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Dennis is still slumped on the couch in the back room when Mac comes in. He’s feeling glazed, the way he always does in the aftermath of a breakdown. They seem to come more and more often these days, leaving him spinning and almost feeling hungover. There’s a kind of calm that comes with it, a nice evening of his keel, so to speak.
But then Mac comes in, and looks startled, almost like he didn’t expect to see Dennis there, which is stupid of him, because where else would he be? “Hey,” he says, almost uncertainly. “You okay there?”
Dennis shrugs. He really isn’t sure. “Dunno,” he says. He halfheartedly pats the couch cushion beside him, and Mac slides down next to him, cautious in his movements. He seems to go out of his way not to touch Dennis. If this were a woman, he’d be fine with this reaction, even buoyed—he doesn’t like them to feel too safe, after all—but it’s Mac, for Christ's sake, and as if the indignities of the past 72 hours haven’t been enough, he doesn’t need his fucking friends treating him like a leper as well. The anger rushes into his blood and Dennis digs his fingernails into his palms, trying to ground himself.
“Mac,” he says, “if you were going to rate me, what would you give me?”
Mac seems thrown off by the question, furrows his brow and shakes his head. “Rate? I’m not gonna get into this with you, dude.”
“It’s a simple question. Out of five stars, taking into consideration the amount of time you’ve known me and everything I’ve done for you—”
“Done for me? That doesn’t even make—”
“Five stars, Mac!” Dennis smacks his leg reflexively for emphasis. “One through five stars! Just give me a fucking rating out of five stars so that I know where we stand! I have been more than a five-star man to you. I have done your laundry, I’ve done the grocery shopping for god knows how long—”
“Only because you tell me that I’ll just buy shitty food that you can’t eat anyway, God, Dennis—”
“I drive you home when you black out!” Dennis can feel the spittle spraying from his lips, he’s vaguely aware of his voice getting louder and louder as he works back up into a froth, but isn’t inclined to censor himself. “I tell you that your hair looks good when it looks like shit! I let you use my gym membership and my Netflix account! I don’t understand what about me doesn’t say ‘five stars’! God’s sake, Mac, what else do you want me to do? Blow you?”
He sees Mac flinch at this and suck in a breath. And—Jesus, of course it would be this easy, he’s not sure why he’s surprised. Dennis clenches his jaw and continues. “Is that what you want, Mac? Do you want me to blow you? Fine. How about this? I will suck your dick—and it will be the best fucking blowjob of your life, mark my words, asshole—if, and only if, you give me an honest rating afterward. Does that sound fair?”
Mac licks his lips. His face has gone pale, save for a spreading flush across his cheeks, and he looks completely caught off-guard, like he’s trying and failing to rationalize his way out of his. “Yeah, okay,” he finally says in a choked voice, and Dennis smirks and presses his lips against Mac’s, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt in one hand as Mac opens his mouth and arches into the kiss.
“Lock the door,” Mac mutters weakly against Dennis’s mouth as he pulls away, but Dennis shakes his head, concentrating too hard. Mac kisses messily, like he’s trying to suck the juice from a slice of melon, like he’d almost be content to do this all night. But Dennis has ulterior motives, and Dennis has never drawn much pleasure from just kissing, and Dennis really wants to suck his dick. He takes Mac’s face in both hands and holds him steady as he moves closer on the couch. Mac reaches up, starts to grab at Dennis’s wrists, but Dennis is faster. He takes one of Mac’s hands in his own and stares at his long, spatulate fingers, licking his lips. It’s a performance, maybe, but he’s no amateur.
Dennis can feel Mac’s breath fan against his face, the long exhale he lets out when Dennis brings Mac’s hand to his lips, separates the index and middle fingers from the rest, and licks them both, his tongue flat. He sucks them into his mouth, swirls his tongue around them, hollowing his cheeks, groaning from deep down in his throat. Mac’s hands taste like beer and limes from the bar and it’s probably better not to think about it.
“Holy shit, Dennis,” he whispers, and Dennis pauses the pseudo-fellatio act for a second, pulling Mac’s fingers out of his mouth and fixes him with a long, hard stare.
Mac moves to kiss him again, but Dennis moves away, sliding down to the floor between spread knees. He palms at the front of Mac’s jeans and swipes at the button with two fingers, deft and practiced. He gets them unzipped and half pulled down over Mac’s spread thighs before dipping his head back down to mouth at his boxers before pulling them down as well.
It’s the knowledge that he is good at this, he’s good at everything, he’s a five-star man, for fuck’s sake, that keeps him focused. He’s wanted this for a while, and in any other context he’d slow down and let himself enjoy it, press bruising kisses against Mac’s hipbones and suck hickeys into his thighs. But the task at hand is more pressing, and he applies himself accordingly.
Mac watches with pupils blown and dry lips parted as Dennis takes him by the base and slowly, deliberately licks a long stripe up the underside of his cock. He gets it nice and wet, his tongue hot and flat against him, then takes him in his mouth, closes his lips around just the head, working the base with one hand as Mac lets out a strangled moan.
Dennis opens his mouth a little wider, taking a little more in. He has every intention of making this last, of giving Mac an experience he won’t be able to critique in the least. He pushes his lips over his teeth exaggeratedly and begins bobbing up and down on Mac’s cock, taking more and more of him, little by little, and then—
“So good,” Mac whispers, his voice low and hoarse, and Dennis pulls off abruptly.
“What?”
“I said—that’s so good, Den—”
“Yeah,” Dennis says, his breath catching in spite of himself. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, taking as much into his mouth as he can. Mac’s hips snap up reflexively and Dennis pushes them back down. He has to account for every variable, control every aspect of the encounter, because when he loses control, that’s when things start to spiral and get out of hand—“That’s so good, God, you’re so good at this,” Mac gasps, and Dennis feels his own cock grow even harder, reaches down to unbutton his own jeans and at least get a little friction. Mac is groaning in unintelligible fragments of words and sentences now, but every once in a while a complete one slips out, and Dennis focuses on the feedback, the words, the concrete proof that he’s doing this one thing right. Mac’s hands in his hair feel heavy as lead, a steady, grounding force. He reapplies his efforts, taking Mac’s shaft in his hand as he sucks on the head. Practiced, performative, perfect.
“Den—I’m gonna—”
Dennis doesn’t bother to pull off, because what kind of bullshit would that be? Certainly not deserving of the high rating he knows he's capable of earning. He lets Mac thrust up into his mouth and dig fingers into his scalp, barely chokes and splutters through the climax, and swallows it down smoothly. He thinks he can almost feel Mac’s hands shaking as they stroke through his curls.
With a heavy sigh, Dennis readjusts his weight on the floor, taking some of the pressure off the spots on his knees that have already probably begun to bruise. Mac is still breathing dazedly as Dennis pushes down his own jeans and grips his cock in one firm hand, stroking lazily, licking his lips. Through heavily-lidded eyes, Mac gives him a once-over, and then mutters, “Five stars.”
The situation is a loaded gun; the bullet is a single syllable. Dennis throws his head back, eyes shut, fucking his own grip, still spit-slicked from thirty seconds before. He slides his thumb over his own slit, smearing precum across the head, wincing at how sensitive he is already—it’s usually not like this, but then, the build-up has been—unusual, to say the least—
And then he’s coming, shooting into his own fist, shuddering and gritting out words as he works himself through it: “You’re fucking right, you know, I’m a five—…”
He slumps down against the couch, resting his forehead between Mac’s still-spread knees. Shuts his eyes. Counts his breaths and licks his lips. They stay like this for a minute, before Dennis lifts his head and adds, “So that was definitely five stars, then. They’re all wrong. They’re all delusional and wrong.”
Mac looks like he’s about to say something, but seems to change his mind mid-thought. He reaches out a hand and cards his fingers through Dennis’s hair. Dennis thinks idly that they really should have locked the door, but he’s not sure he’s ready to stand. Not yet.
Of course they were wrong. Dennis Reynolds is not a zero-star man. What a ludicrous proposition. It's been a very odd day, he thinks, as Mac's hands slide through his hair again. Calming. Grounding. Exactly what he needed.