A/N: Hello all! I am super excited to announce that ScarlettWoman710 and myself are collaborating on this fic. I've been craving an age difference AU for a while and ScarWo was kind enough to suggest working together! So here's the prologue to our multi-chapter fic which will be rated M in later chapters.

Warning: Yes, you read right. Thirty-four-year-old Tate is going to get it on with seventeen-year-old Violet. And yeah, it's taboo. But if there can be 32,000 (yeah I looked) fics about Bella getting it on with Edward, a dude 100 years her senior, then we can write this AU. If anyone has any problems with their age difference, we won't take offense if you decide to sit this fic out.

Anyway! Here's a teeny-tiny taste for what's to come.

"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it."

-Oscar WIlde

A soft breeze plays through the open windows as Tate's blinker sounds and he rolls into his old neighborhood.

It hadn't changed a stitch, each house painted just the same with neatly trimmed lawns and foreboding wrought iron fences.

Twins he used to babysit, Bryan and Troy, are piling baseball gear into the back of an old Chevy truck and speeding off down the road dressed in pin-striped pants and UCLA jerseys. Shit, they hadn't been more than eight or ten the last time he'd seen them, a pair of surly gradeschoolers then with a penchant for foul language and property damage.

When all he can see of them is a plume of exhaust smoke, he turns his attention to the other side of the street, to the first home he'd ever lived in as it comes into view on the right.

He tries to smother the bouquet of bad memories that lurch to the forefront of his mind and appraises the L.A. Victorian. It's been renovated in the last few years. The brick had been scrubbed clean. The windows were no longer missing or cracked. It was being lived in again, loved.

There are two vehicles in the driveway, a sleek foreign car that makes Tate wonder what the owners do for a living and your standard minivan, but his attention falls away from everything tucked behind the front gates when he notices the car in the street, or more precisely, the young girl flouncing around the rusted hunk of metal.

Scrubbing down a shoddy old Cadillac in a cropped band tee and bathing suit bottoms, a cigarette in one hand and a sudsy sponge in the other, is a girl the likes of which Tate's never seen on the red carpet or at a record release party, the kind of girl he was starting to think didn't exist in the filth of Hollywood anymore.

She's got an old school boombox balanced on the hood that's stuffed with two cassette tapes, their empty cases snapped shut and piled at her feet.

When he gets close enough, he can hear that it's the Scissor Sisters she's mouthing the words to and can't help but note the curve of her lips and that they look nice around the phrase 'sex and violence.' Then she's turning her head and looking at him over the top of her appropriately heart-shaped sunglasses and, is that a welcoming smile on her face or just a smirk that means 'haha caught you, pervert'? Either way, unusually flustered, he quickly turns back to the road just in time to scarcely avoid running down his mother's recycling can and whips into her driveway.

"Is that my movie star?" A voice laced in southern twang squeals moments later, the screen door swinging open to reveal his mother, dressed smart save for the ridiculous string of pearls cinched around her neck. Constance bustles down the porch as Tate tears his gaze from the rear-view mirror and unfolds from the car, enveloping him in a hug before he can step out of her impending embrace.

"It's so good to have you home," she sighs, drawing back only when he drops his hands. "Now straighten up and lemme get a look at you."

He squints up at the sun to keep from rolling his eyes, but holds still nonetheless.

She smoothes her palms up his chest and shoulders, plucking at a stray hair on the collar of his t-shirt, dusting at the material over his collarbones.

"Are you getting enough to eat? They're not starving you, are they? I don't want you turning out like the kids I've seen on the television, just skin and bones!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Tate groans, side-stepping Constance's dithering to climb the steps into the house.

He's thirty-four and she dotes on him more now than she ever had as a boy. Then again, he wasn't worth eight figures and his face wasn't slapped across magazine covers at six years old.

When the screen door clatters shut with a whine that begs for its hinges to be oiled, there's a pair of pale hands parting the hedges for soft brown eyes to peek through and watch as the blond man with slumped broad shoulders disappears inside.

A/N: Thanks for sticking it out for those 600 words. If you're still hungry for an age difference AU and can't wait for an update, I'd like to point everyone over to Holding A Heart's in-progress fic, 'I Used To Live Here'. Looks very promising!