Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13543329.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Call_Me_By_Your_Name_(2017), Call_Me_by_Your_Name_-_André_Aciman, Call_Me
      By_Your_Name_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Oliver/Elio_Perlman
  Character:
      Oliver, Elio_Perlman
  Additional Tags:
      Missing_Scene
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-01 Words: 1587
****** Vesuvius and Pompeii ******
by JWAB
Summary
     Years go by and Oliver still remembers *everything*. Including one
     particular night.
Notes
     Told from Oliver's POV, after their first night together so they're
     giddily turning themselves and each other on by calling each other by
     their own names. Which makes for potential confusion so, uh, good
     luck.
     In my defense, that tantalizing passage about how Elio got so
     nurturing and protective of Oliver the morning after Oliver had let
     Elio be his top? It just wouldn't let me go.
See the end of the work for more notes
I can still remember all of it.
===============================================================================
 
“Fuck me, Oliver.” It was so quiet in our room, I only had to breathe the
words. My stomach turned a flip. My own name – is that what did it? Was it
asking – demanding – and knowing Elio would do anything I wanted?
Elio’s right hand stilled between us, his left hand frozen into a claw at my
temple. “Elio, Elio, Elio, you’ll let me?” Elio glowed in the pale moonlight –
he was the moonlight, the only source of light in our midnight room.
Let him? I needed him to. I’d burst, I’d turn to stone, I’d be Vesuvius and
Pompeii in one if he didn’t. Elio’s expression was thick, overcome. I could
only nod.
Elio combed my hair back with his fingernails. “Are you sure?”
It was painfully gentle, his tenderness. Paternal. It’s what bloomed from
unconditional, intimate love, the kind the professor had in such abundance he
couldn’t help but share it with everyone, not just his strange, perfect son,
but me. It was unspeakably precious.
Elio searched my face and it was a cloud passing across the moon. I was scared;
I tried not to let it rise to my eyes. But how many cultures placed shame only
on the shoulders of the one who takes a cock? The Greeks and Romans – hell,
most of New England if you asked -- saw Elio as the only shamed one in our bed.
So far. But his lips, open against mine, and his long fingers wrapped, still
frozen, around my cock, his skin hot against my skin, they weren’t enough. I
needed him to split me in half.
“Are you nervous?” I whispered, attempting to taunt him into action, but all I
could hear was my need, a high whine in my ears.
Elio rested his forehead against my nose. “Aren’t you?” He mouthed at my jaw,
his tongue strong and slow, and traced under the bone to my neck.  
“I trust you.” Everything I said to him exposed me more. I stripped skin after
skin after skin for him.
He slumped against my shoulder. “You trust me,” he repeated. He rolled his head
against my collarbone, curled, looked at me in the dark. First my chest –
beside him I felt conspicuously, pornographically hairy. Then he looked at my
mouth, swooning toward it. “I could hurt you.”
I hurt him, the first time. I tried not to, I didn’t want to. But he couldn’t
hide it, he was so open to me. That mix of pain and desire, hunger: I wanted
that. “Don’t hold back,” I said, out of breath just saying it. My stomach
turned again. “I want it.” It came out a sigh. “You. Oliver.”
“Elio,” he groaned, his mouth on mine. He pulled a stroke up my cock, then
another, messily as he twisted to get his knees under him and face me. I leaned
back against the pillows and he followed. I loved to have him over me.
“Make that sound again,” he begged.
“What sound?”
He swiped his thumb over the tip of my cock. I felt it everywhere.
“That one.”
He kissed me again and I held him there, my restless one. “Make me.”
He practically bit me, growled, “fuck.”
Sorry, Perlmans. I tried to be quiet. But Elio smeared himself over me, biting
and mouthing at my lips, my face, my neck and it was perfect. He sucked at my
collarbone and he licked into my armpit and suckled my nipples until I was
inches from weeping. He let go of my cock and I didn’t even notice because he
was eating me alive, all hungry mouth and teeth over my ribs and my belly. I
held him lightly, let my hands settle on the angles of his shoulders and
watched his pale, moonlight face get lost in me.
He unlocked himself for me, gave me everything inside him, and all I wanted was
to do the same for him. That’s all I wanted and I don’t know that I ever did,
not the way he did. Give me one more day, one more night in that room and I
will give my whole self to you, Elio.
I remember, he buried his nose in my pubic hair and took a deep sniff until he
collapsed on my thigh.
“Alexander,” I murmured. “Ruled by my thighs.”
He pushed my legs apart a little, nosed and kissed into the hollow of my inner
thigh. “So you’re my Hephaestion?” he asked between kisses.
I hummed my assent, “you bet I am,” as I let my fingers play into his curls,
lightly, careful not to stop him.
He shook his head a little, tracing small eternities into my skin with his
nose. And then he snuck a peek at my face, murmured, “Hephaestion,” and quirked
a grin as he wound his long fingers around me again.
How did something so dangerous feel so safe?
He breathed on my cock, his loose, open lips dragging up to the head, and then
he knelt again and took me onto his tongue. He paused at the tip, sucked at it,
and then took it all, all of me, gagging some but undeterred. He swallowed
around me, sucked gently, sucked harder, up and down and it was all I could do
not to fuck his mouth and come right there.
“Not yet, not yet,” I protested. He stilled; his mouth hung open, his lips
swollen and dark and hungry. I throbbed for him. “I could, so easily, but I
want –“
“Me too,” he said and bent to suck a fervent kiss into my thigh again.
“I know,” I whispered, remembering the peach.
And then he was sliding his palms gently along the insides of my thighs, both
of them, slowly wider, exposing me, sliding all the way to my knees. I’d never
felt anything like it, like I was fucking the air, like he was peeling me open.
“I want to crawl inside you,” he groaned, and pushed my knees up.
I must have made that sound again, the one he liked.
He lowered his face again to me. He left an open-mouthed kiss in the crease of
my hip. He traced a curving line, like a folk song, lower. And then, with his
hands splayed open under my thighs, I felt his mouth on me. On me, on my hole,
where I was braced for discomfort at best. His hot mouth, his soft lips and
then his tongue, flat and wide, slow and gentle.
Like everything with us, he sought intimacy with a voracious hunger. Like
everything with us, I gave in.
The threshold between outside and inside was so thin. So thin I didn’t realize
he had crossed it until his tongue was probing deep. He kissed my hole like a
mouth and it was so beautiful, so heartbreakingly soft and good.
“I like you like this,” he told me between kisses.
“What,” I whispered, struggling to form words, “desperate?”
He looked me in the eye, lips plush, cheeks flushed. “No. Mine.”
I sighed my own name more than once.
I wanted to get my hands on him, but he slicked his cock with vaseline before I
could volunteer. And who was I kidding? Splayed out on the bed as I was, half
hard and dizzy with pleasure, I couldn’t have moved, let alone helped. He knelt
between my thighs, his palms, his long fingers catching them, holding them up
and apart, and he took a deep breath. Like I did, our first night. I saw him
above me as he might have seen me then, kneeling before him like he was an
offering and I a benevolent demigod, too big and beautiful for mortality. And I
could see him then just as clearly as I could see myself now, appearing to him
just as he appeared to me our first time: fragile, trusting, heartbreakingly
lovely. I was both of us; he was both of us. I closed my eyes and saw him like
a statue, curls sweat-streaked to his forehead, mouth open, cock slick at the
tip.
“Look at me,” he breathed above me. “Please, please open your eyes.”
I did. He looked serious. Worried.
“I can’t do this without you. Look at me, keep looking at me.”
So I did. I never let myself close them or look away, not when he guided
himself inside me, not when he shifted his weight and I felt myself stretch
wide. I let him see every sensation express itself in my face, pleasure and
pain. I watched him begin in control, watched him try hard to fuck me well.
“Is it good?” he asked me, holding back.
“It’s unbelievably good. I want more. I want everything.”
I watched the thought – everything – catch hold of him. His thrusting grew
faster, messier, less careful. The stinging stretch faded, replaced by the deep
pleasure of sharing my body with him, of feeling him move inside of me. Of
feeling him lose the ability to stop.
Of watching him love it.
“Elio,” he breathed, like a plea, and then again, “Elio --”
He thrust himself forward when he came, groaning as I wrapped my legs around
his back and held him against me. I was more sensitive than I knew I could be,
greedy for every pulse.
Gradually, his head on my chest, his strength yielded to softness. Our breath
was the same. We lay like that, quiet, together, and time stopped for a while.
End Notes
     I'm both conflicted and not about the split in their ages. That the
     pushing generally comes from Elio helps, a little. Fundamentally
     though, I can't hide from how I loved this book and this film, and
     rather than fight it I have, like Oliver, given in. Frankly, I would
     love to imagine a future that begins with memories which drive Oliver
     toward action -- years down the line, when both are single, because
     that's how I roll.
     If you want to come chat with me about it, I'm JWAB on tumblr, too.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!