Ink Challenge: All The Papers Lie Tonight

[ekaterinn.livejournal.com]

I've been rather blocked, writing-wise, since Christmas. But I couldn't get a certain image out of my head - so I present 263 words of inky angst:


Fraser's hair was mussed, and his clothes were rumbled and sticky in the summer heat. He held onto Ray like he was drowning, like he was dying. Like water rising and rising on the Henry Allen, with Ray chained to the floor, helpless to stop it. Ray trembled, and thought savagely how, yes, godamnit, he had wanted this, wanted Fraser down and dirty - but not like this, never like this.

"Ray, Ray, Ray..." That word dropped from Fraser’s mouth like coins dropped in the well, all those hopeless wishes. Ray had never hated his name so much. He pushed his mouth on to Fraser's , shutting him up, and giving him breath after breath. He would give all of himself, if he could only fix this, only make this better. Fraser's mouth was sicky sweet, as if he had just puked. His hand gripped Ray's right shoulder and then let go of it, sliding down Ray's chest instead and leaving newsprint ink on Ray's T-shirt in its trail.

And then he closed his mouth against Ray's and dropped his head down to rest on Ray's other shoulder. His body was shaking, like he wanted to sob, but didn’t know how. Ray squeezed the back of Fraser’s neck awkwardly, wanting to kick something, break a head or two. Just - wham! knuckles! blood! and some fuckin’ answers! - and he would feel a whole hell of a lot better. The wolf whuffled against their legs, whining unhappily. A newspaper laid on the ground. Its smudged headline screamed The Bookman Gunned Down In Vegas!