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It was actually a selling point, to be totally honest, that from the wrong (right?) angle, Sting's head looked kind of like a pineapple. Because his body was fucking incredible, and of course the fucking was incredible, and what the Hell good would he be for Jon's ego if he didn't have any glaring flaws?
"I'm going to make you beg," Sting murmured in his ear, while he kneaded Jon's dick through his jeans with just the right amount of roughness to make him want to start pleading right there.
"Think you've got that backwards." Jon arched, ground his hips into Sting's hand, rested his head against Sting's shoulder and kept his breathing calm.
Didn't want to give the bastard too much to smirk about.
"Experience supports my claim, I believe," Sting said, and squeezed his hand enough to make Jon's hips buck and a small groan escape. Bastard.
Sting chuckled and lifted his hand - Jon caught himself before he whined at the loss of sensation - and shoved him just a little too hard towards the bed.
He had two options, strip or complain, and Sting already had his shirt tossed aside and Jon wasn't known for being a strong thinker when his hands were itching to get hold of tight muscles. It generally ended like one of those old Looney Tunes episodes where Daffy around in circles until he didn't know what the fuck was going on anymore.
And Jon Bon Jovi was nobody's Daffy Duck.
"Plan on keeping your clothes on all night?"
"I dunno. There a good reason not to?"
"The aforementioned begging."
"Right, right," Jon said, as he tugged his shirt off. "Although I could probably get you going without even losing my socks."
His jeans hit the floor; Sting stepped forward. Jon took a step back, and managed to make it look at least a little purposeful when the bed was closer than he thought and he went down.
"And I don't even have to ask to get you on your back."
Sting smirked; Jon wanted to say something catty but that body was sliding on top of his and a muscled thigh brushed against his dick and being catty could wait.
Hard to talk with a tongue in your mouth, anyway.
Jon shifted, arched, trapped that leg between his own and ground against it. Sting's dick, hot and hard, rubbed against Jon's own thigh, burned so hot against his skin it must have branded him.
Fingers slid up his stomach, over his chest to glance over hard nipples, over to his shoulders and down the length of his arms. Jon just moaned and kissed Sting harder, sucked that probing tongue, when his wrists were grabbed and used to guide his hands over his head.
"Don't come," Sting murmured against his lips, "until I say you can."
"Fuck you."
"Think you've got that backwards." And Jon could feel the goddamned smirk against his lips, and the bastard probably thought he was being clever and Jon wanted to say something but Sting shifted and the pressure of thigh against Jon's dick was just too fucking good.
Sting pressed Jon's wrists into the bed, nipped his lower lip and drew it into his mouth for a hard suck before he let it go. "Feel free to come whenever you want, Jon," he said, but the bastard wasn't conceding a thing because now no matter what he did, he'd had to get Sting's permission.
Fucker. Jon jerked his hips; when, exactly, had he lost control of the situation?
Another bite at his lip, sharp enough Jon twisted and mewled at the pain that made his dick surge against Sting's thigh; and Sting was gone, teeth and lips and pressure lifting.
"Look like you're about to start whining," Sting said, smirk firmly in place as he slid back on the bed. Jon just rolled his eyes and started to sit up, only to be pushed back down. "Hold on to the headboard."
"What? No."
Sting's turn to roll his eyes. "You're arguing just to be contrary. Shut up, or I'll gag you."
"Like fuck you will."
Another eye roll, but rather than make another comment Sting just wrapped his hand around Jon's dick. "Stop arguing."
Not likely.
Sting pumped his cock slowly, thoroughly, twisted his wrist until Jon gasped and arched - and without another word, Jon shifted and gripped the headboard.
"Slut."
"Asshole."
If it weren't for the fact the leisurely pumps of his dick had turned his blood to sludge, reduced all his thoughts to jesus christ that feels good gimme more, Jon probably could've come up with a better retort. As it was, Sting just smirked and reached for the lube.
Jon got a certain amount of pleasure simply from watching Sting - had he mentioned that body was incredible already? - move, muscles shifting under tanned skin. Very few of the people Jon spread his legs for gave much of a shit about how fucking much he liked the way the line of abs drew his eyes to a hard dick, and even though the effort wasn't for him, he damn sure appreciated it.
"You see," Sting said, as he popped the cap and shifted back to rest between Jon's legs, "in the end I know you'll do whatever I say."
"Really."
"Mmhm." The slick sounds of lube being squirted onto fingers, spread around, and motherfuck did Jon have goosebumps? "Because every time you think I'm not looking, you stare like a teenage boy with his first nudie magazine."
It would be nice if Sting stopped timing his barbs so inconveniently; Jon would've had a perfect retort if the slow slide of two fingers into his body hadn't distracted him.
Of course, if he wanted nice he'd be somewhere, anywhere, else. So he just moaned, because that was the second best response, moaned and rolled his hips to aim Sting's fingers at the right angle, and he expected one of those goddamn bastard smirks but Sting just leaned down and kissed him like the key to the universe was hiding somewhere in Jon's mouth.
Jon's blood boiled, roared in his veins and drove his temperature up until he started to sweat; Sting's fingers curled and twisted and thrust and his tongue mimicked the motion. Breath sped up, lips forced apart for Jon to gasp as his hips jerked and rolled against the steady, rhythmic motions of two, then three, then - fuck - four fingers.
"Jesus Christ, that's - holy fuck. Please, I - please."
"Like that?"
And there was the smirk, just a flash of it, and Sting spread his fingers just a little and Jon wanted to scream but in the best fucking way possible. He rolled his hips and tried to answer, because fuck yes, and it would be just like the bastard to take his lack of answer as a no and stop, but his breath caught in his threat and the fuck yes turned into a high moan and fuck.
Sting kissed him again, kissed him with all the force of a freight train and Jon jerked and ground his hips and was about two seconds away from losing it all the fuck over the place when he was suddenly empty.
"Now you look like you're going to start whining."
"You say that like you stopped for any reason other than being desperate for me," Jon said, and it probably would have sounded better without the gasps for breath and the fog clouding his brain and his knuckles bright-white from the headboard (what did those have to do with how it sounded?), but what-the-fuck-ever. He pried his fingers loose and turned his best you-are-in-so-much-delicious-trouble look on Sting. "My turn."
Another smirk, a challenge, and Sting rolled over on his back with do your worst written over every inch of him.
Experience dictated taking it slow, teasing, drawing the same responses out of Sting he took so much fucking pleasure in coaxing out of Jon. But, quite frankly, fuck that; Jon just sat up, threw a leg over Sting's waist and guided that so-hard-it-was-dripping cock to his hole.
"Sorry, which one of us is des - oh Hell that's nice."
Jon arched his back and sank down slowly, slowly enough to watch Sting's eyes close and his own back arch, letting his fingers slide one by one from the thick shaft, until he had taken Sting to the root.
Sting's fingers brushed his knees, trailed along the smooth muscles of his inner thighs, up to grip his hips. Guide him, probably, try to force him into whatever rhythm Sting chose. But Jon, of course, had other ideas - this was his part of the show, after all.
"You're stealing my ideas," Sting murmured against his lips when Jon leaned forward, Sting's fingers twined in his, and guided him to grip the headboard before he kissed him slowly, thoroughly, and drew his hips forward slowly enough to feel every goddamn vein.
Back, and forward again, and again, and fucking torture the way his blood was boiling but it was okay because it was torture for Sting, too, and that was the way it went.
He broke away from the kiss, nipped sharply at Sting's lower lip, and sat up, braced his hands on Sting's chest for leverage and drove his hips down, rose up, faster, harder, practically fucking bouncing on that hard dick. Sting's hips rocked to meet his, arms flexing as his body arched, groans mixing with the harsh moans being knocked out of Jon with every thrust.
"That's it, that's - harder, fuck, Jon."
Jon just grinned, and pulled back up...agonizingly slowly, drawing an almost-pained groan from Sting. Again, slow thrusts up and down, Jon took his time, watching as this time Sting's knuckles turned white against the force of his grip. Jon's dick dripped onto Sting's stomach, hard and aching, curving up towards his stomach, every inch of him pleading for release. Wait for it, wait for it -
"Oh God, Jon - please."
Jon shuddered and arched, ground his hips down, wrapped his fingers around his cock and jerked himself off with rough strokes that were almost painful. His hips rolled and thrust faster, harder, fucking himself on Sting's dick as hard as he could. Enough fucking games.
The room blurred, swam in his vision, Sting's gasps and moans and yeses wrapping around his brain and fogging up his thoughts and his blood roared through his veins and something burst and the pressure broke; his cock jerked in his hands as he spilled over Sting's stomach, over his hand, breath struggling to make it through his throat as his body tried to regain composure.
With a sound somewhere between a moan and a growl Sting let go of the headboard, rose up and flipped Jon onto his back, thrust his hips like pistons and kissed Jon brutally; game over, and there was no reason to do anything but use Jon.
It was hours, months, fucking years of being pounded in the best fucking way, of legs around Sting's waist and nails against skin as Jon tried to get enough space to breathe and fucking Hell shit warmth and Sting pulled away from the kiss to gasp and curse his way through the release and he was spent.
The downside to that fucking fantastic body was how heavy all those muscles were when he collapsed against Jon, who had just about enough energy to whine vaguely and shove him off and away.
Centuries later, when their breath had returned, Jon forced himself off the bed, scrounged up his jeans and his shirt and what might have been his jacket but was probably Sting's and leaned over and kissed him. Vague, noncommittal promises were made to do this again when they were close enough, the sort where neither one sounded like the one who initiated it so neither could hold that over the other's head, and he slipped out the door.