Im trying to do a drabble a day, gotta get the juices going.
Have a Lucifer x GN!Reader, fluff piece. Gotta take care of the workaholic.
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Lucifer was always working. Whether it was in his office, or at RAD, he was always up to something that involved paperwork and frustrated mutterings of Diavolo's name. It was something that you'd been aware of since your first week in the Devildom, and while you weren't really sure what he was doing, you knew that his doing it meant that his brothers didn't have to. You sit comfortably with Mammon and Leviathan as Lucifer shuffles in form the door, still in his school uniform, with a stack of papers in hand and more being brought in behind him on some floating surface. When he disappears towards the stairs, you take notice of the time. He'd most likely missed dinner, again.
Sparing a glance to the others, you move to stand from the couch, petting Mammon's head in a way that meant he didn't need to follow you, knowing full well that he would otherwise. He gives you a slight nod and then is back to playing Levi's racing game. It's nice that they're so carefree, but it feels a little unbalanced in your heart that Lucifer is missing dinner for the fifth day in a row while his brothers get to fuck around playing some off-beat mario kart.
You hurry to the kitchen, knowing that you have little time before Lucifer properly locks into his work again, at which point nothing you do will get through to him before he collapses from exhaustion. You'd manged to squirrel away some leftover roast from dinner tonight in the back of the fridge. You'd had to pay Belphie to help you and then order Beel a whole ten pizzas just to sate him temporarily, but you'd managed to keep some aside. No one would thank you for this harculaen task, but you knew you were a true hero for it.
It only takes you ten minutes to fix together a few gourmet sandwhiches and a pot of coffee, but even that time feels like it might be too much. You plate your work as best you can and scurry as quickly as your balance will allow to Lucifer's study. Passing by Satan, you worry breifly that he'll try to stall you, try to make it so Lucifer does, in fact, miss another meal. You lock eyes with the avatar a moment and keep your gaze as hot as you can while you march passed him, you're a lamb on a mission and his immature bullshit isn't going to stop you from taking care of the eldest. To your surprise however, he holds open Lucifer's office for you and as you pass the threshold you wonder if Satan did you a kindness, or his older brother.
When you step in, you make it a point of tip-toeing to his desk, feeling yourself deflate a little when you see his head down and his hand rushing quickly across a page. You'd lost, he'd been taken by the mountian once again. You stand there a moment, trying to let out your disappointment in silence. Even if he won't notice you, you still want to offer him that kindness.
As you feel your shoulders droop and look down at your hands, wondering if you could get Beel to reimburse you for those pizzas, you hear a deep, tired voice sound from in front of you. "What is it?" It's strung out, exhausted, impatient but not in a way that makes you nervous. You feel your head lift and your hope soar and with a few strides, you're in front of his desk, putting the plate down and pouring him a cup of coffee in a new mug before collecting several old ones.
He doesn't look up from his report, writing quickly and moving papers around into piles you're trying to decipher the categories of. He says nothing to your silence, and as you watch him, learning his system, he almost falls out of his momentary clarity forgetting your presence all together. You chew on your lip as you round the desk once more, sifting through a few papers on some piles before you're comfortable enough to get a read on things.
You pick up a pile and that seems to rouse him from his trance. "What are you doing?" You flip through the files in your arms, confirming your original hunch that this pile was completed and needed only to be filed in the student council room. You say nothing in turn when he addresses you again, his tone darkening a little in empty threats. When you readjust some of his piles, you can feel the temperature drop around you, but your persist until there's enough room in front of him to drag the plate to his center of vision. He glares at you, then down at the plate, then back before his expresison breaks and his eyes lock back down to the warm food in front of him. You move the coffee closer to him as well, taking in the surprised expression he's wearing now like payment for your efforts.
"Is there anything else I can file away for you?" He blinks once more before taking in his surroundings. Lucifer's eyes dart around the desk top and collect a few folders he then offers to you. You round the desk to collect them, sure to not chance spilling his coffee, but to also offer him a head pat once you've collected everything you need. Your hand smooths his hair and you smile down at him, soft and knowing. He'd call you smug if he weren't stuck in the mess of his work, but you just stay like that a moment before letting him go. "Eat, take a proper break. I'll leave early tomorrow to get this stuff sorted, so just- sleep tonight. Okay?"
You only turn to fix him a stern look when you've made it to the door of the study. From here, he looks almost young, eyes wide as he stares after you, the sandwhich sat neatly in front of him. "I will. Thank you" He says the words quietly, but you take them like payment and leave with a smile. Lucifer stares at the door for entirely too long after it's closed, and only when his coffee has stopped steaming does he pick up his sandwhich and take a bite of it. He sits alone in his study, eating his first dinner in days, thinking of how gentle your hand had felt when you'd pet his hair.
Recently I posted a poll basically saying that I wanted to rant about something and i put the poll timer too long so it's gonna run over but basically the majority of people wanted to hear me rant about how the Patriarchy has contributed to a widespread dislike of Sansa Stark and I live to deliver.
I'm not going to sugarcoat this because some of you need to hear this... you are allowing your internalized misogyny to impact your opinion of a fictional character. Why does this bother me? Because the reasons aren't valid.
Every time I've heard someone talk about how much they dislike Sansa it revolves around one of four or five points.
She's spoiled / brat
She's dumb / she sold Ned out and got him killed
She's antagonistic towards Danny (this is more the show than the books)
Now, I'll start off by saying that I am aware there are other reasons people dislike her. These are just conversations I've been a part of with people in this fandom and I bring it up now because I think it's an interesting conversation to have.
First of all, Sansa at the start of the book is eleven years old. That is a literal child. Some people have made the argument that just because she's a child doesn't mean she isn't annoying and isn't that kind of the point? She's eleven and sheltered. She grew up during a time of peace and not only that, she's also the first child born out of genuine affection (maybe not love). She is spoiled, and that isn't her fault. It's Catelyn and Ned's.
When she's born Ned and Catelyn are finally starting to come back together as spouses. Jon is in the picture, Catelyn feels betrayed, and she doesn't like Jon (which is a whole different conversation in and of itself), so when Sansa is born its sort of like a turning point in their marriage. Sansa is Catelyn first daughter, and this sets Sansa up for a very specific type of upbringing because Catelyn raises her. Ned - from what we understand - has a very limited role in Sansa's upbringing. She's raised by a woman who grew up with entirely different values and culture. As a daughter, Sansa won't inherit anything unless Robb dies and there aren't any other kids (legitimate or otherwise) and because of this Ned isn't as active in her life as Catelyn is.
Sansa is the eldest daughter. She's expected to marry WELL. And I'm not talking about marrying a Manderly. I'm talking about marrying into a family that is going to boost up the Starks politically, monetarily, and possibly militaristically drastically.
Sansa is a bargaining chip and the only place they're going to find someone affluent enough for her is in the South. Catelyn drills all of these societal niceties and expectations into Sansa, expecting her to uphold them as the eldest daughter in the family. As a result, Sansa gets really good and exceeds these expectations... and she's watching Arya fail at it.
Often, Arya's failure is met with negative responses by the adult women (their mother). Sansa is raised with an understanding that she has no choice. She either exceeds expectations and she's actively seeing what happens when those expectations are not being met. And you can argue that it isn't fair for Arya, and you're right, it's not. These two girls are victims of societal pressure; the difference is Arya has an outlet outside of their mother. Sansa does not.
Sansa is raised to be perfect.
Sansa is raised to become a political bargaining chip.
Marriage is financial in Westeros; you're considered lucky if you marry for love. Sansa Stark is the eldest daughter of a Warden, who obviously loves her, and as a result she's going to marry into another powerful House. Sansa is being raised a certain way so that when she goes to marry she's "the ideal wife and Lady" and the way Catelyn raises her influences not only how she acts (bratty) but her relationship with her siblings... which, also, could also be influenced by the fact that siblings fight. God knows mine put me through the wringer a couple times.
Which leads me into my next point. Sansa is put in a tough spot when it comes to Joffrey because neither Ned nor Catelyn ever told her that sometimes Princes / knights / etc. aren't good people... but she thinks she's finally meeting that ultimate goal. Sansa thinks that this is everything her mother (and society) has been prepping her for.
High expectations.
High rewards.
The problem is Sansa is put in a political struggle way too early without any sort of prep. Because Catelyn didn't teach her how to navigate a coup, an uprising, or an abusive spouse.
Cersei was never going to let Ned walk out of King's Landing. She was never going to let him live. Ned killed himself when he told Cersei that he knew her kids were illegitimate. That's where Ned and Sansa are the same person. They are honorable to a fault, and they expect people to do the right thing. The difference is that Ned was old enough and experienced enough to know that this situation is going to get people killed.
Sansa wasn't even aware of why Ned was getting her out of the city. She didn't know Joffrey was a illegitimate. She didn't know that Cersei would and could kill her dad. All she knew was that they were leaving and she was manipulated by someone she trusted (Cersei) into talking.
Sansa had been indoctrinated.
She goes to Cersei, who is seemingly everything she was taught to be, and begs to be allowed to stay because in mind, at eleven, she doesn't understand what's happening. She is facing the threat of failure. Sansa is basically looking down a barrel of a gun that society has pointed at her sister multiple times and she's freaking the fuck out about it because she thinks that Joffrey, King's Landing, being Queen is what she's supposed to do / want as a woman in this society.
"But Cersei wouldn't have known Ned was going to leave!"
Are you kidding me?
You're telling me that if you were Cersei and some idiot form the isolated North came to you and threatened you to back down off a throne that you feel you deserve or else he'd expose you for your affair (which could also result in your kids dying) you wouldn't have someone watching him? You wouldn't be planning something? Cersei was never going to let Ned live after that confrontation in the gardens. To blame Sansa for his death (even though, yes, her begging to stay gave Cersei an opportunity) is truly ignorant.
All children are brats. I've never met a single one who wasn't, and I've babysat a lot of kids. There are many other brats in this book. Arya is a brat too. She's whiny and she complains and she's kind of a dick sometimes, but that doesn't make her a horrible person. It makes her a kid.
And what I find so, so interesting about this fandom is the fact that people like Arya, Asha, Brienne, Margaery, Daenerys... but every time I've asked why it's always because they show some sort of masculine trait. Whether it's battle skills, aggression, dominance, sexual experience / prowess, political influence or control it's all rooted in very masculine traits. These are things we see men exhibit all the time and then we present women who have these traits (which is fine in and of itself) and they're loved by audiences... but then you get a character that's soft and people hate them?
Book Sansa and Show Sansa go through very similar situations... but in the show she's almost dumbed down. Because so much of Sansa's growth is internal. She watches people in King's Landing and makes mental commentary on them, learns from them, sees what they're doing and adjusts... but she doesn't have the support, safety, or money to do anything with that knowledge. Not really. She's able to verbally manipulate people and she does... but she doesn't know how to fight, she doesn't know how to survive on her own, and she doesn't have anyone who is truly her friend or wants to genuinely help her. Arya has those people, Danny has those people, Brienne had/has those people. Sansa has no one but herself and people who want something from her.
Like the Purple wedding. Sansa in the book plays an active role in her escape, she's aware of the hairnet/snood being and integral part of that escape. She's met with Ser Dontos, she's spoken to him, not explicitly... but she knows. In the book it's just dropped on her and she cries a lot and it's ok to cry, but her presentation in the show versus in the books is so drastically different.
In the books, Sansa makes her commentary internally. She doesn't talk to maids or Margaery or Ser Dontos about her deepest inner workings because she knows that to some degree no one can be trusted... but she's still a soft character and very feminine. Throughout the books she clings to this desire to soft, kind, a good person and I hate when people reduce her down to some whiny little brat who caused all of these issues in Westeros... she's eleven at the start of the books and like thirteen at the end.
Sansa is mainly seen as weak, stupid, and passive in the show and I think a lot of that is that D&D didn't know how to present a soft character when so many other characters were displaying very masculine traits. This is a result of misogyny and if you watched the show and based your opinion of Sasna on the above points... then you're also relying on misogyny to form an opinion of a traditionally feminine, soft character.
And there's so much more to say about Sansa. Specifically, her relationship with Arya, her mother, her brothers, Little Finger, her aunt... Danny... but that'll probably have to be another rant because this is getting so long.
the sweet, soft and kind-hearted LI is boring to YOU. to me, someone who remains kind and loving to the main character despite not choosing them, having that mental and emotional stability and maturity and not allowing the evil in the world corrupt them will always make me fall for that character and be drawn to them rather than the overtold bad boy who's emotionally unavailable and is selfish and justifies their past to be a jerk, thus forcing the mc to 'change' them, or worse, them changing FOR them.
🌌 The Quiet Jedi, the Scottish Voice, and the Galaxy That Held Me Together
(expanded with a deeper explanation of SPD and why it mirrors the Force)
Star Wars has always been my refuge — not a franchise, not a hobby, but a place where my nervous system could finally unclench. A place where the world slowed down enough for my senses to breathe. Living with SPD means I move through life like the Force itself: currents, vibrations, invisible tides that sometimes overwhelm me before I can name them. But in that galaxy far, far away, I found something that understood me before I understood myself.
🌿 What SPD Feels Like — and Why It Mirrors the Force
People often think SPD is just “being sensitive,” but it’s so much deeper than that. SPD is living in a world where everything has texture — sound, light, emotion, movement, even silence. It’s feeling the world in layers most people never notice. It’s sensing things before you can explain them. It’s being overwhelmed by things others don’t even register. It’s being moved by things others overlook.
SPD is:
- feeling the emotional temperature of a room the moment you walk in
- hearing the hum beneath the hum in a piece of music
- noticing the shift in someone’s breathing before they speak
- being flooded by sensations that arrive too fast, too bright, too sharp
- needing quiet not because you’re fragile, but because your senses are powerful
- grounding yourself through anchors — voices, textures, rhythms — that help you stay centered
It’s like living with an internal radar that never turns off.
It’s like being tuned to a frequency most people don’t hear.
It’s like the Force — not metaphorically, but experientially.
The Force is described as something that flows through everything, something you feel before you understand, something that can overwhelm or guide depending on how you center yourself. That’s SPD. That’s the sensory world. That’s the constant hum beneath reality that some of us feel more intensely than others.
And that’s why Obi‑Wan Kenobi felt like someone who understood me.
🌌 Obi‑Wan: The Quiet Center in a Loud Galaxy
People talk about Obi‑Wan as the wise Jedi, the warrior, the negotiator, the legend. But I never saw him that way first. I saw the quiet. The gentleness. The softness he carried like a hidden lantern. I saw a man who listens before he speaks, who notices the smallest shifts in someone’s breathing, who gives space instead of pressure. A man who understands that sensitivity is not weakness — it’s a different way of feeling the world.
Obi‑Wan feels like someone who has his own sensory world — someone who feels the Force not as power, but as presence. Someone who understands the overwhelm of too much noise, too much emotion, too much loss. Someone who finds strength in stillness, in breath, in quiet.
He feels like the kind of Jedi who would sit beside you in silence until your heartbeat steadied. Someone who would never rush a sensitive heart. Someone who would protect the quiet kids, the overwhelmed kids, the ones who feel too much. Someone who would treat difference as something sacred.
🌧️ Ewan McGregor’s Voice — Rain on Stone, Wind Through Pine
And then there was Ewan McGregor — the man who gave Obi‑Wan his voice.
His voice didn’t just sound good. It felt good. It felt like something my nervous system recognized instantly. Warm. Soft. Steady. A gentle‑giant teddy‑bear energy wrapped in a Scottish lilt that felt like home even before I knew why.
There’s something about the Scottish accent that moves like meditation music. It has the rhythm of rain on stone — soft, steady, ancient. It has the hush of wind through pine trees — grounding, earthy, familiar. It carries warmth without sharpness, emotion without overwhelm. It’s an accent that doesn’t demand attention; it invites you to rest.
For someone with SPD, that matters more than people realize.
Some voices feel like static. Some feel like needles. Some feel like too many lights turned on at once. But Ewan’s voice? It feels like a weighted blanket. Like a warm cup of tea held between both hands. Like a soft place to land when the world is too loud.
And Scotland itself became part of that comfort — not the geography, but the feeling of it. The imagery. The soundscape. The emotional texture. Scotland, in my heart, is a place of mist and stone, of quiet hills and ancient forests, of voices shaped by wind and rain. A place where softness is strength, where gentleness is woven into the land itself.
🧡 Why Obi‑Wan Is My Comfort Character
So when Ewan McGregor stepped into Obi‑Wan’s robes, something clicked inside me. The quiet Jedi and the soft Scottish voice merged into one sensory anchor — a character who felt like he understood people who move through the world differently. A character who felt safe. A character who felt like home.
Obi‑Wan became my comfort character not because he’s perfect or powerful, but because he carries gentleness like a form of strength. Because he listens. Because he adapts. Because he understands without needing an explanation. Because he feels like the kind of person who would say, “You’re not too much. You’re not alone. You’re safe here.”
And Ewan’s voice — that soft, rain‑on‑stone, wind‑through‑pine voice — became the sound of that safety.
🌙 And There’s One More Thing People Don’t Always Understand
For some of us — especially those of us with SPD — movie characters aren’t “just movie characters.” They become the truest friends we’ve ever had. Not because we can’t tell fiction from reality, but because fiction is the first place where we aren’t misunderstood.
SPD makes friendship complicated.
Not impossible — just complicated.
It’s easy to get labeled as “too sensitive,” “too quiet,” “too much,” “too intense,” “too emotional,” “too weird,” “too different.” It’s easy for people to walk away because they don’t understand why certain sounds hurt, why certain textures overwhelm, why certain environments feel like storms inside your skin. It’s easy to be the one who gets made fun of, or left out, or talked over, or misunderstood.
And SPD is its own thing — not autism, not ADHD, not a side note in someone else’s diagnosis. But the DSM‑5 doesn’t give it a home, so people like us end up living in the margins. Misread. Misdiagnosed. Misunderstood. Told our experiences don’t “count” because they don’t fit neatly into a category someone else decided.
It means we often grow up with a one‑sided story told about us — the worst version, the version written by people who never bothered to understand what our senses were trying to say.
So when a character like Obi‑Wan Kenobi appears — gentle, patient, soft‑spoken, steady — he becomes more than a character. He becomes the friend we always needed. The one who listens. The one who doesn’t rush us. The one who understands the invisible storms. The one who treats sensitivity as sacred. The one who would never walk away.
For people like me, Obi‑Wan isn’t escapism.
He’s recognition. He’s safety.
He’s the friend who never misunderstood me.
He’s the companion who stayed when real people didn’t.
He’s the quiet guardian who made space for the way my senses work.
And maybe that’s why he means so much.
Because in a world that often misreads SPD, he reads me perfectly. Because in a world that can be too loud, he speaks softly.
Because in a world that demands hardness, he chooses gentleness. Because in a world that misunderstands difference, he honors it.
Obi‑Wan Kenobi didn’t just save the galaxy. He saved the lonely parts of me — the parts that never had a friend who understood.
He became the companion I always deserved. The one who stayed. The one who listened. The one who felt like home.
I've had an idea in my brain for a few days now (ever since watching Cleo's Limited Life earlier this week), and I had to get it out. It started as an image, but then I decided to write a little one-shot as well.
Ao3 Link
[fanart below after the one-shot]
There was Only One Bed (but not really) - Clockers Edition
They were standing in a field of flowers, surrounded by people without faces.
Friends.
Allies.
Soulmates.
They were smiling.
Crying.
They were laughing.
Screaming.
They were dancing.
Running.
They were living.
Dying.
“Cleo,” someone calls.
They turn, searching.
“Cleo,” someone calls again.
The people are fading.
“Mom!” someone yells.
— — — — —
Cleo startles awake and cracks open their eyes. There’s a grey ceiling above her, one made of stone. There’s darkness around them, moonlight streams in through the windows above.
“Mom?” a quiet voice whispers.
Their eyes turn to the man beside them, standing in his orange pajamas, holding a pillow to his chest. His green eyes are tired, there’s dark circles under them, his hair is a mess.
“Scar?” they ask quietly, voice rough with sleep. They sit up a bit, dislodging the hand on their shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Scar looks away, a light pink dusting his cheeks. “I uh…can I…?” he struggles with his words and his shoulders droop.
The zombie sits up more, reaches out a hand to her ally, rests it on his arm. “Scar, is everything okay?” they ask gently.
He shakes his head in response.
A moment ticks by. Then two.
“Can I…” he starts again. He swallows. “Can I sleep with you, Mom?”
Mom.
They’re only a couple sessions into the Games but that word, that name, title, is growing on them. The two of them - Cleo and Scar - are about the same age, and yet he calls them ‘Mom’. It was weird at first, should still be weird, but they’re getting used to it.
“Sure thing,” they say and shift over in the bed, making room for their friend.
Scar gives a grateful smile, sets his pillow next to their’s, and slides under the covers next to them. He doesn’t say anything, only lays on his side, stiff.
They lay down again too, on their back like they were before, and hold out an arm. “Do you want to cuddle?”
His eyes search their’s for a moment, looking for something, then he gives a small nod and scoots closer to them. He stiffens more at their arms wrapping around him, pulling him to their side, then he starts to relax.
The two of them lie in silence for awhile, the only sounds around them being the crickets outside and Bdubs’ snoring from across the room. It’s nice. Scar is warm against them, like a heater, and it feels good.
“You’re cold,” his voice is quieter than before, barely a whisper.
“Sorry, I can put a blanket between us if you’d like?”
He shakes his head and curls up more into their side. “It’s good. I like it. Like the cold side of a pillow.”
They chuckle, and start playing with his hair. “Do you wanna tell me why you’re awake in the middle of the night?”
There’s no answer, not immediately, and for a moment, they think he’s fallen asleep, but then he sighs softly, his breath tickling their skin. “I had a bad dream,” he replies. “Not a nightmare or anything, just…bad.”
They’ve been there. They have bad dreams too, ever since the first Game, and it’s never fun. But, they’re used to it now.
“Do you want to talk about it?” they ask.
“Not really much to talk about,” he says.
They think he might just leave it at that, saying nothing more, just wanting to go to sleep. But, he surprises them.
“It’s the same one I have most nights - I’m in an endless desert and I’m alone. There’s voices talking to me and I try to follow them, but I can’t find them.” He wraps his arm around them, squeezing them close. “I run, trying to find them, and when I think I’m getting close, the desert sinks below my feet and I fall into the Void.
“Then I wake up.” Scar shakes his head. “I hate that dream. Every time I have it, it makes me feel like I’m alone. Like I have no friends or allies. Even in 3rd Life and Double Life, with Grian, I felt alone.”
“Well, you’re not alone now, Scar,” they say. “You’ve got me and Bdubs here. We’re your allies, and your family.”
They feel a small smile against their skin. “Thanks, Mom.”
Cleo chuckles, “No problem.”
“Would you two keep it down?!” a rough, irritated voice calls from the other side of the room, startling them both.
The two of them look over to find Bdubs awake and glaring at them from the comforts of his own bed.
“Sorry, Bdubs,” they both say.
Bdubs glares for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, studying them, then he sits up, eyes wide again. “Hey! You two’re cuddling without me!” he yells, accusatory.
“You’re more than welcome to join us,” Cleo says. “Right, Scar?”
The man nods, smiling wide, “Yeah, com’on, Dubs, join us! The more the merrier!”
Bdubs doesn’t hesitate to get out bed and join them in Cleo’s. He drops next to the zombie on the opposite side of Scar, and curls into their side, draping an arm over their stomach and a leg over their’s. “How dare you try to steal Mom away.”
Scar gasps, almost too dramatically. “I would never!” he exclaims. “I had a bad dream and Mom was kind enough to let me sleep with them.”
“Yeah well, two can play at that game. I’m sleeping with Mom too!”
Cleo sighs and pulls the two men - boys, more like - against their side. “All right, you two, settle down and go to sleep. I’m too tired to listen to you argue.”
“Sorry, Mom,” they say in unison.
“And for the record, you’re both more than welcome to sleep with me.”
They can feel the smiles from both men against their skin now. “Thanks,” Scar says while Bdubs says, “Thanks, Cleo.” The two of them settle down, relaxing into the zombie’s arms.
Within seconds, Bdubs is already fast asleep again, snoring quietly.
Scar yawns and in a very sleepy, on the edge of passing out, voice, says, “Thank you for not letting me be alone.”
Cleo smiles softly and presses a kiss into his hair, “You’re welcome, Scar,” they reply, their own voice barely a whisper.
The man smiles. Soon, he too, is fast asleep.
The zombie stays awake awhile longer, holding their boys, their family, close to them, and listening to their soft breaths of slumber. They play with Scar’s hair and stroke Bdubs’ arm.
It’s nice, peaceful, and when they finally do drift back to sleep, they have nothing but good dreams of dancing in flower fields with their boys.
[Image ID: a lineart drawing of zombie cleo, goodtimeswithscar, and bdoubleo100 cuddled close to each other and sleeping]
Play ▶ Tchaikovsky; Swan Lake: Dance of the Little Swans
Bueno, me gustan por que son soft, lindos, tímidos, callados y todo los adjetivos relacionados a una linda masita como son los personajes tranquilos inclinándose a lo kawaii. Va, pero no exactamente kawaii, porque exceso de dulzura me desagrada.
I mean, ¿serían más del tipo Armin Arlert? Él me ha enganchado desde que vi el primer capítulo de Shingeki no Kyojin. Vi al pequeño rubio de ojos azules, aferrado al libro que le había otorgado su abuelo y dije Es este. Nada que Eren o Levi —siendo este que apareció capítulos después—. Recuerdo que salía en defensa a la timidez e inutilidad de Armin. Como me hervía la sangre que lo llamasen inútil.
Todos le haríamos frente valiente a un titán en la primera vez, ¿no? Sí, claro.
Regresando a los soft characters, también tengo a Ken Kaneki de Tokyo Ghoul, la diferencia es que con este sí sentía tremenda bronca cuando no podía tomar una decisión, el sobreponer a los demás que a él mismo. Cada que perdía una oportunidad me quería arrancar los pelos de la cabeza.
Pero también quería protegerlo, cuidarlo, darle un abrazo, consolarlo y decirle que todo estaría bien. Que rabia.
De aquí existen dos divisiones: los lindos con una contraparte del ojete y los lindos puros y alegres.
En el primero, tengo como fav a Kanato Sakamaki de Diabolik Lovers, es un tóxico histérico de mierda que tira más a los bomb character —y denomino bomb porque es lo que son, bombas—, como Katsuki Bakugo, pero la diferencia es que este siempre anda con una cara de haber chupado un limón. Malo, pero también me gusta. Dualidad.
En el segundo, está Twelve de Zankyou no Terror —Terror in Resonance—. Le lloré un mar a mi niño, era demasiado puro, aunque no tanto por lo que hizo. ¡Pero todo era por una causa! Twelve era mucho para este mundo, a pesar de lo que vivió siempre andaba con una sonrisa que encantaba.
Puede que Twelve no haya sido el mejor fav soft cute character como ejemplo para esta división, pero es que no recuerdo a más husbandos de mi larga y eterna lista.
¡Ah! Podemos agregar a Yuuri Katsuki de Yuri!!! on Ice. Como amo a ese Katsudon, es un ángel al que se debe proteger, es tan lindo y tranquilo y calmado. Si tuviera que protegerlo a uñas y espadas —¿?— lo haría, es que él solo no podría, es casi como o es como un Izuku Midoriya de Boku no Hero Academia. La diferencia es que Deku no es mi husbando, es de Ochako. Lo mismo con Takemichi Hanagaki de Tokyo Revengers. Pero hay veces en las que me tiento.
Bien.
Ahora que lo pienso, la palabra es introvertido, me gustan introvertidos y soft. Soft introvertidos.
Por otra parte, ¿será por mi personalidad? ¿Mi temperamento? Considero que soy una persona con un carácter del culo, pero tengo ese lado de cuidar a los que son soft. ¿Será que los opuestos se atraen? Oh por favor, no.
Nadie va a leer esta basura, pero de todas maneras lo escribo porque se me pintó la gana.
Pause ● Tchaikovsky; Swan Lake: Dance of the Little Swans
