#but Damen's pining in book three tho -

[goldencuffs]

ok idk if this has been done before but hear me out. call me by your name au with elio!laurent and hot older oliver!damen 🤤 (happy ending tho bc i’m not a masochist) all this talk of older damen being hot as all hell got me THINKING

!!!!!!!! idek if this is ask is meant for me but as someone who genuinely loves the movie (not so much the book lol) i can get on board with this!!

also......on a completely different note....i actually have a wip that is heavily inspired by call me by your name. it takes place in summer, features postgrad damen who is helping out professor aleron, and laurent who is very smitten with damen and his muscles. here is a snippet from it (aka the only part that is semi edited):

It isn’t until Rochert tells everyone on the football team that Laurent is a desperate, whorish, cock-hungry slut that Damianos finally begins paying attention to him.

Damianos, or Damen, as he insists on being called, is Papa’s latest research assistant. Every year, Papa promises a sedulous student of his free residence in their guest house for an entire year, while cultivating said student’s brilliance. It’s part of Papa’s grand plan to create as many philosophers in a “philosophically unchallenged era”. Usually, the students have to dedicate a certain number of hours a week to help Papa research new material for his classes, grade papers, and translate niche, long poems no one besides patrons in Introduction to Classics reads. Damen himself is an enigma; he’s at the very least 6’ 5��, quite possibly taller, especially when he wears boots, bronzed, dimpled, and he spends nearly all his free time at the gym, on the field, or in the kitchen with Mama, sampling a bizarre new creation of hers.

He has also been the object of Laurent’s fascination and sexual dreams for the last three months. In fact, upon meeting Damen for the first time, Laurent’s first thought had been, I want him on top of me. Since then, his initial inner monologues haven’t deviated much. The only problem is this: despite Laurent’s continuous efforts to get Damen to grunt more than one syllable in his direction, Damen doesn’t seem to ever notice him. Even when Laurent lingers around the guest house doorway wearing his limited-edition Givenchy jacket and jeans that are a size too small, all Damen ever does is give him a polite, mostly uninterested nod.

At the end of the third month of pining with little reciprocation, Laurent decides that pursuing Damen is an unworthy, impossible task. His mind is mostly made up, until one Tuesday afternoon, as Laurent is leaving for his Philology class, Auguste and Damen come barrelling in through the kitchen doors, instead of through the patio doors.

The patio doors offer a direct path to the guest house; after a particularly vigorous training session, Auguste and Damen directly head through there to get high and drink. Auguste can’t do that anywhere besides the guest house; he had insisted on living on campus, with his other football teammates, even though their house is down the road from university, and at most, a five-minute walk.

Laurent is too distracted by the tightness of Damen’s shirt around his biceps to actually notice Auguste, until his brother pushes him to the side in order to get to the freezer.

“Oh my god!” Laurent gasps. Auguste is bleeding heavily. There’s red smeared all over his nose, dripping into his lips as he tries to stop the flow. Wrapping a paper towel around some ice cubes, Auguste tilts his head down. Damen hovers over him, saying something that is too quiet for Laurent to pick up on.

Laurent breathes in sharply through his nose; the dizziness he feels is sudden. He sits down at the dining table, a hand pressed to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut.

“You alright?” Damen calls out from the other side of the kitchen. He’s handing Auguste more ice. Laurent can’t even celebrate the fact that Damen is addressing him because he thinks he might pass out.

“Mmm hmm,” he says, or at least tries to.

“He’s scared of blood,” Auguste says. His voice is muffled around the paper towel.

A moment later, there’s a glass of water being placed down near his elbow. Laurent looks up at Damen, who isn’t quite smiling. He says, “Drink up. It might make you feel better.”

By the time Laurent has finished drinking his water, with shaking hands and a dry mouth, Auguste seems to be in better shape. There’s no more blood all over his face, just a streak of mud on his temple and sweat in his hairline.

“What happened to you?” Laurent asks. “Thanks,” he adds belatedly to Damen, who only nods, already back to his usual stoicism around Laurent.

He’s surprised by the anger twisted in Auguste’s features; Auguste is rarely antagonistic. “Do you know what that motherfucker Rochert has been saying about you?” Auguste’s voice is a brittle, biting sound.

Laurent almost says who? It takes him more than a few seconds for the name to register in his mind. When it does, he blushes, hard. “Um.”

He has a concrete idea of what Rochert could have said to piss Auguste off to this degree. The changing rooms aren’t soundproof, and yesterday, when Laurent had dropped off some papers to Damen as a favour to his father, he had heard Rochert’s booming voice telling Jord and Orlant that Laurent was a slut, always ready for cock.

Damen had stepped out of the changing rooms the moment Rochert had said, “He’s a straight up whore. Seriously. My cock was on fire and he still wasn’t satiated.”

His voice had carried into the space between them. It was as though Rochert was standing next to them; his voice was clear and unbroken.

Damen’s eyebrows had risen. Laurent, face hot, fumbled with the papers. “Here.” He shoved them into Damen’s hand.

Damen, wearing his letterman jacket and smelling like a generic soap brand, took them. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to say something. Then he smirked, and his eyes travelled over Laurent’s body in a leisurely place. It was the kind of once over someone promising a good fuck would do. Laurent had felt like his whole body was on fire, and not just his face.

Damen said, “Thanks,” smirk still firmly locked in place, before he turned around, heading towards the coffee shop.

On his walk to the other side of campus, Laurent had managed to convince himself that he had just been imagining the look. Damen had been staying with them for three months now, and in that span of time, the only thing he had said to Laurent that was longer than two syllables was, Does your dad stock any Patran dictionaries? It wasn’t conceivable that Damen now would suddenly look at him like he was a five-course meal.

Now, however, Laurent swears Damen is giving him the same kind of look, even if his mouth is set tight.

Still, there are more pressing matters right now. Taking in Auguste’s rumpled jersey and his glittering eyes, Laurent makes his conclusion. “Did you hit him?”

“Did I –” Auguste breaks off with a slow, incredulous shake of his head. “Yeah, I hit him! That little shit was saying the most disgusting things about you.”

Laurent recalls the conversation from yesterday. “I mean, it’s not – he isn’t that bad.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Auguste is getting more incensed. He’s practically vibrating with anger, hopping from one foot to the other. “Look Laurent,” he begins, and Laurent mentally groans; Auguste has gone into his lecturing mode. “It doesn’t matter who you sleep with or what your tendencies are in the bedroom, you never let someone talk about you like that. Alright? Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” Laurent says dutifully.

“I can’t believe the nerve of that guy,” Auguste says. “Apparently he’s been spouting this bullshit for a while now; he just waits until I’ve left practice. It’s lucky I forgot my wallet in my locker today.”

Laurent hums. Truthfully, he doesn’t care what Rochert – or the other football guys – say about him. Aside from a comment here or there, they don’t ever talk to him anyway.

Regardless, he’s touched by Auguste’s protectiveness.

“Thanks,” he says. “For protecting my honour and all that.”

Auguste throws him a fond, exasperated look. “Don’t thank me. Just… you know.”

“Yes,” says Laurent.

Damen says, “You going to class?” even though he knows Laurent has classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“Yes,” says Laurent. “Philology.”

“I took that in first year too. If you need any help, let me know.”

“...Thanks,” says Laurent.