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In 2001, at the awkward age of 23, Jim Halpert found himself in the passenger seat of a 1987 Pontiac Trans Am, listening to the blaring strident vocals of Motley Crue’s Vince Neil and on his way to his first sale pitch. The upholstery smelled like hot dirt and dry manure. The driver to the left of him seemed simultaneously hyper focused on the road ahead of him, and completely unaware that he was actively driving.
Jim fidgeted with the sleeve of the blazer that he’d bought half-ironically, half because he wanted to seem somewhat professional. Unfortunately, Jim had had to sacrifice width for height, as clothing companies didn’t want to make cheap men’s jackets for fellas of his particular inseam; the jacket sleeves stopped at his wrist, the correct length, but were waaaay too wide, leaving a bunch of extra fabric that made him look like a high-school sophomore on his way to Homecoming.
This extra fabric was also a liability in hand-to-hand combat, Jim had been told. Jim’s height was also a liability, according to the same source.
“Dwight, can we turn down the radio?” Jim asked, already reaching for the dial.
“Touch the radio, and I’ll pull over, and I’ll leave you on the sidewalk.” Dwight didn’t take his eyes off the road. Jim’s fingers lingered near the volume knob anyway, waiting. Dwight released the gear shift and swatted Jim away, waving his hand over the radio multiple times to show it was impossible to get past him. “It’s extremely bad luck to interrupt the pre-pitch ritual, Jim. Please take this seriously.”
Jim pursed his lips, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his seat, fidgeting still. Dwight flicked on the turn signal.
“You’re nervous,” Dwight accused. Jim scrunched his face at that. His nonresponse was confirmation enough for Dwight though. “That’s not good. They can tell when you’re nervous. It makes you look weak.”
“Maybe it’ll make me seem more… friendly,” Jim said. Dwight shook his head.
“They don’t want you to look friendly. They’re coming to you for a service. They want you to look like you know what you’re doing.” Dwight turned into a parking lot.
“But couldn’t being friendly make them feel bad for saying ‘no’ to me?”
“ No ,” Dwight said, pulling into a parking space, turning down the radio, turning off the car. “You’re too cocky for that. They’d enjoy saying ‘no’ to you.” Dwight checked his watch. “We’re 15 minutes early.” Jim unbuckled and opened his door, thinking they were going to be leaving the car, but Dwight stayed where he was, his hands on the steering wheel, staring out the windshield. Jim watched him for a beat, then closed the door and sat back. “This sale... is extremely important-”
“I know-”
“Don’t interrupt me. This sale is extremely important. I know you don’t care when you’re back at the office making your cold calls, because those don’t matter, but this was an established client-”
“I know- ”
“ Stop interrupting me. This was my former client; I need to make this sale. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here . But Michael forced me to take you.”
“Why-”
“He wants us to get along,” Dwight said. Jim sighed; a beat passed.
“I could just stay in the car,” Jim offered.
“Unacceptable,” Dwight said. Jim waited, thinking he’d explain that, but he didn’t.
“Okay, then why don’t you do all the talking, and I just- observe.”
“You can’t just sit there like an idiot; we’ll lose the sale... Unless you want to pretend to be my assistant…?” Dwight trailed off. Jim didn’t know where that was going.
“What would that look like?” Jim asked.
“You’d act like a doting wife, but professionally and with less dignity: hold my belongings and enthusiastically agree with everything I say, but cower when I assert my authority over you.”
“Okay, I’m not going to do that.”
“Yeah, it’d probably make me seem too aggressive,” Dwight muttered. He checked his watch again. He seemed to waiver on something, then he looked back at Jim. “Our angle is customer service. We’re a smaller company, we have dedicated salesmen, we have competitive prices for the services we provide. Don’t let them bring up other companies; beat them to it. Keep your sentences active and don’t make any concessions.”
“-Okay.-”
“Cut right to the chase; make it seem like the decision’s already been made; don’t wait for confirmation.”
Jim nodded. Dwight nodded back, then turned up the radio, restarting Motley Crue’s Kickstart My Heart.
-
They lost the client.
They walked into the building, asked to speak with Paul Raichel, and was told he was currently in an important meeting.
“ I don’t understand, I scheduled this appointment,” Dwight had said.
“ I’m sorry, it was an emergency-” The receptionist hadn’t been able to finish before Dwight had pushed past her and marched back into Raichel’s office. Raichel had been alone in the room and looked up at Dwight with innocent surprise.
“ Mr. Schrute-” Raichel had started.
“ Mr. Raichel, I came here to discuss your ongoing paper needs. I hear that you’ve been having issues with your current paper supplier-”
“The usual hiccups when transferring suppliers, yes-”
“Not usual; they’re delinquent on their shipping, not just to your company, but multiple others-” Jim had apologized to the receptionist and joined Dwight, standing at his shoulder with his hands in his pockets.
“ All on acceptable delays, I’m sure. Mr. Schrute, this isn’t personal. Our company simply can’t pay the top shelf rates of Dunder Mifflin.”
“Even if it sacrifices customer service, and timeliness; the man hours that are wasted on incompetence and laziness? I guarantee you’re losing more profit on that.”
“I don’t think so.” Raichel had folded his hands on his desk, looked up at Dwight with a blank expression. “ When Dunder Mifflin can lower their prices, then we’ll reconsider the switch. Until then, I’m afraid a few reasonable delays in my paper shipments will be forgiven. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have emails to attend to.”
“ If I could just show you the figures for lost wages on shipment delays-” Dwight had opened his satchel, pulled out the report he’d prepared.
“ I don’t have time for this. Please leave, or I’ll call security.” Dwight had stood there for a second, looking down at the man. Jim ducked his head, a second-hand failure.
“ Thank you for your time, Mr. Raichel,” Dwight had said cordially, putting the report back into his bag, reaching into his pocket and taking out a business card. He had handed it to Raichel, who had immediately put it into his desk drawer. “ Contact me if you change your mind. ”
“ Will do, Mr. Schrute.”
-
Beer glasses hit the countertop, liquid sloshing, spilling past flushed fingers and collecting in rings on the wood.
The bar was halfway between Scranton and Kingston, some hole in the wall place with lowlights, all-wooden interior, and grimy tables. Jim wasn’t one to drink his feelings, and honestly the lost sale didn’t personally affect him, but Dwight’s mood was contagious and Jim found himself trying to keep up with the older man.
They’d been mercifully silent, both wrapped up in whatever drama they were personally, internally experiencing. Jim hadn’t pegged Dwight for the type to ever be hard on himself; he’d been sure as they’d left Raichel’s building that Dwight was going to go on a tirade, faulting the decent economy and relative peace for making men complacent. Instead, Dwight had gotten into the car and driven them straight to this bar.
It wasn’t until Jim realized he’d lost count of the beers (close to 5??) that he figured he should probably mention the “how are we going to get home” problem. Dwight checked his watch and seemed surprised by the time.
“I can drive,” Dwight mumbled.
“You… so clearly can’t, Dwight. How many-”
“Operating a car doesn’t take nearly as much concentration for me as it does a regular person.”
“It’s a thirty- almost forty minute drive,” Jim said, then groaned. “Fuck, what- why did I-”
“Don’t be such a princess,” Dwight sighed, and put his head on the counter. Jim sat there for an uncomfortable amount of time like that, staring down at the back of Dwight’s head, blinking through the fog that was quickly descending on him. “I- I justified leaving the farm because I’m an incredible salesman,” Dwight muttered. “But it’s been- there’ve been a lot of failed sales calls lately. A lot of... “ Dwight shook his head. “I know I’m doing everything correct. I don’t... get it- I-”
“Dwight, I don’t know-”
“I was talking to myself,” Dwight said, curtly. Jim continued to awkwardly sit there, trying not to tilt off the barstool. “I don’t get why men get duped into moronic decisions, and then- they refuse to back out of them, even when- when they’re clearly not- dammit, it’s not like- like-”
Dwight trailed off, head still on the counter. Jim was afraid he’d fallen asleep.
“We should go,” Jim said. Dwight turned his head to look at him, paused, sighed, before reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out a few dollar bills and putting it on the counter. Jim did likewise, and both tried to stand up from the bar stools they’d been sitting at for too long.
The room immediately went sideways. Jim grabbed Dwight’s arm for balance, fingers gripping into the fabric of the trench coat. Dwight was resolutely balanced on straight legs.
“Just have to make it to the car,” Dwight muttered, then took a staggering step forward. Jim grabbed Dwight’s shoulders from behind, head ducked as he tried to maintain some kind of stability; he was pulled along like a blind man as Dwight made his valiant journey 10 feet to the door.
The other patrons, many of whom seemed like locals, wearing worn jeans and dirty t-shirts, looking like they’d just finished a shift at the mechanic shop, looked amused.
The exit door opened to a cool summer’s night, the breeze chilling their warm, drunken skin. Jim gripped onto Dwight tighter, unsteady. The bar door closed behind them, leaving them in the dim silence outside.
“We’re gonna make it,” Dwight reassured, shuffling forward.
Jim was only vaguely aware of the familiarity they were suddenly forced into; his slowed thought process was more concerned about the shifting ground under his feet and the warm support in front of him. He’d utterly disconnected the trench coat gripped between his fingers from the guy who say next to him at the office. Dunder Mifflin Scranton felt very far away.
They stopped, and Jim realized he’d had his eyes closed the entire trip from the door of the bar to the Trans Am.
“If you’re gonna throw up, do it right now before we get into my car,” Dwight said.
“I’m not gonna throw up,” Jim muttered. “Can we please- please get in and sit down?”
Dwight tried to open the passenger door. It didn’t budge.
“Hold on,” Dwight said, transferring Jim so he was leaning against the car. Dwight checked his pockets, then, coming up empty, started the journey to the driver’s seat door. The car moved with Dwight, tipping in his direction as he rounded the bumper.
“Shit,” Dwight hissed, a low distant sound.
“What?”
“I think the bar keep stole my keys.”
“How? How did he steal your keys?”
“I guess I put them on the counter. Moron, I could’ve driven us home. Should be none of his business what I do off his property anyway.”
“Oh, wait, you were gonna drive? I thought we decided that that’d kill us.”
“I’m only slightly incapacitated, Jim.” Dwight scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. Jim shook himself, trying to process the situation, but he wasn’t thinking correctly. His brain was stuck in some kind of static loop.
“Should we call a cab?” Jim asked.
“It’d be cheaper to get a hotel room,” Dwight said.
“I guess if we only got one, small room and split the cost,” Jim said, sarcastically. “Let’s just go back into the bar and call for a cab.”
“Or we could walk to the hotel down the street,” Dwight said. “And split a room.”
“No?” Jim was leaning very heavily against the car. He sincerely didn’t think he could make any sizeable trip down the road; looking down the street, there was a fair amount of dark forest on either side and not much else to look at. It was very spooky. “Why would we do that?
“One: going back into the bar would sign defeat,” Dwight said. “Two: I’m not going to tell some cab company where I live.”
“Okay, that’s-” Jim couldn’t fathom the depth of delusion that that suggested and he was just not in the mood to dissect it. “You know what? I’m going back in the bar and I’m calling a cab on my own. You do what you want.”
“Fine.” Dwight stepped away from the car and started walking towards the sidewalk. Jim looked back at the bar, carefully planning his steps.
Then he turned back to the retreating trench coat, toddling away.
He couldn’t explain the impulse. He knew if he went into the bar and called a taxi, he’d be home in less than an hour; neutrally content.
He also knew that if he went down the road with Dwight, something stupid would happen. Something absolutely dumb. And call it a self-destructive need to follow wherever the continuation of the chaos plot went, but he couldn’t forsake that. He needed to follow Dwight down that road, and he realized it ten seconds quicker than he normally would have because he was drunk and his inhibitions were gone.
Jim didn’t signal that he was coming, just speed-waddled to catch up to Dwight and grabbed his shoulders for support. Dwight didn’t react at all, but shuffled forward into the darkness determinedly.
-
The forest made noises and shadows that too closely resembled a found-footage horror movie. Jim supposed it could be somewhat peaceful and beautiful (The straining blue light of the moon shifting through the gently waving branches, silhouette against the gravelly side-road underfoot.) if he didn’t jump at every rustle, distrust every shadow that seemed to scurry around his feet. He supposed it also didn’t help that he had to keep himself from tipping sideways or backwards; the toes of his shoes kept catching on the ground, digging into the dirt, freeing clumps that’d further trip him up.
His hands clenched Dwight’s coat, using him heavily to keep balance. Dwight felt like a pillar of confidence, despite his occasional stutter. He moved forward without pause. Tall, warm, unflinching. Jim kept his breath steady, head ducking occasionally, forehead brushing against Dwight’s shoulder-
The bush next to them gave a deathly rattle.
“Okay-” Jim pressed against Dwight, trying to put him between him and the bush. Dwight kept moving, tsking.
“Probably just a raccoon,” Dwight murmured.
“Tell me again why we couldn’t take a cab.”
“ You could’ve taken a cab,” Dwight reminded. “ You followed me.”
Jim didn’t want to acknowledge that.
“Why don’t you trust cab companies?” Jim asked, wanting desperately to fill the silence.
“It’s not that I don’t trust cab companies,” Dwight started, slowly. He paused, then continued. “For one, I don’t trust cab drivers . They’re poor and desperate, and it’d be too easy for them to case my property and attempt to steal my valuables. Attempt and fail, because they wouldn’t know that I have the ability to immediately and accurately incapacitate them. They’d wish I’d call law enforcement.”
“I would think you’d encourage that kind of situation,” Jim said. They skirted around a fallen tree, briefly stepping into the empty road. Even then, Jim braced himself, pushing against Dwight to move out of the street as quickly as possible.
“I would, but it’d be a hassle to clean up the mess and I don’t have time to deal with something like that. Second, I don’t trust their information departments to keep my information private. Who knows what shadow entity could break into their records and steal my card number and home address.”
“Isn’t that true of practically any business whatsoever?” Jim asked.
“You’re right,” Dwight said. “That’s why you’ve got to be careful who you’re associating with. I refuse to associate with cab companies.”
“That… still doesn’t explain it,” Jim said. “Why specifically cab companies, why th-”
“Look,” Dwight interrupted. “I’m not in the mood to be haragued into saying something you think is stupid. Just because you don’t know what I know doesn’t mean I don’t have good reason.”
“I was just trying to make conversation,” Jim said.
“No,” Dwight sighed. “You weren’t.”
Jim’s hands loosened on Dwight’s coat. He realized he was too close, had been too close. He felt like maybe he didn’t need to use Dwight as support anymore; he also felt like he didn’t want to be responsible for his own footsteps.
Ahead, the white glow of headlights crested the hill. Two lights swung past them, bobbing as it sped down the street. The ground rumbled underfoot, the momentum swaying the two, pressing them back. Jim’s drunk equilibrium took a moment to recover. He was back to clutching Dwight’s coat again, feet shuffling close behind his.
“I was,” Jim asserted. “I was just trying to make conversation. You don’t have to say something stupid. You could just tell me your reasons.”
“My opinions and actions,” Dwight said. “Are based on decades of gathered knowledge and experiences that I couldn’t possibly explain to you within the limited time it would take for you to dismiss it as bullshit. Distrusting cab companies is the end of a very long and complicated series of recon and failure. That’s it.”
“Recon and failure,” Jim repeated skeptically under his breath.
“Why-” Dwight started and then stopped himself. Jim could feel him tense, his back stiffening under his hands. “Whatever, we’re almost there.”
-
The “hotel” Dwight took them to was a cheap motel with a neon sign and an empty inground swimming pool, unused and dry despite it being the middle of June. Jim felt like he’d walked onto the set of a daytime procedural cop show; murder and villainy had so clearly happened upon these grounds that his only-slightly-more-sober mind went into immediate fight or flight mode.
“Dwight, we’re liable to die here,” Jim murmured very quietly, curling very close to Dwight’s back, hands still clutching Dwight’s shoulders.
“Yeah, you , maybe,” Dwight said, turning his head so Jim could more clearly hear him. “More likely you’d end up trafficked as a sex slave in the Ukraine.”
Jim really couldn’t deal with this.
“Please, just get us into a room,” Jim said into Dwight’s shoulder blades. “I don’t care anymore. I’m tired.”
Dwight didn’t respond. He silently walked them to the hotel office. Jim let go of Dwight at the door, swaying, but staying very close to his side. They entered without discussing. The motel worker, a young man with dark hair, looked up from his desk, surprised. Dwight briskly reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, plucked out a few bills and handed them to the keep. The keep held out a metal key on a bit of twine in return before Jim could even get his hands to function enough to reach into his own pockets. Dwight took the key and started towards the door, walking past Jim. Jim stood there, defeated, still fumbling with his pockets, trying to pay for his room.
“Come on.” Dwight’s voice came from the door. Jim turned around, gave him a questioning look. Dwight waved the key a little. “I’ve got the key, let’s go.”
Jim shuffled towards him.
“I don’t- we’re sharing?- I was- pay for half...” He stammered as they went outside onto the grey pavement. Jim couldn’t decide what his main concern was.
“You took too long. You can pay me back later.” Dwight started down the rows of doors. Jim reluctantly followed, shoulders tense.
-
Room 113 had one queen-sized bed, naturally. Jim could not have expected anything else. The overhead light didn’t work; the only light came from a bedside lamp, casting everything in yellow shadow. Without hesitation, Jim flopped onto the bed, lying face down on the foot of the covers with his legs hanging off the side, springs creaking as he settled. To his surprise, Dwight did the same, falling onto the bed at the space at the headboard.
And there they laid, in full business attire, reeking of beer, the room spinning slightly.
Jim turned his head so his face wasn’t smushed against the covers, trying to get more comfortable. He opened his eyes. Dwight had shrugged out of his trench coat and was laying on his back in his jacket and tie, staring at the ceiling. He’d taken his glasses off; they lay haphazard on the bedside table. The somber mood had returned with intensity. Jim watched him, a melancholy resting in his stomach.
Jim felt bad. Guilty even. Here he was, laying in a bed he didn’t pay for, having intruded on Dwight’s night by following him down the street when he shouldn’t have, and for what? To watch Dwight mope? It didn’t matter to Jim that Dwight had invited him. That actually made it worse, somehow.
“Dwight?” Jim muttered.
“Hm?”
“You…” Jim fought the stutter that was holding his tongue; he folded his arms on the bed, nestled his cheek against his forearm, partially hiding his face. “You’re a great salesman.” Dwight remained still. “And you have- your hobbies. Your beets, your family. And you- you’re so confident. You just- you take charge and you’re a leader and you know what you’re doing-”
“Are you going somewhere with this?” Dwight asked, low, wary.
“You’re lucky,” Jim said, still watching Dwight’s profile, thrown in shadow from the lamp. “All this- I mean, the bad sales calls, they’re just... it’s temporary. You’ve got- so much to fall back on. So much to get up in the morning for. It’s- all figured out for you.” Jim shook his head, took a breath. He found he suddenly couldn’t stop himself from continuing, an almost manic feeling causing his thoughts to tumble from his lips. “I... I’ve got nothing. Nothing. I’m- I’m not good at anything. I…” Jim licked his lips, fidgeted. “I’m not a salesman; I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not close to my family, I’m not- social. I have no hobbies. Nothing to do after work. I go home- and I- I eat a microwave dinner with my roommate and I watch TV and go to bed- alone. The only thing I’m good at- it’s-” Jim forced himself to laugh, grinding himself to a halt on that thought. “It’s… just…”
Dwight turned his head, met Jim’s eyes.
“The only thing you’re good at…?” Dwight prompted. Jim looked at him helplessly. “What are you good at, Jim?”
Jim turned onto his side, towards Dwight, bit the inside of his cheek. Then, heaving a sigh, shifted forward and pressed faltering lips to Dwight’s.
Dwight immediately pushed Jim away, hand heavy against Jim’s chest. Jim didn’t meet Dwight’s eye, still only inches away from Dwight’s face, his fingers hovering over Dwight’s jawline.
“I- I shouldn’t ha-” Jim started. Dwight cut him off, covering Jim’s mouth with his own. Jim hummed in surprise, head involuntarily tilting, hand touching Dwight’s face. Tentative pressing, lips parting, they shifted closer on top of the covers, Jim’s knees brushing against Dwight’s leg, eyes falling closed. Dwight’s hand gripped the side of Jim’s neck, tongue caressing Jim’s lower lip. Jim responded with careful teeth, just barely grazing Dwight’s upper lip, smoothed it over with tongue pressing. Dwight exhaled through his nose, doubling-down on his touches, mouth firm, fingers digging into the nape of Jim’s neck.
Jim pulled away, their lips parting with a wet click. They stared each other down, serious, breathless.
Then Jim seized the lapels of Dwight’s jacket with both hands and pulled him back in.
-
They’d been necking for longer than Jim cared for.
Jim’s long legs were wrapped around Dwight’s hips, the smooth fabric of his slacks hanging off one leg; his underwear was still on. Dwight was all-embracing, kissing Jim into the bed, arms on either side of his head, fingers protectively petting through Jim’s hair. Jim had to keep turning his head, gasping for breath, hands clutching the thin fabric of Dwight’s button-up shirt; Dwight mouthed Jim’s jawline, continued down his neck to his collarbone exposed by his partially unbuttoned shirt, before he’d return to Jim’s wet, chapped lips. He’d grind their bodies together, rocking into the creaking mattress as they panted into each other’s mouths.
The lube that the motel had graciously stocked in the bedside table of every room laid unopened on the covers beside them.
Jim tried again to unbutton his own shirt, but was thwarted by Dwight’s rough hands, grasping Jim by the wrists and holding Jim’s hands above his head, controlling. It had been a miracle Jim had been able to get his pants halfway off. He groaned in exasperation, bucked his hips, legs tightening around Dwight.
“ Come on,” Jim sighed against Dwight’s mouth.
“Do you want me to stop?” Dwight asked. He brushed open lips over Jim’s cheek.
“ No. ” Jim cringed at the alarm in his own voice.
“Then stop complaining,” Dwight murmured. He’d nuzzled his way to Jim’s ear, grazing Jim’s ear lobe with the same open-mouthed gossamer touch. Jim shuddered, pulling against Dwight’s hold.
“Are you serious?” Jim asked, twisting his hands. Dwight tightened his grip, enough that it hurt Jim’s wrists.
“You know what your problem is?” Dwight’s voice was low, deep, soft; close enough to Jim’s ear that he could feel his breath. “You’re undisciplined. You’re a scrawny spoiled arrogant show-off who uses his charm to get what he wants and pouts any time something’s not immediately handed to him. What in your life have you worked for? What have you earned?” Jim stopped squirming, flushing at the impassive tone of the older man’s voice. “Want to work for something? Keep your hands above your head.” Dwight let go of Jim’s wrists with a shove; Jim didn’t move.
Dwight sat back, positioned still between Jim’s legs. He trailed fingertips over Jim’s stomach exposed by the buttons Jim had managed to undo, watching Jim’s face intently. When Jim didn’t lower his arms, Dwight casually stroked the front of Jim’s boxers, fingers tracing the shape of his arousal through the thin fabric. Jim gasped softly, legs spreading involuntarily, his hands clasped above his head. Dwight’s touches were isolated, soft, irritatingly so. Jim grimaced, hips rolling forward, face red from the shame of needing this that bad.
“Can- can you-” Jim stuttered. Dwight cooly reached forward and clamped his hand over Jim’s mouth, other hand still toying with the front of Jim’s boxers. He ardently rubbed Jim’s tip through the cotton. Jim hummed against Dwight’s hand, hips jolting upwards.
“Look at you: a pathetic young man, rutting against my hand, thighs shaking; naturally following orders.” Dwight stopped his groping; Jim rocked his hips forward, heels digging into the mattress, tears glistening in his eyes. “And you even like being talked to like that,” Dwight stated, thumb gingerly stroking across the growing damp spot of precum at Jim’s waistband. He removed his hand from Jim’s mouth; Jim gasped, panted. His hands were pressed to the top of his head, fingers woven into his hair.
“ Dwight, seriously,” Jim complained.
Dwight was unbuttoning Jim’s shirt, letting it fall open, exposing Jim’s torso completely. He ran his hands over Jim’s chest.
“Beg for me,” Dwight said, index fingers and thumbs idling over Jim’s nipples.
“What? No,” Jim said, resolutely. Dwight’s fingers clamped down on Jim’s nipples. Jim’s arms shook, trying desperately to keep his hands above his head. “Ah- Stop-” Dwight pressed harder. Jim’s hands involuntarily jerked down and grabbed Dwight’s wrists, “ Please- please- fuck-” Dwight let go of Jim’s chest and forcefully returned Jim’s hands back above his head. Jim was blushing, jittery.
“Do that again, and we stop,” Dwight chided. “ Don’t ruin it.”
Dwight returned to Jim’s irritated nipples. He leaned down, gently licking one while his hand tenderly brushed the other. He was taking his time again, lips closing around the bud, sucking lightly as he looked up at Jim. Jim sighed, lazily wrapping his legs back around Dwight’s waist. Jim had completely given up trying to expedite this transaction; he was laying still, panting and red-faced. Dwight reached down and palmed Jim’s erection. His hand semi-enclosed around Jim’s length through his boxers, stroking languidly.
“Dwight, I’m-” Jim sighed, melting into the bed, eyes closed, hands folded above his head. “Please- I want-”
“Not yet.” Dwight muttered, teeth grazing Jim’s nipple. His hand didn’t stop its teasing movements.
“You- you have to-” Jim groaned, hands sliding over his eyes. “Please, just- fuck me- please-”
Dwight’s hand pressed between Jim’s legs, gripping his inner thigh as he traced wet kisses across his chest. Jim clasped the sheets above his head. Dwight sat back; seized Jim under the knees, pulling Jim’s legs from around Dwight’s torso, pushing them apart, lifting Jim’s hips. Jim stared up at him with a pinched expression, toes curling.
“Want me to take you like this?” Dwight asked, fingers denting into Jim’s skin. Jim licked his lips, putting his pride aside to nod his agreement. Dwight’s hands slid up Jim’s thighs, snagging Jim’s boxers by the hem and yanking them down; elastic waistband dragging across Jim’s cock. Dwight tsked, wrapping his hand around Jim’s base. Jim’s cock twitched, precum dripping down his shaft onto Dwight’s fingers. “How long do you think it would take you to get off being fucked like a woman? You’re already practically cumming on yourself.” Dwight’s hand slid off Jim’s dick, fingers brushing over taut balls towards Jim’s hole. “I don’t want to prep you.”
“You don’t want to…?” Jim muttered, deciphering Dwight’s words at a delay. Dwight’s fingertip rubbed at Jim’s entrance, and then Jim realized what he’d said. “Whoa, wait- Stop, stop, stop-” Jim gasped, an overwhelming mixture of panic and libido causing his body to short circuit. He froze, legs tense as Dwight slowly, earnestly, pressed his index finger in dry. Jim gasped, legs spread wide. “Dwight, don’t- don’t , I’m- I’m begging, please-” Dwight stopped right before the second knuckle.
“You’re loose,” Dwight remarked. Jim shivered, adrenaline making him dizzy, but excruciatingly alert. Whatever drunkenness leftover from their stint at the bar was sobered out of him. “I know you don’t have a mate, so you must’ve been doing this to yourself. That’s pitiful. You couldn’t just be single with dignity. You tried to make yourself feel better about your self-inflicted loneliness with band-aid solutions, but you’ve only made it harder to escape your own miserable routine by pretending you’re satisfied with second-rate alternatives.”
“ Shut up, ” Jim growled, trying to blink away the wet that was shimmering in his eyes. He was desperately clinging to the sheets in his hands, unconsciously keeping his arms above his head, playing into the scene thoughtlessly. “ You’re just one of my- ah- my ‘second-rate alternatives.’ I don’t even- want you. I was trying to be nice. ”
“It wasn’t nice.” Dwight pushed his finger in the rest of the way. Jim whined, a childish, frustrated sound; tears trailed heavy down his cheeks. Dwight held his finger there for a moment, before dragging it back out; Jim shook, exhaling a rough breath. Dwight reached up with the hand that hadn’t been in Jim’s ass and stroked away the tear tracks. Jim jumped at the touch, chest rising and falling, accusing eyes staring Dwight down.
“Calm down,” Dwight said. He retrieved the bottle of lube from where it’d laid, mostly undisturbed, on the covers. “Give me your hands,” Dwight instructed. Jim hesitated but released his hold on the sheets, reluctantly reaching forwards. Dwight wrapped Jim’s clumsy hands around the bottle like he was entrusting him with something delicate. His hands left Jim’s, left him holding the lube awkwardly over his stomach. “Show me how you do it to yourself.”
Jim looked down at the bottle, then at Dwight, kneeling between his legs. Still blinking through tears, Jim gazed at him, eyes scanning down haltingly. Dwight was still fully dressed, in work slacks, leather belt, button-up shirt, in embarrassing contrast with Jim’s nakedness, thighs shaking, unattended erection dripping. Dwight raised his eyebrows, hands lazily resting on Jim's knees.
“Too shy?” Dwight asked. Jim's eyes returned to Dwight's face. He flicked the top open and squeezed slick onto his fingers. “Make it quick.”
Jim reached between his legs, closed his eyes as he pressed against his opening. Air huffed past his lips, eyebrows quirked up as he easily made room for two fingers, his ass throbbing at the familiar stretch of it.
Jim heard the rustling of movement, the bed shifting underneath him.
Jim opened his eyes, half-lidded, and looked down. Dwight had unbuttoned his shirt, unbuckled his belt; was undoing his fly as he stared at Jim's prodding fingers rubbing into his tight hole. Dwight’s eyes flicked up and caught Jim's, pupils blown wide, stare dark. He pushed his boxers aside until his dick drooped heavily from his waistband. Jim didn't look away, exhaled, fingers curling, pressing in deep. The potential was perpetual consent - the placement of their bodies, of Dwight expectantly caressing his hard-on mere inches from Jim's fingers, desperately stretching.
Jim pulled his fingers out, reaching, fumbling, hand bumping into Dwight’s as he wrapped fingers around Dwight’s shaft. Dwight let him, eyes going a touch glassy. Jim felt the length of it, flushing, disquieted by its generous size. Dwight’s hands dented into the bed on either side of Jim to support his upper body, leaning forward. With Jim stroking his cock, Dwight shifted his hips forward until his tip was just touching Jim’s entrance.
Dwight and Jim watched each other, expressions pinched, as Dwight entered Jim, tip pressing into him; slow penetration, guided by Jim’s shaking hand. Jim inhaled, exhaled, forced himself to relax, becoming slowly unable to focus on Dwight’s features.
Dwight bucked his hips forward, burying himself half-deep. Jim tensed, eyelids fluttering, hand grabbing Dwight’s thigh as he groaned his discomfort. Jim feebly reached for his own waning hard-on, tugged on it with a twisting motion.
“No touching. Hands above your head,” Dwight breathed. Jim whined, but did as he was told. His trembling hands grasped the wrinkled sheets above his head, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, as Dwight clutched his thin hips, holding him still. “Good boy.”
Dwight pushed in, stopped when Jim arched his back off the bed, gasping. He still had an inch or so until he was fully seated. Jim’s legs were shaking from the tension of holding them up so spread apart; his toes were curled inward, muscles taut. He gingerly shifted his hips, praying to accommodate the snug fit; glared at the ceiling, suppressing the sigh that threatened to whistle from his lips. His skin was a blotchy, sweaty mess; he felt feverish, stomach churning.
Dwight mercifully moved his hands from Jim’s hips to his knees, caressing the skin, helping him hold his legs up, pushing Jim’s flexibility to its tense limit.
“Move?” Dwight asked. Jim nodded. Dwight eased his cock out, dragging against Jim’s soft skin. Jim hummed, brain scattering at the radiatingly pleasant sensation; the ache of released pressure. Dwight sunk back in; Jim’s dick twitched, lifting from his stomach, pre-cum shakily dripping from his tip onto his naval. Dwight huffed a breath, repeated his movement: a lazy pull, a careful push; Jim’s cock throbbing and wet.
“Faster,” Jim requested, bracing against the bed. Dwight happily accepted this request, rolling his hips back and bucking them forward, burying to the hilt. Jim jolted, moaned, a voiced open-mouth sound. The pace intensified, bed complaining and voices stammering, until Dwight stayed buried, pushing, inside Jim, watching Jim squirm. Jim’s arms shook above his head, lurching, conflicted. “Please- ah- Please-”
“Please?” Dwight thrust into Jim again, hips snapping against Jim’s thighs. The drag, near-chaffeing, had new tears wetting Jim’s cheeks. “What are you begging for? What do you want?”
“Can I- use my hands?” Jim looked at Dwight with dewy eyes.
“You can’t touch yourself,” Dwight said.
“I won’t.” Jim gripped Dwight’s side, skating upwards. “Come here. Come here.”
Dwight obliged, lowering himself towards Jim. Jim wrapped his arms behind Dwight’s head, pulling him into a tongue-sucking kiss, hips shifting so he could comfortably cling to the man above him. Dwight grabbed Jim’s thigh, grinding his cock into his ass, swallowing the inarticulate noises vibrating Jim’s lips. Jim’s body clenched, tightening, head swimming as Dwight’s hips roughly fretted his inner thighs.
Then Dwight slowed, groaning, shaking.
“Please don’t stop,” Jim complained, fingers digging into Dwight’s back.
“I’m- close-” Dwight admitted, pressed deep into Jim. Jim buried his face in the crook of Dwight’s neck, holding him tighter.
“Already?” Jim asked low, lips pressing against Dwight’s skin. Dwight held him still, clasping him into the bed, one hand on Jim’s thigh, the other carded into Jim’s hair. Jim’s erection was pressed between their stomachs, gooey and trembling.
“S’been a while,” Dwight breathed, nuzzling Jim’s neck. Dwight shifted, cock dragging. He inhaled sharply, exhaled in a huff.
Dwight braced himself against the bed, thrusting into Jim hard, slapping skin-to-skin contact, bed creaking underneath them. Jim lurched, pinned, whimpering; his hands dragged over Dwight’s back, clutched Dwight’s shoulders. The pace became frantic, inarticulate complaining devolving into open weeping, Jim’s legs spread as far as they’d go, Dwight’s hip bones bruising, skin slick with sweat and lube and precum sliding against warm, hot, wet, tight, convulsing body.
Dwight pressed in hard, hands buried in the bed, harshly groaning; Jim could feel him pulsing, a warm, sick pooling in his hips. Jim’s trembling hands held Dwight’s hips as he panted, looking down at where Dwight’s hips were pressed flush to the bottom of his thighs, where Dwight spilled into him. Their voices mingled in pitch, shaking, uncertain syllables marking an unsure connection, a contact too close. Jim was loose, throbbing, hard-on still twitching, agitated.
Dwight leaned, pressed an uncoordinated kiss to Jim’s forehead. He reached down, wrapped a hand around Jim’s shaft, stroked earnestly. He continued to thrust without rhythm, hips shuddering as he overstimulated himself. Jim stopped trying to control the little noises puffing from his lips, hips rolling as he lost himself in the once-denied friction. He got there quick and hot, hips aching and stomach fluttering, cumming with a jolting gasp, jizz spilling between Dwight’s fingers, onto Jim’s stomach. Dwight hummed into Jim’s hair, hand slowing, tenderly appreciating Jim’s shuddering member, the accompanying hiccups as his thumb rubbed the junction between tip and shaft. Jim whined, vision blurring in white, hands like vices on Dwight’s hips. Dwight continued his caressing, despite Jim’s jarring shudders.
“Ah- Stop-” Jim gasped, fidgeting. “Too- too much-”
Dwight mercifully let go, hand dripping. Jim heaved, body thrumming, sweaty, sticky. He tried to relax back into the bed, legs falling on either side of Dwight, arms laying onto the sheets, chest rising and falling. Dwight leaned back, gripped Jim’s thighs, fingers denting into his skin; looked down at him passively, casually. He slid out of Jim; Jim shuddered, the sensation somewhat unpleasant.
Jim scrunched his face, reached down and felt the wet oozing between his thighs, fingers dipping into the softened skin. He sucked in a breath, embarrassed that he’d just done that in front of Dwight. Dwight sat back, was watching him with an unreadable expression.
“Shit,” Jim mumbled, eyes closed. He was dead tired. He didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t want to look. The silence was the air conditioner whirring, water sloshing through the pipes in the walls. “I’m- I’m gonna go… sleep… in the bathtub.”
Jim waited a long while before rolling off the end of the bed. Dwight leaned, reached up unconcernedly, grabbed Jim’s wrist, stopping him.
“Come back to the bed.” Dwight looked up at Jim.
“The bed is a mess,” Jim said.
Dwight nodded.
“I’m a mess,” Jim continued.
Dwight nodded again, fingers tightening around Jim’s wrist. Jim’s other hand mindlessly touched the drying cum sticking to his happy trail.
“Okay,” Jim said. “Shower first.”
Dwight let go.