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Mac barely has time to pull out and take a breath before Dennis is shoving him away.
”Get off me, you oaf,” Dennis commands, but his voice is higher than usual, more relaxed.
He doesn’t bother to wait for a response before pushing Mac off his chest unceremoniously, flailing a lazy arm towards his nightstand and rummaging around for a smoke.
He flips the lamp on as he goes, and the light shines directly into Mac’s eyes.
“Hey,” Mac grouses, no real feeling to it — just one of those things they do — and he lets himself hit the mattress, breath rushing out of his lungs loud enough to make Dennis grin.
Dennis scoots around, uncharacteristically uncoordinated as he tries to get his back up against the headboard, to get ready for his final reward, the next best part of fucking past orgasms.
It’s a reward for Mac, too. He props himself up on his elbow for a better vantage point before Dennis has even settled in, even pulled the cigarette from the pack.
Dennis looks like one of those European statues, all marble and genitals, just as severe and just as fascinating. His blue plaid button-up is still slung over his shoulders, half-unbuttoned and creased to all hell, hem covered in his own mess, glimpses of chest hair and the shadow of his belly button peeking through the gaps, and his dick, soft now but still a little wet, rests peacefully between his pale thighs.
There's the suggestion of a hickey, just the faintest brush of red peeking up over his rumpled collar — Mac physically incapable of restraining himself — and tomorrow it will disappear, Dennis covering it with a light base of foundation to effectively erase its existence.
For now, though, it's on full display: Mac was here. His mouth swells with saliva of its own accord, heavy with the desire to leave another, maybe ten more.
Dennis lights his cigarette and inhales deeply, eyes fluttering shut in pure pleasure, and Mac feels a phantom hit of pleasure, too — the familiarity and routine of watching Dennis smoke after sex always takes the sting out of the ending.
Mac never thought it could be like this, twice a day instead of twice a year, Mac sleeping in Dennis’s bed more often than not, but there’s still a funny twinge in his gut every time — his knees tensing automatically, body preparing to bolt, heart dropping in disappointment.
And in the middle of things, after a day like today — every second of their afternoon functionally foreplay — there’s barely time to savor the taste of what they do. They always wait until they’re firing on all cylinders, tearing into each other they second they find a door that locks and a reasonably flat surface, no time to fully undress, no spare second to flip the lights on for a better view.
Mac, for his part, still has his pants on, dick shoved through the zipper for easy access.
In this post-orgasm no-man's-land, Mac watches Dennis shamelessly. He traces the way the low yellow lamp-light plays over the soft skin behind Dennis’s ears, the sharp curve of his jaw, his long eyelashes.
The light — or maybe just Mac’s gaze — sticks on Dennis’s dark expression, running circles around it.
Bravely, Mac resists the resquite urge to smack the cigarette out of Dennis’s hand and lecture him about smells in the house.
It wouldn’t do any good. Dennis has smoked after sex since they first started fucking around.
Looks cool, huh, Mac? Dennis had asked him, back when they were just kids, and it did, still does.
So cool, in fact, that Mac’s god damn body, not two minutes out from orgasm, works up a sweat, his hand going clammy and cold where it's holding his head up.
Mac rolls his eyes at himself, but it's not his fault.
Dennis always looks pissed off when he smokes — the mere presence of the cigarette drawing out a sneer, a flash of the ferocity he always turns on other people but so rarely on Mac, always a tremendous juxtaposition to what just went down.
In bed — for Mac — Dennis is downright compliant. He’s beyond willing to please, incredibly enthusiastic to flip over, hold his legs up, swallow with a smile, be quiet or be loud, always taking what Mac is willing to give him, and it's perfect, but —
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Dennis says, his voice in sharp contrast to the look on his face; soft and indulgent, no hard edge to it at all.
Mac barely hears him, busy thinking things he’d never say aloud or even to himself.
Mac has seen every single one of Dennis’s sex tapes.
Multiple times.
Even the ones hidden in the bottom drawer of Dennis's dresser, and at the back of Dennis’s closet.
And Dennis is different, both during and after sex, in those than in here — with Mac, he’s permissive, occasionally sweet. With everyone else he's harsh, punishing, as furious with their bodies as the expression on his face when he smokes, so why —
Dennis raises an eyebrow, skeptical of Mac’s staring, and dangles the cigarette between his teeth so he can talk around it. It’s incredibly ridiculous looking, but Mac can’t manage to care.
“You want some? I thought you didn’t like to smoke.”
Mac doesn’t. The smell is nearly unbearable, too much like memory, and he hates the drag of the nicotine against his throat, sticky and dry at the same time.
And yet, he always finds himself asking to take a hit of Dennis’s — forever a sucker for being where Dennis is, doing the things Dennis does.
“Nah,” Mac says, and it sounds distant even to his own ears, a transmission from another planet, his better senses washed out, his face warming of its own accord. He tries to study the checkered curtains, memorize the blue evening light filtering through the blinds, but it's no use: his pulse perks up and his dick starts to stir, fucking — rip roaring ready to go just from watching Dennis smoke a damn cigarette.
God, Mac wishes that he just wanted to fuck Dennis.
That would be easy. He doesn't like it — and God surely doesn't either — but Mac’s had lots of time to come to some sort of shaky, uncertain terms with it.
But no — since this all started up in full force between them, what Mac wants from Dennis has become much worse than that.
“I know that look, Mac, you clearly want something,” Dennis says, like he can read Mac’s mind, devilish look dancing over his face.
Mac shrugs soundlessly, and Dennis takes another drag, playfully shoving at Mac’s shoulder. It's nowhere near enough force to get Mac flat on his back, but he goes anyway, letting Dennis set the pace.
Dennis looks inordinately pleased, and better yet, he immediately chases the movement, swings his leg across Mac’s body so he can straddle him, cigarette idly tucked between two fingers, low lamp-light and smoke-cloud framing his shoulders like a halo.
Mac jolts — Dennis never looming over him like this, ever, not in their whole lives — and Dennis, the goddamn asshole, makes it worse by leaning down and exhaling smoke directly into Mac’s mouth, some sick imitation of a kiss.
Mac screws up his face, coughing and smacking Dennis away in put-upon disgust.
It's humiliating, absolutely demeaning is what it is, and Mac tries desperately to wriggle away, buck Dennis off —
But his dick doesn't get the memo that they’re supposed to be upset, and the traitor swells from half-hard to full-mast in about three seconds flat, betraying his position.
Mac braces himself. There’s no world in which Dennis doesn’t feel it move against his bare thigh, no universe where Dennis doesn’t give him hell for it — and Mac wishes he could hide behind his hand, peek through his fingers as he watches Dennis figure him out.
Instead, Mac is forced to watch in full detail as Dennis puts it together in record time, face damn near splitting in half with a smile of pure satisfaction — never tiring of how much, how intensely Mac wants him — and Mac knows Dennis likes it as much as he does when they manage to swing another round.
They're always a little less tense and needy, both more open to taking their time, feeling each other out.
Mac is in some deep fucking shit.
“You're a dog, Mac,” Dennis says, eyes sparkling in delight, completely oblivious to Mac’s eternal suffering.
And Mac is. He'd bark if Dennis asked him to.
“I wonder what it is that you want,” Dennis muses, leaning down to trail wet, smoky kisses down Mac’s neck, pausing to suck a twin mark on Mac’s collarbone, laving on the skin until Mac hisses out a moan. Dennis always did play by eye-for-an-eye rules.
“We just fucked, so there must be something else,” Dennis says, the statement like a question, and Mac pleads the fifth, not confirming or denying, but all the same he brings a shaky hand to Dennis’s hair, holding him in place.
Their universal starting gun, back since old times.
“I see. A game, then,” Dennis says, voice rumbling where his face is shoved into Mac’s pec.
He makes it sound disappointing, like Mac is really screwing him over here, but Mac knows that, deep-down, Dennis loves this shit, revels in every opportunity to hold someone down and draw something out of them.
The mental image has Mac sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, thighs quivering.
“Maybe this?” Dennis asks, innocently enough, and before Mac can blink Dennis does something he’s never done before, that Mac has never done before — he drops his hand, the one still holding the cigarette, and teases at the sharp pink point of sensation of Mac’s nipple, rolling the flesh curiously under his thumb.
“Uh,” says Mac, rather eloquently, all the blood in his body rushing to his head.
It feels — different, not bad, but a little confusing; he needs more time with it.
His dick doesn't, thrusting up all on its own, but then again he's been known to get hard when there's a gentle breeze, or plenty of sun, or when he smells Dennis’s cologne across the bar.
Dennis smirks at him and leans down to suck Mac’s nipple into his mouth, swirling his smoke-drenched tongue around the pebbled flesh, darting inquisitive glances up to Mac’s face to watch how he takes it.
It’s — really fucking hot, if Mac is being honest. Dennis was born to have something in his mouth, and Mac can’t stop the way his body reacts, scrunching up, fingernails digging into Dennis’s back like he’s trying to keep him there forever, but —
Dennis continues his ministrations for only a few more moments before sighing and moving on, Mac’s newly-discovered nipple tossed out like old trash, clearly unsatisfied with Mac’s reaction.
“Or maybe,” Dennis continues dreamily, trailing his tongue down Mac’s chest, lavishing little kitten licks near his belly button, undoing Mac’s button with his teeth like a goddamn pornstar.
They both moan at the wanton slutiness in that and start sweating like whores in church, really fucking into it now, Mac gasping and scratching up Dennis’s back for real, Dennis shuddering in pleasure against the pain.
Awkwardly — with matching groans of frustration — they manage to shuck Mac’s pants and boxers off, and before Mac has his wits about him again, before he can guard himself to this, Dennis leans back in, pressing a kiss to the sensitive tip of Mac’s cock, going straight for the kill.
“Fuck yeah,” Mac says, twisting his fingers in Dennis’s hair to the point of ache, delighting in the expression of satisfaction playing out over Dennis’s face.
He’s always down for Dennis to go down on him — even more down to fuck Dennis’s mouth, which Dennis seems in the mood to indulge, and that would be more than enough, all of this other silly business forgotten — but as Dennis puts himself to good use, sliding his pink lips over the shaft and hiding his teeth, humming something tuneless, he runs the hand holding the cigarette up over Mac’s thigh, fingers stopping to rub curious circles against the tension there.
Mac jerks, arms flailing as he works hard to keep the strain of what he wants locked away inside. The cigarette, bright end flickering, is right fucking there, and it doesn't make any sense, but —
With one last gentle — too gentle — kiss to the head of Mac’s dick, Dennis settles back on his heels and makes a dissatisfied noise. He gives Mac an intense once-over, taking a pensive drag of his cigarette, and he looks vaguely put-out, knocked off-kilter by Mac’s dedication to repression.
And Mac just can't help it — his gaze snaps right there, eyes going heavy-lidded of their own volition at the look on Dennis’s face, the sharp bright heat the thing between his lips, and Mac sucks in a breath like razor wire, eyes rolling around in his head like a frightened animal, desperately searching for any way out.
Dennis sees all of it, of course, narrowing his eyes as he tries to make sense of it, absently exhaling smoke all over Mac’s thighs.
When Mac flinches — just the slightest shudder — Dennis snaps his eyes open in pure, blissful understanding.
“Oh, shit,” he says, pure wonder in it, really caught off guard, and he pauses to take another drag — just to watch Mac’s biceps tense, to watch his throat desperately work to swallow.
Confirming his hypothesis.
“You've been holding out on me, Mac,” Dennis says, a little breathlessly.
Been holding out on myself, Mac thinks but doesn't say. This wasn't supposed to be real.
The things he thinks about when he jerks off — in those confusing, blurry seconds between imagining race car girls and tracing old Playboy pages in his mind — are just, like, mental typos. Static leaking over from another station. Weird bad residue from ad-riddled porn sites. Nothing genuine.
Nothing like this.
Dennis hums at him, thinking, and his eyes have gone dark and slanted, roaming over Mac’s body like he’s looking for weak spots — something Mac has dreamt about, something he’d watched on repeat in the tapes.
Mac shivers again. In an instant, Dennis is kissing his way back up his body, the heat of him trapping Mac in place better than any kind of bondage ever could as he reaches to stub out his cigarette on the window sill.
Of all places, Dennis, Jesus — but Mac forgets to care again when Dennis grabs another and lights it up with a triumphant puff, letting it dangle from his lips as he leans down to speak directly into Mac’s ear.
“Mac, baby,” he murmurs, and it’s so sweet and warm that Mac’s brain short circuits, the pet name one of his many other big red buttons, “you’re gonna have to do better than that.”
Mac whines like a real dog would. In response, Dennis bites down on his neck and does it rough, drawing out another one of those sounds and then another for good measure.
”But why,” Mac eventually manages to ask, petulant like a child, chest rising and falling with the effort of forming words. God, Dennis is so fucking hot it isn’t fair. “You — you know what I want.”
A dirty fucking play, if Mac does say so himself, and it lands:
Dennis looks at him like he wants to eat him alive.
Eyes dark, mouth twisted in a cruel line, Dennis draws back just enough to slide a slender hand around the column of Mac’s throat, looking down on him from under his eyelashes.
He doesn’t press down, but the mere suggestion of it — what he could do, what Mac would let him do — is enough for both of them to thrust against each other, teenagers dry humping in the backseat.
“Just wanna hear you say it,” Dennis says, showing his hand straightforwardly, and there’s a thrill inherent in that, too, and then Dennis moves his hand from Mac’s throat but before Mac can miss the pressure, Dennis fucking licks his hand and sneaks it down, giving Mac’s cock him a teasing stroke.
Mac bucks up into it, inventing new swears to say, and he feels like a live wire, sparking at every touch, wound so tight that he’s eventually bound to explode, and he’s so hot that he’s slick with sweat, absolutely ruining Dennis’s sheets.
Sex isn’t supposed to be like this.
Not that it isn’t good, what he and Dennis do together — it’s amazing. Life-ruining, even.
But there’s a natural order to things, even in that: Mac on top, Dennis under him, Mac taking him to pieces with well-practiced moves, his whole body a vessel for Dennis’s pleasure. It’s not supposed to be — not —
“You finally gonna let me fuck you?” Dennis murmurs, and Mac feels like he’s suffocating, his whole body tripping up, up, up towards total annihilation, vision starting to white out at the edges.
“I’m not — uh, fuck,” Mac says, Dennis twisting his hand up under the sensitive bundle of nerves at the head, just the way Mac likes, “I’m not — that would be — gay.”
If Dennis looks a bit crestfallen, Mac must be imagining it: there one second, smoothed over the next.
“I know, buddy,” Dennis says, placating like he always is when Mac brings it up. He must have told Mac this exact thing seventy-five times in the last month alone, and the little speech plays on loop in Mac’s head. “We’re just having fun. It doesn’t mean anything.”
The way he says it, and the gentle hand he always strokes over Mac’s thigh to accompany the pep talk, is just the right thing to help Mac swallow around what they’re doing, as though Dennis designed this in a lab, just for him.
Dennis pauses to take another provocative puff of his cigarette, bending over to kiss Mac immediately after so that Mac tastes every chemical in it, catching the faintest hint of menthol, and it's so quintessentially Dennis that Mac can't help but want to drown himself in it, decorate his skin with it.
Mac slips Dennis his tongue so he can savor the taste, fisting his hands in the bedsheets as he swallows down his own scream.
It doesn’t feel like fucking nothing, the way Mac’s body is lit up like a switchboard, every cell of his body boiling over with pleasure, and men aren’t even supposed to have multiple orgasms, are they, and —
Like he knows that Mac is three seconds from shattering, Dennis slides back down, taking Mac’s dick down his throat in one swift motion as though he can suck Mac back from the edge.
And he does.
Dennis, well-practiced slut that he is, alternates deepthroating Mac with taking slow, casual puffs from his cigarette, really putting on a show, and Mac slams back into his body like an asteroid from outer space, finding a savage pride in the choked-off sound that Dennis makes when he jerks his hips up, digs his fingernails into Dennis’s scalp.
”Tell me,” Dennis demands when he pulls off next time, voice ragged and ruined, and Mac sees stars for a second before he can breathe.
Mac’s defenses are fucking smashed — like the Wall of Jericho, or some shit — and he can’t stop the thoughts that spring to his lips from spilling out. They don’t even make any fucking sense, things he’s never thought before in the history of the world, and he pants and writhes with the effort of trying to filter through it, speak around them.
Dennis jerks him off, slow and calculated, drawing every breath, every curse, every punctured word directly out of the core of Mac.
”Dennis, Dennis, I want, fuck, I want you to,” — Let me wash your back in the shower. Come visit my mom with me. Sleep in my bed sometimes. — “to let me, ah, fuck, fuck you in that thong, and, and I want — I want you to fuckin’, tie m-me to the bed and shit, and, and — yes, you can — I wanna know what it — and you can hit me if you want to, Dennis, I just,” —
“Ah, ah,” Dennis chastises, frowning at him as though he’s looking over the frame of some glasses, like Mac is being a naughty little boy.
If Mac wasn’t hard as diamonds before, he certainly is now. Jesus, where is Dennis even finding these things inside him?
“I already know about all of that,” Dennis continues calmly, like it doesn’t make Mac’s cheeks sting to know that he’s been so transparent, so fucking obvious, when he barely knew these things himself.
A brief intermission to deepthroat Mac and hold it there — just showing what he can do if Mac is good — and Mac’s head spins, his toes curling in on themselves, dizzy from how close to the edge he is.
“Clock’s ticking. Come on, you can trust me,” Dennis goads, voice lethal, eyes bright like fire, and his stare burns just as much as the shame does.
Pain no matter how you slice it. No way forward, no way back. Mac, caught in this trap, is powerless to resist, mere seconds from blowing his load like a geyser, getting it all over the fucking ceiling, far past the point of rational thought, no horses left to hold.
“Putitoutonme,” he says, all in a rush, like the words were sucked out of him by a vacuum cleaner.
Dennis rewards him with a sick, slick mouth on his cock, drawing Mac right back up to the top before pulling off again, and Mac is, hand to God, going to fucking cry if this doesn’t stop.
“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it,” Dennis says, politely — shithead — and pauses again to take a meaningful drag of his cigarette, making direct, pointed eye contact with Mac as he does.
Mac whimpers, more puppy than dog now, and throws an arm over his face so he doesn’t have to look, to see, and Dennis drags him all the way to the top of the sky just to shove him out of a fucking airplane one last time before Mac freefalls past the point of return.
When his voice — inevitably — comes out, it is so, so soft and little, no more than a whisper.
”Put your cigarette out on me,” Mac says, cringing away from himself, this dark thing he’s thought about for so long crawling into the daylight.
Dennis gasps like he’s just won the lottery, or maybe been stabbed.
”Fuck, fuck,” Dennis swears, as undone as Mac has ever heard him, and then his hands are there, shoving Mac’s arm off to the side, drowning his face in kisses, making it dirty with his tongue. “Fuck, Mac, God,” he says again — Mac not the only one nearly at the brink — and bites at his neck, at his fucking artery, like he wants to drink up what Mac has inside, take it all for himself.
”Say it again,” Dennis commands, and his hands are back on Mac’s dick, punishing and rough — just enough tension to make Mac’s skin sing, not enough room for him to pop off. “Say it again, come on,” and when Mac glances down, Dennis is jerking himself off with the cigarette still in his hand, ashes spilling all over Mac’s fucking thighs.
There will be time to pray, later. For now, there’s nothing but ecstasy and ways to get more of it.
“Put it out on me, Dennis, please, please,” Mac pants, scrabbling at Dennis’s back, trying to pull him closer, closer, any friction in the world a beautiful reprieve, “I want — need it, wanted it for years —“
“Holy shit,” Dennis says, voice shot to hell and back, sounding like Mac just blew his head clean off, too far gone to posture, and there’s nothing left in this room except pure Mac and Dennis and the boundless thing that exists between them.
”Where,” Dennis begs back, “where, Mac, where,” and Mac can tell from the tight curve of his spine, the glassy sheen to his wide eyes, that Dennis is approximately three seconds from busting too.
But he can’t think, brain so full of sensation: Dennis’s warm mouth on his dick, the sweat freezing on his arm as he goes from red-hot to ice-cold, the falling-dream jolt of flying too close to the sun, and Dennis paws at him desperately, sliding back down Mac’s body, eyes wild, baring his teeth.
“Where, Mac? Huh? Next to your — trashy little tattoo?” Dennis says, so fucking gone, biting into the exposed tender flesh at Mac’s thigh, smoke drifting from behind his back like Dennis himself is on fire. “Or maybe your — your tongue, leave a mark, show everyone what you begged me to do?”
“Fuck, just do it, Dennis, put it out on me, please,” Mac babbles, so close to cumming that his entire body is trembling, electricity bursting through every nerve, eyes rolling back in his head.
Dennis, for once, obeys. The shoe drops. The world, for long moments, is suspended in one blissful second.
Dennis lines himself up just right, finds a perfect angle with ease, like he was made for this moment:
The exact spot that allows him to wrap his mouth around Mac’s cock and twist the dying cherry of his cigarette butt into the tenderest part of Mac’s upper thigh, just above the fucked-up shamrock, at the exact same time, and staring right into Mac’s fucking soul as he does it.
Mac sees Dennis at his worst all the time — mid freak-out, too drunk and too high, angry and self-loathing, a cornered animal lashing out.
This might be Dennis at his absolute best — a beast on the prowl, achieving his goal with utmost precision, stinking like sex, shivering with pure pleasure, eyes deep and dark with nasty need.
The white-hot pain rushes in, crashing over his head like a tsunami, and Mac shoots through the stratosphere, yelping at the top of his lungs — the sound too core-deep and revealing to be called a shout — and the stinging ache of the burn ricochets through every square inch of his body, toes and fingers clenching, pelvis lifting to the sky, and his brain goes smooth, quiet-white as adrenaline blasts through his veins, and he cums so hard he thinks he’s going to die straight down Dennis’s throat.
Everything falls away into endless, blissful nothing. Long moments pass where Mac can’t think, hear, or process anything, cradled in the arms of bone-deep satisfaction.
Distantly, like it’s happening three hundred years from now, Mac hears Dennis choke, gag horribly, and swallow; hears him whimper and swear, mattress creaking and shaking; and then Dennis is there, his warm body bursting through the blank white clouds as he collapses on Mac’s chest and burrows his sweaty curls in Mac’s neck.
Their bodies shake in tandem. Together, tangled up in Dennis’s bed, they learn to breathe again, lungs syncing to the same rhythm.
”You and me, baby, we’re gonna have some fun,” Dennis slurs at him some time later, mumbling into the base of his neck, still downright intoxicated on the head rush of what they’d just done, so high off Mac it’s detectable in his tone.
Mac feels feverish, thigh sizzling and stinging, his skin demanding more, more, just the one mark so lonely down there, like a half-finished tattoo.
Seconds out from injury, and Mac can already tell: whether or not this burn sticks, he’ll have a scar for life.
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