Calling Him By My Name [Armie Hammer + Timothée Chalamet | Charmie | mxb]

10 | Timothée

"I'll call you...Goliath," I murmur, gently petting Armie's dick. Not something I ever thought I'd be doing, but, well, the thing's fucking massive and therefore deserves to be named appropriately.

It's not normal. True, I haven't seen a lot of dicks in my life, but I'm sure this one's not normal.

I give it soft, little kisses. Gentle kisses of respect and awe, as I map all the veins with my fingertips and commit them to memory. Armie laughs when my nose grazes the sensitive skin, says it tickles, but I pay him no heed and continue my reverent stroking. That is, until he's had enough and decides it's payback time.

Rolling us over, he pins my arms at my sides and lowers his stubbled face to my bare belly. I wriggle and writhe, trying halfheartedly to escape, but his grip is too strong. My eyes roll back and my mouth falls open on a breathy laugh when his cheeks drag across my skin. His scruff tickles and burns; I can feel a pink flush rising to the surface of my stimulated skin. His lips seal like a vacuum over my bellybutton and he blows hard. Arching up into his mouth, I shriek with laughter at the suction, the hot air tickling my skin as he makes funny little farting noises. My head snaps back and forth, legs kicking uselessly as he buries his whole face against my belly, rubbing up and down, over and over again, in that animalistic bonding ritual of ours.

"Let's bike around a bit, say goodbye to the town today." Armie suggests when he finally scoops me up in his arms in one fluid move. Humming softly, he cradles me against his chest and lets me lock my legs around his waist. Then he starts singing that stupidly endearing bunny song of his, that makes me tear up a little bit because I don't know if I've ever felt so in the centre of someone's entire world before. I know that's not really how it is, but damn, Armie sure knows how to make me feel that way. It's all I can do to squeeze him like a vise - so tight my own muscles scream in protest - and let myself be adored. Adored - there's no other word to describe this. Gentle rocking, a comforting hand sweeping through my hair, that deep baritone soft and lulling in my ear. I press my face flat against his chest, kissing over the familiar, steadfast heartbeat that I love, that sustains Armie and, thus, also me.

"Okay." I like this, being warm and naked and vulnerable together.

Typically, Armie walks into the bathroom to shave while I'm still on the toilet. He joins me in the shower afterwards. We grab our usual morning espressos and I try not to cry because we'll never do this again.

On set, Luca instructs me to don my swimwear, and I realize that the only thing I would change about this whole experience is adding lining to the inside of these damn swimming trunks. Every other bathing suit has that, but not this pair.

Luca just needs to film few final odds and ends, and lets us go early today. Which is good because Armie and I take the opportunity to visit all of our favourite places one last time. We spend hours strolling through the streets and courtyards and alleys and coves, stopping to order something different to eat each time we get hungry, talking about out favourite characters in Ovid and Francesca's words of wisdom in the Inferno. I memorize everything. The scents of rosemary, suntan lotion and faint cigarette smoke pungent on every breath. The precise gold hue of the grass as the fields bask in the afternoon sunlight. Little snapshots: straw hats and lemonade, tennis courts and laughing children, balconies, orchards, villas and sheds, gardens and pools. The way the sun dips behind the belfry of San Giacomo, engulfing it in shadows, the slope of Monet's berm where the artist himself came to paint.

We arrive back at the apartment with just enough time to pack our belongings and check out. My belly is full and my heart is aching and my head is swimming, straining to contain all of the sensory input I'm storing for future daydreaming purposes.