Three hundred and twenty-one thousand, one hundred and twenty-one. Otherwise known as…321,121. What is the significance of this number? That is how many words I wrote in fic this year. 321,121. Holy crap!
What a year this has been for me, personally and in the fandom. I’ve met some amazing friends and learned a lot about myself. Most of all, I’ve found my voice and have put it to good use, I think. Writing has been an unbelievable stress reliever for me during some difficult times over the past few years, and this year was no exception. I’ve had the opportunity to learn more about my art and to practice it and to get some amazing feedback through it. And so…I’ve decided to make a master post with the fics I’ve written this year–all of it Larry, all of it mine. If you’ve read my work and supported it–thank you! If you haven’t–check it out and let me know what you think!
Phil’s always felt weirdly privileged to share Dan’s bed
whenever he sleeps over.
It’s not like it’s anything he’s a stranger to – quite the opposite really, but out of everyone,
Phil’s the only one Dan will actually let in
his bed on account of the fact he can actually have a decent night’s sleep without
Phil taking all the duvet or accidentally rolling over and pushing him off the
bed. That’s Kyle’s trick – explaining
why he’s down there whilst his marginally less irritating best friend is up
here under his duvet, sharing his mattress. It’s nice sleeping with the knowledge
he won’t wake up either freezing cold or on the floor.
Phil’s used to them being the last ones awake – having been
friends with a bunch of total fucking lightweights for the best part of three
years, it’s become the norm for the rest of them to be down there, asleep.
They’re wrapped up in empty sleeping bags and spare duvets whilst the only two
who can actually handle their drink are lying side-by-side, a cut above the sea
of empty bottles and shot glasses littering Dan’s floor. They’d passed out about
half an hour ago, leaving the two slightly tipsy teenagers still giggling over
what had been a contribution to the night’s entertainment along with the heated
games of ‘never have I ever’ and one too many Malibu shots.
“Does this not feel weird to you?” Dan’s eyebrow quirks in
Phil’s direction as he holds the two small wooden cubes in his hand. “I feel-…
it feels- I don’t know- gross,
kind-of,” he huffs out a chuckle.
“Why would-…” he squints in the darkness, “-… lick-… elbow-… feel weird to me?” he replies, a threat of sarcasm in his