Inspired vaguely by a spoiler pic for Tuesday's ep, but not based on any actual spoilers. Also inspired by Kurt Hummel being a professional hot piece of ass.

Living in New York isn't quite what Blaine had expected, honestly. For one, he'd always pictured a nice, small apartment for just him and Kurt (and maybe a dog, if he could convince Kurt), not a giant, wall-less loft with what felt like half of New Directions living in it in some sort of revolving order. Not that he was complaining about being able to live with both his boyfriend and his best friends, but it was weird going directly from talking about Star Wars at dinner with Sam and Artie to seeing stars with Kurt in their bedroom with only a thin, not-very-soundproof sheet separating them. He'd also never expected to be friends with anyone named Starchild, but really, can anyone ever expect that?

Even though it wasn't meshing exactly with his fantasies, Blaine had to admit he was still enjoying his life in the city, especially on the mornings when he and Kurt were the last two left in the loft. They could roll out of bed whenever they liked without worrying about Santana or Rachel stealing all the hot water or Sam and Artie getting into a loud spat over who gets the last bowl of cereal in the kitchen, and instead just lounge around with each other. They even had a routine: Blaine would get up and start fixing pancakes as Kurt made the bed, and by the time Blaine was serving up their breakfast onto some plates, Kurt would have two cups of coffee piping hot and ready to go from their Keurig. (Blaine had almost cried when he opened that graduation gift from his parents.)

"Morning, baby!" he called out cheerfully as he saw Kurt enter the kitchen in his peripherals, focusing on shaping one stubborn pancake into a perfect heart form like the rest. When he looked up again, he almost dropped his spatula onto the gas flame of their old stove.

Kurt was wearing nothing but his tiny lavender briefs and yawning as he fiddled with the coffeemaker, putting in a mocha-flavored cup for himself and centering his cream-colored mug beneath the spout. His hair was mussed from sleep (and from Blaine pulling on it a little last night, if he was being totally honest), and his skin was flushed a light, pretty pink. His tattoo stood out stark against his shoulderblades, and Blaine felt his knees almost give out beneath him at the sight. "G'morning, B," he said sleepily, ducking his head slightly and hiding another yawn cutely behind his hand. "B?...Blaine," he said when Blaine didn't respond after a moment.

"Guh- hello," Blaine said dumbly. "Hi."

"I think we established that you're greeting me, Blaine," Kurt said, expression caught somewhere between wryness and concern. "Did I actually fuck your brains out last night?"

"Well excuse me for getting a little distracted when my gorgeous fiance walks into our kitchen wearing nothing but sex hair and his underwear," Blaine said. "God, you really are more comfortable in New York."

"I assure you, I didn't normally hang out in just my skivvies when it was only me and the girls here," Kurt said, getting a mischievous look on his face. "Then we usually hung out naked. You boys are really cramping our sty- oof!" He was cut off by Blaine practically hurling himself across the small kitchen and kissing him hard, not wasting a second before adding some tongue.

"Liar. If you'd seen Santana naked I would've seen your head explode from Ohio," Blaine said when they had to break for air, smirking.

"I'm not the one who had to run away from my friends talking about boobs, Anderson," Kurt said, smirking right back. "Just wait until Santana and Rachel's mutual PMS cycle hits. You'll be hiding under our bed and crying within a day."

"Right now I'd rather be in our bed making you cry my name," Blaine said, grabbing Kurt's hand and walking them back to their bedroom. "It'd be nice if we didn't have to leave it for any reason today, either."

"God, it's so easy to get you going," Kurt said, almost moaning the last few words as Blaine starting kissing his neck and laying him down on their bed.

"Likewise," Blaine said, his last coherent phrase until the simultaneous occurrence of the smoke alarm going off and Santana coming home. ("Baby gays, the phrase is 'steam up the place,' not 'smoke out your roommates.' Oh my God, were you really making heart-shaped pancakes? That's so adorable that I think I'm going to be physically sick." "Shut up and help us air out the loft, Satan.")