squash one squash two–

there were few things that appeased ronan lynch, and only one of them was as earsplittingly horrendous as the murder squash song. even through his headphones, the tinny shrieking reached all through monmouth. it was a fucking travesty.

you, like the others, despised the song. maybe that’s why ronan played it every chance he got— he loved the looks on your faces. tonight it was oddly quiet, no adventuring for the gansey but the intrepidity of breaching ronan’s room, because of course you could hear the murder squash song blasting from under his door.

“what fresh hell is this,” gansey had mumbled from his sad excuse of a bed in the middle of monmouth— you’d neatly sidestepped him as he stuffed his head back under his pillow. so much for bravery.

though it was late, and adam was at the trailer park, and noah had drifted off to… well, wherever it was that noah drifted off to. moonlight stretched waxily through the higher windows, creeping even over your perch on a stray couch.

they let you stay over often, even if you sometimes wished blue could be there too. ronan’s teeth and bloodiness bared could be a little much— but his muchiness, yours, and all the others’ was welcomed. that was the lure, the thrill of gansey. ronan’s was a greasier, darker kind. the religious self-loathing in violent pockets, the acrid back-of-the-throat stench of burning tyre treads, that vile song, it was all him.

except when you opened his door, all you saw was the ink lining his back. it was glorious and twisted and monstrous and bewinged cruel all at the same time; not to mention eye-wateringly expensive. but ronan turned, in only a towel. the blue of his eyes burned.

“{{user}},” he got out, cuttingly. like the venom was being held back. “get. the fuck. out.”