mr marathon holding soldier boy's cum in his mouth while you jerk him off !!
"Spitters are quitters, Marathon."
The words barely register through the thick haze clouding his brain. Mr. Marathon, the man who's graced a thousand magazine covers, who's been worshipped by millions, who was once a part of The Seven, is on his knees, naked, trembling, and his mouth is full. Soldier Boy's cum, hot and thick and copious, floods his senses, the salty-bitter taste coating his tongue, pooling under it, threatening to spill past his lips. He can barely breathe through his nose, his jaw aching from the strain of keeping his mouth closed, his throat working on a desperate, choked swallow that he can't fucking take.
And then there's you.
You’re right behind him, your breasts, soft and heavy, pressing flat against the trembling muscles of his back. One arm is wrapped around his chest, your hand splayed over his pounding heart, while the other works his aching, rigid cock. Your grip is just perfect: tight, your palm slick with his own pre-cum, twisting and stroking in a rhythm that’s designed to break him. Your lips are a hot brand on his neck, teeth grazing his tendon before your tongue soothes the sting.
"Shhh, baby.." you purr, your voice a saccharine whisper right into his ear. "You can take it. You’ve always been such a good boy for me, haven't you? So good at taking everything I give you."
He whimpers, a broken, pathetic sound that gets lost in the back of his throat, the vibrations making the cum in his mouth slosh dangerously. His hips twitch, bucking up into your fist, chasing the friction, and you tighten your grip. He can feel Soldier Boy's gaze on him, heavy and amused, a predator watching its prey squirm.
Mr. Marathon’s eyes, glassy and unfocused, look up at him, pleading. A fresh wave of pleasure-pain zings through his body as your hand twists on the upstroke, your thumb pressing firmly into the sensitive underside of his cockhead. A strangled noise is trapped in the back of his throat, vibrating against the filling in his mouth.
Soldier Boy is a monument of muscle and arrogance, standing right infront of where Marathon is knelt on the edge of the bed, stroking his own dick lazily. It's still glistening with Marathon's spit, thick and hard, a testament to his stamina. He's watching him struggle, a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes dark with possessive glee. "Look at you. On your knees with a mouthful of my seed. Your little girlfriend’s a real piece of work, ain't she? Stroking you like a good little pet while you try not to drown." He takes a step closer, his free hand coming up to roughly grip the younger man's jaw, tilting his face up. "Open up, Marathon. Let me see it."
He complies, letting his jaw slacken just enough. Soldier Boy peers into his mouth, at the white mess in there, and grunts in approval. "Good boy. Now get ready for the encore."
You choose that moment to twist your wrist, your thumb swiping over the weeping head of his cock, and a strangled moan tears from his throat, his hips jerking violently. He nearly loses it, the cum rushing towards the front of his now open mouth, but he clamps his lips shut again, a single, pearly droplet escaping and trailing down his chin. He's shaking, sweat beading on his forehead, his muscles taut as he fights for control. His head falls back against your shoulder, a desperate, choked sob escaping him.
"Pleahe-" he whimpers, the word muffled and distorted around the mouthful of cum.
"Please what, baby?" you coo, your lips now against his throat, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin there. Your hand works him faster, your grip ruthless. "Please let you come? Please let you swallow?"
Soldier Boy chuckles, a low, rough sound. "He's asking so nicely, sweetheart. But I'm not done with him yet. I think his face needs a proper coating." He spits into his palm, slicking his cock one last time. "Don't you worry, Marathon. I got plenty more where that came from."
He steps forward, right in front of his kneeling form, the head of his cock nudging against Marathon's chin, smearing the escaped drop of cum. "Look at me. Look me in the eyes while I paint your fucking face."
Marathon obeys immediately, his eyes glossy, pupils blown wide. He's barely holding on, a human wreck of need and humiliation. You feel him throb in your hand, a telltale pulse. He’s trapped, suspended between the sensation of your hand on his dick and the degrading, yet strangely arousing, command of holding another man’s cum in his mouth.
"Not yet, baby." you whisper, kissing his temple. "Hold on for me. Be a good boy."
And then Soldier Boy is working his shaft, thick and fast, his other hand tangled in Marathon's hair, holding him steady. It only takes a few strokes. He grunts, a guttural sound, and then he's erupting. Hot, sticky ropes of cum splatter across the younger man's face, hitting his forehead, his cheeks, his closed eyelids, dripping down his nose and onto his parted lips. It's blinding, searing, and utterly degrading.
"Alright, kid. Swallow." Soldier Boy growls, the command absolute.
And he does. He swallows. The thick, bitter load that's been torturing him slides down his throat in one convulsive gulp.
He gasps for air the second his mouth is empty, a ragged, wet sound.
And that’s when you get him. You twist your wrist on the downstroke, your thumb digging into the frenulum, and your other hand leaves his heart to gently, torturously cup his balls. "Good boy." you coo, nipping at his earlobe.
The sound that tears from his throat is nothing short of pornographic. Nothing more than a raw, needy, high-pitched whine that’s all sensation and no words. His hips buck wildly into your grip, his whole body arching, and he’s lost. He’s just a mass of nerve endings, a whimpering, trembling wreck, spurting his own release over your fingers as he fights to catch a breath that’s thick with the taste of Soldier Boy and the smell of you.
Soldier Boy wipes his dripping, softening cock on his cheek and pats it, a patronizing, final gesture. "Good boy."
The poor man can barely breathe, his face a mask of cum and tears, his body trembling in the aftermath. He slumps completely, his weight a dead weight against your front, his head lolling back onto your shoulder. He looks utterly wrecked. Devastated. And the most beautiful he's ever been.
You kiss his sweaty forehead, tasting the salt and the bitter tang of Soldier Boy's seed on his skin, your smile soft and possessive.
Summary: It’s 2014. Mister Marathon’s starting to slip a little, but he’s not ready to give up the spotlight just yet. What better way to stay in the public’s eye than to try and orbit Centerfold’s gravity and call it a strategy?
Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, male masturbation, drug use, Mister Marathon only thinks with his dick, enemies-to-?, canon-typical depravity, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: My disappointment in how they used JarPad’s cameo in The Boys is absolutely immeasurable. So how do I cope with it? By creating an entire backstory and character to pair with him so that I can write his character better. Am I devoting all this time and energy into a side character solely because he’s played by JarPad? Yes. Am I ashamed? Absolutely the fuck not. Gimme my speedster boy. I’ll make him plenty pathetic by the end of this. Also, yeah, this is gonna be a multi-parter. But I don’t have any idea how many parts or when I’ll upload more pieces of this.
Mister Marathon Masterlist
The studio was already humming by the time he stepped onto the set, all warm lights and overworked assistants scrambling around with lint rollers and clipboards like the world would end if a single wrinkle made it into frame. Standard Vought production. He could appreciate it. At least there was decent scenery. One of the assistants – an intern, from how young she looked – kept glancing his way, and he wondered if he could sneak a quickie in before the photoshoot started. Wouldn’t need any oil if he worked up a real sweat.
He spotted you the second you walked in. It was impossible not to.
Every head in the room tilted towards you in some subtle, little way, like gravity actually bent around you. For all he knew, it did. Fitting name with a fitting power. Centerfold. You moved like you already knew everyone was looking and couldn’t be bothered enough to acknowledge it. No rush. No nervous energy. No overeager smile like most people got around him. Interesting.
Mister Marathon straightened a little where he was standing center stage, smoothing a hand down the front of his mesh tank. The assistant beside him was still talking, – lighting adjustments or something – but he didn’t hear her anymore. His attention locked onto you as you crossed the studio floor.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Vought knew what they were doing with you. He’d seen plenty of your spreads before. All of them were prime fap material. He’d know. They could probably put you in a burlap sack, and he’d get a chub at the very least. But the outfit they had on you? Fucking criminal. It was the kind of thing that made men fall to their knees and women reconsider their life choices. He was already picturing it on the dressing room floor. He whistled, quickly adjusting himself in the track pants that left very little to the imagination. Especially now.
“Centerfold!” he called, spreading his arms wide with an easy grin. “Big fan.” Your eyes landed on him, flicked down to his dick, then back up to his face.
“Of yourself?” A few crew members laughed under their breath. He grinned wider. There it was. Attitude. All for show, of course. Nobody talked to him like that, unless they wanted his attention. He knew the game. Sharp tongue, cold exterior, the whole too good for you act. Usually, it lasted right up until he had them bent over and was railing them into next week.
“Of you,” he corrected, stepping towards you and offering his hand. “Queen Maeve’s threatening to slash your tires if you beat her in another popularity poll. Figured I’d finally get to see what the hype’s about.” Your gaze dropped to his hand. Didn’t take it.
“Mm,” you hummed. “Disappointed yet?”
You brushed past him. It almost made him laugh. Not because it bothered him – though it caught him off guard – but because it was a bold move. Cocky. Like you thought you could ice him out and he’d lose interest. If anything, it made you hotter. He pivoted, following after you.
“You always this friendly on set, or am I just getting special treatment?”
“Special?” You glanced back over your shoulder. “You’re not a Make-A-Wish kid.”
Mister Marathon popped his neck. Cute. The thing about banter, about chemistry, was that if someone didn’t want to engage, they didn’t. They shut it down. Walked away. Kept things polite and cold. You kept answering him. Kept turning back. Kept giving him ammunition to keep the conversation going.
“Oh, wow,” he said with a low whistle. “So the rumors are true..”
“Hm?” You paused, glancing at your phone.
“You’re a fucking bitch.” He let his eyes drag down your body while he said it, deliberate and unapologetic. Women liked that look. Straightened up a little. Pushed their tits out. Played offended while secretly liking the attention. You scowled at him, and his cock twitched as he imagined painting those lips white. “Guess that’s one way to stay relevant when you’re not in The Seven,” he added.
Your response? Nothing. No defensive reaction. No irritation. No wounded ego. In fact, you smiled. Slow. Almost pitying as you turned to face him fully.
“Oh sweetheart,” you drawled. “Every star collapses under enough pressure.” Something sharp flickered behind his ribs. Not anger, exactly. More like a challenge. He stepped closer, his polished grin sharpening.
“Pressure just makes stars like me shine brighter.”
“That supposed to impress me?”
“No. Just means I don’t have to try as hard.”
“And yet,” you gestured vaguely at him, “here you are. Trying.”
The intern he’d been eyeing earlier snickered across the way, and he cleared his throat, adjusting his shirt. He exhaled through his nose, smile tightening before me smoothed it back into place. His voice dropped an octave as he crowded you more.
“You know, most people would kill to be in your position.”
“Most people,” you echoed.
“Yeah.” He flashed you an easy smirk. “Paired with me? National campaign? That kind of exposure doesn’t come around often.”
“I’ve had better offers.”
He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Jesus, you were relentless. But honestly? It was kinda doing it for him.
“You mean sucking off execs?” he asked. “Didn’t realize that was the better career move these days.”
“Well,” you said, picking at your fingernails, “it’s more action than you’re seeing.” That got an actual laugh out of him. It wasn’t funny (okay, it kinda was), but you said it like you genuinely expected it to hit him. Like you thought that he’d be rattled by it.
“I could leave if I wanted. I don’t have to stand here taking this shit from you.”
“No, you don’t,” you agreed. “But you want to.” You laughed at him, and there it was again, that tiny little sting right under his skin. Damn, you knew exactly where to aim, and you weren’t pulling any punches. Before he could answer, the photographer clapped loudly from behind the camera.
“Alright! Positions! Let’s get some push and pull energy going on here!” You and him were already three steps ahead. You moved towards your mark without another glance at him. He watched the sway of your hips as you walked away, shamelessly staring at your ass and wondering how many handprints he could fit on it.
“Try to keep up,” he muttered as he stepped in behind you.
“Don’t need to. You can’t outrun gravity.”
“Perfect! Hold that!” The photographer practically lit up behind the camera, the shutter snapping in quick succession. Mister Marathon slid a hand to your waist, fingers running along the thin fabric of your outfit. He didn’t miss the way your gaze flicked down for a brief second.
“Careful,” you murmured. “Grip any tighter and people might think you’re compensating.” He flexed his hand against your side, blunted nail digging in.
“Oh, I am,” he shot back. “Compensating for someone who thinks brooding is a personality.” You shifted against him, not away but closer, aligning yourself perfectly with him for the camera. The way your body fit against his sent another pulse of heat straight to his cock. No doubt you could feel it pressed against your thigh. For all the attitude and snapping and little hooks you kept trying to sink into him, you were still leaning into him. Still touching him. Still playing the game.
“Centerfold, chin down – yes, perfect. Marathon, lean in a little more. Pretend you’re telling her a secret.” He did as instructed, his lips ghosting along the shell of your ear.
“I give it ten years before you’re a dry, crusty has-been that no one remembers.”
“That’s ten more years than you’ve got,” you whispered back, voice honey-warm. “People are already saying you’re slowing down, big boy.” His hold on you tightened before he could stop it. “People’ll still be getting off to my photos long after your limp dick stops working. How’s that for being remembered?”
His expression almost slipped. Almost. Not because of the insult – there was absolutely nothing limp about his dick – but because holy fuck, you could flirt. Sure, he’d snuck some real sassy ones into Vought Tower before, but goddamn, college girls couldn’t hold a candle to the kind of heat that was building between the two of you.
“Getting off to photos? How fucking vanilla. You think you’re real special, don’t you?” He took the opportunity to slip his hand lower to where your hip curved into your ass. You batted his hand away, purposefully moving it as your chest brushed against his when you turned to face him fully.
“Haven’t you read the papers? I am special.” You leaned in close, fingers sliding along the back of his neck and tangling in his hair. For a split second, he thought you might kiss him. “And I don’t need you to stay relevant.” The photographer made a strangled noise somewhere behind the camera, but Mister Marathon barely heard it. He was already lost in how fucking awesome the sex after this was going to be.
The dressing room was the quiet reprieve you needed. Away from the flashing lights. Away from the photographer’s incessant demands. And most importantly, away from him. You slumped into the chair in front of the vanity, kicking off your heels and grabbing one of the make up removal wipes. The makeup artist had done her job well. You looked flawless in the photos, all smoky eyes and pouty lips, but at the end of the day, it was always a mask you couldn’t wait to remove. The door opened without a knock, and you scowled, already knowing who it was without looking.
“You make a habit of walking into people’s private spaces, Marathon?” you asked, beginning the process of removing your makeup.
“Just yours,” he replied, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “Figured we should talk. Away from all the cameras.” You glanced at him in the mirror, finding him leaning against the door and looking far too comfortable in your space. His eyes met yours in the mirror. He had ditched the smile meant for the papers, but his ego was still fully intact and encroaching on your limited space. You frowned.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said. “We got the shots. They’ll be great. Vought will be thrilled. End of story.”
“Y’know,” he said like he was continuing a conversation you never agreed to have, “for someone who ‘doesn’t need this,’ you really leaned into it out there.”
“It’s called acting.”
“Is it?” He perched himself on the edge of your vanity table, watching you with eyes that reminded you of a rat’s. “Because it felt pretty damn real to me.”
“Maybe that’s because your ego can’t handle rejection,” you said, dabbing at your eyeliner with careful precision. He laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all day, and the sound grated against your already-frayed nerves.
“Maybe,” he said in a tone that suggested he didn’t think that was the case at all. “Or maybe I’m ready to see what happens when we finally stop pretending.” You paused, the makeup wipe hovering halfway to your face.
“Pretending what?”
“That we don’t want this.” He gestured between you both. “The tension’s good for the cameras, yeah, but it’s better in private.” His voice dropped to a register that might’ve been seductive if it wasn’t so obviously rehearsed. You arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow.
“That’s your move? Really?”
“I don’t need a move.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. “I’m just giving you permission to openly admire.”
A beat passed between you. Then, you laughed. Not a mean one, exactly, though it certainly wasn’t kind. It wasn’t as sharp as a mocking laugh, though. But you had to admit that you were amused.
“Oh, that’s got to be so embarrassing for you.” His expression tightened, but he pushed through it, leaning back and rolling his shoulders like he was settling in.
“I’m serious. You don’t get that kind of chemistry if there’s nothing there.” You set the makeup wipe down and finally gave him your full attention.
“Chemistry?” you echoed. “No, that’s gravitational pull. You can’t resist it, but I don’t notice that it’s there.”
“God, you are–” He cut himself off and scrubbed a hand over his jaw, fingers running through his beard. “Look, are we gonna fuck already or are you one of those ‘dinner first’ kind of people?” You just stared at him.
“Where do you get it?” you asked. His brow furrowed in confusion, clearly not expecting that sort of response.
“What?”
“Where do you get the fucking audacity to think that after all of that out there,” you motioned in the direction of the set, “that I would want to have sex with you?” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t miss a beat.
“I think you’re just playing hard to get,” he said with a smirk that you were severely tempted to slap right off of his face. “And I’ve got the stamina to wait you out.” He winked.
“Stamina?” You scoffed. “From what I’ve heard, you’re all flash and no follow-through.” Your eyes narrowed to slits, the last remnants of your professional facade crumbling away. “Get out,” you said, voice low and dangerous. “Now.” Mister Marathon didn’t move. Instead, he had the gall to sigh and shake his head, that goddamn smirk unshaken.
“Fine, you want follow-through?” He held up his hands like he was surrendering as he pushed away from your vanity counter and drew closer. “Let’s do dinner first.” He seemed entirely unfazed by your demand, moving on with whatever rehearsed script he had like this was the next natural step. “There’s a place downtown – impossible to get into unless you’ve got a name – but–”
“No.” The word was immediate. Your tone was flat with zero hesitation behind it. He stopped short.
“…No?” he repeated, like maybe he had misheard you.
“No,” you confirmed, staring him down. “I’m not interested.” He huffed a laugh, but it wasn’t the same, confident one from before. There was uncertainty laced through it.
“C’mon,” he said, his tone faltering. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“This,” he gestured vaguely at you. “The whole ice queen thing. It worked for the shoot, but you don’t have to keep it up off-camera.” You met his beady little eyes, and this time, there was absolutely nothing performative in your expression.
“No,” you said again. “You’re fucking dense. That wasn’t a bit. None of this is.”
That landed. Really landed. You could see it in the way his perfectly polished mask shattered. Mister Marathon didn’t have a comeback or a pivot. Just the realization that he had been reading from an entirely different script than you.
“You’re serious,” he said at last.
“I usually am.” He studied you, really studied you this time like he was trying to recalibrate everything he thought he knew about the situation. You watched his throat work around a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly.
“Christ, make some actual use of your power and lighten the fuck up,” he spat back finally. “Your pictures put out more than you.” There was a rush of air beside you, and in an instant, he was gone from your vanity, the door to your dressing room left wide open in his wake. You righted your chair with a sigh, collapsing back into it and returning to your methodical removal of your makeup.
It didn’t fully hit him until ten minutes after he was back in his apartment at Vought Tower. At first, he did what he always did. Scoffed. Rolled his shoulders. Ran a hand through his hair like he was shaking it off.
“Whatever,” he muttered to the empty room, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water off the kitchen counter. “Her loss.” He had said that line a hundred times. A thousand, even. Usually, it worked. Usually, he could turn around, find some other warm cunt to sink his dick into, and fuck it out of his system. But the second he even tried to think about some other pretty little thing wrapping her lips around him, his brain replayed it.
No.
Flat. Easy. Worse than that, though, was what it wasn’t. You weren’t angry or disgusted even. You gave him absolutely nothing. The lint on your sleeve got more of a rise out of you than he did. And it fucking grated.
The bottle remained unopened in his hands as he paced the length of his living room, the afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. His reflection caught in the glass as he passed by, and he stopped, examining himself. The same face that had graced billboards and magazine covers for the past three years stared back at him. Still handsome. Still powerful. Still worth millions.
And yet you had looked at him like he was nothing.
And that’s what stung.
People didn’t look at him like that. They looked at him like he was someone. Like he was a surefire thing. Like all they had to do was wait for him to notice them. But you didn’t wait. You didn’t care. That flipped something ugly and electric in his chest. He hurled the sparkling water across the room, the glass bottle shattering against the wall. It fizzed as it slid down, dripping onto his collection of Playboy magazines and soaking into the pages like the world’s saddest fucking money shot.
He showered. Changed into something with his branding on it. Checked his phone. He had three missed messages. Two from PR and one from someone named Kinleigh, whoever the fuck that was. Normally, he’d answer. Normally he’d want to. But now, he swiped all of them away. “Fuck,” he hissed, tossing his phone onto the couch beside him. It bounced once before landing face down.
Several volumes of Vought Monthly were scattered across the coffee table in front of him, the most recent issues that featured him on the front page. No slowing down: Mister Marathon’s road so far. Carry On, Marathon: The speedster who never backs down. Marathon, Interrupted: One of the Seven injured during heroic rescue! He snatched one of them up and flipped through it without thinking.
And there you were.
Centerfold.
Exactly where your namesake said you would be.
“Of-fucking-course.” He let out a short humorless laugh and rolled his eyes as he reached up to turn the page. His hand hesitated. You looked like the perfect sex icon. You always did. The lighting sculpted you just right, shadows deepening right at the junction of your thighs. Your expression was balanced on that razor-thin edge between inviting and untouchable, though your ‘fuck me’ eyes were enough to make people think they had a chance. It was the kind of image that was manufactured to make people think they were getting something without actually giving them anything real. He’d seen photos of you hundreds of times before.
But this was different.
Now, he had seen you off the page. And suddenly, the version of you in the magazine felt incomplete. His thumb dragged across the glossy image, mentally cursing as he caught sight of your name printed in the lower corner. Centerfold: Get caught in her orbit. God-fucking-dammit. The camera hadn’t caught the way your mouth looked when you talked down to him. It hadn’t been a bit. Then why had it made him so fucking hard? He tossed the magazine aside, thought twice about it, then grabbed it out of the air before it could hit the ground and crease the pages. He heaved a sigh, dragging his hand down his face.
He was too keyed up. Restless. Wired. His thoughts were a whirlwind that even he was struggling to keep up with. Comebacks that would’ve been nice to have a few hours earlier. Better lines. Sharper ones. Ones that would’ve landed and cut into you. Ones that might’ve gotten you to look at him with something. Anger. Disgust. Spite. Hell, he’d thought he would’ve at least gotten a hate-fuck out of you. Anything more than just sheer indifference.
“Jesus Christ, shut up,” he grumbled. He pushed himself off the couch abruptly, like he could physically outrun the noise in his head. It didn’t work. It never did. His thoughts kept pace, darting ahead of him before looping back. Picking apart every second in the damn dressing room, every look you’d given him, every lack of a reaction. He paced around his apartment. Once. Twice. A third time. Too fast. He was a caged animal.
This was fucking stupid.
He moved without thinking, crossing the room in half a breath and yanking open the drawer where the answer to his problem sat. A small baggie. Familiar. Reliable. He shook it between his fingers. It was lighter than he remembered it, but that didn’t matter. It was still enough to do the trick. He nodded to himself, feeling the anticipation of relief building behind his ribs. The one that promised to smooth everything out and wrap him in that warm, numb nothing that had gotten him through plenty of times before. Calm settled over him as he cut himself a line, practiced precision of card on glass. He bent. Rolled bill. Sharp inhale.
Bitter. Chemical. Fucking finally.
The noise in his head didn’t stop. Rather it just... dropped out. Like someone had yanked the cord on a speaker mid-song. The constant chatter, the looping what-ifs, the sharp edges of it all – gone, just like that. He sniffed and breathed a sigh of relief. His shoulders loosened. The tension in him unwound in a rush, like a coiled spring finally just giving up. The world felt smoother. Manageable again. He dragged a hand through his hair, beginning his pacing once more, but this time, it wasn’t frantic. It was easy and controlled.
He was Mister Marathon again.
The thing about being the fastest man alive was that nothing could keep up with him, not even drugs. But they did give him just a few blessed minutes where his thoughts finally moved at the same speed as the rest of the world. Some armchair therapist online had said something about stimulants and some mental illness interacting differently or shit. He didn’t care about the why or the how. Only that it fucking worked.
His gaze flicked to the coffee table, eyes darting from one image to another. And this time, it didn’t sting. He scoffed, a hint of that polished arrogance sliding back into place. What the hell had he been thinking? He was one of The Seven. Thousands of people wanted him. Wanted to be him. There was no reason to be so hung up on one stuck up bitch.
Better. This was better.
He moved back to the couch and dropped down onto it, stretching his arms along the back and spreading his legs like he owned the world. His foot started bouncing again, but it felt good this time. Energizing. Like he was plugged back in. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushions, reveling in the peace of feeling in control. Hell, maybe he’d even text that Keyleigh girl back. He was fairly confident that she was the one who had sucked him off right after he fucked her ass. God, he loved college freshmen.
He straightened up and reached for his phone. Your photos taunted him in his peripheral vision, and before he knew it, his eyes had been dragged back to the centerfold spreads on the table. It was just a glance. Just a–
Mister Marathon shifted, rolling his neck and trying to shake it off. He pulled his confidence closer to himself, trying to wrap it around his shoulders like a comfortable blanket. It didn’t stay. It slid off. His foot bounced faster. The silence didn’t feel clean anymore. It felt thin. Like the quiet that came before something terrible happened. His stomach twisted, that brief, artificial calm fracturing all at once as the noise came rushing back in, louder than before. Like it had been building up and waiting just outside the door.
He groaned as his thoughts raced again, this time with more teeth. Every second replayed in high definition. Every missed opportunity. Every look. Every word you hadn’t said. The silence couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds. Probably less.
The realization dawned on him slowly. This wasn’t complicated. None of this was about you. It was just... residual energy. Leftover adrenaline. The kind of thing that stuck under his skin when he didn’t burn it off properly. He knew how this all worked. He’d dealt with it plenty of times before. Bad nights. Bad press. Bad fucking moods that wouldn’t let go.
And there was an easy fix to all of it.
He looked at the glossy spreads of you. Frozen in perfect lighting. Perfectly posed. Perfectly manageable. That was his problem. He had been giving you way too much power and sway. You were fucking nothing next to him. None of this meant anything. The only reason this bothered him was because you’d fucking blue balled him. He just needed to get it out of his system, and he’d be right as rain again.
He picked up one of the issues that had you leaning seductively over the edge of a pool, tits pushed up and cleavage on full display. His gaze dragged over it, slower this time, as he finally let go of his thoughts. They bolted back to you, and it took very little convincing to get them to circle around the memory of your hands at the nape of his neck. Of the way your chest felt pressed against his. It took even less coaxing to get his cock on board.
He leaned back against the cushions, the magazine in his hand feeling less like a source of frustration and more like the tool it was meant to be. His hand slid into his pants, fingers wrapping around himself and stroking a few times, eyes fixed on your image. The curve of your hip. The arch of your back. The way your lips were parted just slightly as if you were waiting for something he could give you. In his mind, you were on your knees, looking up at him with that same defiant expression, but now with something else mixed in. Want. Need. A hunger that he could satisfy.
“That’s more like it,” he muttered, his grip tightening as his thumb traced the swollen head of his cock. He groaned, low and throaty, as he let his imagination run away with his fantasy. “Something you wanna say?”
“I was wrong,” you said, pouting up at him. “I shouldn’t have brushed you off like that. I didn’t– I didn’t realize.”
“Didn’t realize what?” he prompted in the emptiness of his apartment. He pushed his pants down just enough to free himself and positioned the magazine so you looked up at him from between his legs. He dragged the head of his cock against the page, smearing pre-cum across your lips.
“How amazing you are. How much I…” you faltered for a second but pushed through it. “How much I want you.”
He should’ve grabbed a bottle of baby oil from his room before starting, but he couldn’t be bothered now. He paused just long enough to spit in his hand to ease the drag of his palm against his length. His lips curled into a smirk.
“Took you long enough,” he said, his tone bored.
“I’m sorry.” You leaned closer to him, and he could feel your breath ghost against his cock. “I should’ve said yes.” Your chest heaved, eyes fixated on him. Begging him to let you have a taste. His gaze raked over you, like he was trying to decide if you were even worth the effort anymore. Like you were the one who needed to impress him now.
“Yeah, you should’ve.”
His hand moved faster, the fantasy burning through his veins, better than anything he snorted earlier. He rolled his fingers over the head of his cock with every upstroke, groaning at the mental image of you looking at him like you were finally seeing him for who he was. The Mister Marathon. The one who could have anyone he wanted, but he deigned to spare you an ounce of his attention.
“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll do anything.” You wet your lips in anticipation, waiting for his command. “Please, I need you.”
There was a beat. A long one.
He let it stretch, watching the way you waited for him. The way you hovered there, caught between confidence and uncertainty. That was the best part of the whole moment. The reversal. The control. He leaned forward just enough to make it seem like he might just close the distance. To give you the permission to beg for forgiveness by choking him down.
Then, he grinned, all teeth and spite.
“Nah, not interested.”
He came, hard, all over the glossy image of your face, eyes screwed shut as he held onto the mental image of your shocked expression. The rush hit him like a freight train, better than any high he’d ever chased before. Better than coke. Hell, better than the fucking orgasm itself. The feeling of power that surged through him as he imagined rejecting you – watching your face crumple with disbelief – was intoxicating.
He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t known that it was even possible. This was a fucking high he needed more of. He slumped back against the couch cushions, watching his release drip down the page, obscuring your face like some sort of symbolic victory.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, catching his breath. The feeling stayed, lingering longer than the drugs could ever hope to last. It was a different high than he was used to. Better. More potent.
He stared up at the ceiling, a slow grin spreading across his face. God, if he could get that just from his imagination, he couldn’t even fathom what it would be like in person. Hell, he could probably ride that high till he fucking died. The idea coiled in his gut like a snake, and for the first time since the photoshoot, he felt a semblance of himself return. He sat up, wiping his hand on his pants. This was a game he could play. And he was going to fucking win.
He reached for his phone. Not to text you – he didn’t have your number. Not yet, at least. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he opened up his messages with his PR team, ignoring whatever they had sent him. He typed his message, fast and decisive. He already had everything he needed to make this work. He just needed to play it right.
Set me up with Centerfold again. Another photoshoot. An interview. I don’t care. Make it happen. Make it public.
He tossed his phone aside again, leaning back with a quiet exhale. There was that feeling in his chest again, sitting just behind his ribs. Restless. Charged. “Not interested,” he muttered, echoing you. His grin widened, just a fraction, his cock still half-hard in his lap. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
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CHASE THE DRAGON
“Have a taste, Mister. I got plenty more, if you want it.”
MARATHON, Mister; READER, Fem. Sexual (supe)
you're looking for a specific type of lover, and you find him at Herogasm.
c. post-seven, pre S05.e05 wc. 2k
cw. canon-typical depravity, herogasm, drug use, smut (piv. cunnilingus.)
“I hear you're fast.”
It was quiet where the room was loud, the chaotic orgy-din that surrounded you almost drowning out your words. It took him by surprise, which was surprising in and of itself. He was fast, which meant people rarely got the drop on him.
He almost didn't notice you, standing just beside him, kimono draped over your shoulders, open. It covered your tits, barely, but its missing sash meant nothing between your legs was left to the imagination. He bent to the tray on the marbled countertop, rolled bill at his nostril, angled just enough to appreciate what looked like dampness on your plush thighs, glistening in your tidy curls.
In other circumstances, he wouldn't be above a whiff of pussy, up close, he was still fast enough to get a good one without a woman noticing he'd really moved at all. But this was Herogasm, that sort of covert perversion wasn't necessary here, unless that was your thing.
It wasn’t his. He was into something else.
“I heard you were big, too, and.” Your tongue peeked out, swept across your lower lip, drew his out like a magnet, mirroring the action.
He laughed, straightened as he leaned back, spreading his arms wide, spreading his legs wider, waiting for your assessment, though he didn't need it. “And?”
He was big. And thick. And long. And hard.
“And, talk is cheap.” Your slow and sultry smile made his nose twitch, his cock too. You stepped in, somehow closer to him without seeming to move at all, your hand ghosting up the length of his thigh. “Except when it's not.” It would be disconcerting, if it wasn't so hot. “So, I wanna know. If you’re fast.” Your fingers brushed the base of his shaft, whispered up his length, swept across his tip to collect the bead of precum that had collected there. “Are you really a Marathon, or just a sprint?”
“You wanna find out? Have a taste.” You were looking at your fingertips, lip caught between your teeth, and he jut his chin up, toward your mouth. “I got more where that came from.”
You were closer still, the outside of your hips softer than silk against his inner thighs, his vision tunneled around the wet velvet of your open mouth, your fingers slipping inside, painting the surface of your tongue before disappearing behind the purse of your glossy lips. His breathing slowed, long heady inhales gave way to slow dizzying exhales. His heart, usually a thrum in his chest, like a hummingbird's, actually slowed and, finally, he knew something about you.
“You're Stillpoint.” His voice was deeper, mellow, drugged, and you nodded slowly as your fingers slid from your mouth to trail across his chest. “Heard about you. Walking tranq.” He sniffed, swallowed to dispel the chemical drip from the drugs he’d snorted at the back of his throat, the delirium from the drugs you were dosing him with making his head swim. Something gurgled behind his Adam's apple. “Fuckin’. Roofie Girl, huh? Hn. Hn.” He let out a halting, grunting laugh, blinking rapidly. “That what you're doing to me?”
“You like it?” He leaned into your touch, wanted to wet his lips with yours. “Have a taste, Mister. I got plenty more, if you want it.”
“That's not my name.” He could feel his body adjusting to your influence already, just like any drug, his metabolism made half life merely a suggestion. Still, the push pull of your power against his made him feel thick, and sticky, and slow.
“I don't care.” Your hand was around him, pumping him, soft and firm and warm. He caught your face between his palms, engulfing you with his hands, and then his mouth. The kiss was wet, cold molasses, hard and hungry, but no matter how he wanted to devour you, the exertion of your will kept his voracity leashed.
His lip curled, half sneer, half snarl. He bent, grabbing your thighs and lifting, spreading them to wrap around his hips, using handfuls of your ass to keep you there.
“Taking you upstairs.” His whole body flexed, preparing for speed, and he handled you roughly until his cock was safely pinned between your bodies, your limbs locked around him. He knew better than to bolt unsecured, had no interest in making his dick part of this year’s casualty list out of carelessness.
“Hurry up, then.” You rocked your hips against him, finding a friction that made you moan and him grunt with a shock of euphoria as you did.
Now that was interesting.
“Hold on.” He felt the ebb of you until you were just a body in his arms and not a substance in his veins, and then he ran.
It felt like hours, fucking you. Being fucked by you. Getting fucked, on you.
He pinned you to the wall with one arm across your chest, leaned back, looking down enough to watch himself move in and out of you. He shifted angles, snapped his hips, and felt a rush of blood to his head, both of them, and that pleasant-unpleasant wave of nausea that so often accompanies a high. He did it again, groaned as another wave of dizzying pleasure washed over him, huffing in the smell of you, not sure if the hint of solvent there was real, or imagined.
The third time he did it, he fumbled, nearly dropped you. He caught you almost immediately, but you felt it anyway, urged him toward the bed. He stumbled across the room with you, just uncoordinated enough for you to laugh at him, tell him you thought he had a tolerance.
“I do.” He growled, tossing you onto the bed face down, legs closed, zipping to the ensuite to douse his wrists and face in cold water to centre himself, and was on you again before you could even scramble up the bed. The sight of you, squirming beneath him, made him feel high all over again. Not under any influence but want. “Fuck, you’re somethin’ else, though.” He slapped your ass, two sharp cracks in rapid succession, and alertness punched through him, exhilarating confidence coursing through his veins. “You controlling that, or is that just.” It made him move fast enough that he felt himself start to blur, had to force himself to slow down, at least a little. “Ngh. That just you?”
Breathing hard, cock harder, dragging your ass up to meet him at the edge of the bed. Wide stance, leg up beside you to bracket your hip, his grip was so hard it bruised. He tapped his cockhead against your slit, rough, mean, teasing you before he lined himself up again. Another hit of you slammed into him and he grit his teeth, using his dick to slather your wetness all over your lips and crack.
“Christ, you’re needy.” He breached your entrance, just his tip, and laughed as you grunted, tried to thrust back into him. “How long’s it been since you been fucked, huh?” He could see your fist gripping the covers, felt you twitching as he stretched you around him. “What happens?” His hips met your with a soft little squelch. His vision swam. “They all pass out on you?” He withdrew, slowly. “Or OD, before you can come?”
A sharp snap of his hips rocked you forward and it made him see stars.
He railed you. Fast and hard. Harder and faster. Every stroke more punishing than the last, every drive home a fresh explosion of greasy, iridescent colour across his vision. He’d definitely tripped balls while balls deep, but not like this. Nothing was like this. Like you.
You were all wet sounds and whining, you cunt hungry for his cock in a way that had you gripping him tighter than he’d felt in a long time, made him feel like he was going to pop. He grabbed your wrist, dragged it between your legs, fumbling your digits in the general proximity of your clit and telling you to Do a little work for me. He felt your fingers flex, finding your rhythm, knew it was taking you higher, because it was taking him higher. He was starting to lose his coordination, starting to feel you overwhelm his metabolism, a rare occasion where he couldn’t keep pace.
Almost.
You were half-collapsed beneath him, humming into the bedding, muffling and nasal, like a bitch in heat, and he kept taunting you in stuttering, gasping barbs, goading you towards release. You turned your head just enough that he could hear you, you face red and streaked with tears and snot and, probably, drool.
“Don’t fucking die, before I’m done.” Your eyes went white, his vision too, as your climax took hold of you both. The high was an onslaught, like a salvia trip, but better. Orgasmic transcendentalism.
Fucking you made him a man, converted. Taking ayahuasca in the Amazon had him thinking he’d seen God, bleeding through the rainforest, but this. This was the only God he really wanted, of cock and pussy and every high imaginable, combined, contained within the covenant of your cunt.
He didn’t even know if he came until he felt the evidence of it leaking out of you and down his balls, all the proof he needed dripping onto the bed. He pulled out, fast hands catching it all the sticky wetness they could, stuffing it back into you, scooping whatever wouldn’t stay there onto his fingers and shoving them into your panting, open mouth.
You suckled and nipped and lapped up every trace of you from his knuckles, and as you recovered yourself his mind cleared. He took a deep breath, chest heaving, watching you work your mouth around his hand and realized, he wasn’t going soft. Not even a little, not at all.
“You do that, too?” He cradled your chin, tipped your face up to look at him, your smile that met him an act of predation. He groaned with want, renewed even faster than he was used to, squeezed your cheeks, puckering your lips, felt his cock dip and bob with how full you were making it. “Yeah, you do.”
“On your back.” You let him keep hold of your face, words still pinched by his fingers. You rose to stand on your knees, he still towered over you, and you stayed there, your silent challenge and his achingly hard cock between you. “C’mon, Mister. Play nice.”
“That’s still not my name.” He liked the feeling of looming over you, the barely-there clarity of mind you were allowing.
“And I still don’t care.” You grin, cruel and distorted, your face twisting around his grip. “Seriosuly. I don’t wanna drop you to ride you, but I will.”
He choked on a mixture of lust and pride and rage, his hand becoming a vice for a moment before letting you go roughly. He barked a laugh at the dazed and stupid look on your face when he was just gone a second later.
“Come on then, baby.” Stretched out behind you on the bed, his erection proud and weeping, he folded his hands behind his head, smug and self-satisfied. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.”
You turned, eyes dark, and started crawling up his body. Your cunt grazed the tip of his hard on, but instead of stopping, settling, sliding down on him to take him for a ride, you kept going. He smirked, figuring it out, and scooted down, making space for you as you arrived, knocking his hands out of the way as you straddled his face, hovering over him until he gripped your thighs and pulled you down.
Somewhere, he thought he could smell smoke, sweet and dank, but as your cunt descended, his world became the stink of sweat and pussy and spunk.
When he started eat, he felt the buoyant numbness of morphine spread throughout his limbs, giving way to the sweet oblivion of China White when you started to ride.
His last coherent thought was that he was absolutely ratfucked from there on out. Nothing, no combination of drugs or porn or hookers, would ever come close to this. To you.
He’d have to be fast. If he wasn’t, he’d be chasing this dragon forever.
a/n : for @ambiguous-avery, who's jonesing for a fix. thank you for inspiring this!
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