Sinope's Fiction: Honey and Clay

Title: Honey and Clay
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: R
Pairing: Eeyore/Pooh
Summary: Lonely Eeyore thinks about Pooh's gift. Very tongue-in-cheek.
Author's notes: Originally an April Fool's Day joke.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

By night, the Thousand Acre Woods dissolved into shadows and memories of sounds; the distant fluttering of bat-wings echoed through leaves rustled by hollow wind. Under one tree - an old willow, its trailing limbs forming a veil against the night - Eeyore slept alone, nestled against a cold earthen honeypot.

Birthdays had always amplified the constant struggle within Eeyore, torn as he was between knowing that the day would be perpetually forgotten - as he too would be, ultimately - and resorting to begging for pity. He had dreaded the familiar look in Pooh's eyes, the condescendingly sad superiority of someone who would never be alone on his birthday. He had dreaded it, yes: but once again, despite himself, he had begged for that pity, if only to lie to himself that Pooh truly cared.

In the distance, a night-bird cawed. The honeypot felt damp against Eeyore's skin, scents of thick clay an undercurrent beneath the remaining smudges of sweet honey and dusty-rubber balloon. Pooh, he thought, had not realized the irony of his gift's symbolism, but then again, that was how Pooh lived: lick up life's sweetness, and discard the rest, whether dismal grey honeypots or dismal grey friends.

But Eeyore: Eeyore could snuffle his nose into the honeypot, filling his senses with honey's perfume, and dream. He closed his eyes against the shadowy woods, curled himself more tightly against the honeypot, and dreamt of Pooh: his dark eyes, bright with innocent excitement; his voice that resonated with joy as he sang; his ample, curved chest, barely covered by his tantalizingly tight red shirt; his soft, irresistibly touchable fur. Eeyore still remembered the brief moments he'd felt those warm, silky paws pressing his tail against his skin as Christopher Robin fastened it in place; for that one short time, he had felt like he could lean back into Pooh's touch, so strong and hopeful and giving, and truly feel peace once more.

Without knowing when he'd started, Eeyore found himself stroking the honeypot against his sensitive underbelly, savouring its cool touch in the absence of the real warmth of another. The pottery's glaze slid easily over his fur, hampered only by the occasional tug of sticky honey catching on himself, and Eeyore soon slipped into a steady rhythm, rubbing the honeypot harder and harder as his hands drew it lower down his stomach. Each swift burst of sensation as the honey pulled at his fur only added to Eeyore's overpowering need. As the honeypot jerked faster, his breath came in heavy huffs, and images of Pooh, peeling up the fabric of his red t-shirt to slide bare-chested under Eeyore's belly, filled his mind.

At last the swimming sensations climaxed in one final burst of desperate release, and something hot, sour, and un-honeylike spattered over the pot. As he sank back down onto the forest floor, already feeling the waves of self-loathing return with greater force, Eeyore thought dismally that he would never be able to show Pooh his birthday gift again. Even the memory of the honey's scent had been overwhelmed by his own filthy odor, and the night only felt all the more empty. Hating himself even as he reached for the slimy honeypot, Eeyore pressed it close against his stomach once more, preparing for another night alone.

finis.