Bare: Break Him In To the Wearing of Death (Write You the Stars Remix)
[ Jason/Peter | PG-13 | 234 words ]
Jason lies so well, he’s starting to fool himself.
Original story: Break Him In To the Wearing of Death by theswearingkind, 1,000 words.
Remix author: tracingaladder
Break Him In To the Wearing of Death (Write You the Stars Remix)
Jason is kind of a liar, if you want the honest truth of it. He is full of absolute shit, and sure, he kind of knows it. But the thing is, the crux of it all, is that he’s really damn fucking good at lying, just like he’s really damn fucking good at basically everything. He’s so good, in fact, that there’s a point where that line between fact and fiction becomes blurred even for him and he kind of maybe sort of starts to believe this intricate, glorious fairytale he’s constructed.
And, really, it’s not fair to hold him responsible for any sort of grip on reality when Peter is on his lap, legs wrapped around his waist and facing him, neck arching and brushing against is face.
“Spain,” he mumbles, the tip of the lie flowing out nice and easy. “We could go there, Peter. You know the sun stays up there until midnight, sometimes, in the summer? And we could get married. We could get married and make love at midnight with the sun shining down on us.”
He knows when he says it that’s never going to happen. He knows, the thought is lurking in the back of his mind. Peter knows too, or at least he used to.
But in this moment, he can see the Spanish sunset in Peter’s heavy lidded eyes, and for now, he can pretend.
Jason lies so well, he’s starting to fool himself.
Original story: Break Him In To the Wearing of Death by theswearingkind, 1,000 words.
Remix author: tracingaladder
Break Him In To the Wearing of Death (Write You the Stars Remix)
Jason is kind of a liar, if you want the honest truth of it. He is full of absolute shit, and sure, he kind of knows it. But the thing is, the crux of it all, is that he’s really damn fucking good at lying, just like he’s really damn fucking good at basically everything. He’s so good, in fact, that there’s a point where that line between fact and fiction becomes blurred even for him and he kind of maybe sort of starts to believe this intricate, glorious fairytale he’s constructed.
And, really, it’s not fair to hold him responsible for any sort of grip on reality when Peter is on his lap, legs wrapped around his waist and facing him, neck arching and brushing against is face.
“Spain,” he mumbles, the tip of the lie flowing out nice and easy. “We could go there, Peter. You know the sun stays up there until midnight, sometimes, in the summer? And we could get married. We could get married and make love at midnight with the sun shining down on us.”
He knows when he says it that’s never going to happen. He knows, the thought is lurking in the back of his mind. Peter knows too, or at least he used to.
But in this moment, he can see the Spanish sunset in Peter’s heavy lidded eyes, and for now, he can pretend.