Hi, I just wanted you to know I was talking with a friend about your Trigun comics and we both think they're awesome. You do a great job at capturing both the comedy and tragedy of the series. A lot of your stuff is now in my "fill in the gaps" headcanon.
Hi! Thank you so very much! It really means a lot for me 💙💙💙
Sorry for the late reply, I was kind of buried under a threatening pile of paperwork, but your words keep me afloat
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🌹!
from a very silly tmfu pwp fic set after “the suburbia affair” that i’m in the early stages of writing:
“It is too early in the morning for you to be so snarky,” Illya says sleepily. “We’ve only just solved our domestic problems and now you want to go and spoil the whole thing by arguing about something as trivial as who is going to make breakfast.” He snuggles deeper into the pillows. “It’s going to be you, of course. After all of your complaints about my soufflé, I’m never cooking for you again.”
“You still owe me after the raisin rye explosion—”
“I cannot hear you,” Illya continues mumbling. “I am too busy dreaming of the eggs and toast you will soon be bringing me.”
Napoleon rolls his eyes. “You’re not going to con me into bringing you breakfast in bed, partner.”
“If you also fry up that bacon, I might be in a generous enough mood to give you a blowjob in the shower afterwards.”
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okay could you do dair 23 or 26
Dair + 23 …in relief.
(there was another request for dair + 26 so that shalt be answered later <3)
(in the meantime, some 5x24 canon divergence as self care <3)
Dan knocks back the shot Serena hands him with a wince. Tequila. Whenever Dan shoots tequila he makes ill-advised choices. Which is why for his birthday two weeks ago, he and Blair drank Manhattans before feeling each other up in the bar bathroom.
Whiskey goes with Blair, warm but harsh, sweet and sharp, burns down through his chest like being in love. Tequila is dangerous. Tequila is…well…Serena.
“Okay, okay, time-out,” Dan pleads, making a T with his hands, trying in vain to referee his own life.
Serena laughs, her smile glinting around a wedge of lime. “Don’t give up on me now, Dan. I never took you for a lightweight.”
He snorts. “Yeah, well, anyone’s a lightweight when they ingest tequila on an empty stomach.”
He hasn’t eaten all day. He couldn’t make himself. His stomach has been twisted up in knots ever since those fucking Gossip Girl blasts. He’d stupidly thought that drinking would help, but it’s only made it worse.
Serena pats his shoulder sympathetically. “There’s food around here somewhere. I’ll flag someone –”
She lifts her arm, and despite his compromised state, Dan is able to spot the danger. He stumbles backward and pulls Serena with him, out of the way of a passing waiter, narrowly saving the both of them from being doused by an entire bottle of champagne.
“Whoa,” he brilliantly comments, then reflexively drops his hands from Serena’s arms to his sides, releasing her.
She only steps closer, looking at him with concern. “You okay?”
He chokes on an hysterical laugh, because no, he is clearly not, and suddenly everything in the party becomes too much. The noise, the people, the terrible music, the lighting, the dense, cloying air of a hundred over perfumed American aristocrats, and is he that drunk or is Serena still extremely close to him?
“Uh – yeah.” He rakes a hand through his hair—it’s so hot in here that he wishes he could chop it off now, or at least have a hair tie on his wrist like Jenny always does. “I just – I need some air.”
He takes a step back, and Serena immediately follows him. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, Serena –” he snaps, then catches himself, his stomach does a violent flip. Personal space has never been much of a thing with them, even as friends, but now Dan feels on the precipice of something dangerous. “I’m pretty sure I’m gonna puke. And I know that dress you’re wearing is worth more than my book deal, so –” he waves a vague hand, and turns and walks away before Serena can protest again.
Dan ends up on the sidewalk in front of Grand Central. Given the spring humidity and all the city smells that come with it, the air outside the Campbell isn’t much better, but at least out here Dan can be alone for a moment.
He knows she means well, but Serena’s hovering only makes him feel worse, like she’s already decided what choice Blair is going to make.
Dan supposes if anyone were qualified to weigh in on Blair’s choices, it would be Serena. But no, Blair hasn’t really let Serena know her for a long time now, and maybe Dan is partially to blame for that, but — he’s too drunk to follow this thread right now.
He leans back against the wall to steady himself. He’s already out here, public transportation hub at his back, it would be pretty easy to make a getaway, spare him the humiliation of waiting around for the rest of the night.
But, what if?
He tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. Too many trains of thought, too much tequila to chase them down.
“Dan?”
He wrenches his eyes open. No way.
“Oh thank god,” he mutters, pushing himself off the wall and into Blair’s arms, pouring all the relief he can’t speak into a kiss.
“Mm – Dan,” she pulls back, but holds her grip on his lapels, keeping him close. She wrinkles her nose, impossibly cute, and he loves her. “You taste like a distillery.”
He loves her.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, tipping his forehead against hers, wrapping his arms tighter around her waist.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he repeats unevenly, apologizing for more than just the tequila breath. For being drunk now, for serving her that stupid ultimatum, for nearly giving up on his end of it, for saying too much and scaring her off.
“It’s fine,” Blair says with a long-suffering sigh as she twines her arms around his neck. “I love you anyway.”
Dan gapes at her, dumbstruck. Blair Waldorf has a singular talent of rendering him speechless. “You’re gonna have to tell me that again when I’m sober.”
She giggles and pulls him in to kiss him again, distillery be damned.
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