#Monet's Berm

[choupistickfaitdesbetises]

The veracity of a moment between two people who admit their feelings to each other...

Look, this moment is so much like them... this moment is so much like… Timothée and Armie.

.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

They’re addictive, Elio’s lips, and visions of him pursing them at the al fresco dining table - biting them subconsciously whilst transcribing Haydn or Bach - take up an inordinate amount of his waking hours. But here and now they’re utterly ruinous: pressed to Oliver’s own in an apparent quest to devour.

A FEAST OF THE SENSES

Oliver was twelve years old when he received his first proper kiss: an impromptu game of spin-the-bottle at the Freidman’s summer garden party. He never learned her name - can only recall a general sense of inadequacy and Cinnamon-flavoured Dentyne - but it’s safe to say he’s kissed plenty of others since, and thankfully with much greater finesse than his terrified, seventh grade fumblings.

Not that he’s prone to brag. 

On the contrary, he’s spent years denying his baser urges. Burying deep the conflicting passions he’s seldom dared acknowledge outright. Yet the moment he’d found himself kissing Elio Perlman in the blanketing wildflowers of Monet’s berm was nothing short of a revelation: and one that’s merely grown in intensity with every heartfelt intimacy thereafter.

He’d dreamed of their first embrace - hypothetically, of course, though in exquisitely vivid detail - but reality, he’s found, is a slow-burning splendour. Softness reigns when it’s just the two of them, and Elio’s innate curiosity is a warm and gentle fire that sets his hazel eyes alight. 

Ironic, admittedly - that he kisses like he’s in no hurry, when time is a luxury they can ill afford - yet by the same token he’ll lean into Oliver with the whole of his being.

Raking blunt fingernails along his strangled rib cage.

Anchoring knobbly knees to the curve of his waist.

Tickling those flexing toes against the sensitive soles of his grass-stained feet.

But he’s more than a temptation, is Elio: he’s the catalyst that spurred his reinvention. His complex nature changed him fundamentally - knocked him on his ass then right off his axis, too - and Oliver’s charting this brand new orbit with gusto; an eager disciple, some might say, worshipping at the altar of generous lips still laced with the savoury aftertaste of Pasta alla Norma.

They’re addictive, Elio’s lips, and visions of him pursing them at the al fresco dining table - biting them subconsciously whilst transcribing Haydn or Bach - take up an inordinate amount of his waking hours. But here and now they’re utterly ruinous: pressed to Oliver’s own in an apparent quest to devour. 

Self-restraint falls by the wayside as he slides a palm beneath Elio’s t-shirt; mapping the ridged line of his vertebrae from nape to boxers-covered ass. The other, he places at the graceful column of his throat; thumb caressing the jut of his Adam’s apple in a lazy to-and-fro. It bobs on cue when he swallows back a groan, and licking past his cupid’s bow Oliver draws forth a series of heady whimpers until Elio’s damn near panting; each blissed out sigh hot and provocative where it brushes his scratchy cheek. 

And yet he never really breaks contact, does Elio: not even when he’s struggling to catch his breath. 

Simply rests that supple pout at the corner of Oliver’s mouth; sweat-damp curls framing his face as he nestles into their chamomile-scented pillow: shamelessly seeking his touch. 

“I could do this forever,” he murmurs, achingly vulnerable in the ashen light of dawn, and something heavy lifts from Oliver's chest as he steals another kiss: the ghost of his name on the air between them almost smothered by the quicksilver blood in his veins.

“You and me both…” he allows - holding Elio close - and not for the first time compiles a mental checklist of the things he’ll need to do to make it so.    

[hammerchalametuniverse]

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A post shared by 💕𝐸𝑙𝑖𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑂𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟💕 (@cmbynsims4)

Monet's Berm 💚

[yes-svetlana-world]

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A post shared by ChristineLB 🇫🇷🤍🖤💜🫀 (@drawtimmyroundtheworld)

A trip to Monet’s berm as described in Call Me By Your Name, the novel. 💙 Thank you @myfrenchplate for visiting the exhibition Monet En Pleine Lumière and trusting me with the photos. I did my best to turn them into a post (2 actually) Bodighera is indeed B. I live how it all comes back to CMBYN

#cmbyn#callmebyyournamebook#tchalamet#armiehammer#lucaguadagnino#andreaciman#claudemonet

[everythingboutbooks]

Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman

the significance of "you'll kill me if you stop":

i want to talk about one quote and it's role in the entire relationship of elio and oliver, which is "you'll kill me if you stop" (seen during pt. 2 Monet's Berm). this quote stuck out to me, because i think that it holds great importance in the power dynamics of the relationship between them.

we read pages and pages of elio fantasizing about oliver telling him "you'll kill me if you stop" during sex. for him, that sentence means submission. he imagines oliver as vulnerable and raw, ultimately giving elio power over him. he wants oliver to need him (as much as elio needs him). he wants oliver to be vulnerable and maybe even weak (the way elio feels with him). he wishes to be able to overpower oliver (the way oliver overpowers him).

elio seems to need that for his confidence but also to feel comfortable in his relationship with oliver (more on that later).

against elio's idea he, himself ends up repeating these words to oliver over and over again during their first time sleeping together. he ends up giving oliver the control that he seemed to want so bad just before. in a way we see that elio kind of wants to submit to oliver (for example: "Give me a blindfold, hold my hand, and don't ask me to think—will you do that for me?" or "[...] I'll do anything for you") and yet, he ends up feeling miserable after doing exactly that during sleeping with oliver.

elio describes feelings of disgust, shame, regret, sorrow, maybe anger even. he wishes to shower (even after swimming in the lake) to wash oliver off him. he even never wants to see him again for a few hours.

it's like he woke up from a nice dream after engaging in the action, only realizing then what he had done and what this might mean for him.

but all that changes when elio suddenly has power over oliver for a moment. when he goes after him later that day, he's able to catch oliver off guard when he tells him "fuck me, elio". he disappears after that, feeling proud of himself for leaving oliver turned on without doing anything about it (similar to what oliver had done to him in the morning with the promise of a blowjob). being able to make the decision to leave but still know that he has an impact on oliver gives elio exactly the power he needs (for a moment), which then is the reason he has enough security in their dynamic to continue sleeping with oliver ("Never in my life had i been so happy"- from this i take that, after the scenario described before, he feels okay again with sexual interactions between him and oliver).

but why is that?

my theory is that elio is, even if only subconsciously, totally aware of their difference in power within their dynamic. he seems to know just how much power oliver potentially has over him in this relationship, reasons being oliver is older, more experienced, farer in life, maybe even smarter (from elio's pov). additionally he seems to realize that a teenager-adult dynamic/relationship shouldn't proceed to a sexual point or one of romantic feelings. there's no way to change that teenager-adult dynamic, even though elio would like to forget about it (still, there's a thrill in sexually engaging with someone older than him).

therefore, elio seems to stand in between his sexual desires for oliver (and later his feelings for him) and his understanding of the fact that nothing should have ever happened between them. we see that elio never decides against oliver, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't know that they shouldn't sleep with each other, even though he actively decides to ignore it.

with keeping all this in mind, i think it is safe to say that "you'll kill me if you stop" is the ultimate key to elio's understanding of their relationship dynamics.

[ao3feed-cmbyn]

A Touch In Perpetuity

by TheseShipsShallSail

There’s a quiet moment of understanding. Gentle as the ocean waves lapping the cliff’s edge below. They might be a secret to the rest of the world, but the pair of them know what they mean to one another, and Oliver’s eyes burn with unsatisfied tears as he slips a still-clothed thigh between Elio’s, pinning him down as the steady push-pull of stimulation drives them ever higher.

Words: 743, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of The Cosmic Fragments

Fandoms: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Elio Perlman, Oliver (Call Me by Your Name)

Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman

Additional Tags: POV Oliver (Call Me By Your Name), Monet's Berm, Idiots in Love, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, pre-Rome, Canon Compliant, Missing Scene, Outdoor Sex, Fade to Black, Fluff and Angst, Period-Typical Homophobia, Internal Conflict, Prequel

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/48367567

[mrchalamet-mrstyles]

People who have issues with Tim’s Beautiful Boy shower kiss are just showing that no one has ever kissed them like that before. IMO it’s what some people (especially guys) do when they just want to devour you, lol. The first kissing scene in CMBYN, at Monet’s Berm, has some very similar open-mouthed moments. Just in slower motion.

💯

[ao3feed-elioxoliver]

A Touch In Perpetuity

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/g3S0iFl

by TheseShipsShallSail

There’s a quiet moment of understanding. Gentle as the ocean waves lapping the cliff’s edge below. They might be a secret to the rest of the world, but the pair of them know what they mean to one another, and Oliver’s eyes burn with unsatisfied tears as he slips a still-clothed thigh between Elio’s, pinning him down as the steady push-pull of stimulation drives them ever higher.

Words: 743, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of The Cosmic Fragments

Fandoms: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Elio Perlman, Oliver (Call Me by Your Name)

Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman

Additional Tags: POV Oliver (Call Me By Your Name), Monet's Berm, Idiots in Love, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, pre-Rome, Canon Compliant, Missing Scene, Outdoor Sex, Fade to Black, Fluff and Angst, Period-Typical Homophobia, Internal Conflict, Prequel

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/7xS6qaV

[vladfromparis-blog]

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Credit :  andiamoamericano IG

[dominik528]

Frick. This movie. https://www.instagram.com/p/BudX-V3FsEH/?igshid=fo5fujwoejag

[themagicforest]

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I took this near the Monet’s Berm where they shoot Call Me By Your Name ❤

[maraskolnikova]

So this is desire

Fear and excitement, a heady mix.

You touch and the earth stops spinning: all is stillness.

And now there is no “You” or “I”. We are one.

Movie stills source: kissontheberm via IG

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

The brush of Oliver’s sun-bleached fringe tickles his midsection, and the livewire tremor that shoots up Elio’s thighs makes his own mouth fall slack; the lump in his tinder-dry throat so pronounced it’s a chore to overcome it. There are so many things he wants to say. Promises and declarations he’s wholly unqualified to voice; especially when all he has to offer is himself. If not later, when, yes, but Oliver’s intense focus sees him oscillating between god and tribute: worshipped and worshipper.

Mounted on the wall in Elio’s summer bedroom is a framed, antique postcard of Monet’s berm. A six by four, run-of-the-mill keepsake that Maynard - his father’s post-grad intern of two years prior - fished out of a Parisian flea market before mailing on a whim. The tranquil scene dates back to 1905 - near as they can tell from the perforated postage stamp - and while the sepia-toned inscription has faded with time, the image on the front remains an accurate depiction of his secret spot. 

The place he used to come to immerse himself in the daring, comic book adventures of Diabolik, or the universal themes of love, loss, and mortality selected from his parents’ library.

The place he’s all but convinced he magicked Oliver to life.

Like sentinels, tall, marine pines surround the hidden copse, their branches providing crucial shelter for the finches and sparrows that flit among the crimson poppies. The sky above is equally divine - azure and cloudless where it skirts the mountain pass - while to the east, a twin-hulled fishing boat trawls the secluded cove; its lone pescatore the sole exception to their blessed illusion of privacy.

In short, it’s exquisite, and as slightly-chapped lips form a decadent seal around the head of his leaking cock, Elio can’t help envisioning this raw, pornographic snapshot in all its Impressionist glory, also. Hung on proud display beside the great man’s Water Lilies, perhaps? A study of light and shadow to rival La Femme à la Robe Verte, herself.

The luckiest kid in the world, Oliver called him once, and indeed, the toe-curling decadence of being taken to the root does something to his crowded ribcage.

Finds him longing to remain in this halcyon afternoon forever. 

The brush of Oliver’s sun-bleached fringe tickles his midsection, and the livewire tremor that shoots up Elio’s thighs makes his own mouth fall slack; the lump in his tinder-dry throat so pronounced it’s a chore to overcome it. There are so many things he wants to say. Promises and declarations he’s wholly unqualified to voice; especially when all he has to offer is himself. If not later, when, yes, but Oliver’s intense focus sees him oscillating between god and tribute: worshipped and worshipper.

Schmaltzy, perhaps, but no less true. This isn’t just lust. Some animal desire for completion. It lingers between them: that unspoken understanding. Soothing the nerves that twist his butterfly stomach. Oliver’s devotion - his care - his everything, really, flows through him like the cresting waves below, so Elio can be forgiven for hoarding his confessions as a dragon would gold: utterly distracted by the coaxing pattern of flicks and half-circles that unravel him entirely. 

For melting into the dual sensations of too-much and not enough. 

For gasping and moaning and honest to God whimpering as the other man plays his body like a magnum opus on the Bösendorfer’s ivory keys.

Oliver’s eyes are closed, he realises. Dark lashes skimming the rosy hue of his cheeks; though be it from exertion or arousal he can’t quite determine. Damp with sweat, blond hair sticks to his temple as he bobs his head methodically, and when Elio cranks up on his elbows to get a better angle, the slow-burn in his abdomen has his knuckles blanching white; an unequivocal harbinger of his barrelling orgasm.

As if on cue, the familiar warmth of Oliver’s palm cradles his drawn-tight scrotum; the pad of a questing finger sliding further to his saliva-slick rim. Elio shivers - biting his star of David when it nudges inside - and with a muffled cry he digs his heels into the grassy bank; electrified limbs seeking purchase when Oliver doubles his expert machinations. Darting his tongue out to trace the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. Gathering the pearls of excitement as he drives him exorbitantly to the edge.

Taking him apart like he was born for it.

Like they were born for each other.

“Sono vicino," Elio warns, spine arching as that cornflower gaze leaves him feeling seen - recognised - like never before.

His hips buck amidst the swirling strokes: a steady pressure applied perfectly.  Lungs heaving, he writhes beneath Oliver’s munificence. Or maybe Oliver writhes with him? Either way, it’s instinctive - a blatant challenge - and Elio comes like it’s being torn out of him. Staring blindly. Garbling out a collection of sounds barely ascribable to any specific language, then begging under his feverish breaths that you’ll kill me if you stop. 

Unsurprisingly - yet most deservedly - Oliver’s smirking when he floats back down to earth: Elio can feel it in the graze of teeth against his thigh.

Knows he’s smirking, too, even as he sucks in deep gulps of air; replaying the moment on repeat like a scratched vinyl record. 

“Your turn,” he chokes out hoarsely when his heart regains a healthy rhythm, and Oliver’s giddy laughter is lost to a groan when Elio kisses a thousand sonnets over the flushed bronze skin of his torso; green bathing suit tossed who-knows-where as he stokes the embers of need into a towering inferno: white-hot and consuming. 

[radiatingsuburbanangst]

“I love this, Oliver.” “What?” “Everything.”

[in-everyheartbeat]

“This,” I said by way of a preface meant to keep his interest alive, “is the spot where Monet came to paint.”

Tiny, stunted palm trees and gnarled olive trees studded the copse. Then through the trees, on an incline leading towards the very edge of the cliff, was a knoll partly shaded by tall marine pines. I leaned my bike against one of the trees, he did the same, and I showed him the way up to the berm. “Now take a look,” I said, extremely pleased, as if revealing something more eloquent than anything I might say in my favor.

A soundless, quiet cove stood straight below us. Not a sign of civilization anywhere, no home, no jetty, no fishing boats. Farther out, as always, was the belfry of San Giacomo, and, if you strained your eyes, the outline of N., and farther still was something that looked like our house and the adjoining villas [...]

“This is my spot. All mine. I come here to read. I can’t tell you the number of books I’ve read here.”

-Call Me By Your Name, André Aciman

[steady-little-soldier]

“Zwischen Immer und Nie. Zwischen Immer und Nie. Between always and never.”