The morning after, waking up feels like being born. Kurt has to force himself up through the deep dark weight of sleep to stir against the decadently soft mattress and the warm drape of the sheets. The curtains are thick, and the light peeking through the thin slit where they don't quite meet is too bright and jars. Kurt squints and reaches blindly across the wide king-sized mattress to find Blaine. The bed is so big, they could plant a flag and claim it as a new country. As he reaches and scootches upon his belly, there's a comfortable ache in his muscles. Kurt smiles as his hand meets the smooth warmth of Blaine's shoulder. "There you are," Kurt says, fitting his fingers to the shape of it and squeezing.

"Mmph," Blaine replies, and his hand comes, warm and heavy, to lie upon Kurt's.

Kurt lifts up to his elbows, drags himself toward Blaine. A morning kiss is his intention, but his body is leaden and clumsy with sleep and fatigue, and his eyes haven't adjusted to the stark slash of light in the dark. It ends up less a kiss than an artless mashing of his lips against Blaine's face. The muscles of Blaine's cheek bunch beneath Kurt's lips as Blaine smiles.

"Mmph," Kurt says in emphatic agreement against Blaine's skin.

"G'morning," Blaine says. He turns his head, finds Kurt's lips with his own, and his his bottom lip nudges soft beneath Kurt's.

The kiss is sluggish and tinged with stale morning breath, but it doesn't stop Kurt from opening his mouth against Blaine's for a slow, wet taste of him. He slides his hand down to Blaine's supple belly, taking the sheet with it. Blaine sucks in a deep breath and Kurt feels his pulse answer, heavy between his legs. He chuckles into the kiss, incredulous that his body can still want more after last night. He's tender and sore, and he doesn't think he'll be able to withstand much friction on his cock, so with a reluctant grunt, he breaks the kiss, pushes up, and crawls over Blaine to get off the bed.

"What's funny?" Blaine asks, his hands grasping at Kurt as Kurt gets his feet steady beneath him.

"My dick," Kurt replies.

"Hmm. Funny's not the word I'd use for it," Blaine says, his fingertips lazily trailing down the curve of Kurt's backside and off as Kurt moves out of reach toward the window.

Kurt shivers in the dry air conditioning as he reaches for the curtains. Sunlight floods in; the heat of it welcome. In a moment of immodesty (Who's really going to be looking up into this window anyway?) Kurt closes his eyes and lets his skin absorb it. He needs to order some coffee and breakfast. His stomach is already making an inquisitive growl, and his head is muzzy and tired. Before they went to sleep last night, Kurt should have filled out the breakfast card and hung it on the doorknob. Or, he supposes, they could get dressed and go to the buffet downstairs, but Kurt doesn't think he can bring himself to leave the room yet, let alone put on clothes. He touches himself just below his sternum, rubs his fingers against his bare skin, feels the traces of dried semen rough beneath his touch. Doesn't know if it's his or Blaine's. He kind of loves it, though he knows his skin won't.

"Nice view." Blaine says from behind him.

Kurt turns with a smile, and he opens his eyes.

The clean morning sun paints Blaine in high contrast. His tawny skin is luminous as Blaine stretches; his sleep-mussed, curling hair and morning stubble are dark; and his thick lashes frame the washed out golden glow of his eyes. The white sheet, low on Blaine's waist, is a translucent tent over his morning erection; Kurt can see the shape of it, like a shadow, through the fine cotton. With an arm bent up above his head, the other draped across his belly, and one leg cocked to the side; Blaine looks the epitome of invitation. "It is," Kurt agrees, and inspiration seizes him. "Don't move."

He retrieves his phone from the wide dresser and goes back to face Blaine. He taps through to his camera app; Blaine doesn't move or protest, or even offer a wider smile. However, his gaze does meet the camera, somehow leonine the way it's lit by the sun and contains such patient intensity. Kurt feels a rush of warmth that has nothing to do with the sunbeams hitting his back. Kurt takes the photo: he never wants to forget this.

Kurt lowers his phone, looks at Blaine, and can't breathe. His insides are twisting up giddy, and he feels the prickle of blood across his cheeks and chest. He glances down at his phone, sees the photo. There, vitrified in bright pixels behind the glossy display, is Blaine, relaxed, sensual, and desiring: so exposed and naked beyond flesh. Kurt has taken photos before, of Blaine, but nothing like this. This is something new and different: private. Seeing a moment of their intimacy frozen, transported into bits and bytes? Kurt lets out a shuddering breath. Blaine still hasn't moved or said anything, like he's still heeding Kurt's request.

"Um," Kurt says and looks back up at Blaine. "May I take more?" he asks. "Just for me—or for us. I won't leave them on my phone. I'll—"

"Go ahead," Blaine says, his voice soft as the sheets on the bed. "Do you want me to pose? Or do anything...?"

Kurt shakes his head. "No, it's just you and the light. You're beautiful. I want to remember."

"Okay," Blaine says, and he remains lax and motionless against the bedding, gazing at Kurt through the camera lens, so warm and open.

Kurt steps closer, takes more photos. Zooms in and frames Blaine's face and shoulders. Goes lower, frames his torso, and lower again to the tempting drape of the sheet over his hips, his cock, the splay of his legs. A cloud shifts the sunlight into pale and silver, resolves the images into something cooler and blunted. Kurt keeps taking photos. Isn't sure how many he's done. But when his knees meet the edge of the mattress, he tosses the phone aside onto the bed and reaches for the sheet to slide it down farther, so he can see, without the mediation of the lens or the tease of the sheet, Blaine's cock.

Kurt gets up on the bed, one knee between Blaine's thighs, the other just on the edge of the mattress. He knows he's staring; he swallows hard, hungering for a taste, for the scent and texture and weight of Blaine's cock in his mouth. And, god, it's far from the first time he's seen, or touched, or tasted Blaine's cock, so why is his hand trembling when he reaches down to wrap his hand loosely around its silken heat? Maybe it will always startle him a little bit sometimes: that not only can he want this, but also he can have it.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks.

"I really want to blow you," Kurt says quietly, he doesn't lift his gaze from his hand around Blaine. He squeezes and slides his hand, feels the steel pulse beneath the velvet skin.

"Yes. Kurt, that's— Yes." Blaine makes a shallow roll of his hips up into Kurt's grasp. "Whatever you want."

Kurt lets go of Blaine and shifts, settling down between Blaine's legs and taking his weight upon his elbows. He strokes Blaine's thighs lightly, the fine hair tickling his fingertips. On the inside of Blaine's left thigh he spies the vivid bruise he sucked there last night starting to change from red to purple. Fainter, smaller bruises are scattered across Blaine's hips. Kurt lifts up and leans in to nuzzle at Blaine's balls, inhaling the heady scent of Blaine here and parting his lips to pass a gust of breath across their soft weight. His fingers trace abstract patterns up Blaine's thighs, and one of Blaine's hands comes down to pet his hair. Kurt turns his head and presses his smile against the top of Blaine's thigh, flicks his gaze up to find Blaine's. Blaine's gaze is steady: hot and hooded. Kurt loves Blaine looking at him like that; he turns his head to show Blaine his smile, rubs his cheek against the tension in Blaine's muscles. "When we're living together, we'll be able to do this every morning," he says.

Blaine huffs a soft laugh.

"Well, maybe not every morning," Kurt says. "But a lot of them." He takes Blaine's cock back in one hand, lifts it and presses his lips against the tip, catches the slick smear of precome on his top lip. He doesn't break eye-contact with Blaine as his tongue comes out to follow his lips, a broad swipe over Blaine's cockhead, finishing with a flourish against his own top lip.

Blaine's hand tightens in his hair, pulling. His eyelashes flutter. "I could get used to this," Blaine says.

"I want you to," Kurt says, and licks again, using the pointed tip of his tongue to trace around the flared crown, flicking up into the sensitive notch on the underside, and making Blaine's eyes pinch shut as he bites down on a soft groan. But Kurt doesn't want to tease, so he tips forward, opens wide, and sucks Blaine's cock between his lips, curling his tongue around as he slides down. This, too, always startles Kurt, how huge Blaine feels in his mouth. He always feels bigger than Kurt's memory. It's always so much to take, to stretch his jaw open so far, feel the heavy pressure against his tongue. And then he's sunk down far enough that he hears Blaine panting and murmuring praise. He feels Blaine's cock nudging up against his soft palate, and he's breaking out in a sweat himself, struggling to take steady breaths through his nose. He refuses to gag this time. Kurt closes his eyes and stills for a moment. He concentrates on breathing, slow and steady, in and out. He sucks gently and tries to isolate the muscles he needs to relax.

Blaine is stroking his hair with careful fingers and saying his name as Kurt comes to understand how to open his throat. Gingerly he presses down. There's a a twinge, so he stops. It fades as he breathes through it. He sinks farther, just a little at a time, feels how his throat is stretching open for Blaine, how Blaine is sliding in, deeper and deeper, until Kurt is sliding his hand down to flatten it against Blaine's pubic bone, bracketing the root of Blaine's cock with his thumb and forefinger until Kurt's nose meets the back of his hand and he stops. Amazed and afraid to do anything to break his concentration, he worries that if he moves, he'll throw off the delicate truce he's made with his gag reflex. He's so grateful Blaine is keeping still.

"Oh my god, Kurt," Blaine mumbles, his other hand coming down to Kurt's hair, splaying both hands across Kurt's scalp. "Oh my god."

Kurt hums acknowledgment and tries to swallow the saliva that's flooding his mouth. It's weird and thick swallowing around Blaine, and it does nothing for the too much spit in his mouth; gravity is working against him. It's leaking out from the corners of his mouth. It feels obscene—he does—and that's... It's kind of fantastic. He swallows again, groans. Loves it. He fucking loves it.

"Oooh, fuck," Blaine says, and Kurt can feel the tension mounting in Blaine's body, realizes at least one of them is going to need to move soon. "Ah, Kurt, can you—?"

So Kurt moves, lifting up, feeling the drag of Blaine's cock raw and deep in his throat. He doesn't pull up far before he pushes back down. Blaine's hands clench in his hair, provide just a hint of impulse down. Not enough to force, but enough to encourage. When Kurt bottoms out, Blaine tugs up—a suggestion—and Kurt complies, lets Blaine guide him into a shallow, even rhythm.

"That's good, sweetheart. So good," Blaine says.

And that last letting go into Blaine's hands is the last permission Kurt needs to grant himself. He's simply here, where he is, where they are, doing this thing and loving the doing of it. That's all there is; his mind and body are wholly focused here and right now: his mind is clear. No anxiety simmers in the background; there are no questions of motive or implication.

"Your mouth... your fucking mouth," Blaine says. "So fucking sweet, Kurt."

Blaine brings him down faster, pulls him up a little farther, rocks up to meet the next downward pull. It's simple. Kurt moans his approval and meets Blaine's movements with growing confidence. The hand not at the base of Blaine's cock he shifts, skidding his elbow along so he can reach up to the bottom of Blaine's ribs, skimming light fingertips along the bottom arch of them, and then tripping up farther and reaching to glance across a nipple.

And then Blaine's voice breaks into incoherency, and his hips are stuttering out of tempo. Kurt sucks hard, presses Blaine's hips down, and drags his mouth up tight and slow as Blaine comes.

Kurt doesn't swallow. He seals his lips as he pulls off Blaine's cock, slides his tongue around his mouth, through the thick, salty mess.

"Kurt," Blaine says, his hands are catching Kurt behind his deltoids, pulling him up urgently. Kurt goes up, winces as the wet tip of his too sensitive cock grazes Blaine's belly. Blaine's leaning up to kiss him, open-mouthed, and Kurt lowers himself into the kiss; Blaine's semen runs down his tongue as Kurt shares it with Blaine. Blaine makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, and then fists one hand into Kurt's hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss, pressing up into Kurt's mouth, and greedily swiping his tongue across Kurt's.

When Blaine releases Kurt from the kiss, to collapse back into his pillows, he's breathless and wide-eyed, his lips glossy with spit and some of his own spunk. "That was..." he manages.

"Appropriate?" Kurt teases. It's barely audible: his voice is full of static. He clears his throat.

"For some values of propriety, maybe, but not any of the common ones," Blaine says, laughing softly. "That was incredible, Kurt." With one hand, he plays idly with Kurt's hair, gently rearranging it with his fingers. The other hand, Blaine slides down between them, reaching for Kurt's erection.

Kurt hisses a sharp breath as Blaine wraps his fingers around his dick too roughly given Kurt's present tenderness. It's not exactly bad though; Blaine's touch is enough to rouse a fresh surge of heat beneath Kurt's skin. Discomfort vies with desire. "Ah, wait a sec, Blaine," he says lifting his hips and pulling free of Blaine's grasp. He sits back on his heels.

"Kurt?" Blaine rubs his thigh.

"I'm a little sore," Kurt says. "I want to, Blaine. I really do, but—"

Blaine looks between Kurt's face and his cock thoughtfully. Then Blaine says, "Let's scoot up." Beckons Kurt to shuffle up his body. They both move until Blaine has shifted up against the pillows a little, leaning back against the headboard, and Kurt is straddling his hips.

"Blaine?"

"I have an idea," Blaine says, reaches for the lube on the nightstand. "Hold out your hand," he says. "Whichever one you prefer to jerk off with."

Kurt extends his left hand, palm up, and Blaine squirts a generous dollop of lube into his palm. "You can do this part," Blaine says, guiding Kurt's hand to his cock. "You know how much you can take."

Kurt gingerly folds his fingers around his shaft. The cool gel is soothing and there's plenty of it; it's a lot better like this. He keeps his grip loose, his touch light. "Okay," Kurt says, making smooth, slow strokes to adjust to the contact. Blaine squeezes out more gel onto the fingertips of one hand. Kurt's not sure what he has planned. "What are you—?"

"Is your ass sore?" Blaine asks.

"No, not at all, but..." Kurt doesn't know what words his brain thought were going to follow the 'but'.

"Do you trust me, Kurt?"

Of course he does. "Yes."

"I'm just. I'm going to give you a little bit more than last night? Not that much more, just a little, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt says, his voice going thin and high. It makes him sound nervous, but he's not nervous, not really.

"It'll be good, Kurt. I promise." Blaine has his dry hand on Kurt's ass, splaying across one cheek, the inside wrist of Blaine's other hand skims across his flank.

Kurt nods.

"Tell me if you want me to stop, all right?" He shivers as Blaine's pinky brushes the top of his cleft, lightly skating down between his buttocks. Blaine is looking up at him, holding his gaze, and Kurt cannot look away.

Kurt's heart is pounding, like it's trying to chip its way out through his breastbone—maybe he is a little nervous. Kurt makes himself breathe, and he nods again. Doesn't trust his voice. The hand not on his cock he's unsure what to do with. He reaches for the headboard and just holds on.

Warm and wet, Blaine's fingertips slip down into his cleft, three coming to rest across his anus: one nestled ever so slightly against the center, the other two just above and below. Kurt holds his dick in a still hand; he wants to feel what Blaine's doing to him without distracting himself. Blaine continues to gaze up at him, like he needs permission. Kurt nods again, makes himself say it, "Go ahead."

Blaine moves his hand, but he doesn't press in or push against like Kurt expects, instead he kind of rocks his hand, running his fingertips up and down, each one slipping over his entrance in a repeating succession: one, two, three, two one, two... It's a teasing ripple of sensation; Kurt's hand spasms, tightening around his dick. He bites his lip as he moans and tilts his ass back into Blaine's touch.

"Good?" Blaine asks.

"Yeah." Kurt tips his head back, closes his eyes.

"Tell me," Blaine says. "Tell me what you want, Kurt."

"More," Kurt says, which is awfully unspecific, so he forces more words out through lips that feel clumsy and numb and not at all like they're made for speaking. "Inside, touch me inside," he says.

The tip of Blaine's middle finger stops and presses in, but not enough to breach, just so Kurt can feel the pressure of it, feel the way his body can yield—the way it will. Blaine rubs at the tension, nudging in a little with minute movements, and the slight pressure gives way to that other feeling Kurt is coming to know, the bare sort of friction—unmistakable—of intrusion. And like before, it's not much—just Blaine's fingertip—but it dominates all of Kurt's awareness. The fingers not pressing inside are moving too, massaging the edge of his rim. Kurt is wholly focused there, like every cell in his body has reoriented itself, tuned into this singular small touch of Blaine's fingertips.

Kurt lifts his head, doesn't open his eyes, and lets his head fall forward, bowing his neck, remembering to breathe. "Oh...god," he says. Last night in the tub, things were less acute, muzzier, blended and smeared with so much heat and touch and emotion; the memory of it is like a dream this morning. But this is— This is something else: bright and stark in the morning sun, in Kurt's freshly awake but unguarded state, with too much lingering fatigue to resist much of anything or to think too much.

And then Blaine jiggles his fingertip, little crazy quick flicks, and Kurt's body snaps taut, his eyes come open as his spine arches. He swears, and his grip strips forward, coming off his cock, and he catches himself against Blaine's chest with one splayed and slippery hand. It's only his hand on the headboard that keeps him upright.

Blaine sighs an astonished sort of sound. "Sorry, wow," he says. "You're really sensitive."

Kurt catches his breath and regains his balance. He looks at Blaine looking back at him. Blaine's finger edges in deeper; Kurt shudders, pants through slack lips, and stares down into Blaine's eyes. He has a sudden, irrational urge to hide, but he can't, not when they're like this. Blaine's gaze is piercing him and pinning him just as surely as his touch. And Blaine presses farther, smoothly, gloriously in and in and in, and Kurt doesn't know when it's going to stop until it does, and it feels like a lot more than last night. His heartbeat hastens, his breaths come faster and shallow, and there's a terrible wave of heat cresting within his skull, like it's trying to scour out his consciousness. "I—" Kurt says. Then he closes his eyes. "Wait."

"Okay. Are you okay?" Blaine asks.

"I don't know," Kurt whispers.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"I don't know."

"Is it too much?"

"I don't know," Kurt feels a hot burn of tears gathering behind his closed eyelids. He doesn't open them.

"Kurt," Blaine says softly, sounding uncertain now himself. "Does it feel good?"

This one, Kurt can answer unequivocally and emphatically: "Yes."

"Are you?" Blaine pauses. "Are you scared?"

Kurt hesitates a moment with that one. He doesn't think he's scared; it's not fear. Not exactly. He doesn't want to confuse Blaine or damage his confidence. "No," he says. Even if it were fear, that's not a reason to give up or back down from something he does actually want.

"Can you look at me, please?" Blaine asks.

Kurt opens his eyes. Blaine's gaze is unshuttered: anxious, and achingly vulnerable: as vulnerable as Kurt feels. Kurt chokes on a sob that doesn't quite make it up from his chest. He feels like his heart is about to crack open. He blinks back the gritty heat of his tears, and Blaine reaches up with his free hand to touch Kurt's cheek. "Blaine," is all Kurt can say. He wants to reach down and touch Blaine's face, too, but the tremors in the elbow of the arm that's taking his weight against the headboard tell Kurt he still needs that support. His messy hand on Blaine's chest he slides up and over until he finds Blaine's heartbeat. He curls his fingers.

"What's going on?"

"It feels so good, Blaine, but I..."

Blaine's eyes narrow as he studies Kurt. When he speaks next it's gentle and sure. "This is okay, Kurt."

"I know," Kurt says, because he does know.

"You don't. Or at least not the way you should."

Kurt blinks at him.

"You're allowed to feel good, Kurt. You're allowed to have this. With me. And I want you to—so much, god. You have no idea, how much I want to do this for you."

And whether he wants to let it or not, Kurt imagines he can feel his heart cracking open. He takes a deep shaky breath, feels how steady and strong Blaine's heart is beneath his hand, sees the certainty in Blaine's gaze and the affection. There's no reproach; just love. "All right," Kurt says, and repeats more softly, "All right."

Blaine smiles. His hand drops from Kurt's face to his shoulder, caresses down to Kurt's heart. "I think this might work better if I'm behind you," he says.

Kurt nods. "Okay."

"Okay, so I'm just going to..." Blaine slowly withdraws his finger, and it seems to Kurt that his body wants to cling to Blaine's touch, the way the muscles spasm and clamp down. It feels empty once he's gone.

"You can stay like you are, unless you want to move," Blaine says. "But I need to get up." He pats Kurt's thigh, and they rearrange themselves so that Kurt is still kneeling, bent forward, and bracing himself against the headboard and Blaine is kneeling behind him, his hands stroking lightly down Kurt's back, coming to wrap around the sides of his waist and squeezing. "Okay?"

Kurt grins despite himself. Blaine's fussing is endearing. "Yes, Blaine, I'm fine."

"Can you put your hand back on your cock?" Blaine asks.

"I need more lube," Kurt says. Blaine hands it to him, and Kurt squeezes some into his sticky palm. Then he closes his fingers back around his cock. He's cooled down a little, not enough to lose his erection, but enough that he moves his hand straight away, strokes a little heat back into his balls.

He slows his hand when Blaine's hands return to him, Blaine's palm flat over one buttock, holding him open, and then the tips of two fingers, slick and cool are prodding against his hole.

Trepidation rushes up Kurt's spine. He does trust Blaine, but this feels like maybe they've fallen out of sync. Maybe Kurt implied something he didn't mean to before. So he has to ask. "Are you going to fuck me?"

Blaine sounds surprised when he answers quickly, "No." And then, after a pause. "Are you asking me to?"

Kurt shakes his head, says, "No." Doesn't think he could bear that right now, thinks it would break something else inside him. Something that maybe needs to be broken, but he can't do that right now. This is enough.

"Just try to relax."

Kurt tries, but Blaine is edging into him with two fingers, and Kurt feels the wonderful ache of that extra stretch. Blaine works his way in slowly, with short thrusts, gradually reaching deeper, and Kurt feels how his body is giving up resisting, how Blaine's able to move more and more easily into him and against him. And then Blaine's twisting his hand and curling his fingers down inside Kurt and grazing over what must be his prostate, and Kurt makes a loud noise that sounds like he's in pain even though it's the opposite of that.

"There?" Blaine asks. He squeezes Kurt's hip with his other hand as if to steady them both.

Kurt can only nod and push back onto Blaine's hand as his knees skate out wider.

That seems to be enough confirmation for Blaine, that's he's found what he's looking for. He drags his fingers over it, firm and slow and electric. Kurt feels the twinge of pleasure all the way up his cock, all the way up his spine, catching in his throat and making him gasp for air. He hasn't been able to get anything like an angle this good on himself. Kurt forces his eyes to stay open, looks down his body at his immobile hand holding onto his dick. It feels unnecessary, like a distraction, so Kurt lets go of it, wipes the lube off on his belly and reaches up to the headboard, holds on with both hands.

Now he can feel only what Blaine is doing to him. His head drops between his arms, and he pants, open mouthed, heedless of the noises he's making, gasps and groans and higher pitched, needy whines. He sees his cock, flushed and slick at the tip, bobbing with the effort of Kurt's breathing and with the way Blaine is starting to thrust more firmly into Kurt, pressing right there, and the friction of the slide is igniting a slow burn under Kurt's skin, setting a fire in every cell. And Kurt is feeling so fucking much. His cock is just there, untouched and dripping, but aching and fiercely hard: every time Blaine's touch presses and drags just so, it's like there's a live wire running up the length of it, and Blaine's fingertips are sending little pulses of electricity along it. But it's not just his cock, it's everywhere, like Blaine's rewiring his nerves, flicking a million tiny switches on, and Kurt's breaking out in a hot shivery sweat all over and saying, too loudly, "Oh... holy..."

"Are you going to come?" Blaine asks, sounding amazed.

"Yes," Kurt says. He pinches his eyes shut; he's sweating everywhere, and though he hardly believes it himself, he feels it, knows it's inevitable, his orgasm is starting a molten hot crawl up his spine, so slow and sweet but with the momentum of a freight train. "Just don't stop."

"No, Kurt," Blaine says. "I won't."

"Fuck me," Kurt says, "With your hand. The way you would if it were your cock."

"Yes, Kurt," Blaine says, breathless.

Blaine moves the hand on Kurt's hip up to his shoulder, tugs Kurt back and pushes him down until Kurt has to let go with one hand to plant it upon the mattress. His other arm, still clinging tight to the headboard is stretched up; Kurt feels the pull of it in his muscles all the way down his waist. "Like this?" Kurt asks. He flexes his spine, pressing back onto the movement of Blaine's fingers, taking them as deep as he can.

"Just like that," Blaine answers, pumping his fingers into Kurt, making longer, firmer strokes. "Perfect."

Kurt licks his dry lips. "Make me come, Blaine," he says.

"Yes, Kurt. I will."

Blaine's hand on his shoulder tightens, his short nails digging in, and his other hand speeds up, the heel of it audibly smacking against Kurt's ass. Kurt closes his eyes and imagines it's Blaine's cock. He knows it'll be radically different—Blaine's cock is big: thick and heavy; and it won't be agile like Blaine's fingers are, targeting their stroke right where it's perfectly incendiary. But Kurt pretends anyway, imagines each fantastic jolt of Blaine's hand into him is driven by Blaine's hips. Imagines the quick, strong thrusts shaking him apart are going to make Blaine come too.

But as his orgasm gathers, Kurt's imaginings devolve into nothing but a quiet marveling at his body, how it feels to be open like this for Blaine: how the push and pull and slap and jerk and breath and heartbeat is all coming together. Soon he's whispering Blaine's name urgently, with what little air he can scavenge from the needy drag of his lungs; and his orgasm is cresting over him, licking up his nerves, flaring bright and implacable, until Kurt can do nothing but succumb to to it.

Kurt lets go of the headboard and collapses to his elbows. One ends up in a wide wet splatter of his own semen, and Kurt has a moment of being so glad this isn't his bed. The amount of bodily fluids he and Blaine have spilled and smeared over it is truly prodigious, but Kurt's not going to feel guilty about that. He's not going to feel guilty about any of it; he's done with guilt.

Blaine's fingers slip out of him, and Kurt feels empty again, but not abandoned. He's warm and good. He smiles and hums as Blaine's arms come around him and Blaine's lips press against his spine. He feels the curve of Blaine's smile. Then he hears Blaine's stomach emit a loud, querulous growl of hunger. They both laugh.

"I'll order us some breakfast," Kurt says and pushes himself up to all fours. "After I wash my hands," he adds.

~

There's enough time before the food arrives that they both get through the shower. Getting dressed is a horribly unjust imposition, and Kurt resents the bright red numbers on the digital clock, counting down the last couple of hours until they'll have to check out. Blaine stands beside him in the bathroom, combing his hair back against his skull. It looks so severe and strange after these past hours of dishevelment. Kurt works product into his damp hair and reaches for his brush and hairdryer.

~

Breakfast is a lot of food: a generous basket of pastries (fruit danishes and croissants and buttery raisin brioche), another fruit platter with Greek yogurt, mountains of scrambled eggs, toast, hash browns, turkey sausage, grilled tomatoes, an extra large carafe of coffee, and orange juice. They eat all of it.

Kurt tosses his napkin onto his plate and asks Blaine, "So where do you want to go for lunch?"

~

Once they're packed and the room is tidy (Kurt strips the bed himself, to save housekeeping the trauma, though he's sure they've seen far worse), they still have twenty-three minutes left before they must leave, and Kurt doesn't want to leave one second sooner than that. Their bags are by the door, and Kurt is sprawled on the loveseat with Blaine lying upon him, head tucked into the shallow dip of Kurt's shoulder. Kurt strokes the fine, short hair at the nape of Blaine's neck. "Thank you," he says, and that's all he needs to say.