Hello,

So, yeah, I need to just stay away from the Glee Kink Meme...sooooooo many stories I wanna write! This one caught my interest because of the lovely angst potential :) Be advised, because this is a kink meme fill, the rating is going to go up. Prompt is as follows (paraphrased):

In the future, Sebastian comes back into Kurt and Blaine's lives. He's still after Blaine, but Blaine tells him he's still very much in love with Kurt and not interested. So, Sebastian proposes a polyamorous relationship...and though Blaine says no, Kurt can tell he's intrigued by the idea. So Kurt agrees, but the phenomena of Fail!Blaine (unsurprisingly) extends to threesomes. Sebastian and Kurt are still just as bitter enemies as they ever were and one night when Blaine's away-shit goes down.

Kinks requested: Threesome relationship between Blaine/Kurt/Sebastian, possible double penetration. Lots of angst and hurt/comfort, as well.

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the rightful owners of all recognizable characters and situations herein. Please don't sue me.

He'd known.

He'd known it was all going to go wrong. It was always going to end terribly, and it was always going to be him getting the short end of the stick. He's seen this trainwreck coming since the very beginning, and he's done absolutely nothing to stop it. He'd known. So really, who does he have to blame but himself?

He sits on the floor in front of the bed—always the bed in his mind now, never their bed-unable to even bring himself to crawl up onto the mattress. He can't. He physically cannot make himself touch anything that's been sullied by his presence. Not now.

He's been sitting there for close to an hour now, just staring blankly at the bedroom door. For the first half hour, there had been a cacophony of noise from the kitchen—pots and pans crashing together, glasses rattling, the blast of some football game or another on the television Kurt graciously allowed to be kept on the counter by the fridge. And over it all a steady stream of profanity in English, French, Spanish, and what Kurt is pretty sure was German. After the fifth shouted suggestion that Kurt go fuck himself with something sharp and preferably covered in sandpaper, he'd stopped paying attention.

There's a nearly empty bottle of wine sitting between his legs, the soft golden glow of the bedroom lamps turning its deep green glass almost black. He doesn't even remember why it's in the bedroom instead of on the wine rack in the dining room…he knows he didn't bring it in here. With a shaking hand, he raises it to his lips yet again and takes an indelicate swig. It'd been nearly three quarters full when he started.

He doesn't like it…he prefers something crisp and sweet when he does drink. This is dry and somehow heavy, bitter on his tongue. It's one of those musky, expensive reds that he hates and they both love, and isn't that just the story of his life now? A grim, broken laugh erupts from him at what he's been reduced to—collapsed in a heap on his bedroom floor getting steadily drunk on wine he hates.

He needs the distraction, though. He needs the fuzzy disconnect the alcohol is blanketing his mind with, needs the fucking distance it'll give him. He needs a night of just pure oblivion—no thoughts chasing themselves in circles, no dreams, no memories of just how badly things have gotten screwed up. The shaking in his hands gets worse, and his lips tremble as he takes another drink. His eyes are burning and he can barely swallow around the lump in his throat.

He startled out of his thoughts by a pounding on the door. He hasn't heard anything from out in the apartment for a while now…honestly, he thought the other occupant had left. The door handle jiggles a few times, and there is a frustrated sigh when the man on the other side of the door realizes Kurt has locked it.

"Really, Hummel? Locking yourself in your room like a little girl?" He has never hated anything so intensely as he hates that voice right now. It grates on his ears as it never has before. He knows the other is expecting him to throw open the door and unleash a torrent of insults and verbal jabs. It's how this dance goes between them, how it's gone since the day they met.

Instead he just sets the bottle down, draws his knees to his chest and buries his face against them. He can't. He can't take anymore. He's felt like he's living in the middle of a warzone for almost a year now, and he just cannot keep fighting. He's so tired of fighting, feeling like he's always clawing for scraps of peace and happiness in the one place where he shouldn't have to.

"Jesus, how long are you planning on pitching this fit? Like, should I go put in a movie, or am I actually gonna be able to go to bed tonight?"

He presses his face tighter against his knees, biting down on his lip as the stinging in his eyes gets worse. He swallows against the fresh wave of tears, tries to marshal the reserves that have let him get through more years of hell than anyone his age should have to experience with his head held high, but oh it feels like there's nothing left. The door handle rattles again.

"Seriously, Princess…you're not slitting your wrists in there or something, are you?" For a brief instant, Kurt almost thinks he hears something different in the tone of the words. If it were anyone else on the other side of the door, he might actually call it concern.

"Kurt? Hey…you wanna give me a signal here you're okay?"

Kurt's head snaps up, and the grief choking him is abruptly replaced by total, incandescent rage. No. No, he does not get to act like he gives a damn about Kurt. He doesn't get to pretend that whether or not Kurt is 'okay' matters one goddamn whit to him…not when it never has before. His breath is suddenly coming in harsh pants, and his hand has curled around the neck of the bottle without conscious thought on his part.

He flings it with all his might, and it shatters upon impact…right at the height where that bastard's smirking, ferret-like face is. The glass rains down on the deep, cream-colored carpet he'd insisted on for the bedroom. The little bit of wine left in the bottom splatters on the door, running down in ruby-colored rivulets to stain the carpet, and tomorrow he'll curse his stupidity, moan about the difficulty of getting such a stain out.

Right now, though, all he can feel is grim satisfaction at the startled shout the crash elicits. He pushes his face back against his knees as the pounding on the door starts up again, punctuated with loud demands for Kurt to open the door. He ignores them. He knows he'll have to unlock the door eventually, have to force himself to pretend he didn't have a complete and total breakdown tonight. Blaine will be home in the morning, and Kurt will have to put his mask back on, hide any hint that there is anything wrong.

For the moment, though, all he can do is sit here and wish with every fiber of his being that Sebastian fucking Smythe had never come back into their lives.