#supportarmiehammer

[callmebyyournameoliver1983]

„My Dinner with Armie“

New in the Hollywood Reporter

[choupistickfaitdesbetises]

Because it's Monday, and Mondays won't be as beautiful without you.

I miss you, don't forget us.

[autumnswhisperingembers34]

Nicely done Armie with citizen Vigilante that was incredible. I personally have no other words about this movie except one-

[theseshipsshallsail]

TRATTENUTO

They say the eyes are windows to the soul, but it’s the medium of music through which Elio expresses himself perfectly, and as such, his hands that held Oliver captivated from the very first instant he watched them master the Bösendorfer’s ivory keys.

The harried chords of Strauss and Rachmaninoff, for example, born of their early trepidation.

The mournful strains of Elgar’s Nimrod when they were seldom speaking.

The Siren’s call of Bach’s Capriccio when they were.

The exact same hands, in fact, that are currently clutching the emerald-green metalwork of the spare room’s single bed frame.

Grip determined.

Knuckles blanched.

Flexing fingers criss-crossing his own.

“I love you…” Oliver murmurs, edging his cock backwards in a tortuously slow retreat. “I’m in love with you,” he swears, the unabashed freedom to do so compelling him to make the distinction. 

There’s a carnal thirst twisting his belly. 

A frustrated ache in his drawn-tight balls. 

Drunk with the build, the kiss of his glans to Elio’s greedy rim sees Oliver’s heart expanding, and the other man strains as he arches from the rumpled sheets: a desperate plea spilling loose on a whimper when he exerts the scantest pressure; inching inside anew. 

“Non fermarti…” Elio slurs beside his ear; charcoal lashes fanning his burnished cheeks. “’m close…” 

The feeling’s entirely mutual, of course, yet Oliver’s resolved to fuck him senseless; watching Elio’s face contort in rapture as the pitch of his honeyed groans turns almost guttural.  

They’ve been at it a while, is the thing. Driving one another to the proverbial brink, then switching gears at the pivotal moment to eke out their release. It’s addictive - this self-imposed restraint after several months apart - but when bruising heels dig into his ass all bets are off, and Oliver surrenders to his baser urges as he dutifullyquickens the pace. 

“More…” Elio demands, blowing an errant curl from his dewy temple. “Please, mon chéri… need to come…”

Oliver leans in: lathing the salt-gleam hollow at his boyfriend’s throat. 

“You’re a provocateur, Elio Perlman…”

“Praw-vaw-ka-tœr,” comes the heavily-exaggerated reply; playtime ostensibly over as Elio chokes on a whine: nostrils flaring at each fervent jab to his tender prostate.

Caged between their sweat-slick bellies, his erection smears wet and sticky, and were the clasp of Elio’s palms not fused with such intensity he’d have happily reached down to double the stimulation.

In the end, however, it makes no difference. 

Success is a dance perfected through repetition, so no sooner have Elio’s legs hitched to encircle his waist does he cry out raggedly: Oliver’s world going blindingly white as he curses and shudders and grinds his teeth; spurring him on amidst motley sounds of contentment. 

One thrust.

Two.

An uncoordinated third.

Liquid pearls streak Elio’s sternum right up to his stubbly chin, and pressing his mouth to the spiderweb veins at his wrist, Oliver savours the perfect thrum of life: hips endeavouring to twitch in vain; jetlagged refractory period be damned.

How long they lie there he isn’t quite sure, but nature’s chorus is already stirring beyond the wooden shutters when he properly catches his breath, and the steady rise of Elio’s chest suggests he’s not too far from drifting off beneath him.

“Baise-moi…” the other man mumbles eventually, looking rather like the cat who got the cream. “That was -”

“Exceptional?” Oliver mutters, wheezing louder than Anchise’s old generator. “Spectacular?”

“Truly, I am Fortune’s favoured,” Elio drawls, chapped lips grazing the hinge of his jaw. “Humility is a virtue, professore.”

“So I’ve heard,” Oliver replies, snagging a pair of discarded boxers to clean up the mess. “But don’t let that keep you from stroking my ego.” 

Elio grunts. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll stroke your -”

“Goose,” Oliver snickers - smothering him with a pillow - and rearranging their sated limbs he settles in for the duration; thumb skimming idle patterns over Elio’s spine in the crushed-velvet pageantry of dawn. 

[lfg1986-2]

Sobbing. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Just…

My love for him has never been stronger. I’m so proud of him. And so very grateful I stuck around to see this moment.

HE’S FUCKING BACK, BITCHES.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[dalyankiz1981]

Happy one year anniversary to the James Kirchick Airmail interview where Armie finally broke his almost two year silence to tell his truth 👏 😍

[marumarusya1]

Happy Birthday, Armie! Be happy! Good luck! ✌🏻👌🏻❤️💙🍀

[ginger1982]

I'm so happy for Armie. He was suffering for so long, all that was so hard and painful - but it was so worthy of freedom! He survived, he won, he took his freedom and dignity, he got a fair custody on his beloved kids, in the end he got everything on HIS (very fair) condition - using outcome of her incredible stupidity, toxicity, vindictiveness and narcissistic cuntiness against her - and she got big fat ZERO. He even let her sort of to save the face with not suing her and giving her that laughable symbolic 1.5K minimum (personally I would throw her in court and let her to rote in hell, but Armie's much better and more noble man than me). Now it's ALL over. Fly free, my dear man, only onwards and upwards! Take everything you lost back. I'm respect and admire you more and more every day and will wait for your comeback. EGBA 💙💙💙 P.S. Special thanks to Laura Wasser