You know what I really need? Platonic platonic cuddling/platonic sleeping together.
Luke, post-Bespin, soaked in sweat and trembling with the afteraffects of his nightmares, climbing in beside Leia. She rolls over, wraps her arms around this boy who she loves with all of her heart, and hums half-forgotten Alderaanian lullabies until he falls asleep again.
The Rogues teasing Luke for being so cold on Hoth, constantly ribbing him about how he was always shivering, about how he used up all the hot water, about how he managed to wheedle three extra blankets just because he was friends with Leia (side note: the extra blankets weren’t Luke’s doing, though they were Leia’s), all the while calling him a “pansy-assed desert boy.” Yet, nonetheless, on the bitterest of nights, pulling all of their bunks together and piling into the middle, Luke buried at the heart of the squad, a veritable nest of blankets and pillows and arms and legs keeping him warm.
Leia falling asleep in Carlist’s quarters a handful of times, slumped over against his wall or against his shoulder as at last sheer, desperate exhaustion overwhelms her. On the worst nights, those first months after the Death Star, after Alderaan, when the pain of memory was too much for her even to beat it out by running until she vomited, shooting things until her arms cramped, or worked until the words ran off the pages, she would limp, stagger, crawl to Carlist’s room. She would knock, and he would answer, catching her before she could fall, half-carry her over to his bed. She’d let him take off her shoes if she was wearing any, and wrap a blanket around her shoulders, and then would sink against him, eyes wide and desert-dry. They never spoke on those dark nights–simply sat, Carlist a wall of warmth against Leia’s shoulder, a battlement of strength and stolidity against which she could shatter, silent and unseen. And eventually, ultimately, Leia would collapse into sleep, her head lolling against Carlist’s shoulder–and only then would he risk wrapping an arm around her, drawing her closer against his side, closer into his safe protection.
Chewie, on the nights when Han was drunkest–which happened most in the first few months after they met, shortly after Han’s discharge from the Imperial Navy–or after he had been badly hurt, sitting perched in too-small chairs by his bed, stretching out on the cramped, human-sized bunk, where he could make sure his friend was still breathing, still living, wasn’t going to choke on his own vomit. More often than not, morning would find Han plastered to Chewie’s side, face buried in Wookiee fur–and though Han would complain for days or weeks after of finding Wookiee hairs in his mouth or clothes or blankets, he never once asked Chewie to stop.
Leia, post Alderaan and the Death Star, when she had finally learned to truly trust Han and Luke, only ever sleeping peacefully when she’s curled on the couch on the Falcon, often leaning against Luke, who like to sprawl while he read the latest crime thriller he had (illegally) downloaded, or against Han, who as often as not had a glass of liquor or deck of sabaac cards in his hands, if only to fiddle with.
Han, Luke, and Leia all curling together on the floor of an Ewok hut that first night, none of them able to let either of the others out of their sight, as if afraid that, if they aren’t touching, the other might disappear.
That becoming a habit, so much so that, even after the three of them buy their first apartment together (on Coruscant, on Hosnian Prime), they spend their first few months in their new home sleeping on the living room floor, mattresses pulled off the beds and shoved against the couch.
Even later–much later, once peace has been settled, the New Republic founded and growing in strength, Luke’s New Jedi Order thriving–when Han or Leia are drawn far away to distant corners of the galaxy, it is not uncommon for Luke to crash at their new apartment, both to spend some extra time with his nephew, and also with his sister or his best friend/brother. He never sleeps in Han and Leia’s room–in fact, he never even ever goes into their room at all, except on the rare occasion that emergency demands it–but Han or Leia usually end up on the couch sprawled or curled up next to him.
Gintama, thank you for a year of craziness, split sides, spitting food at the screen, and endless tears (from laughter or sadness, who knows). Lots of thanks for making me cry from laughter when I felt so down that I honestly wondered why I even existed in the first place.
Almost exactly a year ago, I had no clue what Gintama was, and I probably wouldn’t have if it hadn’t popped up in my recommendations after watching Boueibu. But by the 6th week of the new Gintama episodes, I had binge-watched over 250 episodes and I was craving more of Gintoki’s screams, Shinpachi’s ear-splitting tsukkomis, Kagura’s smirks. Hijikata’s mayo addition, Kondou’s naked body, Sougo’s sadism. Katsura’s idiocy, Sakamoto’s laughs, Takasugi’s ominous theme music. Sacchan’s love-filled shrieks, Zenzou’s hemorrhoids, gorilla Otae, awkward Kyuubei, drunk Tsukuyo, sweet and precious Tama, best grandma Otose. The Madao and his human body. And now Sasaki and his obsession with mail and Nobume’s addiction to doughnuts.
I’d wake up early every Wednesday because I’d be so excited about the newest episode as I’d wait impatiently for it to download. Even as the seasons passed and the days got darker, I’d still wake up early before sunrise (ha, get it?) to watch the new episode. And even as the episodes took the path of no return with the SA and FS arcs, I’d still wake up early to get blown away by the plot, the characters, the voice acting, the soundtrack, everything.
And now here I am a year later, 316 episodes, 2 movies, and who knows how many Jump Festas in. I don’t think I’ll ever be as sad to see an anime season end, but I know Gintama will come back eventually.
And now it’s finally time for me to read the manga and rewatch the entire series…but until that day comes…
Today a little trans girl came to the store I work at, she was probably 6 years old, she was with her grandmother and I greeted them like any other client. So at some point the little girl came to me and asked me where the nail pulishes were, so I showed her and helped her reach the highest ones, she looked so happy and was dressed in all pink. At some point I asked her for her name and she goes “Valerie” and I was being nice and actually was getting excited that her parents were so nice with her daughter… but then grandma came and was “No, HIS name is David, he’s going through this phase and he likes to dress as a girl… you know how kids are” and I got pissed off cause I literally could see Valerie’s face shattering so I went “Yeah, I know how kids are… and SHE is a girl and HER name is VALERIE” after that grandma turned around and went to put her nasty eyes over the purses… and I ended up paying for Valerie’s nail pulishes (all pink and hot red btw).
How comes people still see transgender as a fucking phase?!?!?!