that’s right. i’m going to run my fingers through your hair all the way down to the nape of your neck. all. night. long. you’ll be on top of me and i’ll time my strokes with yours.
This is getting embarrassing.
JP: Oh god, in my mind, Edler and I have sex every morning on the rocky shores of the Baltic Sea. Like, it’s almost getting to the point that I might have to stop watching games because I feel ashamed.
DB: You lay cocooned in wool blankets and animal pelts, clothing wantonly strewn about the beach. Steam rises and hangs heavily in the air on the now peaceful shoreline. The stillness is interrupted only by the lapping water and an unseen animal rustling the underbrush. Elder’s eyes are cold and unrevealing; he is staring at you or through you - you’re not sure. He stands and stretches - his frame long, muscles sinewy. Beads of perspiration have gathered across his clean broad chest and seem to gleam as they catch the morning light. He looks back at you, eyes now wild, animalistic perhaps. Without words he dares you to join him- his body taught, he turns and in one smooth motion plunges forward into the freezing water.
fuck OFF you did not just show me guillame canet in dirty equestrian boots, crouching down to buckle his kid into a stroller. come on. french people are not real. this man is too beautiful to be real.
they are both so perfectly gallic i can’t stand it. if i were to try to picture them having sex, i think i would fry my brain from imagining such perfection. so instead i just picture them drinking good french red, eating dark chocolate, and not getting fat from it. ugh.
i am among the quickest to be disgusted by such overt displays of wealth and privilege. also, any sport that involves riding an animal. BUT LOOK AT HOT HARRY’S LEGS. jesus christ, can you imagine the stamina in those thighs? and his forearms? that is a body made for fucking up against a wall. imagine he was on military duty and had a two day leave. he is the guy who would take the brash girl from the colonies, who he met in the hotel bar, up to his room, bottle of champagne in hand and half undressed on the elevator ride up. they would fuck up against the door, on the balcony, in the shower, which of course is in a claw foot tub, which they comically fall out of, bringing the shower curtain down with them. unfazed, they keep at it on the floor. they get an hour sleep before he has to go back to base. before he leaves, and while she’s still asleep, he orders another bottle of champagne to leave for her breakfast.
basically, i see this tom hardy scene from band of brothers in my head. minus the terribly depressing plot. and a prince, instead of tom hardy.
Haha, what?! Fuck. Never having kids. It will never look as good as this.
i mean, i obviously don’t want to sound like a crazy person, but, there’s a hint of paul newman there, right?
this. just this.
i just had to awkward laugh to myself at my desk in an attempt to ignore all the sexy times happening in this picture.
i’m not going to lie. he can look fairly unattractive sometimes. and he’s australian, which, you know, can be a bit of a boner killer. but he also looks like he can be kind of off the rails crazy. so the way i see it…
he’s been in the outback for the past 3 days droving sheep (which isn’t a sexy profession, but just go with). you’re soaking in the old cast iron tub that’s set up on the veranda and you see him walking down the drive, through the searing heat and red dust. you don’t get up as he makes his way up the steps, arriving at the edge of the basin, staring at you, hungry and a little bit mean, silently pleading with you to get up and drape your wet body over his. you just stare back. so he reaches down, pulls you out, and you smell the three days of sweat, dirt, and longing on his skin.
five hours later you’re a wet mess of tangled limbs, lazily replenishing with cold beer as the sun flickers off. and then it’s time to do it all again.
motherfuck. i cannot with this. he looks like an action figure i would keep on my bedstand to reassure me when i wake up from nightmares.
worn hands and a creased face look fucking unbelievable next to an exquisite suit. it doesn’t hurt that i would make you talk to me like mr. bond all night. we’d be in a harsh, dry locale; you’d get me drunk off of martinis and then we would go lie on a rug somewhere.
remember the first time you ever made out with a boy? like proper made out on a couch in a dark basement, watching some silly avant-garde horror film, silently waiting for your knee to accidentally brush against his and when it finally did it was go time? you get tangled in an old, soft blanket that his grandma probably fucking knit for him when he was 8, listening to the footsteps overhead, willing them not to travel down the stairs, and then you get your hands in his hair AND IT’S SO FUCKING SOFT. like you can’t understand how it’s so soft. your hair isn’t that soft. your lips almost stop working as you’re trying to figure it out. that is what mr. redmayne’s suit feels like. downy soft teenage boy hair, though it probably smells less like pert plus and more like cloves and leather.
but you know he totally just popped an altoid, so turn on suspiria and go to town on that guy pearce like mouth of his.