author's notes: haha, this is probably the weirdest and fastest (and filthiest) thing i've ever written, but your reaction has been crazy and overwhelming! super special thanks to spuffina for never failing to inspire me :) STORY IS NOW COMPLETE!


FORBIDDEN;;

chapter 3


They kiss and none of it matters anymore.

Not the stupid drunken night that sealed their bond, not the stolen moment in a classroom that never should have happened.

Not the fight.

.

"You're leaving?" he storms into the classroom, Nick's words having left behind a stabbing sensation in his chest – Mr Anderson's leaving, he got a job offer at another school – and he didn't listen because he didn't believe it, only he did hear it and the words sank in deeper every step he took, every step that drew him closer to Blaine.

Blaine startles and seems trapped somehow, a deer caught in headlights, giving him enough indication that Nick had been right. "Yes," Blaine schools his voice, gathering his papers together in a folder, doing what he can to sound unaffected. "There are plenty of other private schools that'll take me."

The indifference kills him, a bitter taste in his mouth and he won't hear it. He took steps after Blaine was avoiding him, what did Blaine expect him to do now?

"You mean other schools where you can fuck your students," he spits, fuelled by the anger in his veins, rattling his bones, an old ache resurfacing he thought he'd mended a long time ago.

Blaine's eyes go wide, struck by fear and confusion and pain, and he takes joy in it; he shouldn't be the only one who feels this, not like before. He was too young to shout at his mother, too naive to think his tears would be enough to bring her back, and he was an idiot to think sex would keep Navid close.

"Sebastian–"

"No," he interrupts. "No!"

He doesn't hold back, he doesn't care who hears, Blaine won't get away with this, not like his mother, not like Navid, because now there's tears in his eyes for a teacher who crossed the line. It's ridiculous but he thinks he–he loves Blaine.

"People always do this," he says. "People always leave. And they don't come back. Not ever."

Blaine rounds his desk but keeps a respectful distance, doesn't push into his personal space now that he's laid open raw. "Sebastian, I'm doing this for us." Blaine's voice is calm and composed and he doesn't need this, he doesn't need to be spoken to like a child. "I love it here, but I care about you too much–"

"Fuck you," he sneers. At least his mother had the decency to keep her feelings out of the equation, to up and leave with a hug and kiss to his forehead but no promise to ever come back. "Fuck all of this. I don't need you!"

Blaine averts his eyes, staring down at the floor, accepting his words for truth and seemingly content with that. But that's not what he wants, he wants Blaine to fight for them. He wants Blaine to say.

"Good," Blaine says. "I never wanted you to need me."

Deep down he hears something different, how Blaine already needs him, how their sparse time together has tattooed itself into his skin, permanent ink on a rough surface.

"We can both move on," Blaine adds.

He can't move beyond this, he's stuck, on Blaine, on them, on these feelings fighting their way out of him, a spinning dive downward where he is the child waiting for his mother to come back, a teenager wanting to keep a boyfriend close, a barely adult in need of a teacher.

"Don't go," he says, legs taking off before the words are out, negating the distance, the indifference, the anger and the hurt–he's never felt more like the boy Blaine needed him to be.

Blaine backs up against the blackboard, chalk staining his clothes and hair white, and then his hands are on him, Blaine's at his waist holding him back and his on Blaine's face pulling him closer.

"Please, don't go," he chokes out, and he's asking for more than the danger, he's asking for Blaine's heart and soul, his body, the risk but most of all reciprocation. He doesn't want to be a boy at heart.

They kiss and there's nothing gentle about it, it's the hard crash of their mouths together, teeth scraping over lips, uncompromising, biting at tongues until they're both sucking and nipping, fingers leaving bruises, kisses marking territory, taking everything they can possibly get.

"I'll wait for you," Blaine pants against his lips. "I swear to you I'll wait."

A desperate whine from one of them, he's not sure who.

"But you have to try to move on," Blaine says.

He pulls back and looks into Blaine's eyes, feeling small even though he's taller.

"Date boys your age," Blaine urges. "Have fun."

"I can't–" he starts, but Blaine's fingers tighten at the small of his back, scratching, craving, and he's reminded that his teacher stands to lose the most.

He's not a child, no longer that naive, Blaine never had to explain.

If anyone found out about them it wouldn't matter that he consented, Blaine would be labelled a child molester should anyone take it to court and what he did would be considered statutory rape, ugly words, disgusting words to describe anything that happened between them.

So maybe he can do this, try at the very least, for both of them.

"Okay," he consents, even though he doesn't want to, but he lacks the patience to do this right, to wait, he's never been good at waiting, a mother quickly replaced by an absence he carries with him, a boyfriend replaced with nameless lovers. Blaine replaced by–by who? What will he do for three months?

They release each other tentatively, reluctant to let the separation take hold already, but it's a school day and they could easily be caught any moment. So he lets go of Blaine, bats the chalk off his clothes and leans back against the desk, silent as Blaine packs his last boxes together.

Blaine passes him on his way to the door without a word, but he needs to say it.

"I'll see you in three months." He swallows hard, staring up at Blaine with a world of expectation. "Right?"

Blaine takes a deep breath, and sighs, as if his hope fills him with a sadness that'll bleed through in his answer. "You will," Blaine says, and despite the melancholy note he feels relieved.

Unlike his mother, unlike his ex, he actually believes Blaine.

.

They kiss and nothing matters, not the boys who filled his nights after Blaine left, Eli and Brad and some twink whose name he forgets–all boys his age like Blaine told him, but none of them enough, none of them experienced but most importantly none of them Blaine.

Blaine forgives him for it, feels almost thankful in a way, that he considered his saner options, and he thinks he should have told Blaine before he left–he should have said it was love as much as it was lust.

.

"I didn't think you'd show," Sebastian's voice sounds behind him and he's missed it, the low cadence of a voice matured a few years before, still straining in some places, but he doesn't think that'll change in years to come.

He turns around, taking in Sebastian's body for the first time in three months–he's casually dressed in a t-shirt and a hoodie, some washed-out jeans. It's a Tuesday, the party over before midnight because there are classes in the morning, but Sebastian had stayed behind.

"I almost didn't," he says, and casts down his eyes. "Didn't want to make you feel–"

Sebastian takes a step closer. "Cheap?"

The word has a fear attached to it, that it's exactly how he's making Sebastian feel, that it looks like he came here for sex and nothing more, for a physical relationship no longer illegal.

"Not the word I would've used," he answers, even though it's as apt a term as any. There's the word used, or the phrase taken for granted or a convenient fuck maybe. But that's not why he's here, he knew that months ago, he's here because he's curious, if the feelings are the same, if it wasn't the danger of it all that had drawn him closer before.

But looking at Sebastian now he thinks no, it was the Sebastian-ness of it all, the cockyness and maybe the flirting a little, the long legs and the dazzling smile, the smarts and the jokes. Not his age.

He holds out the present he wrapped before he ever even considered leaving. "Happy birthday."

Sebastian's eyes narrow. "I don't really do all this sentimental stuff."

He chuckles, not because he particularly disbelieves Sebastian, but because it's really the little things that keep tempting him closer. He thinks they could be good for each other.

"Well, I do," he says, stretching his arm out further.

Sebastian seems apprehensive for another two seconds, and he's struck by a lightning fear that maybe he did something wrong, maybe he read it wrong after all, maybe Sebastian doesn't do the sentimental stuff because he doesn't want their relationship to go beyond the physical. It's silly, because his fear that Sebastian thinks that about him is far greater and now he knows what it must feel like to be on the other side of this. He doesn't want to feel cheap.

"Alright," Sebastian's reply soothes the fear, but only mildly, as he unwraps his present. The paper gives and reveals a book: Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut.

Sebastian looks up, surprise coloring his green eyes.

"I always like to keep an untouched copy of my favorite book around," he explains.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a smile creeps to both corners of Sebastian's mouth. He narrows his eyes on him curiously. "You shouldn't know this about me," Sebastian says.

"I'm very observant," he notes, smiling, remembering all the times he watched Sebastian leafing through his copy, every other page dog-eared, his favorite passages marked in different colors depending on the spacing, the title on the spine worn illegible.

Sebastian stares down at the book, quietly appreciative of the book cover.

The clock strikes twelve.

One day. He's been eighteen for one day.

"Let's go to your place," Sebastian says suddenly, breaking through the silence with a suggestion that sounds dangerous all over again.

"Sebastian–" He sighs, disappointed. He only came here for Sebastian's birthday, it somehow felt disrespectful not to at least show up, but his return never implied them having sex.

Sebastian takes a step closer, playing with his personal space. "It's my birthday," Sebastian says. "And I've missed you." Sebastian draws in a deep breath, tempering his disappointment by showing this kind of maturity again. "I want to know what you've been doing."

He blinks, eyes catching on the beauty spots on Sebastian's neck. "Okay," he breathes.

.

They kiss and it all matters, every glance, every daydream, every crazy fantasy, the first time their bodies touched and their first kiss.

Their first real talk.

.

It's close to four in the morning before their conversation dies out, neither of them tired, alive with the electricity crackling between them, the playing field wide open now, no sin tempting them closer together.

But they are tempted.

He doesn't know who makes the first move, he thinks at one point they just looked at each other and knew that it was more, that everything that came before had meant something even if it had been wrong, and then they're kissing and fuck it all, it's never felt more right.

It's all tongues, everywhere, and he licks a line behind Sebastian's ear, greedy love bites on beauty spotted skin and Sebastian's throat reverberating against his lips with a moan. He reaches down a hand and palms over Sebastian's crotch, already hard for him.

Sebastian grabs his wrist. "No," he says.

He pulls back, lips tingling, realizing Sebastian isn't saying no to him, to what they're about to do, but he has something else in mind. "What do you–" He swallows hard, ready for about anything. "What do you want?"

Sebastian strokes a hot palm over his neck. "I wanna fuck you," he says, voice dipping another octave and at this point he doesn't care what they do, he's ready to relinquish control completely. "Please, Blaine," Sebastian begs when his answer doesn't come immediately, rutting his cock against his leg.

"Yes," he breathes, letting Sebastian's teeth worry his skin now. "Yes."

Before they know it they're stumbling into the bedroom, a quick detour to the bedside drawer for supplies, clothes peeled off like secret whispers, hushed breaths and the violent press of touches. It's hurried and he keeps having to remind himself they have all the time in the world, they're not hiding anymore, but Sebastian's fingers are thumbing his nipples, teeth scraping over his skin and he loves how it walks the line between pleasure and pain, desperation and pure need.

He's on his back on the bed and everything's Sebastian's hands, scalding palms and fingernails, touches that could leave bruises, their cocks hard between their bodies. And then Sebastian's squatting between his open legs, his legs thrown over Sebastian's thighs–and Sebastian starts jerking himself off. He can't will his eyes away, his lips part and his own cock twitches, painfully unattended, Sebastian moaning along with every tantalizingly slow stroke of his own hand.

His legs tighten around Sebastian's thighs, he feels his balls draw up, getting harder by the second, cock throbbing. "Sebastian," he calls, stretching out a hand but Sebastian's just out of reach.

Sebastian looks down at him, a hand on one of his knees but the other only touching himself; he holds up his hand, a trickle of spit down on his palm before he applies it to his erection again. A shiver runs down his spine at the sight of it and he thinks that Sebastian's doing this for him, he's putting on a show, maybe even as payback for making him wait so long.

"You like that, don't you?" Sebastian asks, voice strained, and he nods, because yes, yes, he likes it down and dirty, uncompromising, bodily fluids mixing and the urge to act on something that's purely primal, instinctual, something he so rarely gives control to.

He releases a loud whimper, vocal chords losing function when Sebastian finally touches him, his finger tracing a circle around his hole, pad flat across and another circle and he clenches down, grasping at air. "F-fuck, Sebastian, stop teasing." He shakes all over, his ribs hurting from the way his body's coiling with desire. "Jesus, just–please."

But Sebastian still takes his time, grabs the lube and takes forever to slick up his fingers, pushes in knuckle by knuckle, caressing inside, working his ass open at a maddening pace.

"Fuck me, Sebastian," he says, hands assaulting the sheets. He squirms in Sebastian's lap, fucking himself down on the three fingers driving into his ass, his bearings lost, there's only the steady push and pull of Sebastian's fingers.

"You want my cock, Blaine?" Sebastian asks, curling his fingers inside his ass, tips brushing his prostate and he can see the bead of precome leaking from his hard-on. He throws his head back, reluctant to touch himself because he wants it to be Sebastian, but it's so difficult, temptation coaxing him closer. "God, you're so fucking hot like this," Sebastian moans, lining his cock up with his ass and teasing his tip over his hole.

"Sebastian, I need you," he gasps breathlessly, losing all sense of the world when Sebastian pushes inside, something between them becoming heavier, more real, more emotional as Sebastian bottoms out in one hard stroke, pain clawing at his ass from the stretch around Sebastian's cock. "Move," he breathes, "Just fuck me."

And Sebastian's anything but gentle, sets a ruthless pace but they get lost in it, lost in each other, drops of sweat down his face and the almost sick slap of their skins meeting with every thrust. He wants to grab his cock so badly, he's so wound up he's about to snap, but he needs Sebastian's hand.

"Sebastian, t-touch me," he stutters. "Touch me before I–ahh!" and then he's spilling without warning, without help, feeling come splat on his chest, the tip of his cock palpitating in synch with every shudder in his groin. He's making noises he never has, his orgasm overwhelming and taking him by surprise.

"Fuck, Blaine." Sebastian kneads at his sides, still fucking his ass, eyes never leaving his even though his pent-up release tempts him.

"Come for me, baby," he pleads, stroking his balls and his cock because he's not completely there yet, he's still hard, still wanting, he needs Sebastian to come in his ass. He thinks it's the endearment that does it, a nickname he'll use over and over, because he's never letting Sebastian go, he'll never leave again.

And Sebastian shakes all over, body straining and then thrashing, a few more thrusts inside his ass before he comes hard, crying out his name. He fists his cock, squeezing at the base and twists his hand up at the tip, shuddering when he comes, eyesight gone for seconds, feeling his own come hit his chin.

He grunts another few jitters, cock going limp and spent, Sebastian staring down at him with parted lips. "You're flawless," he breathes, and before he recaptures the meaning of words Sebastian's leaning down, tongue darting out, licking a long hot line through the semen on his chest. His fingers twist in Sebastian's hair, tighten, unclench, Sebastian lapping up every drop of come. Yes, he does like this, the thought of himself in Sebastian's mouth, the thought of Sebastian dripping out of his ass.

Sebastian raises himself up, hovers over him, breathing hard, lips swollen and smeared, his green eyes alight with–with love. And God, does he love Sebastian too. He wants it all with Sebastian, the intimacy and the sex, and maybe even a little bit of heartbreak, because that's part of it, it's part of them.

He reaches both his hands up for Sebastian, pulling him down. Sebastian's face settles in the crook of his neck, his legs twist higher around Sebastian's waist, and they lie there, sated, silent, entangled, a mass of bodies becoming one.

"I'm sorry," Sebastian mutters, a shudder running through his body, and he knows Sebastian apologizes for everything, for the temptation, for allowing him to sin, for being this boy in his presence.

"I know," he whispers, carding a hand through Sebastian's hair. He forces Sebastian up by his shoulders. "I'm sorry too," he says. He apologizes for more things than his mind can encompass.

Sebastian leans in and presses his lips to his.

They kiss, and none of it matters anymore.


#

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