dr. in the house

"I can't predict the future but I aint going to use and the present is where we're bound"

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault:

[Tate feels a bit drunk, suffocated by Deacon’s hot breath and body pressure, like turning him to crystal. D paws at him like a hyperactive puppy, passion full stop, and for a second all Tate wants to do it enjoy it. He sighs haggardly against Deacon’s face, feels his skin buzz from the bass of it, and lightly rocks his hips forward into that hand until the butt of it presses firm into his half-hard length.

It’s good but he’s greedy and wants more, staring up with both tenderness and a need to enforce and control, as Deacon slips free of his clothes on command. And it’s all so much better when he collapses again and Tate’s hands reconnect with bare skin, traveling up the blonde’s slender back, fingertips grazing the deep cleft along his spine. Muscle lines his bones, walling it in, thick and burning against him. Deacon arches into him and Tate moans again, the sound buried and muffles behind the other’s lips. It’s chaste contact compared to what they’re used to, but feels more intimate than anything he’s had in years, and after a few minutes of letting Deacon have his moment, Tate nudges the kiss to a close and buries his lips into the other’s neck instead, hands pulling his lover down to meet him.

He’s totally hard now, jeans raised in a tent that follows the curve of his cock. He reaches down, presses a hand over Deacon’s, humps into him, then pushes his arm between them even further, fingers swiftly undoing the blonde’s front button and pushing past his zipper. Skin to skin, Tate wraps his fingers around him and strokes, patient but firm, coaxing him to hardness, jacking him gently while mouthing loving kisses into his twitching jugular.

Tate murmurs steadily in French into his ear while he does it; quiet, romantic encouragement.]

[They’ve done this so many times. 

So many times before, they’ve had each other. 

But this moment, this touch, these kisses, feel starkly different because this is the first time that Tate is something that Deacon can call his, and somehow that fact is weighted in every inch of his skin that Tate caresses with his plush and pillowed mouth.

Tongue ghosting, sweeping over Deacon’s freckles. 

Fuck, and his narrow palm and long fingers are cupping over the back of Deacon’s hand to pump his hips and thick erection into the blond’s palm, and so swiftly, so easily, Deacon is spiralling. He wants to have Tate from every direction he can, in every position—he wants him at a molecular level, and he’s still so busy being moved by the fact that all this is finally happening, that he can’t clearly string together his thoughts, much less any words. 

And Tate—Tate, fucking T a t e, is sucking at his jugular sweetly, hotly, and his cool fingers are breaking barriers by the second—unzipping Deacon’s denims with no hesitation, pulling Deacon’s bare cock out and into his hand, stroking it with sure, patient strokes. 

Deacon groans, the sigh lost somewhere in the rumble and his head falls forward toward Tate’s shoulder a moment. And then with another rolling moan, deep from his gut and curving out his throat in thick vibrations, he’s propping himself up with only one hand again, and using the other to grab Tate’s arm by the wrist, pulling that sinful palm up to Deacon’s face so he could drag a generously wet tongue over it. He meets Tate’s chocolate eyes just before his tongue pulls away and he lets go, allowing Tate to take his hand back, and continue what he started. 

And Deacon is an animal mewling, shuddering, as Tate’s hand curls around his cock again. A curse falls from his lips, despite his attempt to bite it back.] Fuck... [instead, he nips at Tate’s neck in turn, dragging teeth gently into pretty clean skin there. Sucking a purple spot into the dip between jaw and throat.] Fuck, you’re perfect. So fucking... [But his lips are busy, drawing designs in Tate’s skin and he seeks out the Frenchman’s mouth again. Needy for it, as always. Greedy for those sensual and sweet kisses like nothing he’s ever craved before. No delicacy he’s ever had more of a tooth for. Not a one.] 

[tvteperreault-blog]

wayward souls ; oxidation

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault:

[Sweet and sour. Hot and cold. Tate feels both–the telling gentleness of Deacon’s hands at first, the careful movements that feel more forced than natural, though no less kind for it. The blonde’s cock enters him in a single long, drawn out forward drive and Tate can feel Deacon adjust as he squirms, slowing when his spine twitches, pausing briefly when it bucks. But he knows what he’s doing and doesn’t stop, a courtesy Tate acknowledges with gentle sighs until Deacon finally pushes home, firm bone and muscle bumping against his buttocks.

And fuck, it feels amazing. He shifts a little before Deacon moves, small forward steps that help him rest more comfortably on the couch frame, and Deacon’s cock rubs some inside him. Tate’s toes tremble then curl, moments before he feels several slender fingers push up his scalp and pull him, all of him, neck and shoulders, backwards. His head swims as his head is forced back and the position is both uncomfortable and delectable, a combo he’s always loved in bed. Briefly, his eyes roll back with him, and he moans, high and short, skin raising against Deacon’s hurried and hot chanting.]

Unh, yeah– [Tate mumbles curtly underneath the blonde’s commanding dirty talk, before biting his lip hard on instinct, reducing the rest of his noises to small grunts and whispers. He’s made a habit of fucking more average-sized dudes when he could, which made everything easier but also made it so he coasted through the sex pretty easily. The path to orgasm was simpler for him then, if less intense. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make. But here, after the first few small, testing thrusts it was clear that Deacon liked to really use all of the impressive length he had, liked to make you feel it, and had no shortage of stamina to achieve that.

He beat at Tate’s insides what felt like relentlessly, the power of his thrusts more than compensating for his even, well-timed thrusts in a way that made Tate feel like he was falling apart at the seams, waiting in vain for the riding ecstasy inside him  to slow, for the man above him to lose energy and rest and let him catch up mentally with what his body was doing. Briefly, Tate even doubted his ability to keep up, but when he felt that tongue, those teeth, crawl up his body and bite down on his skin, he inhaled sharply through his teeth and leaned back against Deacon’s lips roughly, ignoring the pull from the hand in his hair.]

Fuck–use me, [Tate panted against Deacon’s cheek, squeezing that thigh even tighter, his free hand dropping to the other one, both working together to pull the blonde as tight against him as possible, encouraging him to fight Tate’s hands, fuck him harder.] Use me, open me up–fuck…! Deacon! Please…

[Were he completely sober, Deacon might have taken more care. Because there was a quality to the particular writhing of the young man beneath him that suggested a certain kind of intensity to the way Deacon was dealing him his thrusts, but the tequila in his system and the lust in his veins was making it almost impossible for the blond to decipher fantasy from real life. 

He was reeling somewhere dark and twisted and lustful and Tate’s sweet skin was making the saliva pool at the front of Deacon’s mouth as he lapped at a freckled shoulder and sank his teeth into supple skin. 

Later, he might regret not being more careful with this almost-stranger. Later, he might wish he’d found the patience and wherewithal to be more considerate. 

But as it stands he’s an animal and he’s so fucking hungry for everything the Frenchman is offering up to him on a silver fucking platter. A smorsgasbord of everything Deacon wants to hear, to see, because Tate seems to be able to predict him so well, spread himself out just-so to earn reaction from the musician. Fuck, if he wasn’t being played just a little bit—and fuck if he didn’t even care. Not even a little bit. 

Tate’s cries grow needier—desperate and filthy and wanton and Deacon’s chest is bursting with a desire to fuck him harder, were that even possible. He’s already pounding him and a good, heavy face, and so the wanting more bit is actually a bit infuriating. His need to get closer and deeper barely probable to satisfy. 

Barely, that is. 

He take a cue from the last ‘please’ to pull back enough to smack his hand across Tate’s ass with a groan, licking his lips as he watches red pulse where his hand had struck. And then he’s letting himself pull out as he takes hold of Tate’s shoulder and hips and manhandles him away from the back of the sofa and around to the arm of instead, where he can bend Tate over it as a lower angle, and tug up one of the brunet’s pale thighs to rest it on the arm of the sofa and open him up. 

It makes it easy, then, to grab narrow, bony wrists, and pin them to the valley of his swaying back. Makes it easy to push down into that pretty spine to deepen the curve and lift the cleft of that ass, rosy from friction. 

Easy for Deacon to bring his own leg up next to Tate’s and drill into him until his cock all but scrapes the inside of Tate’s stomach, stroking the flip side of his sweet, panting navel. 

And fuck he’s so deep it almost hurts, fireworks exploding behind his eyes, mouth falling open slightly as he ruts against that perfectly cream cheeks with a hard and eager pelvis.] 

Fuck, yes—[At this rate, he’s not going to last very long. He’s practically coring this boy from the inside out and he can feel the grip of his ass drawing an orgasm out of Deacon like a youthful, eager fist. If he keeps going like this, he has minutes left, at most. He could, of course, interrupt with some teasing, some oral play, but he’s too drunk and horny to have the patience for it, he’s pretty sure. And Tate feels too. damn. good, wrapped around his dick.] 

[tvteperreault-blog]

dreamers ; drinks on the house

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault:

deaconrivers:

[Deacon feels like he’s the one who can’t read Tate. Honestly, he feels fairly certain that’s he’s a lot less mysterious than this pretty French model, but maybe Tate just sees him as more complicated than he is. Or maybe he is more complicated and he just doesn’t feel that way.

Either way, something happens behind Tate’s eyes and Deacon gets the distinct impression he’s interrupting some sort of private thoughts. Like maybe Tate has it or had it less easy than Deacon thought. And suddenly he feels guilty for not realizing or considering that Tate was more than just some actor who lived in partial luxury, but could have potentially been uncomfortable being hit on in his workplace or by a coworker.

At this point, he’s not sure if he’s relieved by the gesture of friendship, or disappointed by the formality. As if he’d ever had the right to expect anything else. He hadn’t expected anything, really, so he doesn’t know why he feels so nervous now.

He takes Tate’s hand in a warm-palmed shake.] Friends. Right. OK. [ A small grin and a wink with a muster of his bravery, as he unlocks the passenger door and starts to head around to the driver’s side of the car (without opening Tate’s door, much to his chagrin). ] if ‘friends’ includes walking you to your door and hoping for a kiss goodnight. [And despite the wink, he’s only half kidding, but hoping he can pull off as if he’s nothing but casual quips.]

[Tate just smiles, an open-ended gesture, at Deacon’s probe for a hint on how this all will end, because he can’t resist the urge to keep the blonde guessing after all that. And also for other reasons. The ride to his hotel isn’t long but it feels that way. The atmosphere between D and his charming little car, the dark evening sky and the budding flirtation between them, it makes the ride back something more than what it is, and though there is a lot on Tate’s mind by the time they pull up at the front, he almost thinks, ‘too bad.’]

Thank you. I had fun tonight. [He starts, removing his seatbelt as he looks out the window, inside the lobby. Tate turns back to Deacon briefly, sits there a long moment with a smile, then shifts on his side in his seat, leans over the divider close to Deacon and carefully reaches to hold the cheek opposite to him. He drags it out as he leans his face in, hand tilting Deacon’s face to the side, positioning him perfectly for a slight and chaste kiss to the cheekbone, where Tate lingers for a second longer than normal before pulling back entirely.]

See you. [He says, smile warmer and wider, as he opens the door of the car, steps out, then shuts it behind him, ascending the steps to the hotel without looking back.]

[It’s strange how fast it happened. How quickly he has become smitten. And smitten he is, and he knows it all too well with the rapid beating of his heart when Tate touches his face, long, fine fingers grazing his cheekbone and turning his chin and cheek. 

The kiss is chaste and sweet, but Tate lingers in the fog of it both before and after, and so a dense heat of something swells that Deacon can’t ignore. 

He grins, because he can’t not, and it feels foolish and lopsided on his face. The simple ‘see you’ is adorable and perfect and Deacon wants to say something to it, but he can’t bring himself to, too entranced by the soft look on those pretty features as Tate steps from the car.]

[And really, the night’s been quite a surprise. He mutters a soft echo just after the door closes and he watches through the windshield as Tate hurry over to his door]

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault:

[Tate’s eyes are foggy with both desire and affection when the kiss ends, his smile small but genuine as he looks out on the blonde’s struggling face. And he is struggling, it’s plain to see, like Deacon is just as overcome but less capable of controlling it. The dams have broken and there are a thousand things the blonde wants to say, eyelids flickering, breath hitching as he tries to choose–!

“Fuck”, Deacon decides on, and Tate laughs as he repeats it a few more times, joyful and grand, both hands taking hold of the other’s hips and laughs even though the next kiss.]

You are a poet. A true… [And he cuts himself off as Deacon lowers him down, and he’s crawling backward and the blonde follows, until just the bits of leg beneath the knee are hanging off the mattress now. And Tate notes as Deacon kisses him again, that the weigh of the other’s body above him is exquisite as it presses him down into the rumpled, feathery down comforter. 

He bends a knee and Deacon settles more comfortably above him, and all Tate can smell is him, the particles of his natural scent, cotton, hairgel, soap falling downward and flooding his senses. And he’s all Tate can see. And taste. And feel, but he wants more. He pushes his chin upward towards the headboard. Deacon moves down. There’s a hand over his cock and one weighing down the bed next to him. Tate reaches up and takes Deacon’s head in his hands, cradles it close, and feels his own eyes roll back slightly, intoxicated by the sound of the blonde’s moan.]

…too hot. For the clothes–get rid of them. [He mumbles huskily, hands finding a new home around Deacon’s plush ass, kneading gently along with his words.]

[The moments when they’re both consumed with breathless laughter is enough to send Deacon reeling, were he not already. And it’s sort of like a release, in a way, though it’s also simultaneously a build to something hotter, tighter, tenser—in all its looseness, it’s freedom, it ignites something further, more desperate in him, because being with Tate is so much fucking better than not being with him. Even when they’re fighting. Even when they’re making each other ache with mixed words and signals. Being with him always ends up like this: all consuming obsession, adoration, heat and passion. 

And Tate’s pulling him closer, lifting a leg, making himself accessible at every angle, and yet it’s with a few words that he makes Deacon more desperate for him. Just a few words, and Deacon is a bucking horse, but controlled by the reins clung to and guided by Tate’s sure-knuckled fists. 

Because regardless of position, or assumption of power, or motive or intention, he always seems to go where Tate prompts him. Be what Tate urges him to be, and its a song in and of itself, the way they fit together. The way Deacon so happily goes. 

He yanks himself out of his jacket before Tate even finishes the request, and then he’s pulling off his own shirt, too, over his head and losing it to the floor. And with Tate’s hands on his ass, over his jeans, he can’t help but roll into him greedily, as his one hand holds him steady over Tate on the bed, and his other cups the length forming in Tate’s denims. Travels the lines of his erection in hungry strokes over fabric and seams.

There’re attached mouth to mouth again, and Deacon can’t get enough. Sucks on pillowed lips eagerly, surrendering to the half-sigh-half-moan that falls against them from the depths of his own throat.] Mine—Tate— [he intends to say more, but words are lost in the depths of the kiss, in the sighs as their hands roam each other.] 

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault:

[The silence was unlike him but Tate knew better than to call him out. It was a special occasion, after all, and he knew deep down how sweet, how needy, how eager to be done with the fight Deacon was. This was what he really wanted. What he’d wanted for a long time. And it felt so good to give it to him, who was most deserving of all the good things in this world.

And though Tate wouldn’t say it out loud, that kiss feels like a slow-burning high, dragging him deep into a pool of calm ecstasy. It’s dreamlike but so real, there’s no other way to describe it. And he honestly believes that in his arms is the sweetest boy alive, someone he can safeguard and be safeguarded by, someone loyal, fierce, and desperate to keep him. He doubts he’s ever been wanted this badly, and knows for a fact the feeling is mutual.

He lets go of the back of Deacon’s head, fingers curling gently under his chin instead, coaxing him closer as if they could be, gentle encouragement, a subtle and wanting affection. The fingers on his free hand ghost along Deacon’s hip, tracing the top of the blonde’s waistband, back and forth, teasing closer to front and center as the kiss goes on. His nail dips past Deacon’s shirt and he touches skin, abandoning his prior pursuit to push forward up underneath it. The hand by Deacon’s chin wraps around his back. Tate pulls away to search Deacon’s face for permission, then walks him backward with slow steps, stopping as they reached the foot of the hotel bed.]

[Tate’s hand linger and slide in gentle caresses that burn and sooth as they pass over Deacon in laps. When he touches skin to skin, under Deacon’s shirt, electricity passes in zips and Deacon’s breath hitches. 

That hand that coaxes over a hip, under his tee, just below a navel. That knuckles that frame Deacon’s chin and jaw, the palms that press over Deacon’s back and tug him forward in subtle steps. 

Tate is gentle, careful, but Deacon’s heart lurches for him. Lurches forward and in messy leaps and it’s almost painful, the way he aches for him. In all of Deacon’s desperation to have everything at once, every inch of this man all at once, he could bite right through his own lip with his impatience, his overwhelming need. 

His inexplicable and absurd urge to chant a litany of three words over and over again he knows somewhere in his bones to be true, but knows also in his head that they’re best to deny. 

For the time being. For the time being. 

Because he’s foolish and he’s reckless, in this whirlwind of inevitability with this seductive young escort who’d stolen his heart. Twisted it ‘round pretty fingers and hypnotized it with big, baleful brown eyes. And Deacon can’t help but think, on a subconscious level, that they’d always been headed down this road. That this had always been on their horizon, since the first day they met, the first kiss they seared against each other’s lips. 

They sway and lull to a stop as the backs of Tate’s legs hit the bed and Deacon trembles against his mouth, wanting to lower him back against it, but also wanting to hold this moment steady. Stay frozen in this second and stretch it out, make it last. He shivers, as their lips part and he looks Tate in the eye, struggles to turn the proper words off the roof of his mouth. There’s so many things he earns to say.] 

Fuck. [Somehow, that’s all he can find, at first.] Fuck, Tate, [he mutters again, all breath. He kisses swollen-pink lips again. Sighs as he sinks into it and lets it dissolve with a breath of space returning between their mouths. Blond lashes flutter back open. He tracks his gaze over Tate’s face.] This is good. This is a really fucking good thing. [And then he’s grinning, chuckling almost, and letting his right hand pass over the valley of Tate’s lower back and dip him backwards. Lower him to the bed as Deacon crawls over him, thighs linking with Tate’s, becoming a mesh of two worlds, chests settling together, lungs racking for the same air between crashing of mouths. 

Soon he’s somewhere lost in the pretty throws of a porcelain throat, sucking purple and rose marks into dusty white columns. A hand finds its way between them, palms over Tate’s groin, heated and hardening under his touch. Deacon’s gentle moan is lost into the plush of Tate’s skin.] 

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault:

[Tate’s eyes followed Deacon as he dropped off the food, taking the moment to really steady himself, to stop gaping and start seducing. Absent-mindedly, Tate crossed his arms to rub the skin above his elbows, turning to face Deacon and stepping up to meet him, matching that bright grin with a subtle, allured one of his own.]

You ran? [Tate’s brows raised, smile widened, eyes narrowed and warmed.] Dummy, I was joking. [They were closer now. He reached out to gently pinch one of the large, loose shirt wrinkles over Deacon’s stomach and hold on, searching his eyes. He took another step in until his elbow brushed the blonde’s belly, pushed his face in to that hand. Turned his chin into it, kissed the palm. He sobers slightly when D tells him he thought Tate would run again, and beneath the warmth, he can feel a distant spread of shame. But he knows it’s his own fault. And that if he wants the other to expect differently, he’ll have to act differently.

He stands up straight, somberly pulls his bottom lip into his mouth in a half-smile, half-frown, shrugs then smiles fully again, eyes darting a bit from floor to face.] Not this time. [Tate stares a while at Deacon’s lips, head tilted back, and reaches a hand up to curl around the blonde’s nape, pushing his nails over the texture of that finely-trimmed hair.] I…realized. Even if I ran, you’d just follow. Bring me back, one way or another. [Shutting his eyes, Tate pulled Deacon’s head forward until their skulls rested on one another’s, inhaled and enjoyed the scent of having him so close.] You won. You got me. This is where I want to be.

[It’s surreal, this moment, and there’s a buzzing in Deacon’s ears. A thrumming in his rib cage and belly. And Tate’s grin is both sweet and somber, and Deacon realizes, not for the first time, that this falling will be messy. Already has been, in fact. Will probably only grow worse, more intense. Uglier in the hard times, tougher in the downfalls. 

But every second of it worth it, because that lip Tate is currently chewing on is pink with earnest and Deacon can suck on it and know that it’s his and he can’t remember a single thing he’s ever been more excited for. More grateful. 

For this stupid, stubborn, insensitive, sweet, vain, generous, cocky, son-of-a-bitch little man, to be his.

With Tate’s fingers in Deacon’s hairline, his forehead resting on Deacon’s face, his long-lashed lids closed in a feathered, lingering blink, Deacon sighs with the words, and surrenders. His hand slips beyond Tate’s face to curl around the brunet’s neck. The first, to be joined by the second, and then he’s pulling him in for a colliding of their mouths that is more heat and simmer than it is crashing. Controlled intensity rather than explosive lust, and he’s inhaling the scent of Tate, memorizing the taste of him on his lips in this very moment. In this place of giving. Of being something of an official unit, for the first time. 

And it’s as though his heart is splitting in two, because it’s swelling and he’s so consumed with his adoration for this blasted frustrating git under his mouth that he can hardly remember the order in which to inhale, exhale, b r e a t h. 

‘Something like love’ Tate had said. 

Something like love.] 

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault:

[Tate never pictured himself being here. Here exactly, waiting on someone he knew was coming, someone who cared about him. Someone he cared for in turn. Deacon, specifically. Deacon, his. Lovely and emotional and his, coming because Tate was there and nothing else.

It felt an awful lot like watching a knight approach his tower, torch in hand, eyes locked on his window, stepping over thorny vines, breaching every pit in his way. Coming to his door. Then turning the handle. And when Deacon, the real Deacon, stepped into frame, Tate picked his head up and was awash with perfect clarity. A feeling he’d long since stopped expecting to ever feel.

He…had a man, and there he stood before him. Right there. Just there. The blonde spoke small–hey–and Tate’s heart swelled like a city being drowned under the sea. He felt his racing heartbeat, stood and discovered he felt entirely changed. Unarmored. Naked. And young. Not the tired, scarred over veteran he had long treated himself as.]

Deacon… [Tate exhaled, squeezing his phone for a second, as if clinging to the security the phone gave him one last time. Then he dropped it on the bed and walked forward tentatively, fingers twitching, shoulders tense, anxious.] …you really took your time.

[It was as if everything slowed, and sped up at the same time. As if everything beyond this moment ceased to exist—and yet everything untouched and unexplored had come to life. It was a new world, suddenly, and Deacon didn’t know how he’d fallen here. Landed here. To this place of all things. 

Tate talking both settled his nerves and wound him up. His skin tingled, and he felt unstable. Uncertain. 

And yet he’d never been more certain about anything than this. As he put down the bagged breakfast on the counter, stepped forward an exhale’s beat after Tate. A stutter, a stop. 

He grinned. Shaky, quiet. Sweet. ] Sarcasm? [A pause, a breath] The subway took a while. But I ran, just now. After...

[Another grin, like he was waking up to dream. He bloody couldn’t believe this. He’d expected rejection, another fight, long before he’d expected this. He steps forward again. Closes the distance. Reaches and carefully touches a sharp, carved cheekbone with trailing fingers and a warm palm.] I honestly just thought you’d try to run again. Or yell at me. For being an idiot. Or something. 

[deaconrivers]

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[He’s at the door exactly four minutes and thirty six seconds after Tate sent the last text. And there’s a part of him that’s not exactly sure if any of this is real, because he hasn’t stopped to catch his breath or properly digest what’s been said, but all he can think about is closing the distance. Making it down the hall. Swinging open the door. 

And touching him. Touching Tate. Because Deacon hadn’t realized just how much he’d been not saying, and saying it aloud, not only to Tate, but to himself, has been rejuvenating and liberating—and terrifying as well. But it’s a terror he’ll dive into because his heart hasn’t beat this fast in God knows how long and the taste of the word ‘boyfriend’ on his tongue is thrilling and strange but could only be complimented by the sweet Frenchman’s skin under his tongue.

He’s flushed and restless when he crosses the threshold of the door to find Tate standing there, phone still in his hand. And Deacon stills suddenly. The breakfasts hang in a paper bag in his left hand.] 

Hey. 

[deaconrivers]

[deaconrivers]

[Continued...] 

[rivers-run-wild]

Visit Original Link

Don’t wanna hear about it Every single one’s got a story to tell Everyone knows about it From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell And if I catch it comin’ back my way I’m gonna serve it to you And that ain’t what you want to hear But that’s what I’ll do And the feeling coming from my bones says find a home..

Acoustic Covers by River [x]

[tvteperreault-blog]

dreamers ; drinks on the house

[tvteperreault-blog]

deaconrivers:

[Suddenly Tate is sure of himself. Striding and strong and all long legs and careful stares and Deacon feels both self conscious and nervous, and also intrigued. He feels like a fish caught on the end of a reel and he’s tugged after Tate as he walks towards Deacon’s car and turns in a strong, yet casual stance against his door. 

Bloody hell he’s sexy, and Deacon, somehow, is only just realizing how much he wants him–how infatuated he is, actually. The blond swallows, eyes tight as he listens to Tate’s concerns. 

All of them are legitimate and fair. And yet Deacon can’t help but feel the way they stab. That he is essentially that could want Tate for the wrong reasons, and that Tate has to worry about that at all. Deacon knows (or thinks and hopes he knows, at least) that none of these things are the case for him, but still, Tate’s worry has Deacon worrying, also, and the guilt knots in his throat with a thick swallow. 

Eyes turned down on the sides, brows gently furrowed, he takes a tentative step forward.] 

I, um… Yeah. Wow. I reckon that’s a lot for you. To have to think about that shite all the time. Must be complicated… ‘cor, I’m sorry, yeah? I wish I could… well, I wish I could prove to you it’s not like that, but I understand why you’re worried. Why you have to be aware of that possibility. [He flushes a bit, at the memory of Tate’s recent flattery of him–cute? Sweet? He likes him? Bloody hell–and chewing his lip, he tries to decide how to move forward.] 

I don’t… have a scorecard. I mean, I’ve never dated an actor before, or anything like that. And it’s not like I’ve ever even really thought about it. It’s not why I fancy you, yeah? But, I reckon you don’t have much of a reason to believe me, since you don’t know me… [he shrugs, eyes gentle.] But.. we can change that, maybe? I mean, I’m not in any rush, yeah? Get to know me. As friends or wotnot. I wasn’t expecting this to… escalate to this right away anyway. I honestly just wanted you to come hang with me and the boys. I guess I’m just more of an accidental flirt than I even thought. [He grins shyly] It doesn’t.. like, you don’t have to feel obliged to trust me. I don’t mind earning it, you know? 

[He chuckles in turn, eyes dancing down, then back up at Tate, enjoying the look in his eyes as he seems to avoid Deacon’s eye contact. Something that seems somehow both like him, and unlike him, all at once.] My chivalry? [A grin] I mean, it ain’t much to write home about, honest. But if it’s charming you then I can’t say I mind.

[Tate tightens a cheek at Deacon’s responses, all of them just as considerate and moderate as he’s been all evening. And this is kind of what Tate meant, that he didn’t want to be an asshole, because it isn’t all about him and he hadn’t meant to imply that Deacon had something to prove to him, or that Tate wasn’t sure he was worthy of his time. It wasn’t like that. But then, this is all Tate’s fault. His grandmother’s voice rings like a low bassline in his ears, telling him he forgot to mind his manners.

The mention of escalation gives him pause, yet another place he’s torn. It’s been a while. And despite the fact that the lack of male company is what drove him to end a years-long relationship in the first place, Tate feels just as much pause as he feels a pull towards the blonde. There are images in his head, sounds, scents, feelings. Easy to get caught up in. Hard to let go of. He takes a deep breath to clear the steam behind his eyes, smiles at Deacon, tries to pretend what’s happening inside him is simple.]

No, I’m sorry. You’ve been very polite. I paid you back by putting you on the spot. Not cool. [He fidgets some, stares at his feet, then sucks it up, tells himself to quit acting like a child, takes a breath, and looks Deacon in the face again.] I don’t need you to reassure me, it was just me working myself into a tizzy. But if we’re going to be friends– [He stood up straight, away from the car.] –then, as nice as it is, I don’t want to be treated special. At least off the job. I’d rather you throw food at me like with Seamus than watch you hustle to open doors for me and stuff like that. [He removed his hand from his pocket and held it out amicably.] Deal, handsome?

[deaconrivers]

[Deacon feels like he's the one who can't read Tate. Honestly, he feels fairly certain that's he's a lot less mysterious than this pretty French model, but maybe Tate just sees him as more complicated than he is. Or maybe he is more complicated and he just doesn't feel that way.

Either way, something happens behind Tate's eyes and Deacon gets the distinct impression he's interrupting some sort of private thoughts. Like maybe Tate has it or had it less easy than Deacon thought. And suddenly he feels guilty for not realizing or considering that Tate was more than just some actor who lived in partial luxury, but could have potentially been uncomfortable being hit on in his workplace or by a coworker.

At this point, he's not sure if he's relieved by the gesture of friendship, or disappointed by the formality. As if he'd ever had the right to expect anything else. He hadn't expected anything, really, so he doesn't know why he feels so nervous now.

He takes Tate's hand in a warm-palmed shake.] Friends. Right. OK. [ A small grin and a wink with a muster of his bravery, as he unlocks the passenger door and starts to head around to the driver's side of the car (without opening Tate's door, much to his chagrin). ] if 'friends' includes walking you to your door and hoping for a kiss goodnight. [And despite the wink, he's only half kidding, but hoping he can pull off as if he's nothing but casual quips.]

[domconfessions]

[temptingdominance]

You are mine to teach.

[dirtydaddythings]

A boy’s basic understanding begins with this lesson.

[tvteperreault-blog]

dreamers ; drinks on the house

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault: 

[Though he was smiling when he asked the question, Tate worried about what Deacon’s answer would be, and what position he’d be forced to take because of it. Tate really didn’t…do civilian relationships since modelling became a thing. He’d tried it, before Kat, but nine times out of ten left him feeling awkward or dissatisfied, either because he was forced to cut someone off thanks to creepy fetishization, or clinginess, or this or that. He just wasn’t good enough at this to tell if the interest would be a problem or not–if the mutual attraction they had would turn either awkward, or hostile, in time.

That was enough a problem on its own, but in the back of his mind, Tate couldn’t help thinking if this had something to do with his role. Judah the mobster’s son, rough and sharp and passionate–and secretly gay. It worried Tate that Deacon could possibly be attracted to his character, and maybe that was what made him feel confident of Tate’s sexuality enough to…pay for him, touch him, etc. His eyes scanned Deacon’s face but he was unable to tell, so he tilted his head some, his response both blunt and ambiguous.]

…yes and no. [He smiled, then started walking again, past Deacon towards the car. When he got there he turned and leaned back against his door, hands in his coat pockets, feet crossed at the ankles. Honesty was the best policy, right?] Can’t really read your intentions. Don’t know how I would feel about them if I could. You’re cute, you’re sweet, I like you. You’re also a stranger and I’m an actor, and I could just be part of a scorecard you have. Or a fantasy. But I’m scared to be an asshole, even if that’s true. [Tate looked down and to the side, fiddling with the coat tag in his pocket, chuckling distractedly.] I guess I don’t know how to act right now. Your chivalry is really throwing me off.

[Suddenly Tate is sure of himself. Striding and strong and all long legs and careful stares and Deacon feels both self conscious and nervous, and also intrigued. He feels like a fish caught on the end of a reel and he’s tugged after Tate as he walks towards Deacon’s car and turns in a strong, yet casual stance against his door. 

Bloody hell he’s sexy, and Deacon, somehow, is only just realizing how much he wants him--how infatuated he is, actually. The blond swallows, eyes tight as he listens to Tate’s concerns. 

All of them are legitimate and fair. And yet Deacon can’t help but feel the way they stab. That he is essentially that could want Tate for the wrong reasons, and that Tate has to worry about that at all. Deacon knows (or thinks and hopes he knows, at least) that none of these things are the case for him, but still, Tate’s worry has Deacon worrying, also, and the guilt knots in his throat with a thick swallow. 

Eyes turned down on the sides, brows gently furrowed, he takes a tentative step forward.] 

I, um... Yeah. Wow. I reckon that’s a lot for you. To have to think about that shite all the time. Must be complicated... ‘cor, I’m sorry, yeah? I wish I could... well, I wish I could prove to you it’s not like that, but I understand why you’re worried. Why you have to be aware of that possibility. [He flushes a bit, at the memory of Tate’s recent flattery of him--cute? Sweet? He likes him? Bloody hell--and chewing his lip, he tries to decide how to move forward.] 

I don’t... have a scorecard. I mean, I’ve never dated an actor before, or anything like that. And it’s not like I’ve ever even really thought about it. It’s not why I fancy you, yeah? But, I reckon you don’t have much of a reason to believe me, since you don’t know me... [he shrugs, eyes gentle.] But.. we can change that, maybe? I mean, I’m not in any rush, yeah? Get to know me. As friends or wotnot. I wasn’t expecting this to... escalate to this right away anyway. I honestly just wanted you to come hang with me and the boys. I guess I’m just more of an accidental flirt than I even thought. [He grins shyly] It doesn’t.. like, you don’t have to feel obliged to trust me. I don’t mind earning it, you know? 

[He chuckles in turn, eyes dancing down, then back up at Tate, enjoying the look in his eyes as he seems to avoid Deacon’s eye contact. Something that seems somehow both like him, and unlike him, all at once.] My chivalry? [A grin] I mean, it ain’t much to write home about, honest. But if it’s charming you then I can’t say I mind.

[sexincloset]

[deaconrivers]

the trouble with ikea

[deaconrivers]

tvteperreault:

deaconrivers:

[He hears the footsteps and the keys and he knows before the door even opens. His grin is wide, at first, as he looks towards the door about to open, almost through his first beer of the evening—and then it falls sheepish, as he remembers the mess still in the apartment. 

Whoops. 

So he’s expecting that look on Tate’s face. Half smug, half amused. He’s expecting the ‘I told you so’ eyes, that tiny, almost imperceptible smirk on thick french lips. 

He chews his lip as Tate parrots at him, teasing and warm, and it sends shivers sleek and sweet down Deacon’s spine. The first few sounds of their life domesticated, and Deacon can’t help but enjoy the way they fumble together now. The set backs of the furniture and the quaintness of eating on the floor. Of teasing each other and taking months to get around to those last three boxes… all of it sounds appealing now, like there’s just as much novelty in the cliche annoying things about moving, as there is in the exciting parts. 

But his small grin grows broadly, boyishly, as Tate mentions the photo.] Oh, you liked that, did you? You say ‘talk about it’ like you’re going to scold me. [He grins] I get you in trouble in the market, Daddy? [he teases, putting on an impish, playful pout.]

[Even when he’s infuriating, it’s hard to be disappointed in the man. Because ulimately, one look at that laid-back posture and pretty face is enough to turn Tate’s frustration into an impulse to bend and bow. D snickers from the couch, guilt-free, and Tate shakes his head at him as he returns to the front door, pushing piles of hardware and individual shelves to the side. He hums, smirk growing, at the cleverly timed ‘Daddy’ comment, and shoots the blonde a coy look as he bends to pick up a couple bags.]

Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing right now. Unfortunately the state of this living room is killing my mood…be a good boy and come help put things away, maybe I will have more to say. [Bag in arm, Tate heads back to the kitchen after giving his man a quick full-body ogle to hold him over.] Did you manage to accomplish anything productive today?

[He’s somewhere between relieved and amused to hear that the tone of Tate’s voice is still amused, and playful—but it’s also lined with a thick sense of scolding, like a vaguely unimpressed Dom, and Deacon can’t quite quell the flash of arousal that skids through him—up his spine and under his gut. The ‘Daddy’ thing suddenly takes new meaning, in the moment, despite the subletly of Tate’s tone. 

Nonetheless, Deacon grins sheepishly as he gets to his feet and, beer in hand, joins Tate in the kitchen to help him load groceries into the fridge. He’s sure to let his fingers brush affectionately over Tate’s side and back as he leaves a kiss to his cheekbone before digging into the first bag and pulling out a jug of skim milk and a carton of two percent (for Deacon, obviously.) ] 

Umm. I mean. Yeah, I unpacked a bunch of our stuff. Put some of your books on our shelves in the bedroom, actually. And uh—[he grins. Tate’s not going to like this. Well, he is, but only because he loves Deacon, despite being a child] I set up the Game Cube.