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Calms Jittery Nerves!
Author: [livejournal.com profile] sharon_hate
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The following events are entirely fictional.
Notes: Written for this prompt at [livejournal.com profile] anon_lovefest. The title is also taken from this ad.


Summary:
Could this be considered child pornography, Patrick doesn't once ask himself. (Pete gets Patrick a vibrator for Christmas and a sex tape/thank you present ensues.) -- Patrick solo, but implied P/P.




calms jittery nerves


Patrick locks his door like he always does when he gets to his room. After he shucks off his coat and first layer of clothing and kicks off his shoes, he ambles over to his stereo and presses play for whatever tape he left in there earlier. It's turns out to be an old Pixies cassette-- one that warbles and carries thin in certain spots from too much play, both from him and its previous owner.

He plops down on the edge of his bed and listens for a moment, and almost forgets about the packages in his backpack.

Pete had called him earlier that afternoon and asked if he could come over. That he had a Christmas present from him and one from Mrs. Wentz (Dale or Mom, she insists) waiting, and that Patrick should pick them up if he didn't want Pete misplacing them until July. Patrick wasn't even expecting a gift from him, and certainly didn't want it misplaced, so he got his act together and found his way over. When Patrick pulled up and knocked on the door, Mrs. Wentz (or Dale or Mom) answered and quickly pulled him inside. She kissed his cheeks and handed him his gift, a small package in pretty Poinsettia paper with a red bow on top.

"Thank you, mom," he smiled, and she smiled back, and then directed him upstairs to Pete's attic.

In his room, Pete was sitting shirtless on his bed and staring at the door, like he had been waiting for Patrick to show up. Patrick called him a lay-about and then, when he reached down and pulled out a rectangular-shaped box from under his bed, thanked him.

He looked jumpy and anxious, and told Patrick in a raspy voice, "Merry Christmas, dude."

Patrick thanked him again, and said, "Sorry, I haven't gotten your present yet. I'll try to make it awesome, though." Then, "I hope your mom got me socks." Pete didn't laugh, just left Patrick tittering awkwardly by himself.

"It's okay, just--" Pete stopped, and ran his palms over his face, "Don't throw me to the wolves." He pulled his knees to his chest and looked at Patrick with a dark expression. "And make sure you're alone, ok? I don't want your mom calling the cops."

Laughing, Patrick asked, "What is it, a bong?"

And Pete replied seriously, "No."

Back in his room, Patrick leans over and swats his backpack closer. He yanks it onto his lap and fishes out the two gifts. He decides to open Pete's mom's first, and rips off the bow and tears off the paper. It's a plain white box underneath, so he peals the lid back and inside are two pairs of white and green tube socks.

"Yes," Patrick cries to himself, grinning. He crinkles the paper and bow together in a ball, and shoots it towards the trash bin across the room. It bounces off the wall and makes it, and Patrick cheers for himself. Pushing the box of socks aside, he pulls out Pete's gift from his backpack.

The paper it's wrapped in is covered with cartoon Santas and poorly illustrated snowmen. It's not carefully wrapped like his mother's gift was. There's not enough tape in certain spots, and the paper doesn't cover all the way on one end. But Patrick is thankful that Pete even thought to get him something; though with the way he was acting, Patrick sort of thinks he must've gotten it at Spencer's Gifts, or something, and that it's probably something weirdly offensive.

He scratches at the crease and pulls the paper away to reveal another plain white box. It only takes a second to get the tab out and the lid open, and then he's shaking the box out onto his bed. When the the thick plastic packaging comes loose and it slides out onto his comforter, Patrick feels his face instantly burn and his stomach drop to his knees. Immediately he pushes the package aside and covers his face with his hands, pulling one knee up under his chin. Patrick stays like that for a moment, face still hot with embarrassment and he doesn't know what else, before twisting around and looking at the gift again through the spaces of his fingers.

The horror slowly begins to wear off, enough that after a few minutes, he can uncover his face completely. The heat is mostly gone from his face, too, except for the apples of cheeks, which are still a dull pink. He picks the casing up carefully and inspects the cover. A woman with horrible eyebrows is on the front, right under the large text of PENTHOUSE POWER VIBE. At the bottom, it proudly proclaims it's waterproof and that it only requires 2 AAs.

Patrick can barely get himself to look at it. His stomach is all knotted up, and he fucking hates Pete so much. It's easily the worst thing he's ever done. Patrick wishes he never told Pete anything at all, but also figures it serves him right for ever thinking to confide in Pete in the first place. He told him about his confusion and Pete couldn't just offer bad advice and leave him the fuck alone, he had to go and turn it into a fucking joke. It's even worse, though, because he thought that Pete would at least understand.

He's angry now, and his cheeks start to heat up again. Tossing it aside again, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, and quickly scrolls down his contact list. It only takes a few seconds before Pete answers with a meek, "Hi."

"Pete, I hate you so much," he starts, fist clenching, "Seriously, this is the least funny thing ever and I can only imagine how much you and everyone else laughed over it--"

"Patrick," Pete pushes out fitfully, "It's not a joke! It wasn't-- I wasn't trying to be funny." And Patrick just stops, not knowing what to say to that. At least before he had an idea of where he was going. "When you told me, I didn't know what to do or say, so I just kind of laughed and like, I don't know," he breathes shallowly, "I didn't say anything, but it stuck with me. I kept thinking about it, and you."

Any hint of a response catches in Patrick's throat, and all he can do is stutter.

Pete continues, "And I just got it, and I hated myself, you have no idea. There were three separate times where I almost hurled it out into the woods or off the highway, but god, Trick, you have no idea. It's all I ever thought about. And, and, I'm sorry if this was the worst idea ever and you decide never to see me again."

They both sit silently for a while. Everything in Patrick seems to have seeped out, and so he flops back onto his bed, bouncing slightly on the mattress. He lets a long breath out and says, "Pete, this is--"

Before he can finish, Pete cuts him off and hurriedly mutters into the phone, "I love you," and hangs up. The dial tone presses at Patrick urgently, and he reluctantly snaps his phone closed. Patrick's chest feels fucking weird and hollow, and everything feels unfinished, but he knows better than to call back. Pete won't answer.

The plastic casing the vibrator is in scratches at Patrick's elbow. He turns his head and pulls it towards himself. It sits just underneath the packaging, purple and seemingly gigantic, and what the fuck, Pete.

"I don't know," he says to no one in particular. He takes several deep breaths, trying to assuage the seasickness that took over him. Even though Patrick's sitting on his bed, there's a dizziness he can't shake, like the room's spinning all around him. He wets his lips and determinedly sets to tearing at the thick, industrial plastic it's encased in. A sense of shame settles over him once he realizes he needs scissors.

When he can't find any off hand, Patrick almost wants to give up. He can't open the packaging, it's time to give up and move on. This whole thing obviously wasn't meant to happen. But then he remembers that Pete bought him a fucking vibrator, so he tosses it into his backpack and then throws his backpack into his closet, and sets off downstairs.

In the kitchen, his mom and her longtime boyfriend Darryl are sitting at the table oohing and awing to each other. Patrick saunters in and tries to inconspicuously nose through the drawers. He gets to the far end of the room before they first notice him.

"Hey, Patrick," Darryl says, motioning him over. Patrick sighs and trudges over, standing across from them. On the table between them sits an obviously new camcorder, the remnants of its package balled up at its side. His mother runs her fingers over the buttons like she's afraid she'll break it. Darryl grins at him and explains, "My present to your mom. And for you, too! We can all use it."

"Cool," Patrick notes absently. "Hey, do you know where the scissors are?"

Patricia hums a bit, and says, "They're in my room somewhere. I was wrapping presents earlier."

Before Patrick can sneak away, Darryl stops him. "Oh, you know what you can do with it?" he asks, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. Patrick feels bad for not caring, so he pointedly stops and tries hard to listen. "You and your band can make music videos!" he chirps.

"Uh, yeah," Patrick agrees. "So the scissors are in your room?"

"Come on, Patrick, get excited!" Darryl whines, waving his hands around. "You can make your own movies."

Patrick might scoff a little before he says, "I'll get right on that." When Darryl's hands stop flapping around and fall listlessly to his sides, he amends in a softer tone, "Thanks, though, Darryl. It is pretty cool."

As he ascends the last step and rounds the corner into his mother's room, he hears Darryl's last words again. You can make your own movies. The idea creeps up his spine and settles low in his belly. It's really a horrifying thought, one that Patrick feels he should maybe immediately dismiss. It's almost as bad an idea as Pete's was. Really terrible. One he should definitely toss away.

The scissors are sitting right on top of her bed, next to some rolls of wrapping paper, where Patricia said they would be. He grabs them tightly in his hand and the blades dig into the soft of his palm.

Such a bad, bad idea, he thinks.

In his room, he hacks halfheartedly at the plastic. The scissors only help slightly, and it takes another five minutes until he can actually pull the packaging back. The vibrator pops out of the molding and Patrick has to scramble to catch it.

He blanches at the feel of it in his hand; all soft latex rubber on the outside, but weighed from the motor. The fact that it's shaped like a cock makes Patrick want to die. He's almost surprised there's not an inscription on it (Dear Patrick, have fun!), something to make it even more humiliating for him. It's a bright violet, though, so there is that.

Summoning up the last morsels of courage he has, he thumbs the switch at the base and prepares for it vibrate right out of his hand. It doesn't do anything, though, just sits there. Patrick bites his lip and looks around the floor of his room. His Gameboy is cast a couple feet from him, peaking out from under the foot of his bed. Bending down, he picks it up, pops the back out and plucks out the two, mostly new, AA batteries inside.

'Okay, so hypothetically,' Patrick tells himself, as he places in the batteries in the vibrator, 'if I were going to do this, the camera would have to go-- at the foot of the bed?'

He groans and squeezes his eyes shut. Really, really, he has no idea what he's talking about. This is a terrible, terrible idea. He should really be ashamed.

'So the camera is at the foot of the bed,' he thinks. 'And I am on my knees, maybe. Or on my back. And, and.' Patrick twists the base of the vibrator and it starts up suddenly, aggressively shivering in his hand. It startles him, and whatever he had been thinking just-- fades away.

Something warm and dark curls in his stomach, replacing the nausea that plagued him earlier. The vibrator's still buzzing away in his grip. He thumbs the grooves in the shaft, and it's so ridiculous. It's easily the least penis-like thing he's ever seen. Patrick doesn't understand why he's starting to get hard.

Patrick wonders how much of a show he's supposed to put on.

Later that night, when Patrick presumes everyone to have gone to sleep, he decides to test things out. He doesn't use the vibrator, or anything, as he suspects that's still a little too advanced for him. He does, however, break out his lotion and pull down his boxers. They're shimmed down to around his ankles, before he kicks them down to the bottom of the bed.

It takes Patrick a moment to build up the nerve. Rolling onto his side and tucking his knees in slightly, he bites his lip and tentatively touches his lubed up fingers to his hole. It's cold and strange, and he hisses slightly at the contact, but it's not a bad feeling touching there. He decides to be braver and presses in, his finger slipping inside with only slight resistance. Inside he's soft and warm; Patrick can't stop blinking.

After a minute, it's less novel, and so he starts to move his finger in and out. The rhythm seems to ignite something, and he can feel himself start to get a little hard from it. (And not just the 'oh, i'm going to be doing something sexual' hard. Actual, 'i am aroused by this' hard.) With his free hard, he starts to stroke his dick slowly. It's important he not to get too ahead of himself, as it appears the fingering thing is going to take a while.

Patrick, very diplomatically, decides it's time to start using two fingers. He has to pull out slightly, but then he's pressing in again and it stings this time. He takes several shallow breaths as he feels his knuckles pass the tight ring of muscle. It's definitely worse than the one, but he's not getting any softer and he has to actively keep himself from groaning at the feeling. His other hand moves loosely over his cock, thumbing the tip and spreading the precome around.

He wiggles his fingers a little, stretching and thrusting in at a vague rhythm. Patrick lets out a soft sigh when he hits one particular angle. After that, his hips actively start to press back, trying to press further down onto his hand. The burn is mostly gone at that point, but what's left, Patrick is embarrassed to admit he enjoys. He briefly wishes his fingers were longer and that he weren't afraid to add another one in.

This is probably where a vibrator would come in handy.

Pete would probably be a lot of help, too, right now. If he were there, between Patrick's legs and maybe providing some man power. Pitching in and helping the team win.

He hits that angle again, only more straight on this time, and Patrick's calm, maintained breathing stutters and he finds himself fucking himself down onto his fingers. There's nothing slow and easy about how he's jerking off anymore. For a brief moment, he's torn between thrusting up into his fist and pushing back, but then he hits that spot again, then again, and he's coming, so it doesn't matter.

Yeah, that vibrator would definitely be good.

The next day, Patrick doesn't call Pete, but furtively asks Darryl how the camcorder works.

It's the 22nd before he finally gets to do the video. His mother and Darryl have gone on a date and Patrick will be alone for at least three hours, and he guesses that's plenty enough time to make a sex tape. He can't be certain, but it sounds right. If nothing else, it's a good dress rehearsal.

Darryl didn't think to get a tripod, so Patrick has to build a lift out of boxes and books. They also didn't have any blank tapes, leaving Patrick to commandeer an old VHS used to record "Days of Our Lives." So if Pete doesn't enjoy Patrick fucking himself, then he'll at least get the latest 'Stefano just did something evil' story arc. It's not the worst consolation prize.

Patrick crouches down in front of the camera and takes a long, calming breath. Fingers twitching, he leans across and presses the red record button, and everything starts up. He leans into the camera and says, "Pete, thank you for the gift."

He stands up and takes a few steps back, so he'll mostly fit on the screen. His cheeks tinge pink as he fiddles with the hem of his shirt, before he finally just grabs onto the fabric and pulls it up. It skews his glasses as it passes over his head, leaving them crooked on his nose and he has to straighten them. When his nipples peak, he's not sure if it's because of the cold winter evening or if it's from the arousal curling in his belly. He rubs at his neck, before popping open the top button of his jeans.

It feels obscene, and not at all like him, to be standing there, shirtless and with jeans low on his hips. It's something sexy people do, something Pete's done, and not for someone like Patrick. (Who is pudgy and young and awkward.) He thumbs at the waistband of his boxer briefs, before hooking his fingers in and pulling them down with his opened jeans. Patrick wets his lips and looks up nervously at the camera; he's naked and half hard, open for Pete to see.

A shiver makes its way down his spine as he kneels on the edge of the bed, and crawls his way towards the middle. The vibrator he placed on the bed rolls toward him as the bed sinks in, knocking Patrick in the hand. He jumps slightly when it touches him, still not used to the cool rubberiness of it. He picks it up in one hand and tests the weight of it, before throwing an awkward smile at the lens filming.

Patrick decides it would be best, for the first part, if he were on his back, so he shimmies down until he's only slightly propped up by the pillows behind him. His toes curling against his comforter as he stares up bullishly at the ceiling, then looks down at himself. With a hand placed on his lower stomach, his fingers trail the soft golden hairs that lead down. His eyes flutter shut when he circles the base of cock and he starts to press into the grip of his hand. Patrick thinks maybe he should be moaning, so he does, softly. Sex tapes are meant to be an audio-visual experience.

He looks to the camera with lidded eyes and lifts his hand to his mouth, sucking two fingers in. He swirls his tongue around them and hollows his cheeks like he's sucking cock. When he pulls his fingers out, it leaves his mouth puckered and wet, and he hopes the camera's picking up on that. Patrick shudders slightly and turns onto his side. Before his fingers dry, he reaches back and pushes both in. He groans at the stretch and burn, gritting his teeth.

"Fuck, fuck," he mutters, blinking his eyes open.

It takes a moment for Patrick to gather himself, but then he's hitching his fingers and trying to stretch himself out. His breath catches at certain points, when the stretch is a little too sharp and he has to stop. He's still hard, though, and still moaning softly to himself. After much deliberation, he lets his dick go and moves his hand up his chest. He's circling a nipple when he decides to thrust his fingers in, and if he mewls, he can't help himself.

That's when he decides to move on to the main activity. He pulls his fingers out, groaning softly at the feel of it, and wipes them along his blanket. The vibrator's still on the bed when he reaches out for it, bringing it to himself. Looking at it, it's still just an ugly, purple monstrosity of a cock like it was a few days earlier. Except this time, Patrick's hard and leaking, and maybe it's not quite as ridiculous.

He reaches under his pillow and pulls out the bottle of lotion he stored. Squeezing some (a lot) onto his palm, he snaps the lid closed and tosses it aside, and starts to slick the vibrator up with it. He sighs at how ridiculous he feels, but then moves his hand back and wipes some lotion against his hole. The vibrator is most likely not equal to two fingers.

Patrick crawls forward onto his knees, so he's parallel to the camera. The first touch of the head causes a sharp exhale from him, but he doesn't hesitate and pushes in past the initial barrier. He grips the comforter in one hand and pants lightly to himself, and presses it in another couple inches. Unlike with his fingers, everything feels hot around him and he can feel a thin sheen of sweat start to coat his shoulders. It's just so hard and big inside him, like it could be real maybe, Patrick doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Pete, fuck," he says without thinking.

He rocks forward, head down and bracing himself on one arm. When he pulls the vibrator out, he groans at the slow drag of it and the burn. It's physically impossible to touch his own cock at the moment; one hand propping him up, the other working the vibe in and out. The heavy throbbing between his legs only gets worse the more he fucks himself. It's not like he can just stop, though. He lets out a broken moan when he thrusts it in at a different angle, and fists the bedspread. He really wishes someone else were there so they could touch their hands down his back, anything.

The grip he has starts to loosen and he has to readjust his hold on the base of it. When he moves his palm over it, his hand accidentally catches on one of the dials, and turns it on to the lowest level. It's enough, though, that at the sudden sensation, Patrick yelps and presses his hips back against it. He's bent over and all that's coming out are broken, choked pants. His legs are starting to shake.

"Oh, god," he keens, tilting his head back, and moves it in and out. The soft buzzing and Patrick's gasps and hitches are the only sound filling the room. He switches the angle again and the vibrating head presses against his prostate, and Patrick just chokes. His wrist ups the tempo, and he's caught between sobbing and letting out one long moan.

Patrick repeats Pete's name to himself, distantly like he's not even aware.

He thrusts it in one last time, not hitting his prostate, but dragging long against it. It surprises Patrick enough that he cries out brokenly, and comes all over himself. He stays there for a second, face pressed against his forearm and blanket, before pulling the vibe out. It hurts a little more coming out, but Patrick assumes that's from being so sore. He places it on the already dirty bed and forces himself back onto his knees. Everything protests, and he hisses in pain as he crawls out of the bed and stands up.

Muttering to himself, Patrick wipes halfheartedly at the come coating him before padding over to the camera and crouching down. He purses his lips and frowns, then jabs at the button console and the red light shuts off on command. Patrick takes a deep breath and ejects the tape, pulling it out and holding it in his own shaky hands.

The next day, Christmas Eve, he shows up at Pete's house and nervously shoves the tape at him. Patrick's cheeks were flushed, but it was nothing like the terror that seemed to envelope Pete. He calmed down slightly, though, once he realized Patrick had no intention of punching him or calling the cops.

"This is for you," Patrick instructs stiltedly, eyes wide. "It's a thank you."

Pete stares at him, then says softly, "Oh, okay."

"Merry Christmas!" yells Patrick, sounding slightly shrill. It's the last thing he says before he runs back to his car, gets in and speeds all the way home.


AN: There's not really much to say here. Comments would be nice-- tell me how to improve my porn writing skills! Well, anyway. Happy holidays, bandom!
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J. Gomez

May 2009

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