LOL (Lolbit x Reader)

~ 14 ~

∆ Regret and... something else.. ∆

Lolbit sat in the silence after you left, his glowing eyes narrowing as an unfamiliar sensation coiled tight in his chest—something heavy and uncomfortable, something he couldn’t shake.

*Regret.*

It made no sense. He shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t *feel* at all, especially not for you. He had *hurt* you, deliberately. He’d torn the sketchbook, crumpled your creation, and threw the pin back at you like it meant nothing. But when he saw the look on your face—confusion, sadness, but not anger—something in him wavered. He couldn’t understand why it gnawed at him, why he had hesitated just as he was about to say something crueler.

Why did he stop?

A flicker of something deep inside told him he’d already crossed a line. He *felt* it. That sharp tug, that sense of having gone too far, lingered in his circuits like a virus he couldn’t scrub away.

But *why* would that matter? He wanted to hurt you, to drive you away, to make you fear him. *And it worked,* didn’t it? The way your shoulders slumped, the way your eyes dropped, he could tell he had succeeded. So why… why did he feel so unsettled? Why was there this nagging sense of guilt prickling through him, making his hands clench tighter?

You hadn’t even fought back. No anger. No retaliation. Instead, you met his harshness with softness. Words he didn’t expect. Words that made him pause. Words that turned his attempt to wound into something… hollow. And that emptiness… it was worse than any confrontation. You had made him *take back* the pin, made him reconsider the gifts. The things he had damaged, to scare you, to mock you, now felt like weights in his hands.

And somehow, that made him feel… something else, something strange and unsettling, something that almost felt like a spark of—*no.* He refused to name it. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pain. It was softer, quieter, like a light flickering where there should be only shadows.

*Happy?* 

The word crept up, unwanted-Could he even *feel* that? Was that what this was?

Lolbit’s thoughts tangled in a mess he couldn’t untangle. He sighed, an unnatural sound coming from an animatronic like him, as he glanced at the pin in his hand. His fingers traced the edges before he carefully fixed it back onto his bowtie, his chest still tight with that gnawing, conflicting emotion.

Maybe Foxy was right. Maybe Lolbit had let himself get *too* vulnerable, let you get too close. 

And now...

Could he even kill you? The thought slithered into his mind, unwelcome and unsettling. If just *hurting your feelings* left him with this strange, twisting guilt, could he truly bring himself to do something as final as killing you?

He scoffed at the absurdity of the thought. *Of course he could.* What was he thinking? He was Lolbit, designed to manipulate, terrify, and yes—kill. It wasn’t personal, it never was. He’d done it before, over and over again, countless times, without hesitation. *Why should you be any different?* 

You shouldn’t be.

But then... why was it bothering him? Why did the idea of *you* being gone feel like a weight pressing against his chest, something far worse than just another job?

It shouldn’t be a problem. After all, he was made to *want* to kill children. He had to. It was what he was designed for—what they all were. No feelings, no hesitation, just cold, calculated actions to meet a goal. It was his purpose. The only thing he knew for certain.

So killing you should be a walk in the park.

And yet here he was, *second-guessing* himself over you.

What was it about you that made everything so complicated? Why did he even *care* that you’d walked away, hurt but still kind, still trying to reach out?

Lolbit nudged the chair with his foot, making it spin lazily as he sighed, his mind stuck on the night’s wasted potential. Maybe he should give you one more day, let you try again to make up for it—

But he knew deep down that it was his fault. The two of you had just sat there, awkward and silent, and he was the reason nothing had happened. He groaned, frustrated.

*Stupid girl.*

What really pissed him off was what you’d said, how you claimed to care for him. It made no sense. Why would you care about him when he’d done nothing but use you for his amusement or selfish gain? When he’d just spent the night trying to push you away, to convince himself not to care—

And yet, your words had the opposite effect. If anything, your claim that you cared for him only made him care more.

“Stupid, *fucking* human girl,” he growled under his breath, standing up abruptly, as if he could shake off the feeling.

Lolbit’s eyes landed on the desk, his head tilting slightly. 

“You forgot your sketchbook, dumbass,” he muttered to the empty room, picking it up.

Yours was much thicker than the one you’d given him, the cover plastered with colorful stickers. Without thinking, he flipped it open, his fingers absently flicking through the pages. The sketchbook wasn’t just filled with drawings—it had stickers, scribbled quotes, even old, pressed flowers tucked between the pages.

His curiosity piqued, he kept flipping through, studying the sketches. Some were simple, lighthearted doodles, but others... others were darker, more intricate. They seemed to carry an emotional weight, like a glimpse into the parts of your mind he hadn’t seen before. 

Not that hes really tried to dig into anything about you. *Maybe he should*

He ignored the thought, flipping to the next page.

And then, he paused.

his eyes landed on a series of sketches of himself. They were different from the light, cartoonish doodle you’d shown him before—these were more detailed, more lifelike. His sharp grin was perfectly captured, his eyes drawn with surprising accuracy, though there was something softer in the way you’d shaped them. 

He tilted his head, noticing little details—tiny hearts sketched in the corners, and a few delicate swirls that framed his face. There were even a few lines near his mouth, like the hint of a smile that wasn’t quite there.

He stared at the drawings for a moment, puzzled. The hearts and swirls meant something, didn’t they? Maybe you were just trying to add some flair to the page. Yeah, that had to be it. You were just embellishing.

Still, he lingered on the page, an odd feeling bubbling up as he studied how much effort you’d put into drawing him.

“Whatever,” he muttered, flipping the page dismissively, not quite realizing what it all meant.

Lobit stared at the sketchbook, his paw lingering on the cover a bit longer before he turned away to pace the small space.

No, he refused. He wouldn't let himself care about you, he wouldn't let you get any closer. He'd play nice as he had been, but he'd be more conscious of your little… attempts. 

You wouldn't beat him at his own game.

(Ik ik i still gotta fix the ** parts ill get to it when i can ok-)