Look into my eyes, don't you trust me? You're so soft, you make me hard. I'll put you in a movie, don't you wanna? You could be a star, you could go far. You've got kissability. You sigh hard, don't you wanna? You've got twistability. You could be a star, it ain't hard… 

The rain falls heavy outside.

Gusts of wind splatter it loudly against the windows and deep rolls of thunder boom off in the dark, distant sky; lightning splices through the blackness, splashes of light flickering and dancing along the walls and floors of Devon's otherwise unlit apartment. They haven't had a storm like this in awhile, ferocious and fierce and unwilling to move along, instead choosing to hang on and linger, turning the everyday darkness of the sky into a tangle of violent slices and threatening booms of rumbling sound.

Devon throws his head back and moans, wanton and free, breathy and guttural, his hips rocking and rolling and gyrating atop the fire lit man beneath him. Where Kurt's hands clutch Devon's hips, his fingers bruise and caress the sharp angles and he meets Devon's rocks and rolls, his own hips snapping and thrusting. Devon gasps, a flash of discomfort spiking in the depths of his body and he's sure, absolutely positive that Kurt reaches places inside his body he never imagined accessible.

Thick and long, Kurt is so much bigger than any other guy Devon has been with, and regardless of how many times they do this, Kurt's girth and length stretch him, fill him, letting his body accept Kurt's blissful intrusion inch-by-inch. To feel and be filled, to feel full, it unravels Devon, drives him to bounce and rock and draw Kurt in deeper, deeper, as deep as possible because it's never enough, nothing is ever enough when it's Kurt. Not when every second of every minute of every day with Kurt would ever satisfy Devon's need for more of Kurt, always more of Kurt.

Kurt had come over in a burst of need, bottle of wine in hand. Devon spread out a blanket on the living room floor and lit a fire, not needing it for warmth but desiring the ambient, intimate lighting of the flames. They fell into easy conversation; they laughed and teased and there didn't seem to a need to rush things, despite the raging want coursing through their veins – want to touch, to taste, want to kiss and suckle andfeel against each other, skin on skin.

And although they'd done this before, fallen into desperate, possessive grabs and tugs, limbs tangling and bodies writhing and using each other to get off, spectacularly and explosively, Devon found himself shy and uncertain. With the contents of the wine bottle gone, Devon wondered about boundaries of whatever this was between them, and he wants to know, wants to know if this is just sex, just them getting off with one another because they don't have anyone else, or is this more, is this something substantial, something tentatively budding into knowing and being known.

“Hey you,” Kurt says softly, interjecting Devon's internal musings. Devon blushes, dips his head and listens as Kurt continues, “Where'd you go?”

Devon shakes a little, dislodging the haze of thinking too much. “Nowhere, really. Just, you know, lost in my head. But I'm here. I promise I'm here. With you, I mean.”

Kurt smiles, a ghost of a smile really, but his eyes still crinkle in the corners and Devon feels it everywhere in his body, feels every shift and hustle of the molecules that comprise his skin. It's Devon's smile, secretive and barely there yet intimate and deliberate.

“I know you are,” Kurt reassures, smile still in place. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Just a penny?”

Kurt raises an eyebrow, “You know I'd give you the world to know you, Devon.”

Devon releases a shuddery breath. God. Kurt is seriously good at that, at delivering the heaviest of emotions gracefully and seamlessly. This particular instance, Devon's chest floods, nearly to bursting, and he longs for the moment that will splinter the already present crack for the last time and allow his heart to finally explode.

“You should – you should stay. The night. That is…um, well, that is if you – if you want too,” Devon stammers, swallowing hard.

Devon sees Kurt open his mouth, like he intends to say something only to close it, lick his lips and swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. He smiles warmly, lips spreading as he bends across the space between them, cups Devon's cheek and kisses him sweetly.

“I want to if you want me to.”

Devon reaches out before Kurt pulls away completely, curling his slender fingers into Kurt's silky hair, holding him in place. He takes a deep breath, looks at Kurt with dark eyes, pupils he knows are dilated and blown impenetrably black with desire.

“I want to – I mean, can I – ”

“Can you what, Devon?” Kurt supplies effortlessly following Devon's nervous self-censorship. “Just talk to me. I'll give you whatever – ”

“I want – I want…to ride you,” Devon says, fingers clenching and unclenching around Kurt's hair. “I want – yeah, yeah that's…what I want. To be on top since we haven't done…that, yet.”

Kurt's eyes widen nearly imperceptibly and he manages a wavering breath before gripping Devon's hips and hoisting Devon into his lap. Devon squeaks, the curve of his butt neatly melding into the space between Kurt's parted legs. Open and immediately dirty, Kurt kisses him, and they're the missing pieces to a puzzle neither consciously acknowledged were incomplete. Their mouths and bodies mold together, Devon wonders how he'd been so blind, so ignorant to the rightness before kissing and being kissed like this, heady and like he is Kurt's air, food, water, sunshine, like the consumption of him is all Kurt needs to survive.

“Absolutely. How – where do you…here? Or in your bedroom?”

“Here. Now. Please? I just – I need to um…I need to feel you…” Devon replies, nearing hyperventilation stages with how quickly he pants. He dips his head, presses his face into the curve of Kurt's neck and breathes, and shivers.

Wordlessly, Kurt strokes the small of Devon's back, knows Devon needs a stretch of time to compose himself, to come back to himself because, with or without boundaries, with or without definition, this is sex, with Kurt, and it's always overwhelming. It's soothing yet not even remotely enough; Devon craves skin-on-skin contact, Kurt's hot palm against his own hot skin.

Although Devon wants to be on top, he relinquishes control, gives it over to Kurt and permits him to take the lead, which he does gracefully. One touch after another, and soon they're both naked, and Kurt's long, elegant-but-slightly-calloused fingers are deep inside his slick, hot, tight ass. On his back on the floor, Devon is spread and shamelessly rutting against and riding Kurt's deft, relentless fingers, appreciating the stretch and burn and fullness but needing more.

Looking up, he meets Kurt's gaze, direct and so intensely open, it assaults Devon's senses and yes, yes there it is, the beginning of the end, the inevitable final hit along the crack in his chest and he feels like he's going to break, to shatter into a million pieces. Yet Kurt is here, Kurt is touching him, working him open so painstakingly thoroughly, and the second he shatters, Kurt's here to un-shatter him and he's safe, home when he asks quietly, “You okay, beautiful?”

Devon nods, licking his lips nervously, and breathing not at all leveling.

“Yeah – yeah, I'm – mmm, God, you – you feel…so – so good but I – I need…more, just more?”

Kurt doesn't verbally reply, merely kisses Devon and seamlessly rolls them over and keeps kissing Devon softly, holding him gently, and waiting, waiting for Devon to take back the reins, waiting for Devon to set the rhythm from here on in. And if Kurt hadn't been holding him, keeping him steady and present and solid beneath his hands, Devon realizes he'd dissolve.

So he sinks, inch-by-inch, onto Kurt's hardened, velvety length, causing Kurt to groan and himself to gasp. At the hilt, he pauses briefly, can't quite figure why because he needs to move, moving is better, moving means incremental shifts between him and Kurt and the surrender to action, basic and instinctive.

He sucks in a breath, meant to be deep and steadying, but in reality it's nothing but a sharp inhale, not nearly enough to be sufficient. But his body takes over, knows exactly what to do, how to move – circular twists, deep rolls, rhythmic bounces and he cries out loudly when a particular gyration rubs the blunt head of Kurt's cock against the sensitive, spongy pad inside his strung out, hot body.

“Oh fuck, Devon. Shit, fuck, you feel so good baby, so tight…”

Now in control, Devon learns what twist or roll or rock elicits reactions out of Kurt and he chases them until he presses his palm against the smooth expanse of Kurt's chest and pins Kurt flat. Gritting his teeth, Kurt slaps his hands on Devon's hips, then the top swell of Devon's ass, then Devon's hips again, not guiding Devon's rhythm exactly, but rather seeking out another way to feel Devon's quickening movements.

The realization that Devon's close to his orgasm ambushes him and he's not ready; he wants more of this, Kurt beneath him, matching his movements, a shifting sublimation of their bodies and he's desperate to prolong this tandem euphoric free fall. This isn't just about his orgasm. It's also about Kurt's, to be the one to make gasp and writhe and moan Devon's name, only Devon's name, and it's a single-minded focus to claim Kurt, to be his.

“Oh god, I'm gonna – oh please, not yet, I don't wanna come yet, oh god, oh, oh god,” Devon sobs, head tossed back and eyes closed, debauched concentration etched in the smooth expanse of his flushed face.

“No, no, come on baby, come for me, I want you to come for me, want to see you come while riding me, come on beautiful, fuck yourself on my dick, come for me Devon, come for me…” Kurt coaxes, breathless and panting.

Devon sobs again, heaving for breath, and he goes, pursues Kurt's filthy demands because under them lies the truth – Devon's his, all his, and meeting his demands means satisfaction and safe and rightness.

“More, more please? Talk, just…talk to me because oh god Kurt, this is – this is…”

“I know beautiful, I know,” Kurt soothes roughly. “You – fuck Devon, you take me so well, so hot and so tight. No one takes me better than you so come on beautiful. I want to see you come on my dick. So gorgeous Devon, you're so fucking gorgeous when you come…”

It's too much and Kurt's near constant growls and the firm grip of Kurt's fingers pressing in, in, in to the supple flesh of Devon's ass, his body involuntarily clenches, muscles fluttering and tightening and he can only pump herself up and down, up and down, possessed and enraptured. He rises up, slams down and his heart is pounding, is almost certain he can feel Kurt's heart pounding through the length his body so greedily accepts now.

One more growl and one more sob (but who releases what sound, Devon doesn't know, can't tell) and he comes, explosive white light on the backs of his eyelids, body shuddering and twitching and heart pounding until he collapses on top of Kurt.

Kurt responds in kind, clinging to Devon and wrapping his arms around Devon's still shuddering body, faintly saying something that resembles the sound of Devon's name. He kisses the side of Devon's head and Kurt holds him impossibly tighter, tucking Devon's face back into the familiar curve of Kurt's neck where the lingering scent of his cologne intermixed with salt and sweat permeates, essential and raw. Devon breathes in, slips off Kurt's softening length, hissing as he does so, muscles loosening into the tell tale soreness of overuse and intrusion.

They roll, arms and legs a jumbled mess of woven limbs, and bodies curled around one another like messily scrawled quotation marks. Tangled together and breathing synchronized as they slide down the high in tandem, Kurt slides his fingers into Devon's sweat-damp curls and pulls, pulls back to kiss Devon over and over and Devon never wants this to end, never wants Kurt to slip away in the nebulous ether of passionate-but-brief affairs, of experiences only meant to be but a mere memory.

“You still with me, beautiful?” Kurt asks, lips hovering above Devon's.

“Al – always Kurt, always.”

“Good. Good. Because I – I don't know what I'd do if you'd ever disappear on me.”

Me too, Devon thinks, but doesn't say, says instead, “I'd come back. I'll always come back. To you.”

Kurt's eyes water, pulls on Devon's hair again just enough to crush his mouth to Devon's, a bruising kiss stripping Devon's of breath that makes everything – Kurt, Devon, this, them – feel dreamlike and distant. Even though the kiss is sloppy and off-center, it saturates Devon's senses and she wonders how he's gone so long without kissing like this, without being this open and this vulnerable.

“And I'll always be here for you to come back to,” Kurt whispers.

They both smile, lips once more finding each other's in that perfect slip-slide of mouth-to-mouth, a connection that ignites all other modes of connectivity and Devon gives in to the inescapable rush of delicious emotion synonymous only with and to Kurt. They tangle together, breezy laughter passing between them, and Kurt rolls over, situating himself above Devon, readying them for another round, gasps and unintelligible pleas for more, more, more, please more Kurt, need you, need you so much.

So lost in one another, neither of them notice the darkened, shadowy figure standing outside the window, camera up and recording every single, salacious second.

- * -

You're driving me crazy, give us a kiss…