Timeless [Sting X Reader] || Third Book

16 : Make It Quick ; LEMON / SMUT / NSFW

[a/n]: i have sinned greatly in the creation of this now sin with me i hope this satisfies y'all i've been asked to write some sting action so many times you have no idea.

! WARNING ! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SCENES INVOLVING SEXUAL CONTENT IF YOU AREN'T LIKE MOST OF THE POPULATION AND DISLIKE SEXUAL CONTENT, THEN I SUGGEST YOU STOP READING RIGHT NOW. IF YOU DO LIKE THIS KIND OF SHIT PLEASE CONTINUE READING BY ALL MEANS.

x x

The plan was not to shed your clothes and tangle your bodies with a chord of broken moans. No, the plan was to get some much-needed sleep until Wendy comes and knocks on your door with Lance in tow. Alas, Sting's hands wandered, leaving your clothes and your doubts to gather into a useless pile by the bed.

Your headache's reduced to a dull throbbing, but it's still substantial enough for you to not be able to ignore.  In the face of Sting's desperate, sloppy kisses, you decide to bear the headache, because there isn't any pleasure without a little bit of pain, and you know it's going to be so worth it when Sting's sheathed by your womanhood, your pleads screamed into the pillow.

But you're getting too ahead of yourself, Sting's boxers are still wrapped around his hips, and his tongue is still wrapped around yours. Sting bows his head, his lips repeatedly acquainting themselves with the skin above your throat, the muscles underneath your skin contracting as you swallowed a moan.

"Shit, what about Lance?" Sting asks, though there's a betraying tone of need twirled into his voice, which sounds husky and breathless, and holy shit it was hot.

"Wendy said he'd bring him back by sundown," you reassured him ( though you were sure Sting would follow through even if Lance would be back in two minutes ), tugging on a fistful of his hair and putting his mouth on yours again.

There's more breathless pants, unrestrained moans and silent pleads as Sting continues to ravish your body, every inch of it fresh in his mind from memory. One kiss here, another one there, he knows which buttons to push ( and how to push them ) to get you to throw your head back and arch your body into him.

You want to touch him so badly ( and you want him to keep touching you just as badly ). You want to scratch your fingernails against his abs, because you know he likes it when you do, and because it adds just a bit more animalistic desire into his ministrations. That tiny bit more is enough to get you sweating onto the going-to-be-soiled sheets, crying out Sting's name just the way he likes it.

Sting's in between your spread legs now, and he's licking strips onto your inner thigh, breathing hot puffs against your already flushed skin whenever you squirm and whimper, begging for more.

"Sting," you cry out his name, submitting to your desperation and the swirling heat in between your legs. He licks you there, and oh god, it's never felt better. His tongue barely skims the surface, and by no means is it enough to sate your desires, but you're shuddering from the pleasure anyway because you've tasted nothing but the wine on Sting's lips and his kisses along your body.

You rock your hips forward, hoping Sting buries his tongue inside of you, working you until you're screaming his name as you come, but he doesn't. You're met with a frustrating emptiness, and you can't help but whine into a collection of sheets gathered around your fist.

You can hear shuffling, the ruffle of disturbed sheets before Sting floods the space in front of you, stripped bare and panting and, hopefully, craving intimacy just as badly as you are.

"You're eager," Sting breathes out a laugh.

"It's been weeks, you asshole," you snap at him, "you were the one making promises about how you were going to wreck me, the only action we ever got was that one time you grabbed my tit- on accident!"

"Well then, what's one more promise of what I'm going to do to you?" Sting's lips curl up in a dangerous smirk, and you can feel the heat blossoming in between your messily soaked thighs in world.

Damn him.

Sting's tongue prodded against your teeth, his hips pressed against yours, but it doesn't spur the sensation you're looking for- it isn't the sensation you're needing.

When he finally does fill you with his cock, it's so much better than in your imagination, and you throw your head back in a broken moan.

"Fuck, yes. . .!" 

You tangle your fingers in Sting's hair, scratching his scalp, forcing a groan out of him. Sting doesn't wait much longer, and he starts moving slowly, deliberately. You rock your hips against him, moaning with a guiltless tone, prompting him to go faster, harder with the verbal encouragement.

Your nails graze the flesh of his abs, and Sting shudders, adding pressure to his thrusts, and it's so close to perfect, so close to your screaming out his name.

"More, shit. . .more!" Your hands slide onto his biceps, so beautifully sculpted, and your palms almost slip from the sweat that's covered him. Sting delivers a quick, deep snap of his hips, and he's finally rammed into that spot that sends you spiraling down a long-overdue euphoria.

You call out his name repeatedly, without any shame, because his cock was buried inside of you and he was making you feel all kinds of good there was no room for any shame, Sting readily indulges you with steady, experienced thrusts.

There's no time for kissing, not even quick sloppy pecks, because Sting's going so quickly, and it feels fucking incredible; the only thing you can do is breathe out his name, an addictive mantra, and tug at his hair. 

Everything just feels so gorgeously good that you're forced to shut your eyes and curl your toes and arch your body until it's flush against his as you're rocked against the mattress.

"Sting-"

"I know, baby, I know," Sting goes faster, clamping his hand around the vacant spot beside your neck, and he loves the way your muscles work to push out your moans of his name, and how your collarbones strain against your skin as you arch your back.

Sting continues pounding into you until you curl your fingers one last time and scream his name with finality as you trip into your orgasm. Your walls close around Sting, and he seriously considers nutting then and there, but he continues thrusting into you with replenished vigor, feeling his lower half twitch with satisfaction when you beg him to stop.

Though Sting's never been adept at exercising self-control, and once his thrusts start to fray, you force your mouth on his, swallowing the moan he makes when he finally comes.

» time skip

"There's still some Nutella," Sting says thoughtfully.

"Oh my God." You're laughing into a fresh pillow, and Sting thinks it's adorable the way your shoulders tremble with laughter.

"I'll go make some food for the both of us," Sting offers, and before you can form any protests, he's already slipping on a clean pair of boxers and slipping out of the doorway, humming in contentment.