seth is 15, and 15.
By now, I’ve pressured a small handful of people on my flist to read Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife.
This is for them.
more specifically, for shoshannagold, who provided sage guidance, and torchthisnow, who wouldn't write it for me.
WARNING! CRACK!FIC to the crack!iest extreme.
The O.C. Seth/Seth. NC-17.
Disclaimer: Concept thoroughly stolen from The Time Traveler's Wife, property of Audrey Niffenegger. Boys property of Joshie, McG, FOX, et al. Don't sue. How else would I buy my crack?
*
Seth is 15, and 15
I’m in my bedroom with my self. He’s here from next March. We are doing what we often do when we have a little privacy, when it’s cold out, when both of us are past puberty and haven’t quite gotten around to actual girls yet. I think most people would do this, if they had the sort of opportunities I have. I mean, I’m not gay or anything.
--“The Time Traveler’s Wife,” p. 55
Seth is in his bedroom with his self. This would be odd to most other people on the planet, but Seth has gotten used to it. Being a chrono-displaced person had its downsides, such as the nudity and the nausea and the random disappearing before important life events, but Seth certainly appreciated the company it offered him.
Even if the company was, well, unorthodox.
Then again, Seth supposed that all time travelers lived a bit of a quirky life. That guy Henry, for one, the one with the memoirs and the wife. Seth hadn’t been saddled with quite the same responsibilities and hardships as him. He hadn’t had to learn how to steal, or pick locks, or do much besides borrow from the clotheslines of Newport residents who insisted that their maids dry things to be sunshine-fresh, real sunshine, not the bottled kind. Truth be told, when it came to his condition, most days he felt just a little bit more Marvel than mortal.
No complaints, there.
Of course, just his luck, his ability to time travel didn’t come with any other cool superpowers, like x-ray vision or flight or being able to pass for 17 so he could get in to see The Matrix in IMAX. He didn’t get an adamantium skeleton, and he wasn’t suddenly super-attractive to all the ladies, like Spiderman or Batman or Gambit. The older he grew, the more it seemed that his path was going to be all mopey X-men teendom. Without the spandex.
Seth’s future self never told him anything interesting, either, like lottery numbers and stock tips (with his parents, he didn’t need them, he’d been lectured) or if he’d ever lose his virginity, to like, a girl (a fact that was looking more and more unlikely). In fact, his future self after the age of sixteen seemed to avoid him entirely, for the lack of times Seth had seen him. He did a lot of time traveling at fifteen. Mostly to visit himself and supply answers for vocabulary tests, and to warn him when Luke was going to be in a bad mood. But when it came to his older self, it seemed like he’d turned sixteen and *whap*, no more time traveling.
Seth tried not to be morbid when it came to thinking of what that meant for his future. Or non-future. Fortunately, he had a few threads to cling to.
Once, when Seth was thirteen, his self showed up with a deep, even tan and flecks of blonde in his hair, with the beginnings of chest hair and muscles and Seth knew for sure he was from farther into the future than fifteen, just like he knew he’d spend the next Friday night jerking off to tapes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and La Femme Nikita. And the Friday after that. And the Friday after that.
“Dude, sailing to Tahiti is way overrated,” future Seth mumbled unhappily, scratching at his hair, and looked mildly surprised when his fingers pulled away clean and dry.
That was an advantage to time traveling no one else really talked about. Showering really became unnecessary, if you could manage to time travel often enough. All the dirt was just left behind. Well, along with the clothes, and socks, and shoes, and anything that wasn’t a part of his body. But, hey, there were always hazards, and Southern California never got that cold anyway.
That particular future Seth had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared with an audible crack, not even asking for the date, and Seth was left wondering about Tahiti, filing it away into his brain for future reference, right between the codes for classic Nintendo games and which bushes provided the best cover from approaching water polo players.
His self never tells him anything good, leaving Seth to puzzle out the clues on his own.
*
Currently, Seth is being visited by a self from next Thursday, which he is dreading because he has a pre-calc quiz with Mr. Schmidt and his mole, and the fact that his other self doesn’t look too happy about the outcome isn’t encouraging him.
What is encouraging him is the way his self is lying on his bed, beckoning with a sure finger.
Seth is always confident when he is around himself, something he wishes he could manage in public forums. It makes things easier, in ways that they never have been all the times he’s almost gone up to Summer to say hi, only to pivot on a Puma at the last second. With himself, he always knows what he wants, and he can always get himself off.
Seth figures that most people would do what he did, if they had the kind of opportunities he did. It didn’t mean he was gay or anything.
Despite what the water polo team said.
Seth sits on the bed next to himself, who is already conveniently naked because of his travels. He shucks off his own t-shirt quickly, without nerves, as his self leans in to unbutton the top of Seth’s jeans, trailing his mouth over Seth’s collarbone.
Seth remembers the first time his self taught him how to kiss, and the second time, when he was the teacher. Sometimes it’s strange, living things from two points of view; always waiting for the second half to happen. But then, he amends, it’s no stranger than jerking yourself off in your bed in the middle of the night.
Seth’s self has made short work of Seth’s jeans and is palming Seth’s ass over the fabric of his boxers. He pulls Seth downward, onto the comforter, and rolls on top of Seth, straddling his hips. Seth examines his naked self, the smooth hairless stomach and growing erection, somehow comforted to know that it is the same as the one that is straining his boxers.
His self seems to know what Seth needs, of course, he always knows what Seth needs, and slides Seth’s boxers off slowly, deliberately, making Seth’s heart thump in his eardrums.
It’s not that he finds himself attractive or anything. It’s just…his own hand is so much less interesting than, uh, his hand.
Seth still hasn’t found a good way to think of the situation.
He prefers not to think, anyway. Not when his self has gripped a thumb and forefinger around the base of Seth’s cock. His self leans over until all Seth can see is the top of his own brown curls, all he can feel is a puff of warm breath on his groin. A tongue darts out, over the tip, swirling, as the hand at the base of his dick gives a short stroke. Seth groans and scrabbles for his body, the one on top of him, lacing one hand in the curly brown hair as the other grips a shoulder.
Seth’s panting and whining now as his self dips and takes more of his cock into his mouth, and even though Seth knows that he doesn’t have to impress himself with his longevity, he still tries to hold on a minute longer.
The Seth on top of him lifts his head and Seth looks at the overly red lips, his own heavy lidded eyes, before his self scratches a trail down Seth’s chest with his fingernails, closes his mouth over Seth’s cock again with heavenly suction, and runs his tongue in a smooth circle.
Seth squeezes his self’s shoulder in warning, and his self pulls up, replaces his mouth with his hand, and finishes Seth off with a few quick strokes. Seth shudders and comes all over his self’s hand and his stomach, then licks the perspiration off his own upper lip.
They have an agreement, sort of like how medieval churches had sanctuary from crazy royal guards, or other unspoken holy things. The only thing he won’t do is come in his other self’s mouth.
Seth’s self’s torso stretches as he leans over and slides open a drawer on Seth’s bed stand, pulling out a used-looking hand towel with fringe at the edges. His self passes it to the prone Seth, and he wipes off the sweat on his forehead before cleaning up his abdomen.
Seth takes care of his self after that, getting to his knees as his self stretches back across the pillows. His own breath is still quick and erratic after the blowjob, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief when his self comes quickly, with little effort. It was a pity, really, that he wasn’t gay, what with all the practice he’d had. He hoped that this boded well for his future with girls. Summer, more specifically.
Somehow, convincing himself of that was getting harder with each passing day.
“How much longer do you have?” Seth asks himself as they both lay back on his bed, panting and staring up at the blank white ceiling.
Seth’s self frowns resignedly, as if gauging the matter. Which he probably is, Seth knows, having been in the situation enough to know. “Not long enough for a second time.” His self smoothes a hand through his mussed hair, and Seth absentmindedly mimics him.
“You sure about that?” Seth asks himself, disentangling his hand from his hair, and pulls himself in for a kiss.
Three minutes later, his self is gone with a jerk and a groan, and Seth’s still hard. He bites his lip and thrusts quickly into the circle of his hand, thinking of Summer and breathing heavily as he comes for the second time that night. Or third. He’s not sure.
It takes all his effort to roll over and find the towel on the floor where his self threw it between the piles of comics and dirty clothes and the lasagna-encrusted dinner dishes that Rosa hasn’t picked up yet. As he pulls himself back onto his pillows with an exhausted sigh, Seth wishes he had himself back, just for a minute, just for one last favor.
He never liked doing things alone.
*
Seth wakes up the next morning to a loud crash that sounds like it comes from the kitchen and runs downstairs, hoping his self from next Thursday is back, or better yet, next Friday.
Probably less exhausted that way.
Instead, he sees a tall, slim built naked man perched on one of the stools at the end of the counter. The man’s curly brown hair is short and neatly kept, and Seth nearly staggers backwards. Seth pegs this self at mid-twenties, but he’s never been good with ages. It had taken him years after moving to Newport to figure out that Julie Cooper was Marissa’s mom, and not just the young, hot nanny.
“Um, yeah, this is new.” Seth speaks and his self looks up from the newspaper (Arts and Leisure section, of course) with a vague grin. “You’re like, old. Not that you’re old, I mean, you’re very, uh, well-preserved.”
“Pants?” the older Seth asks evenly. Wow, he really became concise when he got older. He wonders when that happened.
Seth nods dumbly and wanders back up to his bedroom, taking note that both his parents appear to have already left for work. So, wow, that’s what he looked like when he got older. The waterpolo team obviously hadn’t managed to murder him after all.
At the same time, he can’t help but be a little sad, wishing that one of his younger selves had come back. Not even for the sex, although the sex was good like a good thing, many good things. But just…for the friendship. The Seth that was sitting in the kitchen calmly reading the paper didn’t look like the guy who’d been stuffed into lockers with shoes full of pee. For a moment, Seth wonders if there was such a thing as an alternate universe, and if there was, if this Seth had come from that universe, where he was cool and had friends and was having sex with Summer on a regular basis.
After all, he was a time traveler. Nothing was out of the question.
It was probably too much to wish for, though. He supposes that he doesn’t have it too badly. At least he gets to have sex with himself on a regular basis.
Seth combs through the piles of clothes on the floor, looking under frayed jeans and Converse sneakers, hoping to find something that would both fit his older self and that wasn’t too damaged by the activities of the night before. He settles on a pair of drawstring pajama pants, figuring even if they’re short, they should do in a pinch. After all, he remembers vaguely a pink slip he’d found hanging on a clothesline on one harrowing trip, he’d had worse.
By the time he stumbles back down the stairs, his self has already helped himself to the pot of French Roast that Rosa always keeps brewing under the cabinets. In fact, there are two oversized cups waiting on the Cohen’s marble counter. Seth scratches his head thoughtfully and gestures at the mugs, then his self.
“Thirsty, huh? I mean, time traveling always makes me thirsty too, but more for a, uh, Capri Sun or some Ecto-Cooler.” Seth rubs his palms on his thighs before handing himself the pants, which his self slides on almost without getting out of his seat.
“So, uh, can’t you tell me something about myself? You know, you. Or, uh, me. Us. Because I’m sort of dying here man, in case you didn’t remember, but, uh, of course you remember, unless time traveling turns out to have a bad short term memory side effect, like with that guy in Memento and wow, that would suck...”
“Coffee.” The taller, cooler Seth interrupts, sliding over a mug. “You’re going to start liking it.”
“I am?” Seth manages to sputter out.
“Trust me.” His self winks at him before taking a long gulp of steaming coffee. “It gets better.”
“My life or the coffee?” Seth grimaces as he takes a slurping sip.
“Both.” Seth’s self winks again, leans over Seth’s shoulder, getting in close to his ear. “Ryan.” He whispers, and Seth shudders.
Then, the feel of the hand and breath are gone, and a wrinkled and slightly warm pair of plaid pajama pants falls onto the floor.
Ryan?
It didn’t sound like a stock tip, but it would have to do.
--finis--
Author's Note: If you haven't read The Time Traveler's Wife, some of this narrative may seem confusing. That's okay. Crossovers are risky because of that: familiarity with one bit of base material is necessary, but familiarity with both (or all) bits is optimal.
The rules and specifics of time-traveling when applied to Henry (and therefore Seth) can be further explained by reading the novel. Which you should. Right the fuck now.
Henry never had "memoirs," nor could Seth have read them at 15; Niffenegger's book was not published until 2003. In fact, the two timelines of our time travelers are wildly askew. But it's my crack!fic. I can write what I want to.
This is for them.
more specifically, for shoshannagold, who provided sage guidance, and torchthisnow, who wouldn't write it for me.
WARNING! CRACK!FIC to the crack!iest extreme.
The O.C. Seth/Seth. NC-17.
Disclaimer: Concept thoroughly stolen from The Time Traveler's Wife, property of Audrey Niffenegger. Boys property of Joshie, McG, FOX, et al. Don't sue. How else would I buy my crack?
*
Seth is 15, and 15
I’m in my bedroom with my self. He’s here from next March. We are doing what we often do when we have a little privacy, when it’s cold out, when both of us are past puberty and haven’t quite gotten around to actual girls yet. I think most people would do this, if they had the sort of opportunities I have. I mean, I’m not gay or anything.
--“The Time Traveler’s Wife,” p. 55
Seth is in his bedroom with his self. This would be odd to most other people on the planet, but Seth has gotten used to it. Being a chrono-displaced person had its downsides, such as the nudity and the nausea and the random disappearing before important life events, but Seth certainly appreciated the company it offered him.
Even if the company was, well, unorthodox.
Then again, Seth supposed that all time travelers lived a bit of a quirky life. That guy Henry, for one, the one with the memoirs and the wife. Seth hadn’t been saddled with quite the same responsibilities and hardships as him. He hadn’t had to learn how to steal, or pick locks, or do much besides borrow from the clotheslines of Newport residents who insisted that their maids dry things to be sunshine-fresh, real sunshine, not the bottled kind. Truth be told, when it came to his condition, most days he felt just a little bit more Marvel than mortal.
No complaints, there.
Of course, just his luck, his ability to time travel didn’t come with any other cool superpowers, like x-ray vision or flight or being able to pass for 17 so he could get in to see The Matrix in IMAX. He didn’t get an adamantium skeleton, and he wasn’t suddenly super-attractive to all the ladies, like Spiderman or Batman or Gambit. The older he grew, the more it seemed that his path was going to be all mopey X-men teendom. Without the spandex.
Seth’s future self never told him anything interesting, either, like lottery numbers and stock tips (with his parents, he didn’t need them, he’d been lectured) or if he’d ever lose his virginity, to like, a girl (a fact that was looking more and more unlikely). In fact, his future self after the age of sixteen seemed to avoid him entirely, for the lack of times Seth had seen him. He did a lot of time traveling at fifteen. Mostly to visit himself and supply answers for vocabulary tests, and to warn him when Luke was going to be in a bad mood. But when it came to his older self, it seemed like he’d turned sixteen and *whap*, no more time traveling.
Seth tried not to be morbid when it came to thinking of what that meant for his future. Or non-future. Fortunately, he had a few threads to cling to.
Once, when Seth was thirteen, his self showed up with a deep, even tan and flecks of blonde in his hair, with the beginnings of chest hair and muscles and Seth knew for sure he was from farther into the future than fifteen, just like he knew he’d spend the next Friday night jerking off to tapes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and La Femme Nikita. And the Friday after that. And the Friday after that.
“Dude, sailing to Tahiti is way overrated,” future Seth mumbled unhappily, scratching at his hair, and looked mildly surprised when his fingers pulled away clean and dry.
That was an advantage to time traveling no one else really talked about. Showering really became unnecessary, if you could manage to time travel often enough. All the dirt was just left behind. Well, along with the clothes, and socks, and shoes, and anything that wasn’t a part of his body. But, hey, there were always hazards, and Southern California never got that cold anyway.
That particular future Seth had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared with an audible crack, not even asking for the date, and Seth was left wondering about Tahiti, filing it away into his brain for future reference, right between the codes for classic Nintendo games and which bushes provided the best cover from approaching water polo players.
His self never tells him anything good, leaving Seth to puzzle out the clues on his own.
*
Currently, Seth is being visited by a self from next Thursday, which he is dreading because he has a pre-calc quiz with Mr. Schmidt and his mole, and the fact that his other self doesn’t look too happy about the outcome isn’t encouraging him.
What is encouraging him is the way his self is lying on his bed, beckoning with a sure finger.
Seth is always confident when he is around himself, something he wishes he could manage in public forums. It makes things easier, in ways that they never have been all the times he’s almost gone up to Summer to say hi, only to pivot on a Puma at the last second. With himself, he always knows what he wants, and he can always get himself off.
Seth figures that most people would do what he did, if they had the kind of opportunities he did. It didn’t mean he was gay or anything.
Despite what the water polo team said.
Seth sits on the bed next to himself, who is already conveniently naked because of his travels. He shucks off his own t-shirt quickly, without nerves, as his self leans in to unbutton the top of Seth’s jeans, trailing his mouth over Seth’s collarbone.
Seth remembers the first time his self taught him how to kiss, and the second time, when he was the teacher. Sometimes it’s strange, living things from two points of view; always waiting for the second half to happen. But then, he amends, it’s no stranger than jerking yourself off in your bed in the middle of the night.
Seth’s self has made short work of Seth’s jeans and is palming Seth’s ass over the fabric of his boxers. He pulls Seth downward, onto the comforter, and rolls on top of Seth, straddling his hips. Seth examines his naked self, the smooth hairless stomach and growing erection, somehow comforted to know that it is the same as the one that is straining his boxers.
His self seems to know what Seth needs, of course, he always knows what Seth needs, and slides Seth’s boxers off slowly, deliberately, making Seth’s heart thump in his eardrums.
It’s not that he finds himself attractive or anything. It’s just…his own hand is so much less interesting than, uh, his hand.
Seth still hasn’t found a good way to think of the situation.
He prefers not to think, anyway. Not when his self has gripped a thumb and forefinger around the base of Seth’s cock. His self leans over until all Seth can see is the top of his own brown curls, all he can feel is a puff of warm breath on his groin. A tongue darts out, over the tip, swirling, as the hand at the base of his dick gives a short stroke. Seth groans and scrabbles for his body, the one on top of him, lacing one hand in the curly brown hair as the other grips a shoulder.
Seth’s panting and whining now as his self dips and takes more of his cock into his mouth, and even though Seth knows that he doesn’t have to impress himself with his longevity, he still tries to hold on a minute longer.
The Seth on top of him lifts his head and Seth looks at the overly red lips, his own heavy lidded eyes, before his self scratches a trail down Seth’s chest with his fingernails, closes his mouth over Seth’s cock again with heavenly suction, and runs his tongue in a smooth circle.
Seth squeezes his self’s shoulder in warning, and his self pulls up, replaces his mouth with his hand, and finishes Seth off with a few quick strokes. Seth shudders and comes all over his self’s hand and his stomach, then licks the perspiration off his own upper lip.
They have an agreement, sort of like how medieval churches had sanctuary from crazy royal guards, or other unspoken holy things. The only thing he won’t do is come in his other self’s mouth.
Seth’s self’s torso stretches as he leans over and slides open a drawer on Seth’s bed stand, pulling out a used-looking hand towel with fringe at the edges. His self passes it to the prone Seth, and he wipes off the sweat on his forehead before cleaning up his abdomen.
Seth takes care of his self after that, getting to his knees as his self stretches back across the pillows. His own breath is still quick and erratic after the blowjob, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief when his self comes quickly, with little effort. It was a pity, really, that he wasn’t gay, what with all the practice he’d had. He hoped that this boded well for his future with girls. Summer, more specifically.
Somehow, convincing himself of that was getting harder with each passing day.
“How much longer do you have?” Seth asks himself as they both lay back on his bed, panting and staring up at the blank white ceiling.
Seth’s self frowns resignedly, as if gauging the matter. Which he probably is, Seth knows, having been in the situation enough to know. “Not long enough for a second time.” His self smoothes a hand through his mussed hair, and Seth absentmindedly mimics him.
“You sure about that?” Seth asks himself, disentangling his hand from his hair, and pulls himself in for a kiss.
Three minutes later, his self is gone with a jerk and a groan, and Seth’s still hard. He bites his lip and thrusts quickly into the circle of his hand, thinking of Summer and breathing heavily as he comes for the second time that night. Or third. He’s not sure.
It takes all his effort to roll over and find the towel on the floor where his self threw it between the piles of comics and dirty clothes and the lasagna-encrusted dinner dishes that Rosa hasn’t picked up yet. As he pulls himself back onto his pillows with an exhausted sigh, Seth wishes he had himself back, just for a minute, just for one last favor.
He never liked doing things alone.
*
Seth wakes up the next morning to a loud crash that sounds like it comes from the kitchen and runs downstairs, hoping his self from next Thursday is back, or better yet, next Friday.
Probably less exhausted that way.
Instead, he sees a tall, slim built naked man perched on one of the stools at the end of the counter. The man’s curly brown hair is short and neatly kept, and Seth nearly staggers backwards. Seth pegs this self at mid-twenties, but he’s never been good with ages. It had taken him years after moving to Newport to figure out that Julie Cooper was Marissa’s mom, and not just the young, hot nanny.
“Um, yeah, this is new.” Seth speaks and his self looks up from the newspaper (Arts and Leisure section, of course) with a vague grin. “You’re like, old. Not that you’re old, I mean, you’re very, uh, well-preserved.”
“Pants?” the older Seth asks evenly. Wow, he really became concise when he got older. He wonders when that happened.
Seth nods dumbly and wanders back up to his bedroom, taking note that both his parents appear to have already left for work. So, wow, that’s what he looked like when he got older. The waterpolo team obviously hadn’t managed to murder him after all.
At the same time, he can’t help but be a little sad, wishing that one of his younger selves had come back. Not even for the sex, although the sex was good like a good thing, many good things. But just…for the friendship. The Seth that was sitting in the kitchen calmly reading the paper didn’t look like the guy who’d been stuffed into lockers with shoes full of pee. For a moment, Seth wonders if there was such a thing as an alternate universe, and if there was, if this Seth had come from that universe, where he was cool and had friends and was having sex with Summer on a regular basis.
After all, he was a time traveler. Nothing was out of the question.
It was probably too much to wish for, though. He supposes that he doesn’t have it too badly. At least he gets to have sex with himself on a regular basis.
Seth combs through the piles of clothes on the floor, looking under frayed jeans and Converse sneakers, hoping to find something that would both fit his older self and that wasn’t too damaged by the activities of the night before. He settles on a pair of drawstring pajama pants, figuring even if they’re short, they should do in a pinch. After all, he remembers vaguely a pink slip he’d found hanging on a clothesline on one harrowing trip, he’d had worse.
By the time he stumbles back down the stairs, his self has already helped himself to the pot of French Roast that Rosa always keeps brewing under the cabinets. In fact, there are two oversized cups waiting on the Cohen’s marble counter. Seth scratches his head thoughtfully and gestures at the mugs, then his self.
“Thirsty, huh? I mean, time traveling always makes me thirsty too, but more for a, uh, Capri Sun or some Ecto-Cooler.” Seth rubs his palms on his thighs before handing himself the pants, which his self slides on almost without getting out of his seat.
“So, uh, can’t you tell me something about myself? You know, you. Or, uh, me. Us. Because I’m sort of dying here man, in case you didn’t remember, but, uh, of course you remember, unless time traveling turns out to have a bad short term memory side effect, like with that guy in Memento and wow, that would suck...”
“Coffee.” The taller, cooler Seth interrupts, sliding over a mug. “You’re going to start liking it.”
“I am?” Seth manages to sputter out.
“Trust me.” His self winks at him before taking a long gulp of steaming coffee. “It gets better.”
“My life or the coffee?” Seth grimaces as he takes a slurping sip.
“Both.” Seth’s self winks again, leans over Seth’s shoulder, getting in close to his ear. “Ryan.” He whispers, and Seth shudders.
Then, the feel of the hand and breath are gone, and a wrinkled and slightly warm pair of plaid pajama pants falls onto the floor.
Ryan?
It didn’t sound like a stock tip, but it would have to do.
--finis--
Author's Note: If you haven't read The Time Traveler's Wife, some of this narrative may seem confusing. That's okay. Crossovers are risky because of that: familiarity with one bit of base material is necessary, but familiarity with both (or all) bits is optimal.
The rules and specifics of time-traveling when applied to Henry (and therefore Seth) can be further explained by reading the novel. Which you should. Right the fuck now.
Henry never had "memoirs," nor could Seth have read them at 15; Niffenegger's book was not published until 2003. In fact, the two timelines of our time travelers are wildly askew. But it's my crack!fic. I can write what I want to.