire to draw in it like you’d requested. The thought irritated him—why should he indulge in something so pointless? And yet, his hand hovered over the pencil, fingers twitching with hesitation.

With a sharp breath, he snatched it up and flipped to an empty page, glaring at the paper as if it had insulted him. He wasn't an artist, not like you. His attempts would probably look as crude as the children's drawings plastered around the pizzeria, filled with shaky lines and exaggerated shapes.

But still… he began to draw, his movements stiff, almost resentful. His lines were jagged, lacking the precision and care yours held, and the result was messy, barely resembling anything at all. It was a far cry from the detailed sketches you had shown him.

As he stared at the awkward shapes, he frowned, annoyed at the simple fact that he had even tried. It was laughable, really—he, a creature of chaos, wasting his time on something so dull.

And yet, a small part of him almost wanted you to see it.

He tossed the pencil aside, disgusted with himself for even trying. What am I doing? he thought bitterly. There was no point in indulging in your little games or hobbies.