DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "Still" from Titanic: The Musical by Maury Yeston.
Warnings are: sleepy morning shower sex and use of toys.

Here, have some domestic Klaine with a side order of househusband!Blaine :)



The light in the bedroom is a dim milky gray when the shrill beeping of the alarm clock slices through the picture-perfect serenity. Underneath a mountain of covers Blaine groans, reaching over to slap the top of the clock and silence it. His eyes are heavy, slow in getting open, and it's with great difficulty that he sits up, letting the covers slide down to his waist.

Next to him Kurt makes a soft noise, rolling over and rustling the sheets, and Blaine allows himself a few moments of fond staring, taking in the bow of Kurt's slightly-parted lips, the way his hair falls in wisps around his forehead and his face lacks the lines he gets in the waking world. He looks beautiful—no, stunning, and, like every morning, Blaine is glad that this is the sight he gets to wake up to, just like he's glad that the heavy weight on his finger was put there by Kurt a little more than two years ago.

Kurt's alarm won't be going off for another hour so Blaine slides quietly out of bed, padding quickly into the kitchen to get the coffee going before tiptoeing back into their room to get to their en suite bathroom.

He turns the taps and shucks his boxers, wondering idly as he waits for the water to warm up what he wants to fix for breakfast today—they just had pancakes yesterday and French toast the day before that and he knows Kurt doesn't mind but Blaine hates repeating something in the same week. He tests the temperature of the water, still mulling over the merits of crepes versus omelets, and steps in, letting out a soft, pleased moan as the hot water works out the kinks in his back that he always gets from sleeping in their bed, yet another reminder that he's not as young as he once was. They've been wanting to invest in a new one for a few months now—a Tempurpedic, Blaine's hoping—but have had to keep pushing it off every month for one reason or another despite Kurt's recent success with his clothing line and his promotion at the magazine.

He's just about to reach for the shampoo, quickly ducking his head backwards under the stream to wash his hair back from his face, when the shower curtain rustles aside, metal hooks squeaking on the pole, and then Kurt's arms are wrapping around Blaine's waist and the length of his body is pressing up against Blaine's back.

"Good morning, honey," Kurt says sleepily into the taut skin of Blaine's back, pressing a kiss to a wet shoulder blade.

"Morning," Blaine replies, feeling Kurt press even closer, his arms wrap even tighter, and then Kurt is grinding slowly into Blaine's ass. Blaine gasps a little at the hot pressure of Kurt's hard cock sliding against him, thick and heavy and pulsing, and Blaine's so, so glad they're still a little young. Without thinking about it he reaches back to spread himself, letting Kurt slip fully between his cheeks. "Good dreams?" he groans at the same time that Kurt lets out a groan of his own.

"Always good dreams when I'm sleeping next to you," Kurt murmurs, sliding his hands up Blaine's torso to rub his palms over his nipples. Blaine gasps and presses back, grabbing onto the edge of the wall and spacing his legs a little wider for extra leverage.

"You're up early," Blaine comments, his sentence hitching up at the end in a moan as the head of Kurt's cock drags across his hole. The water streams down from his hair into his eyes and he thinks vaguely about actually getting clean but all of his focus is on the way Kurt grips tightly at his hips now, teeth sharp in Blaine's shoulder.

"My sexy husband got up and went into the shower and I felt I should follow." Kurt's words are muffled into Blaine's skin as he continues to slowly grind, pulling back to rest his forehead against Blaine's shoulders. Their harsh breaths mingle and get lost with the pounding of the water as Kurt continues to move. "God, I wish you could see this," Kurt breathes, snaking a hand around Blaine's front to grip his cock. "How gorgeous your ass looks squeezing my cock."

Blaine moans, dropping his head a little further as he pants, moving his hips gently in circles every time Kurt draws back. He feebly bucks up into Kurt's hand, digging his nails into the hard tile of the shower, and feels, already, the beginnings of orgasm tugging at him, evident with every pulse of blood through his cock.

"Wish I had time to fuck you," Kurt whispers, lips on Blaine's ear now, free hand tangling in Blaine's soaked curls to tug his head sharply back. Blaine gasps, moans long and shameless and pushes back as hard as he can on Kurt's cock. "Wish—fuck, baby, if we had more time I'd fuck you so hard you wouldn't be able to do anything other than lay on the couch and watch soap operas all day."

That's what tips Blaine over the edge, the rough drag of Kurt's still-sleepy voice and the heady promise hidden underneath growled syllables coupled with the unrelenting tug of his hand on Blaine's cock and the sharp thrusts of his hips that dig the familiar hard length of his cock against slick skin. He pushes back and starts to come with a keening cry, hips stuttering into Kurt's touch as everything comes undone and fades to ringing background noise.

He knows they shouldn't do this in the shower—it's why they usually blow each other in here—but as Kurt fastens his teeth back into Blaine's shoulder and comes with a few quick jerks of his hips onto Blaine's lower back, he forgets all about pipes for a moment and clenches his cheeks to help Kurt ride out his own orgasm, too uncoordinated in the afterglow to move a hand or turn around just yet.

It's Kurt who turns him around when their breath evens out, smiling, and kisses him, letting their lips slide lazily together as he hooks his arms around Blaine's neck and lets the spray of the shower drip down their bodies. Like this, Blaine feels happier and safer than he ever has. He feels loved in the embrace of Kurt's arms, sagging against the strong planes of Kurt's body that have only gotten stronger with age.

He pulls back with a sigh, blinking his eyes open. Kurt's hair is matted down, his eyes still a little sleepy but brighter than they had been. Water runs in rivulets down his face, arching and dripping from the edge of his nose and onto his lips. It's beautiful. "Well. Good morning."

Kurt laughs, his eyes crinkling in the corners—and Blaine really does find Kurt's crow's feet adorable—and kisses him once more.


When Blaine heads to the kitchen to make breakfast—he's decided on omelets—Kurt's still in the bedroom getting ready, debating over boots and a scarf or a tie for work today. As Blaine cracks the eggs into a bowl and whisks them together, reaching under the counter for a cutting board to slice up the red and green peppers they have leftover in the fridge from the new recipe he had tried the other day he hears the faint strains of Kurt singing lightly from their bedroom. A strong wave of nostalgia washes over him as he gets a knife from the drawer to his right and he can't help but smile, remembering solos and competitions and foolish, dramatic teenage love.

He takes a moment, pauses and leans his back against the counter, absently twirling his ring around his finger before looking down and taking in the simple gold band against his dark skin. Things sometimes feel like they've never changed, like they should still be in high school or college, but in reality everything has changed. Kurt has the magazine and clothing line and Blaine has…well, laundry, but he's happier than he's ever been playing homemaker for Kurt. It's not exactly conventional and he knows some people would shake their heads, but Blaine likes staying at home. He likes being able to do things for his husband. And if someday he'd want to get back into the working world he's got a degree from NYU to get him there.

Blaine's wanted to be a husband his whole life. That much he's been sure of, even when sexuality was confusing and everyone was telling him what was wrong (right) and right (wrong). He's wanted to be that person in someone's life: the person who cares, who cooks and loves and knows just what his partner would need. He likes cleaning and cooking and watching crappy daytime TV with an aging tabby cat who's ten pounds heavier than he should be.

Blaine knows his life is a dream and he'd have it no other way.

Kurt's just stepping out of their bedroom as Blaine's pouring the eggs into the pan, picking up a handful of red-and-green pepper chunks and sprinkling them in. Blaine can hear the heavy tread of Kurt's boots on the creaking floor and grins to himself, shaking the pan a little to settle the mixture. Kurt likes to try and sneak up on him and even though both know it's useless Blaine acts surprised anyway.

When Kurt encircles his arms around Blaine's waist Blaine stiffens and lets out a fake gasp, immediately bringing a hand down to rest of Kurt's linked ones on his abdomen. Kurt presses a kiss to his jaw and Blaine closes his eyes with a sigh and tilts his head. Kurt smells like peppermint and hairspray and Marc Jacobs and home.

"Omelets," Kurt observes, his breath fanning hotly over Blaine's jaw.

Blaine shivers and nods, using his other hand to pick up the spatula and check the progress of the eggs. "We needed to get rid of those peppers in the fridge," he explains. "I figured they were probably going to go bad soon and I hate to see wasted farmer's market produce."

"Mm, they do have the best," Kurt agrees. He presses one last kiss to Blaine's neck before drawing back and crossing the kitchen, getting down two plates and two mugs from the cabinets above the countertop. While he sets the table and pours the coffee, Blaine expertly flips the omelet, folding it carefully. When he slides the whole thing onto Kurt's plate, Kurt raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to eat?"

Blaine shakes his head, turning off the stove and setting the pan on the backburner to cool. "I'll grab something in a little bit. You're the one who has to go in to work." He follows Kurt to their small table and sits down, curling his hand around his mug and taking a sip, pleased as always to find that it contains just a few drips of creamer and a hint of cinnamon. "Thanks for getting this for me, hon."

Kurt shrugs and fixes Blaine with a smile as he picks up his fork. "It's the least I could do after commandeering your shower." He winks at Blaine before cutting into his omelet and taking a bite.

Blaine loves that they can banter easily like this now, just like he loves that he can reach across the table and take Kurt's hand in his while they sit in companionable silence, the pull of sleep still close by.

(Blaine can remember several times in their [younger] youth when they'd taken advantage of that pull and gone back to bed, Kurt calling in sick for the day while hurriedly pulling his clothes off, Blaine halfway across the room and tripping over his socks in his haste to get back to the bed.)

The clock in the living room ticks over to mark the half-hour; somewhere down the hall Howard, their cat, meows, and Blaine knows he'll have to feed him soon and deal with a great mess of fur twisting and weaving its way through his legs.

For now, though, silence.


Kurt disappears back into their room when he's done eating with the promise of getting the hamper and the dirty towels from the bathroom on his way back in. Blaine's at the sink washing the dishes and this time he doesn't hear Kurt sneaking back in; as a result he lets out a genuinely surprised squawk when Kurt's palm lands hard on his ass with a smack. The plate Blaine had been holding drops with a clatter into the sink. Blaine pays no mind to it as Kurt turns him around, crowding close and kissing him hard.

"You look hot doing the dishes," Kurt whispers against Blaine's lips, the taste of peppermint back and stronger than before. "I hate going to work."

The last part is said in a petulant whine and Blaine laughs. "You do not," he says. "You'd miss the magazine and your opportunities to intimidate the waifish new assistants."

"But I miss you more," Kurt says with a pout, batting his eyes.

Blaine rolls his own eyes and tries to ignore the surge of heat the implication of Kurt's words had just sent straight to his groin. "I'll be here when you get home." I'll always be here for you when you get home.

"You'd better be." Kurt's pulled him close again, growling the last few words into Blaine's ear. Blaine swallows hard and shakily puts the dish on the rack, soapy water dripping in sudsy clumps into the sink.

"Have a good day," he replies with as level of a voice as he can muster up, yelping when Kurt swats his ass again with a wolfish grin.

"You too, baby," Kurt says, closing the front door behind him. Just outside the kitchen is the hamper, ready to be taken into the laundry room, and just past that is Howard, sitting on the arm of the couch with his tail curled around his paws, his leaf-green eyes fixated on Blaine.

Blaine drains the sink and decides to let the dishes air dry. He opens the pantry door and grabs a can of cat food and a small dish off the shelf; immediately Howard is there, widening his eyes and meowing loud enough to wake the neighbors as he does his best impression of a loom as he darts in and out of the space between Blaine's legs.

"Chill, buddy," Blaine says, amused, as he opens the can and spoons out the food. Howard still continues to meow. "Making a racket won't get your food to the floor any faster."

When the plate is on the floor and Howard is happily licking up the gravy Blaine grabs the hamper, hefting it up with a grunt and waddling into the laundry room. His stomach growls but he ignores it. Housework first, then food. There's still plenty of time in the day to eat.

He loads the first set of clothes into the washer.


"Oh, poor Steffy." Blaine clucks his tongue as he folds a pillowcase and places it beside him on the couch. On the TV Steffy is opening up to Taylor about Liam and how they'd almost had sex on Liam's wedding night. A typical storyline, but Blaine really does like Steffy sometimes.

The Bold and the Beautiful isn't Blaine's favorite soap opera, but after they'd canceled As the World Turns he'd needed another afternoon program and this had been the easiest to catch up on. It's not bad—the characters are okay and the storylines, while still very soap opera-esque, aren't too ridiculous. Still, he misses Oakdale. And, truthfully, he still loathes daytime television.

"Howard!" Blaine scolds when he turns to place another pillowcase on the pile only to see a curled-up ball of fluffy orange-and-white fur on the previously-perfect stack. Howard only lifts his head and blinks, twitching his tail in response. Blaine sighs in defeat and reaches out to stroke a hand down the cat's back, feeling the gentle rumblings of Howard's purring. "Fine, but when Kurt sees the cat fur it's your ass, not mine."

Howard meows again. Blaine fights the twitching smile on his face.


By three in the afternoon Blaine's beginning to feel cooped up. He's done all the laundry, all the cleaning and dusting and vacuuming (Howard's still under the couch because of that one) that can possibly be done without him delving into the realm of "too much." He doesn't need to go to the store and all their friends are either busy with their own lives or at work. He's read every book they have and hasn't felt like buying any new ones for his Kindle Fire yet.

He finds himself thinking about that morning while standing in the kitchen at the counter sipping a glass of orange juice, a half-eaten granola bar next to him. He thinks about the shower and Kurt's dark little promise hidden in well-versed, perfectly pronounced words and he closes his eyes, sighing a little as a spark of heat zigzags its way through his body to stir his cock. He resists the urge to palm himself through his jeans, but only just, even though it's his house and the only other living soul is a terrified and pissed off cat.

Eventually, as he remembers Kurt's breathy moans and the sting of his palm against his ass, he gives in. With a quick check to make sure everything in the house is in order, that the recipe for tonight's dinner is out on the counter along with the ingredients that don't need to be refrigerated, he ducks into their room and stands in the doorway for a second.

Blaine bites his lip and looks from his door to his nightstand and then back to his door. Howard is no doubt either still under the couch or now sleeping on the freshly-folded linen again but still…Blaine gently closes the door anyway, stepping back and stripping off his shirt. His pants go next, belt still held by the loops. His boxer-briefs stay on for now as he tugs off his socks.

He climbs onto the bed and leans against the pillows, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling before closing his eyes. He can feet the hot, heavy weight of his cock against his thigh and moans a little too loud in relief when he brings a hand down to cup himself, dragging his fingers slowly over the hard length.

With his other hand he fumbles for his phone, locating it on the nightstand. With uncoordinated fingers he taps out a message to Kurt, briefly hoping that he'll be somewhere private.

To Kurt (3:01pm):
Still thinking about this morning. Miss you

It's innocuous enough to be okay, but anyone reading it would easily be able to pick up on the euphemism. He finds himself not caring as he slides his underwear down, kicking it off as his cock falls against his stomach with a wet slap.

He licks his palm, too desperate to get off to even think about lube. When he wraps his hand around himself it's with a groaned "fuck," his legs spreading as he pumps once from base to tip, feeling the skin yield and move with his hand over the hardness underneath.

He brushes against his nipples with his free hand, trails teasing fingertips down the lines of his body before stopping at his stomach, clenching his hand into a fist and resting it there as he works his hand over his cock faster, imagining this morning and the weight of Kurt's cock against his ass, how good they'd felt moving together. It's not his fault for wanting more, for wanting Kurt to be there right now, holding Blaine's legs wide as he slides in with one swift, gentle push.

Their girl friends who are married and stay at home have mentioned something they like to call "mid-afternoon blues" in the past, but Blaine had never really known or paid attention to what they meant by that. Now, though, with desperation curling hot and dark in the pit of his stomach, his back arching up and his mouth cottoning from his gasping and panting, he knows. He knows the need to feel filled, to feel owned, and to not be able to have it. It reminds him way too much of Kurt's first year of college.

Blaine's eyes snap open and his hips still. For Kurt's first year of college—their first and only year apart—he had bought him a vibrator that he'd gotten his money's worth out of through too many late-night Skype dates. It's been so long since they've used it since neither is really into toys unless the other is gone for a few days that he'd almost forgotten about it.

He finds it in the bottom drawer, hidden towards the back. He flips the switch once on the base just to check and startles as it buzzes gently to life in his palm. He turns it off and tosses it on the bed, opening the top drawer and grabbing the half-empty bottle of lube. He coats his fingers and spreads his legs, pressing one in with a hiss. Soon he's up to two, then three, working his hips steadily down onto his fingers.

As he's slicking up the vibrator his phone buzzes next to him; he's just able to make out the text from Kurt before the screen goes dark.

To Blaine (3:23pm):
And just what were you thinking about, baby? You'll have to tell me all about it tonight when I get home.

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut. He wishes he could send Kurt a photo, fill him in on every single detail, but judging by the delay in texts Kurt's more than likely busy, especially with the new season coming up. The last thing Blaine wants is a whole conference room full of people to see his text—that'd be a story he'd rather not have to explain.

The toy slides in easily, Blaine gasping and forcing himself to relax as it slowly disappears inch by inch. Once he reaches his fingers he shifts his hips, giving himself a moment to adjust before flipping the switch.

His body arches again, lifting off the bed as the vibrations worm their way through his body like lightning, spreading and filling and coursing. His cock twitches against his stomach as he whines, drawing the toy out halfway before thrusting it back in and angling it.

"Oh, fuck," he gasps, wetting his lips as he teases the head of his cock with fumbling fingers, spreading the pre-come gathered stickily there. He works the vibrator up to a steady pace. ignoring the burgeoning ache in his wrist. "Oh god, oh my god…."

He'd forgotten how good this felt, how overpowering it was, and for a second he feels ridiculous even as pleasure surges through him, igniting every nerve ending he has. It's the middle of the afternoon and he's fucking himself on his vibrator, wondering when his husband's going to get home so he can properly be taken care of. It's ridiculous. It's unnecessary.


He grunts and plants his feet flat on the bed, working his hips in circles as he turns up the dial one, two more notches, finally finding his prostate. His jaw drops, eyes snapping open, and all he can do is whine and moan as he starts to come almost untouched, his cock pulsing against his abdomen as his muscles tighten, breath caught in his throat.

It's a few minutes before he's able to slide the vibrator out, too tired and sated to do anything other than lay spread-eagled on the bed, his come cooling tacky on his chest, his ears still faintly ringing and his heart still pounding.

Oh, Kurt will definitely hear about every single detail tonight.