Oh, The Places You'll Go


Notes: WARNING: This isn't set anywhere particularly canonically, therefore the boys may be underage.

Written for Porn Battle X. Prompt: rain.

"Seth, get over here."

"You get over here." There is a monsoon happening outside. Seth Cohen is not built for monsoons and he can't remember where his dad's golf umbrella is. Probably with his dad, who's got some sort of chivalrous deal going with his mom that Seth doesn't want to examine too closely, thank you very much.

"Lock on the door, remember? It's just a little rain. It won't hurt you. C'mon."

"If it's just a little rain you could come over here. They're going to be gone hours. Hours, Ryan! We could do it over the kitchen counter and it wouldn't matter. Except for general hygiene purposes, but I'm pretty sure I know where mom keeps the bleach. Well, that you do."

"Yes, because no one ever walks in to this house unexpectedly. Do you even live here?"

Seth concedes this point with a forlorn drag of his hand down the glass door. He winces. Forlorn should not squeal like a pig running from a bacon fetishist.

"Ryyyyyyyan," he whines. "I have needs. Come see to them."

"Have you seen the rain? See to your own needs."

"Ha!" says Seth, triumphant. "See? Even the great Ryan Atwood does not like to commune with Californian monsoon season. In the epic battle between Man and Nature, you and I, my friend, we are as mice. Teeny little brown ones that steal all the peanut butter."

Ryan's face, distorted by the rivulets of water running down the pane, breaks into a warm smile, and Seth could swear he hears it through the phone. He shivers. Ryan's got this way of making him feel weak at the knees without even trying. Seth's actually surprised that his parents haven't booked him in with the pediatrician for tests for rickets or some other leg-based wasting disorder because seriously? He doesn't think he's walked normally for more than five minutes straight since Ryan came to live with them.

"Hey," he says, fingertips pressing lightly into the glass, "Wish you were here."

Ryan mirrors his gesture. "Rain will tear us apart," he says.

"Wait! You're appropriating Joy Division now? Be still my heart," says Seth, wondering if this kind of thing should really be enough to make him want to rip Ryan's clothes off and do things to him both gnarly and un. "Screw this," he says, and takes a second to be impressed with his decisiveness before continuing. "We're totally having the sex."

"You're coming over?"


"I'm confused."

"That is your natural state, Ryan, you should feel at home there. Now unzip your pants."


"Don't argue with me, Atwood, I'm on a mission. I reject out of hand any assertions you may have as to false modesty, I've seen you close up and extremely naked, so get to it. Unzip your pants."

"Button fly," says Ryan, with an edge to his voice that Seth might once have read as smug, but now knows is smoke and mirrors deflection.

So Ryan's a little nervous, okay. Seth can be a supportive boyfriend. Or whatever it is they're calling themselves this week. They're between female-inspired traumas and 'boyfriends' might be technically correct, but it's an area open to debate. Or brooding. He tucks the phone under his chin, unbuckles his belt, flicks open the button on his pants and tugs the zip halfway down. Any further and his willowy-but-manly-in-its-own-fashion figure would lose all hope of keeping his pants up and he's trying to seduce Ryan, not make him die of a stroke brought on by all the laughing. His hardening dick uncoils, tenting his boxers, and Seth could almost swear it sighs with relief at being released.

"Your turn," he says.

Ryan stares at him for a long second and Seth can hear his breathing change up into a higher gear. With one hand--because, of course, Ryan is superior in this as in many slinky, sexy, body things--he pops open the buttons on his fly one by one, slow and steady, settling into a slightly wider stance.

"Now what?" asks Ryan, and Seth has to take a moment because Ryan's breathing heavy in his ear and he can see the thick outline of Ryan's dick under his boxers, framed by the collapsed-V of his pants. There is nothing about Ryan that is not hot, and Seth is willing to bet that he could even pull off the pants-around-ankles look without breaking a sweat. It's unfair, but it totally works to Seth's advantage because he's the one that gets to look all he wants.

Seth slides his hand into his boxers, stroking one finger up the long vein along the underside of his dick. He shudders. He maneuvers his hardon out of the slit, holding it in a loose fist. God, they're really going to do this. This is probably the most minty thing he's ever done (and he's done a lot), or the most un-Coheny, and Seth isn't sure those two propositions can even exist in the same universe.

"Take it out," he says. "Your dick. Take it out. Of your shorts. I want to see you touch yourself, Ryan. I want you to imagine it's my hand on you. My fingers wrapping around you, holding you, stroking you."

"Fuck, Seth," says Ryan, voice cracking as he does exactly what he's told, and Seth has never been so glad of his mouth's ability to keep spilling out words without needing to connect to any higher order thought processes.

The rain blurs everything and bends it out of focus so that Seth can only see impressions and shapes of Ryan's hand gripping his dark-headed dick. It's sexier somehow, the details washed away, and Seth tightens his fingers around his own dick, hot and heavy and desperate for attention. He strokes upwards and its like every last nerve ending in his body screams "Hello!" simultaneously and Seth bites down hard to stop from potentially destroying both the moment and Ryan's hearing.

Across the yard, Ryan is already setting up a rhythm, his eyes flicking between Seth's face and dick. Even with the blurred edges it makes Seth feel raw, exposed. He wriggles his shoulders.

"Stop," he commands. Ryan stops. That's pretty cool. Seth would like to take a moment to enjoy the rare sensation of power, but his dick is insistent there is to be no distraction from the task in hand. Hands.

"Lick your hand," he says. "Lick your hand, suck your thumb and put it back on you. That's my tongue on you, my mouth around you. Can you feel it? That you're inside me?"

There's a noise on the phone. Maybe static. Maybe Ryan's lost the power of speech. Seth can't be sure because it's not like Ryan had much speech to start with. He mirrors Ryan's actions with his own, the sucking pop as he pulls his thumb out of his mouth making his skin buzz as he imagines Ryan's dick into its place.

He wraps his wet hand back around his dick, cresting his thumb over the head and--oh Moses and Jesus--that feels so good.

"Oh, yeah," he breathes. "Yeah. More." He shoves his hips forward because stroking is good, but the need to thrust is undeniable. "Match me," he says. "Do it, Ryan. Fuck my mouth. Pump into me. I can take it. I know how much you want to, I've seen the way you look at me when I'm sucking you. I know you want me to take it. C'mon. Give it to me." Seth has no idea where all this is coming from and he's almost scared at the ease with which it's coming out, but now is not the time to be freaked because Ryan is gasping out a strangled, "Can't," and Seth watches the phone slide from his grip and tumble to the floor.

He has a momentary sting of intense fear that he's gone too far, but Ryan leans forward, forehead and hand pressed to the glass and fucks his fist, hips snapping in steady rhythm. Seth watches, turned on beyond what he'd thought was humanly possible. There's a drumming sound getting louder and louder as Seth matches Ryan stroke for stroke, and he can't tell if it's the rain against the house or if it's his own heartbeat in his ears.

Ryan can't hear Seth any more, but it doesn't stop Seth babbling, saying all the things he's never said in any of their previous sexual encounters. Things that he's been too Seth Cohen to think about being able to pull off, things he's been scared to say, things he can't take back.

"C'mon, baby, do this for me. Fuck me harder. You can have what you want. You could always have what you want. Always. There's no one like you. You are. So hot, right now. Look at you. You're beautiful. I think I'm ready. I am. Oh, god. I'm ready for you. To." Seth sucks in a big breath, curling his toes hard as he jacks himself. He's close--really close--but it's not time, not until he-

He stares at Ryan, white streak of pressure across his forehead, eyes still fixed on Seth, lips moving as he says something Seth wishes so hard he could hear. Seth counts the pressure points of Ryan's hand on the glass, trying to distract himself from the building sensation that's rippling through him, tightening his ball sac, but he keeps losing count as Ryan moves forward and back.

"I'm ready," he says again, breath coming in short and shallow. "Not for. For this. Which, yes, I totally am. It's good I don't. Have a weak heart or something. Seriously. But. I'm ready for you. To fuck me. I want it. I want to know how it feels. You inside me. I think I. I kind of love you, Ryan and I want. Yeah. Oh!" It hits then, and he can't keep it back, his whole body pulsing with pleasure. He doesn't have the presence of mind to step back and stripes the door with white streaks, which, yeah, he's going to need to get on that, and fast. It's just that at this particular time, his legs have decided to not work again, so it could be tricky. Seth goes to his knees like he was born to it, still cradling himself.

Ryan is watching him, jaw slack, and Seth doesn't need to be there to know he's panting hard. Then Ryan sinks down, too, cupping his other hand over his dick. Seth sees his whole body jerk four times, and trust Ryan to come like he's being punched. It's so hot Seth almost regrets coming already and stores the image away for future fantasy use.

Seth waves the phone half-heartedly at Ryan. He wants to talk to Ryan, but he's not sure he wants to talk to Ryan. Still, he started this, so he should finish it, right? That's what Cohens do. Mostly.

Ryan holds up a finger in the universal sign of dude-I-should-not-pick-up-a-phone-with-a-handful-of-jizz (okay, possibly not entirely universal) and disappears into the poolhouse bathroom. Seth takes the opportunity to fix himself up and sits cross-legged, watching the raindrops smash off the stone in hundreds and thousands of mini-explosions and resolutely ignoring the results of his own. Ryan comes back and chases around the floor, presumably looking for missing bits of phone. Eventually he waves it back at Seth.

After some pretty inept attempts at coordination, they're connected again.



"That was."


It's not the greatest conversational opener ever, but then Seth has never done the long-distance (short distance, whatever) sex thing before and he's unsure of the etiquette.

"So you wanna come over and help me clean up?" he says.



"Your mess, your responsibility. Also, it's still raining," says Ryan, and he's not cracking a smile, but Seth knows he's smiling deep down. Where it counts.

"You're smiling deep down. Where it counts. Right?"

"There are cloths and cleaning products under the sink. Wear rubber gloves."

"I think I'm allergic to rubber. I have very delicate skin."

"Really? Huh, that's a shame."

"It is? Does that mean you'll come and clean- Oh." And Seth is down with impressions and shapes and all of that, but he would kill to see the exact expression on Ryan's face, right now.

"You should come by the poolhouse later," says Ryan. "You know, if it ever stops raining. We could do an allergy test. I think I have everything we need."

"Oh," says Seth again. So Ryan is magic or psychic or has the place bugged or is, like, a world-class lip reader, or any combination of the above. That's okay, it means he doesn't have to ask, which is just fine by him.

He rests his hand against the glass and Ryan does the same. "I am so there," he says. "Really. I am totally one hundred percent completely and utterly there. I'd say with bells on, only I don't think we want to advertise the, um, the, you know, the thing. That we will be doing. The allergy testing. That I am coming over for."

"When it stops raining."

"When it stops raining."

"So I should-" Ryan jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "I have homework. I should probably get on that. There's this guy coming over later, I hope."

"And I should do the cleaning thing before the damage is irrevocable and I am unable to set foot in this house again from the shame and the eyebrow inquisition." Seth has a sudden horrific flash of what his life could become if he doesn't do the best clean up job ever. A judder runs down his spine.

"Later, then."

"Yeah, later."

The phone line goes dead and Ryan is already scooping up his school bag. Seth tells himself not to stare and drags himself away from the door, opening the cupboard under the sink. He squats down, staring at the many brightly colored bottles. This is going to be complex, but he can totally handle it. He is, after all, officially a man. Or half of him is, anyway. He lifts his head, staring into the distance. The sky is still heavy and bruised with rain clouds, but he knows he's not imagining it. Way off on the horizon is the tiniest patch of blue. The rain thrums steadily on the window and Seth hums a little tune.

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