not out of the woods yet still pile of schoolwork to do

A Boy’s Best Friend

Kids have invisible friends; it’s pretty much a basic fact of life. They serve as a source of comfort, as playmates, and can be helpful with practicing newly formed social skills. When I taught kindergarten, it certainly wasn’t unusual for at least a handful of my students to have an imaginary friend tagging along. I always felt it was important to humor them when the situation allowed it, which could mean putting out a few extra blankets at nap time or holding the picture book up higher so Mr. Crocodile could see it all the way in the back.

Far be it for me to discourage their budding imaginations.

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kids of the in-between: ch. 1

I know I was going to hold off on posting the first chapter of my artist!ronan fic until I finished writing the entire story, but someone told me it was pynch week this week and I couldn’t help myself! Expect new chapters about once a week.

Summary:  A story of fast cars, discarded dreams, blinding rage, pencil sketches, and finding happiness. Not necessarily in that order.

Trigger warnings: gory descriptions and character death (only in the last section)

Read all parts: on tumblr | on ao3


Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III.

Ronan looked at the name plaque next to his door with raised eyebrows. He couldn’t decide whether the name amused or annoyed him more. It didn’t surprise him, though. After all, this was the dorm of the filthy rich, the domain of the freshmen whose parents were wealthy enough to add a generous donation to the already-exorbitant tuition. Ronan wouldn’t have bought into it, but it was also the only freshman dorm with suites instead of doubles, and there was no way in hell he was going to share a room with someone. If he had to suffer through the presence of Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III in order to be alone when it mattered, then he would. Besides, it wasn’t like his dad had minded spending the extra money. 

“Oh, hello. Is this your suite too?” The voice behind him was almost painfully polite, crisp and commanding with the slightest twang of old Virginia buried beneath the surface. It made Ronan’s ears itch. 

He turned and raised his eyebrows at the salmon polo shirt and new boat shoes that immediately assaulted his vision. “Dick?”

Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III winced, and the old Virginia twang was gone when he said, “Please, call me Gansey.”

A slow smile slid across Ronan’s face as he marveled at how quickly Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III had offered him a loaded gun in the form of a name. “Ronan,” he responded before turning back around, unlocking the door to their suite, and waiting. Waiting to hear Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III’s voice slide back into its Virginian accent, waiting to feel Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III’s silent judgment as he stared at the obscene combat boots and obscene band t-shirt and obscene faded jeans that surely went against everything his khaki pants and flawless haircut stood for, waiting to use his loaded gun as soon as Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III insulted him first.

But then Richard “Dick” Campbell Gansey III did none of those things. Instead, he leaned forward and splayed his fingers across Ronan’s back in order to flatten his shirt before saying excitedly, “Is this written in Irish?”

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