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

28 | Timothée

My favourite pastime lately is curling up on the coach in an oversized sweater, with a coffee in one hand and a book in the other. I like to detach from reality and immerse myself in an alternate one, especially in history. Recently, I borrowed an old work on Greek mythology from the local library, and I've been reading about the story of Zeus and Ganymede, how the mighty god snatched the beautiful boy up to dwell with him, granting him immortality so as to be able to enjoy his boyhood forever, much to the wrath of Zeus' spiteful wife-

"You're such a nerd." Eric's playful quip startles me from my thoughts. I look up from my book, setting my coffee down.

He crosses over to me, scooping up his discarded briefs from the floor and pulling them on along the way. I bite my lip at the memory of how they wound up there last night. Pale beams of sunlight accentuate his drool-worthy build and as he prowls over to me in all his broad, imposing glory.

"Good morning," he hums, grinning as he crowds against me on the couch. I like his smile. I like his thin pink lips and the honey-coloured fur of his beard framing bright, white teeth. His snubbed nose and baby blue eyes offset his otherwise grisly, bearish features in a charming, dazzling, way. He's one gorgeous hunk.

"Hi," I mutter shyly, resting my nose in the crease between my book pages.

The book is shoved aside. Then he's gripping my jaw in one hand, and his tongue licks past my lips, into my mouth, hungrily exploring the cavern within. Quiet smacking sounds fill the air every time our lips part, only to fuse again seamlessly moments later.

My fingers trail down his chest, skimming around the pert nubs of his nipples, like pencil erasers protruding through the thick patina of hair covering his sculpted pecs. His body is hard and sinewy, feels like it was carved and moulded from clay. My hands trace over the defined ridges of his abdomen, a solid eight-pack that flexes as his muscular body moves over mine, caging me in.

Eric pulls back when a desperate mewl bubbles up in my throat, deliberately edging me. That and kissing bores him. I groan and he snatches up the hardcover.

"Who reads actual physical books anymore," Eric marvels aloud. Absently, his hand reaches up to scratch one of the matching tattoos climbing up either side of his neck, just high enough to be concealed by a collared shirt. "You know what, that actually fucking turns me on."

I giggle as his big hands rub up my legs, smoothing over my knee-high socks and creeping up between my thighs. I'm not wearing underwear - he doesn't like when I do - just socks and a large shirt that hangs off my slender shoulders.

"Turn over, my little bookworm," he grins wolfishly. "I wanna see that peach."

I comply immediately, flipping over and wriggling my butt in the air. Eric's thick fingers dig into the soft flesh, oscillating between tender and brutal squeezing, groping, stroking, massaging.

"You'll be a good boy and let me spank this peach, right?" Eric hums, dropping a kiss over my tailbone. I nod and he pins my thighs to the bed in an iron grip, rendering the slightest wriggle impossible.

My book tumbles to the floor.

•••

My boyfriend's hand is like a claw on my kneecap all through breakfast, a red flush climbing up his neck and suffusing his broad shoulders. Ansel waits until Eric gets up to go to the bathroom before cocking an inquisitive eyebrow.