#elio x oliver

[mahoganyrust]

Call Me By Your Name…but Hijack 👀

[admireforever]

Timothëe Chalamet

Call Me By Your Name

[escapismthroughfilm]

⋆˚｡⋆Call Me by Your Name (2017) dir. Luca Guadagnino⋆˚｡

[theseshipsshallsail]

You know, sometimes the comments are actually worth it 😂🤣

[terymlxyrstdus]

this is my roman empire:

[alltheoutcasts]

When they’re best friends but romance has been drizzled in

[elibabette]

🌅✨

[binogirlatx]

Red, White & Royal Blue❤️❤️Call Me by Your Name

[edwins-fangirl]

[green--tea-owo]

"why do you even like that movie? it's literally just p0rn."

the movie:

[remixingreality]

[mafaldaknows]

X

“We have each other memorized.” ✨🔥❤️‍🔥🔥✨

[admireforever]

Call Me By Your Name

[user2772636]

Omg...

Me bcs challengers x cmbyn

Me bcs both of them r by luca

Me bcs yes

Yes 😁

[theseshipsshallsail]

Happy Birthday, Elio Perlman. Then, now, and every tomorrow ❤️

My sincere apologies for leaving them crying in an airport bathroom for so long...

Summary:

“Regarde toi…” Elio murmurs, smothering a tipsy hiccup in the crease of their overstuffed pillow. “You look happy.” Oliver huffs. “I am happy,” he says, leaning in for a kiss: his clumsy tongue flavoured with the musky essence of Elio’s previous release.

HE WHOM LOVE TOUCHES (NOT WALKS IN DARKNESS)

In the liminal space between dreams and consciousness, where everything is hazy, blissful, and calm, Elio savours the post-coital high as a roaming palm draws abstract patterns on his outer thigh; chasing the field of goosebumps before settling - warm and possessive - in the shallow corrugation of his rib cage.

It’s a strange contradiction, all told. 

A charged sort of intimacy that keeps him buoyed by the ache of overtaxed muscles. 

The memory of Oliver moving inside him. 

The thickness. 

The stretch. 

The damp spill of semen saturating the rucked-up sheets.

He should fix that, he supposes, letting loose an almighty yawn, but his listless limbs refuse to cooperate as they gather their scrambled senses, and the other man’s grin - fond, jetlagged, coy to the point of transparency - holds him enthralled in the slate-grey pool of moonlight. 

“Regarde toi…” Elio murmurs, smothering a tipsy hiccup in the crease of their overstuffed pillow. “You look happy.”

Oliver huffs. “I am happy,” he says, leaning in for a kiss: his clumsy tongue flavoured with the musky essence of Elio’s previous release. “You - you make me happy,” he adds, humming an off-key rendition of Love My Way over the late-night drone of Via Manzoni:the song they’d so recklessly danced to not three months prior in a dingy, Roman piazza. “S’just like Plato said…”

Elio frowns; slightly perplexed by their trip into left-field. “Plato?” he asks,  rallying his drowsy focus.

“Symposium,” Oliver slurs, gaze a little bleary. “Have you read it?” 

A scoff. “Son of a professor, mon ami. I still have my father’s flash-cards.”

“So you’re familiar, then?” Oliver pauses; brushing an errant curl from Elio’s temple. “With his theories involving the human form?”  

“Absolument...” But it’s a deep-seated game of theirs - this idle exchange of wisdom - and one he’s loath to forfeit despite his heavy eyelids. “Indulge me anyway?”

“Don’t I always?” Oliver giggles, then clears his throat theatrically: every inch the college professor. “On the basis of Plato’s teachings,” he begins, hooking an ankle behind Elio’s exposed calf. “...there was a time we all looked vastly different… with four legs, four arms, and two heads apiece. We had two necks, also,” he continues, cupping his nape as if it were made of glass. “Two noses and two mouths…”

Featherlight, Oliver skims a thumb the full curve of Elio’s earlobe, wreaking havoc on his staccato lungs as it journeys even lower; gently parting the seam of his lips.

“But the gods… fearing the untapped power we held in such forms… took it upon themselves to split us. Right down the middle.” 

Elio shivers as he draws an invisible line from chin to navel. 

“And in doing so, condemned us to a life of half-measures. Constantly searching for that which was stolen, in order to - to feel complete.” 

“The physical and spiritual alike,” Elio quotes, knocking their sweat-slick foreheads together. “So how will we know?” he asks softly, all carefully crafted nonchalance. “When we find our other halves, I mean?” 

Oliver smiles: hummingbird-heart fluttering against his chest. “I found you, didn't I?” Another kiss; rich as torta tenerina. “I worship you,” he says, the flush of his cheeks belying his confident demeanour, and Elio curses that last round of birthday shots as he’s overwhelmed by the swell of raw emotion. The bigger-than-this, more-than-us awareness that’s gripped them from the start. “Is that okay?”

A pendulous nod. 

“You don’t doubt it?” 

Elio blinks back the mortifying sting of tears. “Just myself,” he whispers at length, unable to quash his niggling insecurities, and Oliver sighs as he captures his wrist; ink-stained fingers tracing the spiderweb veins at his pulse.

“Please don’t,” he begs, forever unfazed by the trials and tribulations of a long-distance relationship. “Please don’t doubt the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.”

To name a belief - his grandfather once told him - is to give it shape. Sound. An echo. There's power in speaking, my boy! In being spoken about - and here in his childhood bedroom, Elio thanks his lucky stars as he breathes in the bergamot-citrus of Oliver’s shampoo. The syrupy sweetness of spilt Amaretto. The burnt-tar bitterness of unfiltered Gauloises. 

“I know you too,” he says, mirroring his candid confession. “I see you. Corps, esprit, et âme.”

It doesn’t matter that he’s crying. 

That his wayward emotions are on display. 

The other man’s faith is inherently grounding, and flattening his palm over Oliver’s star of David Elio reels him in by the silver chain; butterflies taking flight in his stomach as he thinks of the hard-fought future that’s destined to lie ahead. 

[dpsenthusiast]

I think about him everyday. Elio is me, im him