Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Female Reader x Mr. Marathon
Summary: Soldier Boy interrupts you and Mr. Marathon, along with Homelander, who are searching for something called V1. But instead of putting him to work, he decides to interrogate you. Or at least that's what he tells his son.
Word Count: 1,055
Tags/Warnings: +18, smut, anal, p in v (unprotected), creampie, threesome, dacryphilia
Mr. Marathon’s super speed made your insides vibrate as he thrust his hips hard upward against you. You moaned and laughed on top of him, those vibrations even tickling you.
“Who’s my good girl, huh?” He murmured.
His hands held your breasts so they wouldn’t bounce so much and hurt.
“Me! I am, Mr. Marathon.”
And of course, he loved it when you called him by his superhero name.
Your ass slammed against his pelvis again and again at an incredible speed, and every second that passed was one second closer to orgasm.
“Well, this is definitely a good fucking view.”
You looked over your shoulder as soon as you heard that voice and screamed instinctively, sliding off Mr. Marathon and lying down next to him, covering yourself with the sheet.
“Whoa, whoa.” Your partner put a hand out in front of him, covering his crotch. “Wait… Homelander? Soldier Boy?”
Your breath was rapid, and you pressed yourself as close to him as possible. You stared in astonishment at the two men standing in the room in their suits. Homelander wore a look of disgust on his face, unlike Soldier Boy, who smirked and looked at you intently and with a perverse intensity.
“God, you guys are the ones from TV.” You said, your eyes wide.
“Ugh, this is disgusting.” Homelander said, rolling his eyes. “We’re looking for the V1, and we were told you had it.” He stood at the foot of the bed, and you turned to look at Mr. Marathon.
“Um, well, I’m kind of busy right now.”
“I need it now.”
You swallowed at his threatening tone.
“Relax, son.” Soldier Boy said, patting his shoulder. “Why don’t you leave us alone and wait outside for a few moments, huh?” He led him to the door, a hand on his shoulder.
“What? Why?”
“I’m going to interrogate them about the V1. Now go.” He closed the door in his face and looked at them, walking slowly to your side of the bed.
“Uh, I don’t know anything about something called a V1, sir.”
He smirked and stroked your chin.
“Well, aren’t you a total sweetheart?” He glanced at Mr. Marathon. “Would you lend her to me?”
“W-What?” You stammered.
“Sure, Soldier Boy. It would be an honor.” You looked at your boyfriend in surprise, and he just smiled gently and stroked your shoulder. “Relax, sweetheart. It’s Soldier Boy!”
You turned your gaze back to the man standing beside you. He started unzipping his suit.
“Have you been with two supes at the same time, doll?” You shook your head. “Awww, look, we’ve got a virgin in our hands. What about your ass? Have you taken a supe there yet?” Your eyes widened, and you shook your head again.
“No, I haven’t deflowered her down there yet.” Mr. Marathon added, pressing a kiss to your hair.
“Uh, so we not only have a virgin of supes, but also a virgin of ass.” He unzipped his pants. “Well, what the hell are we waiting for?”
⋆⋆⋆🝳✞✧★ఌ𐙚⋆⋆⋆
You felt your insides stretching deliciously as both supes pounded inside you. You were on top of Mr. Marathon, your hands on his chest as he thrust into your pussy again and again, while Soldier Boy was behind you, attacking your ass and making you feel things you never thought possible.
“Oh, this little fucking girl can really take it.” He said before grabbing your neck and pulling you back, pressing your back against his chest.
His balls slapped against you as Mr. Marathon’s cock pounded deep into your cervix, his hands holding your hips as he watched intently, licking his lips.
“Yeah, she takes it like a good girl.” He used his super speed to flick your clit with two fingers, making you tremble.
You were so close, and the pleasure was so intense, that you started to sob. It was simply too much, but you wanted more.
“Awww, look at her. She’s crying like a little girl.” Soldier Boy grunted. He licked a tear that rolled down your cheek and groaned. “Christ on a cross, even her tears are delicious.” He thrust his cock hard into you and you whimpered. “Yeah, that’s it. Keep crying. Quench my thirst, baby.” He licked two more tears from your face, moving your face to his liking with one hand.
“She’s close, I can feel her squeezing me.” The man beneath you groaned.
He began using his super speed again, thrusting in and out of you rapidly, making you bounce on his lap and causing Soldier Boy’s cock to move pleasurably inside you as well. You reached the peak of pleasure. Your body shook as if possessed, and your holes squeezed tightly around both cocks.
“God-Fuck, yeah, like that.” Mr. Marathon growled. “Y-yes, fuck!” He ejaculated his warm semen inside you, painting your pussy white as if his life depended on it.
“Shit, y-you’re squeezing me so good.” Soldier Boy closed his eyes tightly and tightened his grip on your neck, even making you gasp for air in those few seconds before he reached orgasm. “Yes! Yes, fuck!” He groaned deeply and he too released his semen, filling you.
You had never felt so full and tired in your life, and you were loving every second. Your body went limp, but Soldier Boy held you firmly from behind, so you stayed against him until he gently lowered you onto the other man’s chest. He slowly withdrew from you, feeling your walls wet with his semen, until he pulled his cock out. Immediately, his white fluid began to flow from you, and he laughed.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He slapped your ass, and more of his semen flowed out of you. “Look at that. Fucking perfect.”
He got off the bed and began to dress. Mr. Marathon stroked your back while his cock was inside your pussy, his semen oozing out all around under the watchful eye of Soldier Boy, who smirked.
“I’ll probably be back.” He winked at you. “Now, Marathon, get dressed and tell us what you know about V1.”
“Of course, Soldier Boy.” He nodded.
He gave you one last arrogant look before opening the bedroom door.
Homelander was on the other side, furious, his hands behind his back. He also looked horrified.
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.
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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