Tate Alain Perreault

There's always a boy. There's always a name. There's always a lover.

[tvteperreault-blog]

shs ; eros&apollo

[tvteperreault-blog]

rivers-run-wild:

[Suddenly the humour is sweeping away with a dry, soft wind, as Tate’s dark eyes grow cloudier with intent, and his fingers trace soft paths down Deacon’s forearms, landing in a cluster at his palms, moments before threading their fingers together. 

Deacon shivers then, once, and once or twice more at least as the brunet slowly draws up his hands and pins them up over his head. Tucked against the wall and braced here by Tate’s body, Deacon feels oddly vulnerable, but in a way that suggests he’s about to be devoured, and he can’t help but press into it, somewhat subconsciously. His chest and hips seek out the contact of Tate’s warmth as the Frenchman purrs a sultry, teasing reply, and Deacon grins again, but this time it’s less cheeky, and more allured, more impish and wanton. His eyes glitter as Tate’s breath ghosts over his lip, and he sucks his own plump one into his mouth and behind a row of white teeth. 

He knows what he looks like, the stupid slut, and Deacon is halfway between moaning in want and sighing in amusement as he rolls his eyes. 

Closer to the former, though.

Still together enough to play along, he smirks, gaze honeyed and deliberate as he holds Tate’s eyes.] 

Yeah. Looks like it. Remind me to convince you to come to another one of these, by the way, if this is the way you respond. [He grins] So—are you gonna bloody kiss me already? Because for someone so worried about being interrupted, you have yet to start much of anything to interrupt. Not all talk, I hope? 

[The blonde’s body burns hot against his; it’s all that muscle, no doubt, already straining from his previous activity. They’re so close that in places, Tate’s loose hem rides up and he can feel the bits of cloth still barely damp from their contact with Deacon’s sweat, more erotic than it sounds. It couples nicely with his expression, made more enigmatic in the shadows, though not even that darkness can hinder the brilliant white of those straight, strong teeth and the shape they make buried in tender, tearable skin.

He smells like salt, musk, and mint. Traces of wood, traces of leather. And when Deacon speaks it all gets stronger, drowning his senses, coaxing him to action like some individualized blend of pheromones. Tate likes the way Deacon spits things without meaning to, the emphasis on certain words chiding him, daring him.

Tate is still for a bit, just long enough to make Deacon wonder if he ever does intend to kiss him at all, then he moves in for the kill, head striking forward like that viper--frozen so long it was almost forgotten--and knocking the blonde’s back unceremoniously against the wall. He squeezes Deacon’s hands and presses the rest of him against it in turn, back sweeping in a colorful arch as he grazes his own abdomen against D’s over and over, in time with those passionate kisses--all tongue, hints of teeth.

For a brief moment when Tate isn’t feverishly tasting him, he pulls back and sighs, low and husky, thumb peeking out from their handhold to stroke the other’s hairline. He pushes his zipper against Deacon’s hip so the blonde can feel what’s being done to him, then bends the knee between his legs, releasing one of Deacon’s hands to brace it low on his chest, firm, just under his neck and keeping him in place.]

[tvteperreault-blog]

shs ; eros&apollo

[tvteperreault-blog]

rivers-run-wild:

[Tate seems almost dryly unimpressed, but humouring him anyway, with that lilt in his low voice and fingers that occupy themselves with Deacon’s collar. Deacon smiles down at him, trying to catch that heated gaze again.] Well, I mean, I never said that. Pretty sure I like you distracted… [he coos, flashing teeth and charm at the Frenchman. 

He thinks he’s going to get that kiss he’s so been waiting for, and is looking forward to it too, when he hears his bandmates voices coming from down the hall. Tate’s swiftness to move him to the right and tuck them to the side of the shelf, up against the wall, throws him for a loop and he looks around dazed and confused for a moment. Unsure why they’re hiding, and for what purpose Tate’s covering his mouth, he frowns, reaching up to peel away the fingers.]

What are you doing? [he whispers, though he’s not really sure why he’s whispering.] It’s just the band. They’re cleaning up. You don’t have to hide, mate.

[From the sounds of it, someone drops off a bit of gear into the room, and then Bruno’s voice: ‘Oi, help me with these cables, yeah?’ ‘Yeah, sure—’ Tristan, now. ‘Where the hell is River, anyway?’ Two sets of footsteps head towards the stage. ‘Fuck knows. Probably gettin’ his dick sucked by some groupie.’ The laughter echoes as they move away from the room. But they’ll be back within a few minutes.] 

[Tate’s fingers tighten over his lips for a second when the blonde first speaks, but they relax upon hearing the other whisper too low to give away their position. All the same, Tate stares in the direction of the voices until the footsteps paired with them dim away again. Then he looks back at Deacon like he just got away with something, playfully joining their bodies again and letting the heat bleed back into his stare.]

I don’t want to be interrupted. [Tate answered, still speaking in a hush, fingers trailing down Deacon’s forearms until lacing together with his own. Squeezing, he raised both hands above Deacon’s head and paused as he looked the blonde over, suddenly appreciating the tides of fate that had brought them to this specific place, this specific position. His eyes narrowed some as he evaluated the potential, drawing his lip into his mouth in his telltale tic, and humming once, receptively, to the image in front of him.]

...quite the bind we are in, isn’t it. [Tate teased, pressing his weight down on Deacon again, using the spaced positioning of Deacon’s legs to step over them, so his thigh nestled--close, but far--beneath the apex of Deacon’s taut jeans.]

[tvteperreault-blog]

shs ; eros&apollo

[tvteperreault-blog]

rivers-run-wild:

[There it is, that curled ‘darling’ flicking off a foreign tongue, and Deacon can’t help but grin (though it’s warm and muddy with vague arousal at the corners now) at the irony—being told not to be coy in that tone, with a sinewy Tate snaking towards him like he’s ready to pounce—it definitely only makes Deacon want to continue being coy.

He lets out a genuinely surprised and breathy laugh at the comment.] That’s not why I invited you! I happen to be proud of our music, and I thought you’d have fun. Enjoy the night, the show, the music… [he shrugs, cutely and simply, but his grin catches and hooks again.] The getting to see me looking all sexy is only a bonus, I swear. What, didn’t you think we were good…? I know the stuff we cover isn’t always the coolest but I reckon we do a pretty good job with them… 

[But Tate is stepping him backwards into the shelf, his heat and presence impossible to ignore, especially as long, lean fingers precisely slip under Deacon’s t-shirt and ripple up his abs, circle around his nipple. The blond lets his head fall back, his eyes flutter half-closed. His mouth parts a moment in a sigh, but the grin returns, ever-cheeky. But how can he be expected to help it? Tate is an absolute delight. Amusing, playful, exciting… whether he’s touching Deacon or not, he’s often making Deacon smile, making him forget how complex his life can be. Making him feel like everything is simple, boyish and fun.

Oh, but when he is touching him… especially like this… it’s certainly not something to be ignored.] 

 Mm, yeah, you can, [he hums, still amused, but enjoying the attention.] And you have no reluctance with that, I see. You can also kiss me, y’know, [he teases, smile made of nothing but cookie dough and mischief.] In case you’re interested. 

[Tate pauses and pulls back some with a smile as Deacon protests, just enough to look him in the eye again. His expression is affectionate but dry as he internally chastises the other for not simply going along with his machinations; but finds it truly charming at the slight neediness, the desire to know what Tate thought.

The brunette drops his eyes low to Deacon’s face, keeping that smile, and reaches up to play at fixing his collar, interrupting his seductions reluctantly.] I did have fun. But it was...hard to focus. I will be better prepared next time. Less...distracted by the faces you make. How your throat moves. Etcetera. [He looks pleasantly conflicted over the invitation to kiss, and moves to comply, when a group of voices surfaces from down the hall and Tate looks over his shoulder in a panic.

Moving instinctively, Tate used his hold on Deacon’s hips to move them both away from the shelving unit, bodies clipping past the corner and falling almost messily against the far wall, well within the shadows past a dusty, forgotten speaker set. Once there, he laid one hand gently over the blonde’s mouth as he leaned backward looking towards the door, trying to gauge whether the voices were coming near, or just passing.]

[tvteperreault-blog]

shs ; eros&apollo

[tvteperreault-blog]

rivers-run-wild:

[Tate was all prowling, purring heat. It was subtle, in a way—or at least in the sense that he wasn’t loud about it. But there was sex and innuendo in his silence, in the thick and syrupy way his eyes dragged over Deacon again and again. They way he could feel them playing around his collarbone and throat. Down to his hips, and the lean line of his stomach. 

He suppressed the temptation to shiver under the steady gaze, and though his grin persisted, it grew somewhat curious, questioning. 

With Tate close, and the suggestive question on his tongue, Deacon chuckled, teeth flashing.] A bad time? Depends on what for, I guess. Is it a bad time for chatting with you? No. A bad time to, say, proposition me to join the circus and get an ass tattoo? Yeah, probably, [he quips.]

[’Depends’, he said. How fitting. Frankly, Tate’s appetite was such that he didn’t really care, but asking was part of the illusion. The more they talked the more he felt like a viper in the grass, only Deacon--his mouse--was looking him dead in the eye and refusing to scurry. He liked the sound of that.]

Don’t be coy, darling. [Tate said, standing up straight once more and stepping forward until he couldn’t anymore, fingers slipping under the edges of his sweat-dampened shirt and tugging it down, as if he were only fixing it somehow.] You knew this would happen, that is why you invited me all those weeks ago. To watch you. And only watch, and have to wait, because when you are up there no one can touch you.

[Tate stepped in until Deacon’s back was to the shelf he’d just been facing, the sturdy frame just as impassable as Tate’s searching gaze, their legs in a line for lack of space and bodies pressed close, but still. Tate tucked his face in behind Deacon’s and let their chests meet, let Deacon feel the warmth and pressure of both it and his hand, which gently kneaded the muscle over one nipple then curled around, stroking the skin where a jagged scar still hid under cloth.] The show is over. I can touch you now.

[tvteperreault-blog]

shs ; eros&apollo

[tvteperreault-blog]

rivers-run-wild:

[It’d been a good show. High energy in the crowd tonight, and Deacon had been riding the cresting wave of the audience’s infectious enthusiasm. 

The spotlight always felt good on his skin, made the sweat dripping from his temple feel like sacred ritual, as the beat pounded in his ears and the hollow of his thin chest. And their set had been a fun one tonight, which Deacon had really needed after the likes of this week—it’d been trying. Lots of messy, overlapping schedules that had him running from practice to appointment, to appointment and to practice again. 

So the guitar in his hands and the cheers in his ears felt like a certain kind of release and he sucked it for all it was worth. 

He was absently putting away the last of the gear, the other boys just around the corner dealing with the drum kit, when a familiar voice startled him from the quietness of the nearly-empty backstage, and he turned on his heel. 

The grin was surprised, at first, but quick yo grow.] Hey… Well, would you look at that. You came. ‘Bout fuckin’ time. Good to see you, mate. 

[Tate honed in on the signs of Deacon’s post-show fatigue. The very slight trail of wiped-away sweat on his brow, baby hairs wet with it, his hairstyle just a mite undone. The similar sheen on what little of his chest was visible, the junction between his collarbones glistening in the low, yellow light. His Adam’s apple, slight but sharp, a tease all on its own. Eyes bright but weary, pupils slightly larger from the adrenaline likely still in his veins.

God, it was sexy. He probably couldn’t have described it if he tried, but seeing Deacon this way only further provoked the devilment that had brought him here. Smiling distantly, Tate let an uncomfortable amount of silence pass before giving the blonde a reply, stalking slowly, casually closer and leaning against a table full of cable when he was within feet, fiddling absently with some loose connectors.]

Mm...you are a real performer. Now I know from where you draw all that sex appeal. [After following the length of him with his eyes, Tate locked eyes with Deacon again, lips left hanging open between words.] Is this a bad time?

[thekingofchevron]

[tvteperreault-blog]

shs ; eros&apollo

[For weeks now Deacon had been mentioning that he and his band played the Needy Greedy on Fridays and for weeks, Tate had been saying, “I’ll come, I’ll come, I’ll come.” Nothing more than unfulfilled promises in the end. There was always something (or someone) else going on, some other distraction to entertain when the end of the week rolled around, and eventually he just had to stop promising the blonde he’d remember this time.

It was an unexpected turn, finding himself strolling through the doors of their resident club on the same date and time as one of W.A.R.’s performances. The desire to have a couple of the house cocktails hit him rather late in the evening, in fact; a true spur-of-the-moment decision that was more in-character for him than any deliberate show of effort. He cut across the dance floor, halfway to the bar, before any wheels started turning in his head and he actually turned to witness the stage from which poured out an amplified and greatly-processed rendition of a voice he knew well.

There he was, Deacon the perfect frontman, all charisma and passion, playing to the audience and his bandmates both. The stage was his, clearly, and in the bobbing, moving crowd he stood still and watched, comparing the man before him to the bashful boy who first showed him his private acoustic recordings.

Tate smiled, wide and mischievous, then returned to his business, choosing a seat at the crowded bar closest to the stage over his usual lounge spot, just to appreciate Deacon’s form from a distance while savoring his Paloma. It wasn’t enough to get him loaded but certainly helped grease the gears of his working mind as he cooked up several pretty plans of what to do with this newfound understanding of his. Content and quiet, Tate kept to himself, engaging in small conversations with other showgoers as they came, taking bubblegum when it was offered, but ultimately keeping his eyes fixated on the jazzed-up blonde on center stage.

He saw his moment as the show ended and the bar itself prepared for close. Tate slipped away from his seat quietly and forded the crowd like a river rushing downstream, pushing through the sheer flood of people until he was able to find the far wall, and watch as Deacon and his bandmates started to break things down themselves. He watched like a predator from the shadows, chewing his gum patiently as Deacon collected the mics first and moved to drop them off backstage. Sensing his moment, Tate waited a few short seconds for the blonde to move out of sight, then slipped in after him unnoticed, leaving the rest of his bandmates working behind them.

It was unfamiliar territory but Tate moved slowly and listened closely, turned a corner, then made a beeline for the only room with a light on; leaning casually in the doorway, he watched Deacon’s back as he placed their mics on a designated shelf in the otherwise-empty room. He stayed quiet, then blew a large bubble and popped it audibly when the blonde turned around, winking and webbing his fingers together in front of himself in a cheeky greeting.]

Hello, you.

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[tvteperreault-blog]

 deaconrivers:

[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.] 

[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.]

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[tvteperreault-blog]

deaconrivers:

[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.] 

[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.]

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[tvteperreault-blog]

deaconrivers:

[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.] 

[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.]

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[tvteperreault-blog]

deaconrivers:

[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. 

[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.

[deaconrivers]

[ SHS verse AU: “boyfriends”  ]

[tvteperreault-blog]

deaconrivers:

[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. 

[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.

[boysably]

[tvteperreault-blog]

dreamers ; drinks on the house

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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.]

[tvteperreault-blog]

wayward souls ; oxidation

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deaconrivers:

[Blood hell, he’s a pretty thing. 

Tate is pretty both to look at and to listen to, the way he pants, and cants for him. The way his teasing mewls turn into wanton, breathy little sighs. The way Deacon can feel the shivers that run up and down his spine, the shortness of breath from the stretch that he can tell —just by the flicking, tensing of Tate’s muscles of his back, as Deacon pushes in—that its a stretch that stings. 

Not too much. Not too fast, either, because Deacon’s careful, and enjoys savoring the moment that Tate goes from cocky to commanded. That flipping of a switch when he actually hands over the control because it’s irrefutable to deny the power Deacon has over him in those sweet, succulent moments. The slight pain that reminds of this. 

Deacon’s heart skips a beat, then three, as Tate’s breath hitches, and he mutters out a whine that’s sweet and shiver-inducing, followed by a slew of French words Deacon doesn’t have to understand to admire the sound of. 

At the sound of what he can only assume is  a French curse, and then an echo of his own name, Deacon releases Tate’s hips in favor of grabbing Tate’s hair with the hand not stroking his spine, and yanking it back until that column of porcelain bends like a carved bow and an Adam’s apple ruts out, exposed.

Deacon hisses his words through clenched teeth.] Fuck. That’s right, you like that cock, don’t ya? You perfect little slut— [his hips pull back and pick up pace, thrusting regularly—an even speed, not hurried, and not too hard, but sturdy without a doubt. Enough force to watch the perfect scoops of creamy gelato bounce against  his pelvic line. Enough to listen to the sweet sounds of Tate’s submission. Enough to make him groan at the intensity of the pressure of Tate’s un-fucked ass around him. 

And fuck, it’s hard to say, but he has to assume he doesn’t do this often, because he’s so Goddamn tight.]  Fuck, Tate, that’s so hot. You’re so hot. [He leans forward again, licking up the middle of Tate’s spine, to a sweat-lined shoulder, and finding his earlobe to suck it into his mouth.] Let me hear you whine for me, sweet thing. You fucking love having your pussy wrecked, don’t you? Face down and fucked senseless, yeah? Be a good little whore and fucking beg for it, baby.  [He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust of his hips, and his hand continues to pull on Tate’s hair. He sucks purple marks into his neck with abandon.]  I wanna hear you. Every last fucking whimper, yeah?

[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…

[neaarty]

[jau-ne]

{ Nintendo and Truffles } DR & TP

[tvteperreault-blog]

rivers-run-wild:

[He can practically hear that smile as it forms on pretty lips, and Deacon looks back at him, pausing in the door to his room. He smirks.

Now? [he repeats, amused.] Depends. If that’s an invitation, then definitely. My endurance knows no bounds. [A quick wink, and he steps into the room to fetch something for Jaune to change into. Rummaging through his drawers quickly, he pulls out pair of joggers he works out in—wider at the hips and tighter at the ankles, with deep pockets and a draw string—and a t-shirt, just in case he wants that too. Strolling back into the living room, still shirtless, because he’s a swaggering shit, he tosses them to the Frenchman with a grin.] Here. Cozy up in those. Kinda excited to see you in my clothes. 

[To be totally honest, Tate doesn’t even truly hear Deacon’s response, he’s too fixated on a newly surfaced crease of skin across the back of the blonde’s ribs that surfaced when the other turned, reinforcing Tate’s desire to touch him again. To feel that soft, shallow skin under his hands. He blinks with hooded eyes and gives only a dopey shrug, sitting patiently in a fog of his own fantasies until the blonde returns and tosses some pants his way. They fall partially over his knee and the table and bunches them up in his hands, taking a moment to look at the fabric with odd fondness before looking back at Deacon slyly.]

I bet. But I’ve decided there is no real point to showering if we are just going to get dirty again later. [Tate stands, pulling down his zipper and starting to shrug out of his soiled jeans right there, slinging the sweats over his bare shoulder.] Besides, I’ve already had two today. Any more will dry out my hair, you know.