7 Works by chalamet
Listing Works
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It’s William whose hatred for Homelander burns with an intensity to rival that of the sun, William who would tear the stars out of the sky and have them rain fire down upon the earth if it meant Homelander was caught amongst it all. The obsession that possesses him absolutely, the unbridled madness that vibrates with every atom in his body, it’s stronger than anything that anyone has ever felt for Homelander—no amount of adoration or sorrow or anger or fear from another could match up. And to occupy someone’s being so thoroughly, for William’s world to revolve around Homelander, it’s… intoxicating. Thrilling. Cat and mouse, and Homelander doesn’t know which one of them is which, but he loves the chase no matter who’s doing it. He just hates the fucking obstacles in their way.
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John feels as if he’s being cut right open, every part of him exposed to Jesse, inside and out. Every organ and bone is open for taking, and Jesse plunges his hand right through the his chest and wraps his determined fingers around John’s slippery heart. It’s perfect, absolutely perfect, and John could cry.
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Instead of stealing Francis’ truck and making a getaway, he gives himself up to Francis in the woods.
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Tom wanted nothing more than to lean in, lay his head on Peter’s shoulder, and trace the curves of Peter’s collarbones as one might trace the indents on a sculpture chiseled by somebody great.
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Death on Two Legs (You're Tearing Me Apart) by chalamet
Fandoms: Talented Mr Ripley (1999)
28 May 2017
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He kept thinking about how Peter loved him, and about how confused and utterly crushed Peter would feel once Tom was strangling him relentlessly with the belt of the robe. It nearly broke whatever mutation of a heart that Tom had left. Tom Ripley was death on two legs, and it had become time for him to experience the most horrible and most deserving punishment for it.
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"I've missed you." He whispered, shuffling a bit closer to the warm body beside him, deliberately intertwining their long legs together. John made a short, soft humming sound, clearly content. "I was only sleepin'." He commented, his sleep-ridden voice slightly raspy. Paul shook his head as best as he could while it rested on the pillow. "Doesn't matter. I always miss you."
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No synonym for attractive or gorgeous or stunning could ever compare to how much I adore how he looks, how he speaks, how he is. I love him—inside and out, I love him.
"I love you."
It only occurs to me that we've never said those words to each other after I've blurted them out.