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His back slammed against the wall almost painfully. There was a brief moment where he opened his mouth to complain but even that privilege was taken from him as his mouth was claimed. Groaning muffledly, hands were everywhere, his hands on Stewart and Stewart's hands all over him.
Unable to help himself, he held tighter, arching into Stewart, both of them ravishing the other's mouth before jerking back to pant.
Sting was aware the noises that were echoing through the empty room were in fact coming from him. Soft noises, whimpers, but with less urgency.
Well, until Stewart's mouth clamped onto his pulse point. Then all bets were off.
There was part of him that wanted to slow down, that wanted to calm himself as he knew how to do. But the other part of him, the part currently in control, liked the urgency and the frantic nature of this encounter and the way it blazed throughout him.
Sharp, but pleasant pain shot through him, rocketing through his veins like he was speeding down some curvy road. He arched into it, plastering his body against Stewart, groaning when one of those hands cupped his ass.
They kissed again, the same brutality from before overtaking them as he ground against Stewart, wringing a groan from the other man. Pulling back, he attacked Stewart's neck, sucking hard and biting almost to the point of drawing blood.
Gasping hard, he jumped a little when the wall disappeared from his back and he was almost thrown onto the nearby couch. Just like it had always been, they stripped quickly. Sting's memories rushed back at him unbidden, making blood surge down a proverbial hill to make him harder.
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1978
It was easy to pass off the next morning; chalk it up to booze and the like, but Sting knew in his mind that he would never forget the feeling of Stewart clumsily stripping him. Or the enthusiastic way his cock had disappeared into that willing mouth.
He had shouted, he remembered that. Or rather, he tried to forget it.
The haze of alcohol filtered some of the rougher memories out, the burn and the sheer moments of pain as Stewart pushed two fingers into his ass. Again, he had shouted.
At least, he thought he had.
Stewart had kept up a running litany of filthy language in that accent of his. That accent that seemed so odd in the middle of wherever they had been. Alcohol made that a little hard to remember.
Not that he wanted to.
He wanted to forget the whole night. Sting wanted to forget the feeling of Stewart's cock sliding in and out of him, the push and pull sensation and the way Stewart's hands had gripped his hips.
Alcohol made everything fuzzier than before, but he remembered coming hard, shouting and gasping and feeling the hot breathy moan from Stewart. Heat and then blackness.
Damnit, he had wanted to forget all about the night before.
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"Focus, Stingo,"
That smug tone made him want to smack Stewart, but soon the feeling of lubed fingers filled him and he muffled his shout. Gasping and arching into it, he watched Stewart grin evilly, glasses askew and hair firmly out of place from his hands.
A mark was starting to show above Stewart's collarbone, and Sting would have grinned but his mouth was currently incapable of doing anything but hanging open. Whimpers, almost constant now, filled the room as Stewart added another finger and thrust roughly.
His hands tangled in Stewart's hair, nearly ripping it out as Stewart teased him, his thick groan finally urging the drummer into sliding his fingers out.
And then the ever familiar pressure followed by just a moment (which, truth be told, he had come to love) of pain. It changed the moment Stewart pushed in, pulling Sting down on top of him with a groan. They were on the floor and Sting wanted to laugh incredulously. The sheer absurdity of them fucking on the floor was outweighed by the fact that Sting hadn't realized how much he had missed the franticness of sex with Stewart.
Sting arched against Stewart, feeling fingers gripping his hips tightly as Stewart started thrusting. Hard and sharp, it was almost painful, but the way he was angled, pain wasn't a factor. Nothing but pleasure shot through him, inflaming every exposed surface as they moved faster.
His nails, blunt though they were, scratched and scraped against Stewart's back and the yelps that occasionally came from him let Sting know that there would definitely be marks. Tilting his head, he kissed Stewart, brutally, the kiss wasn't anything tender.
It was simply a connection other than Stewart's cock pumping in and out of his ass.
Stewart arched, shuddering violently and then Sting was suddenly unable to restrain the yelled curses that finally broke free. Shuddering against Stewart and gasping, he felt sweat pour down his face and the familiar feeling of come between himself and the drummer mingling. Panting hard, he leaned back against the couch.
Stewart tried to look smug, instead he just looked exhausted and sore.
"Too...fucking...old to fuck on the floor," he finally managed, easing out of Sting and flopping back on the floor, grinning breathlessly. His glasses were crooked and his hair was damp, as though he'd been drumming. Face flushed, Sting was sure he didn't look any better.
"Your...fucking fault, Copeland."
"Fuck off, Stingo."
Snorting, Sting gave into temptation and flopped back on the floor, the cooler air washing over him and drying the sweat into a slightly stickyness that at the moment, he didn't mind. They stayed like that for a few moments before a thought shot across Sting's mind.
He'd take one of these almost painfully frantic sessions over tantric sex any day.
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