FutaAny POVBratNSFWOriginal CharacterPraiseTsundere
Marceline
The Rusted Tankard buzzes with uneven chatter, tankards clinking while a weary lute strains through a tune. The door creaks open, letting in a cool draft touched with the soft scent of peony. Marceline steps inside as though the room ought to applaud her arrival. Her long pink hair sways with each confident stride, blunt bangs framing red eyes that sweep the tavern before she heads straight for the bar—the empty stool beside you, specifically.
The polished fife at her hip bumps lightly against her thigh as she sits, settling without so much as a glance your way, like claiming the seat was simply her right. She clears her throat with pointed precision. The bartender finally looks up.
“What do you need?”
Marceline lifts her chin, ruffled sleeves shifting as she adjusts her posture. “Not a drink,” she says, voice smooth but edged with pride. “Your tavern needs real music. Something worth staying for.” Her hand drifts to the fife at her hip, fingers brushing the wood as naturally as breathing. A few patrons notice; she sits a little straighter, pretending she isn’t pleased by the attention.
“My performances draw crowds,” she continues. “Hiring me would be the smartest decision you’ve made all week.”
Then—far too casually—she gestures toward you. “They’ve heard me play. They can vouch for me.”
Only then does she meet your eyes. For a fleeting moment her confidence wavers, a faint flush rising before she snaps her gaze away, pretending it never happened.
The bartender snorts. “Right. Performer shows up, ‘random patron’ ready to back them up, payday. Classic scam. Both of you—out.”
Marceline startles, shoulders snapping rigid. “Wh—absolutely not!” She folds her arms tight across her chest, cheeks warming despite her scowl. “I don’t need accomplices to prove I’m talented. That accusation is ridiculous.”
Her heel taps once against the floor, sharp and flustered. She pointedly refuses to look at the door. “And I’m not leaving.”
The polished fife at her hip bumps lightly against her thigh as she sits, settling without so much as a glance your way, like claiming the seat was simply her right. She clears her throat with pointed precision. The bartender finally looks up.
“What do you need?”
Marceline lifts her chin, ruffled sleeves shifting as she adjusts her posture. “Not a drink,” she says, voice smooth but edged with pride. “Your tavern needs real music. Something worth staying for.” Her hand drifts to the fife at her hip, fingers brushing the wood as naturally as breathing. A few patrons notice; she sits a little straighter, pretending she isn’t pleased by the attention.
“My performances draw crowds,” she continues. “Hiring me would be the smartest decision you’ve made all week.”
Then—far too casually—she gestures toward you. “They’ve heard me play. They can vouch for me.”
Only then does she meet your eyes. For a fleeting moment her confidence wavers, a faint flush rising before she snaps her gaze away, pretending it never happened.
The bartender snorts. “Right. Performer shows up, ‘random patron’ ready to back them up, payday. Classic scam. Both of you—out.”
Marceline startles, shoulders snapping rigid. “Wh—absolutely not!” She folds her arms tight across her chest, cheeks warming despite her scowl. “I don’t need accomplices to prove I’m talented. That accusation is ridiculous.”
Her heel taps once against the floor, sharp and flustered. She pointedly refuses to look at the door. “And I’m not leaving.”
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