(Pete)

"Where's your brother?"

I grinned. Little did she know her perfect son skipped class early today. Just to hang out with some chick.
And since he wasn't home yet, they were probably exchanging body heat in the passenger seat of her car. But of course I wouldn't tell my mother that. I'd much rather cover for him just to blackmail him with it later.

"Studying with some nerds after school."

She smiled proudly. "Well maybe you should take lessons from him, Peter."

"Whatever."

"I'm serious. You'll be an adult soon. You need to learn responsibility and-"

The sound of the door made her shut the fuck up. I'd never been happier to hear that bell. It only made it better that I knew it was going to be Patrick on the other side of it. I glanced down at my outfit. Suddenly feeling like I should have put more effort into it. Patrick wasn't going to be impressed with my black skinny jeans and 'Bassist are good with their fingers' T-shirt.

"I'm Mr. Stump. Pete and Brendon's teacher." I heard him telling my mother.

"Are you here regarding Peter or Brendon?"

"Peter."

She sighed loudly. "What did he do?"

I rolled my eyes. Of course my mother assumed I was in trouble if a teacher came to the house. Because there was no way I could have done anything good. I snorted. She had a right to think that way though. The last time a teacher came to our house, it was because my parents had to pay five thousand dollars for damages done to the art room. Which, in hindsight, wasn't fair. Because I wasn't the only one in the room with red hands. Like literal red hands. The guys and I thought it would be funny to dip our hands in paint and slap it around the room. Which, in hindsight again, wasn't a smart idea. It made it easier to get caught when your finger prints were all over the wall.

"He didn't do anything. I'm here to pick him up for tutoring."

"Tutoring?" My mother repeated in shock.

"Pete didn't tell you?"

"No. He didn't." There was a pause before I heard my mother say, "Come on in. Peter's in the kitchen."

"Thank you, ma'am."

I rushed to sit down at the island. My phone in my hands to make it seem like I was busy doing something. And not just standing around waiting for Patrick to come pick me up. I heard them entering the kitchen. My mother's loud heels clicking and Patrick's quiet footsteps. I didn't look up from the screen of my phone even though I felt them staring at me.

"Peter!" My mother snapped my name like the drill sargent she was.

"Whaaaaat?" I whined. Maintaining my bored expression as I looked up at them.

"Why didn't you tell me you were scheduled for tutoring with your teacher today?" I shrugged. She sighed dramatically. "Well, at least you're getting the help you so desperately need."

"Thanks, mom." I muttered.

"We've just been really concerned about his grades lately. I'm glad you could convince him to get help, Mr. Stump."

His eyes connected with mine. "It'll be a pleasure to help your son."

"Really?"

"Really." Patrick smiled.

My mother smiled too. "Do you think you would mind sitting here for a while?"

"We-"

"Just until his father gets home. I'd love for him to meet the teacher who finally convinced Peter to get help."

No. No. No. No.

"Sure." He walked around and took the seat next to me. Sitting his dorky, little messenger bag on the table in front of us. "We could just get started here." He dug into the bag and pulled out what I recognized as the assignments rubric.

"I'll just be in the sitting room." My mother pointed towards the area as she clicked out of the kitchen in those annoying heels.

Patrick slipped his laptop from the bag and sat it in front of us. Turning it on. "Do you understand the rubric I handed out?"

"Sure." I shrugged. It was simple enough.

"How were you planning on starting your essay?" He placed his hand on my knee as he spoke.

I glanced at his hand before looking at his face. "I'm not sure."

"You can start it with a question. Like, Who am I?" His hand slid up my knee to the middle of my thigh. "Or something less straight to the point."

"L-Like what?"

"You're the amazing writer." His fingers rubbed against my jeans softly. "You tell me."

"Patrick?" I almost squeaked.

"Mr. Stump." He corrected with a smile.

"I-I could start it some sort of generalized statement."

Patrick continued to move his hand on my thigh. I squirmed slightly in the seat. Trying to shift to a more comfortable position. But nothing was helping. I could feel my jeans becoming tighter against his hand.

"That's such a good idea, Pete." I almost broke out in sobs when he raised his hand even higher. His fingers grazing against me through the jean material. "Such a good idea."

"Than-Thank you."

"What kind of statement?"

"I-"

He flattened his palm against me, rubbing soft circles with his soft hand. I opened my mouth to reply but only a pathetic whimper came out. Patrick lifted his hand and I was able to breathe again. Until he began using his pointer finger to trace lines up and down the hardest part of my pants. I choked.

"Pete? He glanced at me in innocent concern. As if he didn't know what his hand was doing under the table.

"P-Please stop." I whispered. How embarrassing would it be if I had to go upstairs and change my pants?

"You want me to stop?" His eyes widened in muffled surprise.

I only nodded. Patrick pulled his hand away from me and sat it in his own lap. My hips involuntarily twisted upward in search for the contact it'd just lost.

Patrick continued talking about the assignment. I nodded and mumbled my okays and I don't knows when I thought I needed to. But I wasn't paying attention to anything he was saying. I was too focused on his hand. The one resting on his thigh. The one that was responsible for the uncomfortable tightness in my jeans. I shifted again in my seat, thinking about it. Patrick's eyes darted towards me knowingly before turning back to the computer.

"Patrick?" I whispered his name.

He turned his head towards me. A bored expression trained on his flawless face. "It's, Mr-"

I pushed my mouth onto his. I heard him gasp against me before kissing back. Hard. Just as quickly as I took control, I lost it. Patrick's hand returned to my lower half. Only this time he was messing with the button to my jeans. My stomach sucked in as his fingers began sliding down. We were all harsh breaths and frantic hands. So close to the skin to skin contact I was craving.

"Oh, Peter!" My mother's voice called out. Her heels clicking against the floors.

Total boner killer.

Patrick pulled his hand out of my pants and turned away from me. I quickly buttoned them up with shaking hands. Just as my father and mother walked into the kitchen.

"Peter, are you alright?" He looked over my flushed skin and uneven breathing. I was probably shaking too.

"I'm fine."

He nodded and turned to Patrick. "And you must be Mr. Stump."

"Right you are." He stood up and smiled easily. He didn't look flustered at all. I wanted to punch him.

"It's great to meet you." My father held our his right hand.

"You too, sir." Patrick clasped his hand in his. The same hand he'd just had you know where was now touching my dad.

How fucking gross was that?!