Hot wire my heart

Hot wire my heart

Hot wire my heart

Like this…

- * - 

“Shit! Dammit!” Devon curses under his breath when he strikes his big toe against the leg of the kitchen chair he didn't remember leaving by the door, overloaded with old magazines.

Of course, he wouldn't be stumbling over damn chairs if that thunderous pounding on the front door weren't raucously reverberating through the previously quiet darkness. It woke him up from a near dead sleep and damn near scared him out of his skin. The second some as-of-yet-unidentified fist pounding on the door caused him to shoot straight up, fumbling over the edge of the bed in a fitful chaos of arms and legs. His eyes flew up to read the clock: 3:08 am.

Devon growls – a deep, low animalistic growl.

Seriously? Some jackass was knocking – no, pounding – on his door at three o'clock in the fucking morning? What could possibly be this urgent, this damn important at this time of night? Not to mention, no matter how many times he screams “Coming!” at the door, the pounding just continues, if not more urgent and forthright than the previous rounds.

Who could this possibly be, anyway? It's not like he really knew anyone; he'd been here for over a year, yes, but he didn't have friends, acquaintances maybe, and he likes his co-workers well enough but none of them are what one would call besties. Honest to God, if this is some weird friend of his neighbor mistaking the A and B after the number, he has absolutely no problem banging on the jerk's door because this is flat-out ridiculous.

Sure, Devon more or less makes his own schedule and he doesn't really need to go into the store tomorrow but still, if some jackass keeps him up all hours of the early morning with his/her drunken door pounding then he will be supremely pissed. He likes his privacy. He likes the quiet. He doesn't like to be disturbed. The principle of the matter stands – it's rude to bang on someone's door at this late (or early) hour.

Despite turning on every light Devon can remember to turn on and no matter how quickly he thought he was moving, the pounding just will not stop so by the time he swings open the door he is more than ready to punch whoever is on the other side of the door directly, and squarely, in the face.

Then, even through bleary sleep-filled eyes and rage, he recognizes the face: “KURT?”

Swaying in an attempt to keep his balance, Kurt smiles widely, goofily at Devon. Even through his drunken haze he can still make out what the shorter man, whom he'd only met a month ago, is wearing – a pajama set designed with little music notes and glasses.

Devon's dark curls, which are usually suffocated by volumes of raspberry hair gel, fall in messy, sleep-mussed strands around his face. While sleep lingers in the corners of Devon eyes, his face is alight with vibrancy and…well, anger, despite the still-bleary haze of slumber darkening the vivid hazel to a near impenetrable blackness.

Kurt can't blame him for that but damn, from where he stands all he can see are those deceptively strong shoulders and biceps, that trim, tight little waist and the shadow of new growth on Devon's cheeks.

“Devon! Hi Devon! Devon, Devon, Devon,” Kurt rambles gleefully.

Devon sighs. Great, just great. Now he has a drunk Kurt Hummel on his doorstep. What is Devon supposed to do with this?

“Oh boy. How much have you had? And how in the hell did you get here?” Devon rolls his eyes, barely managing to say the last part of his second question when Kurt stumbles through the doorway and draping all of his weight around Devon's shoulders.

With an “oof” and an “ow” and a “son of a bitch,” Devon staggers backwards. How the door shuts, he doesn't entirely know because currently, he is attempting with all of his strength and muster, to hold Kurt upright. Kurt continues to giggle and chuckle deliriously as Devon continues to struggle with him, and against, his own movements.

Because then Devon finally realizes that Kurt's hands are certainly, definitely not stationary but rather roaming freely, intimately caressing him in places that he surely did not have leave to. Devon's cheeks instantly flush. The heat of his blush is startling in its immediacy. Not prone to blushing, Devon is gruffly, mulishly irritated by the fact that a simple, careless and drunken caress of Kurt's palm forces the blood to the transparent surface of his face.

“Oh, oh, okay. Okay, yep, you're…um, okay wow. Kurt, come on now…Kurt!” Devon stammers before shouting in surprise when Kurt's wandering hand wanders down and grabs his ass.

Kurt laughs it off, nervously, but he doesn't want to appear angry even though no man, drunken or otherwise, has not touched that part of his body, in any capacity, in far too long. Blunt and rife with the too-much-too-little taste of desire, the brief caress – because, let's face it, that's what Kurt's touches are – awakens the dormant need, the ever-constant-and-present-but-still-hibernating push and pull of want, want, want in the swooping pit of Devon's stomach.

Lighting quick and speeding through Devon's veins as if unleashed on the Autobahn, the heat courses, bubbling up under the first layer of skin and burns. It burns and it hurts and it feels so un-fucking-believable, just that one brief caress of Kurt's palm over his ass. How is it even possible to want so desperately, so sickeningly tangibly after just a caress? And not even a skin-to-skin caress.

But God, Devon couldn't get angry – getting angry with an already insufferably drunk person never results in anything positive so he tries to chalk that little feel up to nothing but Kurt's inebriated state. He tries not thinking that it is anything other than drunken, lonely desire. Yet that heat is still burning, it still is bombastically teetering over raw, suddenly and sharply oversensitive nerve endings and sparking Devon's synapses into too-aware awareness.

Between trying to keep his head straight, free of the fuzzy-yet-crystal-clear haze of his and Kurt's bodies upright, Devon sputters in his fight to ward off Kurt's rather explorative hands. Devon is barely able to breathe freely. This is a seriously messed up situation.

Devon has known Kurt for one month – one month! – and while, yes, he'd developed quite the crush on Kurt, he's not foolish enough to actually harbor any thought or inclination that it would, or will, go anything beyond what has already occurred between them, which of course, is nothing but a handful of conversations and four coffee dates

“Devon, hi, hi you. I've been doing – yeah, I'm a little drunk but I dunno Devon, I just, well you know, I wanted to see you,” Kurt rambles nonsensically with that stupid goofy smile plastered on his face.

Devon smiles politely and continues to struggle to keep both of them upright.

“Yeah, yeah I see that you're a little drunk Kurt. But um…but, why don't we – why don't we just get you onto the couch, okay?”

Devon manages to keep his tone calm, even. At twenty-seven you learn that it's just easier to be calm, even and firm with an inebriated person otherwise the scenario will more than likely spiral out of control. But then Kurt's smile slips into one that appears almost sly, seductive, and conspiratorial – as if he can see straight through Devon, as if Kurt possesses the intimate knowledge of seeing Devon naked and still holds the key, tucked neatly away in that little storage locker marked Devon the moment they met.

Devon's polite smile stiffens into an unsure one just as Kurt whispers heatedly, “Couch. Yes. Let's go to couch, Devon. Or better yet! Your bedroom! I want you. And I know you want me. You're like practically – I don't know, vibrating with it. Fuck, Devon.”

That smile remains plastered on Kurt's face, prompting Devon to chuckle light-heartedly and roll his eyes.

Oh yeah, Kurt is seriously drunk.

Why Kurt had come here – well, the jury is still out on that one because it boggles Devon's mind. Or rather, it rattles Devon's mind so violently that he can barely think straight, he can barely see beyond the sharpened hoods of Kurt's blue eyes, thick and clouded and black, so brilliantly black with desirous want. None of this makes sense: Kurt's appearance at three in the morning, what he is saying and why his hands are everywhere, anywhere on Devon's body.

Why hadn't someone taken Kurt back to his place? Why hadn't someone made sure that he got back to his own place, safe and sound?

“Sure, I want you Kurt,” Devon states sarcastically, lightly, rolling his eyes for effect, and hoping to maintain some semblance of control over the tremors in his voice. “But why don't we just get you to couch? You smell like a bar and I think some sleep would do you some good.”

Kurt laughs goofily again and slings his arm around Devon's neck. With his other hand, he slips a single curl of Devon's hair between his thumb and forefinger and relishes in the silky texture of it as he rubs it between his fingers. And then before Devon can stop him, Kurt pushes him up against the wall of the hallway, trapping Devon between his arms on either side of Devon's head.

Devon gulps. His face is so close to Kurt's; his body is flush up against every inch of Kurt's. No amount of clothing can muffle or alter the curves, dips and delicious grooves of Kurt's body for they seem to matchDevon's, slide into place like puzzle pieces, frayed, tattered edges and all.

“Okay, um? Kurt, the couch is behind you. Why don't we get you onto the couch so you can sleep all of this off? Here come on, I'll walk you there myself,” Devon stammers a bit at the beginning.

He is suddenly very nervous and very, very unsure. Kurt most decidedly smells like a bar, but underneath the cloying scent of tacky sweat and too-thick-multi-layered colognes/perfumes, crisp and clear andundulating in tendril-like waves, slow and lapping as if it was the nighttime tide, was that scent – chamomile infused after shave, the spicy tinge of his black pepper body wash and something so uniquely, jarringly Kurt that it causes Devon's pulse to quicken unnaturally.

Because that smile – no, that grin, all wicked and knowing and so fucking irritating and baffling – is back on Kurt's face and Kurt's eyes narrow into a sultry, hooded expression that boils Devon's blood and sends every nerve ending flaring with fire and his stomach plummeting to the ground and through the floor.

“Tell me you don't feel something Devon,” Kurt whispers a hairbreadth from Devon's lips.

Kurt's breath, beer-heavy and thickly warm with spearmint and him, flutters over the trembling skin of Devon's mouth, dancing a quickstep along the ridges of the pink flesh. Devon looks anywhere but directly in Kurt's eyes. Devon can't look in Kurt's eyes, can't bear to wade through that blackness any more than he already has in the strange, surreal turn of events.

Devon doesn't want it to, but it does – his heart widens, expands as if made of dough, rising and rising until it fills the entire cavity of her chest with fresh, warm stickiness. The very sight of Kurt, albeit highly and wildly intoxicated, all piqued with some sort of glorious yearning embedded in those expressive, wide eyes of Kurt's – it fucking unravels Devon.

Kurt is all cheeks flushed, body thrumming and oh God, oh God – his arousal, hard and solid and so, sothere, pressing, pressing in, in, in against the inside of Devon's thigh topples Devon conscience, barrels into it like a battering ram. Kurt rolls his hips just then, subtly, fluidly and Devon body violates his conscience, basically rebels against it and his own hips lift upwards and inwards to meet Kurt's movements.

Kurt's eyes narrow, not angrily or in some sort of annoyed fashion, but rather into thin slits, tweaked in the corners with something akin to visceral pleasure – “I knew it. Is it a bad time to invoke Shakira here? Your hips definitely do not lie, Devon…”

Kurt's teasing remark seems to pull Devon from his fog. He slams his hips back against the wall and thrusts his arms upward and outward into Kurt's, successfully ripping them from their position on the wall. He slips under Kurt's right arm and turns on Kurt, face flushed but eyes now darkened with annoyance.

“You're drunk and this is highly, highly inappropriate Kurt. At this point, I don't give a fuck if you know where the couch is. Find it on your own. I'm going to bed. Without you.”

Devon stabs the air with a pointed index finger in perturbed frustration and turns on his heel to retreat back to the warmth and security of his bedroom, locked behind a door and far, far away from Kurt's hot breath, wandering hands, and addictive hips.

With his back to Kurt, Devon misses seeing Kurt's face fall ever so slightly, switching effortlessly into astonished regret. It flashes suddenly, brightly for a split second before devolving into heightened and renewed determination, infused with the remnants of Kurt's inebriated haze. Devon is not getting away thateasily. Kurt needs to have Devon, be with Devon in some capacity – needs it like, like a cleansing rain after a violent dust storm, like the earth of skin, shrunken and parched from drought thirsting for the merest of tastes of Devon's skin, Devon's mouth.

Chalking it up to the brutal months of forced, torturous hibernation known as Post-Break-Up, Kurt practically burst out of his skin with the intense level of need to just – explode. Then Devon waltzes into his life, all quiet intensity and freshness and warmth, airy and musical in his awkward adorableness that bordered dangerously, precariously on the edge of sexiness.

God, Kurt just wants a taste, a fucking taste of Devon, one taste to dull the ache in his chest and release the too-present tension and discomfort between his legs. Perhaps it is selfish, and outlandishly un-him to seek out the carnal comfort of a man's body, a man he barely knows (although he certainly wants).

Perhaps it is a bit – okay, no, it's a lot – oafish but even through his drunken haze, he knows he didn't make up Devon's wandering gazes, lingering and testing the boundaries of Kurt's awareness. He certainly didn't make up all those sneaky glances Devon threw him sporadically during their coffee dates, nor did he miss how Devon's voice tended to pitch upwards, breathless and squeaky, when Kurt came to the store.

He knows he didn't fabricate the flicking of Devon's tongue across his bottom lip when Devon catches the curve of his ass, the tight material of his jeans stretched taut, or the dilating of Devon's pupils when he smiles just so. Devon wants him, craves him if that mutual hip-roll of his informed Kurt of anything.

So, what is so bad about reciprocally shared satisfaction between two consenting adults?

It's with that thought that sends Kurt barreling after Devon. His hand encloses around Devon's upper arm and then Devon is pressed up against the wall again, pinned between Kurt's outstretched arms and scowling up into Kurt's searching expression.

“Cut it out, Kurt. I'm not playing this fucking adolescent game with you. I'm tired, and not interested,”Devon bites out through a seething flurry of breaths.

Kurt cocks his head as if the new angle would allot him a better advantage point with which to read Devon's expression.

Kurt lowers his gaze a fraction of an inch and takes in the suddenly very vivid hue of Devon's pink lips, the long lines of Devon's bare neck and the dips and bows of Devon's collarbone beneath his pajama shirt. Devon's chest, heaving under the flood of oncoming pants, flutters tantalizingly, and Kurt can feel – he canfeel – Devon's stomach tremble at the anticipation of Kurt's touch.

“I won't hurt you, Devon. Won't force you to do anything to do you don't want to do. But tell me Devon, do you not want me touch you, taste you? Do you not want me to kiss you senseless, to bury myself inside that perfect ass of yours until you can't do anything but pant my name?”

Kurt whispers the words, breathy and heated, as the tip of his nose travels delicately down the length of Devon's, testing and teasing and drawing forth whimpers. Despite Devon's better judgment, his hands lift up from their position at his sides and fist Kurt's shirt before flattening, palms down, across the expanse of Kurt's stomach. Devon just – he needs something sturdy, something solid to lean against, to use as support because with each tick, tick, tick of the seconds, his resolve weakens and no one – no one – has ever talked to him like this.

Kurt isn't sure why he talks in such a manner; he is certainly not a prude, nor is he averse to “dirty talk” but given that he didn't share a history past a month prior with Devon, this kind of talk is bound to scare Blaine off more than turn him on.

But there it is, plain as day, written – no, fucking etched – in the contours of Devon's face: Devon is turning into the turning on of his body, instinctively reacting to Kurt's promises, wrapped up with a bow, all visceral and primal. The heat of Devon's hands on Kurt's stomach distract Kurt just long enough forDevon to swallow thickly without Kurt's eyes watching his throat lurch and tremble.

“You're…you're drunk, Kurt. And not, not thinking straight. We should um, we should just, you know, go to bed – separately!” Devon bumbles his way through something that resembles a resistance but only really sounds, in his ears anyway, weak and half-hearted.

Kurt cocks his head again, smirks and says, “If you're worried about taking advantage of my – compromised state, by all means Devon, take advantage…”

Devon gulps. Okay, this situation is rapidly getting out of hand. He needs to put a stop to this. He is an adult, clear-headed and rational and seriously, Kurt needs to stop looking at him like that – like Devon is the ice cream and Kurt is the spoon. This is all kinds of wrong. Kurt is drunk and horny and for some odd, inconceivable reason Kurt desires Devon as a release, as a late-night hookup and on most days Devon would, in a heartbeat, give into Kurt's promises. Devon would lose himself in Kurt's touch, glutton himself on the taste of Kurt's kiss and the feel of Kurt's hands, so evidently expert and brutally graceful.

Devon would gorge himself on everything Kurt is so clearly vowing to but this early morning is not most days. No, it's not most days because this is Kurt, bright and effervescent and so damned nice that it makes Devon;s teeth ache and this is not Kurt, it's not, and Devon's not entirely sure how he knows that because they've only known each other a month but Devon just knows it.

And Devon knows, okay, he knows much of this is because Kurt is lonely and still lost in the throes of grief over his break-up with Ethan, officially publicized only a few weeks prior. Devon wants Kurt, yes, but he most certainly does not want to be some drunken hookup, some wayward fling to take the edge off. He does not want to be a one-night stand, even if the heat of Kurt's body is intoxicating, and the glistening of Kurt's bottom lip reflects in the light of the hallway, and that look – God, that look – just keeps darkening until Devon can't see past the haze, is thrusting his hips forward, knocking head-over-feet into the well of want, need, crave, desire.

“Kurt,” Devon gulps, “Kurt, please, please let's just go to sleep. Yes, yes I do want you, I do. You're fucking gorgeous and sexy and so, so hot but this? This is you being – drunk and…and…horny and yeah, this – this isn't a good…a good idea, okay? And you – you really don't want me, okay? Just the idea of me to you know, fuck and take…the edge off…” Devon stutters out.

Kurt doesn't immediately reply, just presses himself even closer and drags the backs of his fingers along the soft paunch of Devon's belly under his pajama shirt, the tips of which hook under the waistline of Devon's pants. Devon's breath hitches and his eyes close.

No, no Devon can't handle this. He can't handle this much Kurt, clogging his nose, Kurt's scent burying itself into the tendrils of his brain, and the wild, abandon-like heat of Kurt's now-really-heavy and sturdy frame. He closes his eyes tight, against the onrush of aching want, of feverish intensity.

“Open your eyes and look at me Devon,” Kurt commands softly, confidently.

Devon does as Kurt commands. Devon can't not open his eyes and look at Kurt when Kurt is using that tone, breathy and hitched in places with thrilling dominance and presence. His breath hitches again; an uneasy tumble of weirdly tied together sounds bumbling through his lips much like a distorted whimper.

Silence and stillness wrap around them then, Kurt's fingers still drift lazily across the expanse of his stomach and Devon's fists re-tighten around the fabric of Kurt's shirt. He could easily escape Kurt now, one arm now bracketing the left side of Devon's head and leaving the other side open, vacant for Devon to find his retreat.

But Devon doesn't move and he isn't entirely sure why.

His brain is scrambled, his thoughts are mush, muddled by the feel of Kurt's touch and fractured by the slant of Kurt's eyes, wide and exploring and exposing Devon – intangibly placing him atop a rack and twisting and turning, stretching and pulling his until his muscles ache, his skin sizzles and he just…can't take it anymore.

“Even drunk, I know that I want you Devon,” Kurt says, dangerously low and thick. “You bite your lip when you're nervous, like right now. You cry when you laugh, really laugh. You have an unhealthy addiction to anything coffee-flavored. And you have this really annoying habit of scowling when you're skeptical or just not buying the shit that comes out of people's mouths.”

Kurt's eyes never waver from Devon's. Kurt emphasizes his point by brushing the pad of his thumb overDevon's quivering bottom lip. Seriously, how can Devon deny Kurt anything now that Kurt has confessed all of that? Fitted together like a patchwork quilt, Kurt tugs and pulls on the disembodied threads of Devon's being and ties them together intimately, magnetically. Kurt ties them together like he knows Devon, treasures the imperfect perfection of idiosyncrasies.

Devon knows he can say no; they both can say no but Kurt decides that Devon is actually the single most adorable man on the face of the planet, what with his wide and so, so vivid eyes and his tiny whimpers and his simmering strength, bravery wrapped around bravado.

Plucked from the very fringes of Kurt's fantasies, Devon is alight with incarnation and that realization just throttles Kurt, destroys and obliterates Kurt, soundly, masterfully. But that realization only forces Kurt into another realization – this would not be just about taking the edge off, a one-night tussle of sheets and limbs and breathless satisfaction. Kurt is generally not used to these drunken bouts of epiphanies and right now, right now he certainly does not want an epiphany like that.

Because…well, because he's so close, so incredibly close to tasting Devon, having Devon under his hands and thriving, all fluid and liquid and Kurt/Devon/galaxy while he thrusts in, out, in, in, so deliciously in, that he clamps down on his conscience.

No, not now – no nice guy revelations, he just wants and he's okay, he's more than okay, with that.

The revelations sink in, rippling outwards like a stone skipping across the surface of water and Kurt quickly wonders if he can renounce himself of this journey, of this dogged fervency to lose himself in the man currently pinned between himself and the wall? Kurt is a nice guy, he really, honestly is but that desire – blatant and bold and there – takes over, shifting his body into autopilot and again, he just…wants.

So he takes.

Just leans down and aggressively subsumes his lips with Devon's, taking, taking, taking, without invitation or permission and for the briefest of flashes, he wonders if this is too much, too soon and if this is crossing all kinds of lines but Devon is returning the kiss, devouring the fervor and giving it back to Kurt tenfold, mouth slanting open and accepting Kurt's tongue, wet and hot and sloppy and still tasting of vodka.

And fuck – fuck, this is glorious.

Devon is knocked sideways a little, still upright only because Kurt's body is pressing Devon's against the wall and Devon's hands are deepening their clutch around Kurt's shirt and wow, just fucking wow. This isn't a kiss, it's the kiss – of awakening, of the unfurling tendrils of fibrous desire that neither can remember ever feeling, ever imagining. They want and they take, a constant back-and-forth rhythm of changing angles and pressures, teeth sometimes clacking and nipping painfully at suddenly too-sensitive flesh.

Their bodies are both literally vibrating with want and uneasy doubt yet they continue until Kurt wrenches his mouth away, only by necessity and needing fresh air rather than Devon's breath, despite the scary knowledge that really, if needed, he could survive for the rest of his life off Devon's breath, tangy and sweet and minty in an odd combination sort of way.

Devon is essentially panting now, lips wrecked and ravaged, bruised to the sexiest red Kurt has ever seen and Devon is just…staring, staring at Kurt's mouth and then into Kurt's gaze and then back to Kurt's mouth, a dip and rise of Devon's desire-bloated eyes that taunts Kurt with every pass.

It all comes to screeching halt when Kurt doubles over and promptly throws up all over Devon's pajamas. Devon's head falls back against the wall with a thud. Well then. The mood is effectively, thoroughly ruined.

So with a sigh (and maybe a bit of a breath of relief because seriously, if that hadn't happened Devon is not entirely sure he would've been able to stop the train from derailing), he guides Kurt into the bathroom. He cleans both of them up, trying not to stare too much at Kurt's bare chest, all gleaming porcelain skin and wonderfully defined muscles.

Once he finishes cleaning Kurt up, Devon half-carries, half-walks Kurt into his bedroom and deposits Kurt onto the bed. The rustle of sheets and blankets echoes in the quiet darkness as Blaine tucks Kurt in. Kurt is asleep before his head hits the pillow, beautiful features lax and his breathing even and easy. Devon smiles, permitting himself a moment to appreciate the sight – Kurt looks like he's belonged in Devon's bed all along.

At the door, Devon turns, takes one last look at the stunning, enigmatic, frustrating and gorgeous man in his bed and decides that late-night visits might not be such a bad thing after all.