Chapter Text
“Lunch?”
Danny is lounging in the entrance to Dwight’s cubicle. They’ve worked together for seven months, and Danny has never said more than a few sentences to him. But now he’s standing there, looking far too pretty to be talking to Dwight.
“Hello?” Danny waves a little, and Dwight realizes he’s been staring. He shakes himself.
“W-what?”
“I asked if you wanted to get lunch.”
“Why?” Dwight asks. It’s a stupid question, but this sort of thing doesn’t happen to him. Hot guys just don’t come up to him and ask him to eat lunch with them.
“Because I don’t usually take lunch, and you don’t usually take lunch, and therefore we’re the only people who haven’t already left. And I’m hungry.”
“Oh,” Dwight says. He should have known Danny wasn’t coming to talk to him in particular.
“Hurry up,” Danny turns on his heel and walks away, cat-quiet, through the office. Dwight almost knocks over his chair to follow.
He catches up with Danny near the elevators. Danny has pulled on the leather jacket he almost always seems to wear and, dressed all in black, his shoulders seem even wider than they do in his shirt sleeves. Dwight swallows hard.
“Where are we going?” He asks. His voice has a weird rasp to it, and he tries to clear his throat as unobtrusively as possible. The elevator dings. Danny steps inside, pressing the button for the lobby without looking to see if Dwight is following. They’re two floors down and the elevator’s humming has become an oppressive roar in Dwight’s ears. He fidgets through the next three floors. The elevator stops and the doors open.
“I was planning on getting a Red Bull from the 7-eleven,” Danny says, cutting across the lobby to the side door.
“Oh,” Dwight says. “Sounds good.”
Danny snickers. Dwight can’t quite tell if he’s laughing at him. He kind of doesn’t mind. He might like it if Danny were, he thinks.
They walk the block to the store in silence. Danny, true to his word, goes straight to the energy drinks. He grabs a Red Bull and then, with a moment of hesitation, turns to the coffee station. Dwight shakes himself. He starts getting his own coffee. There are egg sandwiches. Dwight weights the risks, then grabs one.
“Brave.”
Danny is right behind him. Dwight jumps. Danny laughs again, flicking a piece of Dwight’s hair that has fallen down across his forehead.
“But twitchy,” he grins, leading Dwight to the register. Dwight gapes at him as they check out.
“So, Dwight,” Danny says as they walk out into the annoyingly bright sunlight. “Why are you still at this shithole of a company?”
“I, uh,” Dwight clears, “it’s better than where I was before.” He tries not to think about Lazar very often. “What about you? You’re not the new guy anymore.”
“Taking a break from my actual life.”
Dwight raises an eyebrow.
“Crime journalist. Or at least I was. Wanted a little while with a regular paycheck.”
“So now you write advertising copy? Isn’t that boring in comparison?”
“Incredibly,” Danny smirks at Dwight. They’re standing in the parking lot. Danny leans against one of the light poles, coffee cup in one hand. The Red Bull sticks out of the pocket where he shoved it.
“What kind of crime?” Dwight asks. He still can’t believe Danny is actually talking to him. A gust of wind ruffles Danny’s hair. He takes a long drink of coffee, his eyes sparkling.
“Murders, mostly. A bit of corruption. Did a piece on white collar stuff but that was even more boring than marketing.” He glances at the sandwich Dwight is still holding. “Did you chicken out?”
“N-no,” Dwight sets his coffee on the ground, ripping open the plastic package. He shoves the wrapper into a pocket of his windbreaker. The bread tastes a little like paste. “Ugh,” he says.
“Guess you should have stuck with skipping lunch,” Danny grins.
“No, I like this,” Dwight blurts. He grabs his coffee off the ground and takes a sip, trying to wash away the taste of the sandwich.
“You have low standards,” Danny tells him. Dwight winces. It’s true, and yeah, standing outside drinking coffee in a parking lot isn’t exactly his dream of a day either, but it’s an improvement.
“Sure, I even like shitty horror and true crime,” is what he actually says. Then he realizes what that sounds like. “Not that, I’m sure, anything you write counts as shitty!”
“It isn’t.” Danny says simply. “So, what’s your favorite scary movie?”
“Oh! Ok so there’s things like Funny Games, The Strangers and Nightcrawler, which I’ve watched a million times and even then, I’m still in awe. And then there’s Saw, which should be a favorite because I’ve seen the whole damn series, but I’ve mostly only watched because a friend of mine was way too into them. I’ve always liked ‘80s slashers. Friday the 13th has no class, but it’s a lot of fun.” Dwight sees that Danny’s eyes have widened. “Oh god. That was too much, wasn’t it?”
Dwight covers his face with his hand, only he’s still holding the sandwich, so really, he almost smacks floppy white bread and cheap egg salad into his glasses.
“Hmm. I agree about Nightcrawler. But The Strangers? The cinematography is good, but otherwise?”
“What! No, the acting is amazing. You can actually believe they’re afraid,” Dwight waves the sandwich to make his point. Then he really registers what Danny has said. “Wait, you-”
“Personally, I’m more of a Psycho fan. You’d have to do more work to convince me about The Strangers.”
Dwight almost groans aloud. Danny is into horror films, and hot, and actually talking to him? This cannot fucking be happening. He’s about to reply, but Outlook chirps from his phone. He pulls it out and can’t help the grimace he gives.
“Quinn wants something,” he tells Danny.
“We’re not done with this,” Danny grins at him, teeth a little coffee-stained. Dwight’s mouth moves about ten miles ahead of his brain.
“Come over. Tomorrow. We’ll watch it.”
Danny quirks his lips. Then he crumples his coffee cup and starts walking to the door. Dwight’s face is the temperature of the sun. He jogs after Danny, catching up in time to open the door for him.
“Sure,” Danny says as they get to the elevators. “I’ll bring the popcorn.”
***
Dwight did not consider the potential consequences when he invited Danny over to watch a movie. Honestly, it’s probably the most spontaneous thing he’s done in the past five years. It was just, he’d heard through the grapevine that Danny was gay, and he was so fucking hot, with his messy hair and ink-stained fingers, standing in the parking lot and actually talking to Dwight about movies.
This is turning out to be a terrible miscalculation. He’s slumped next to Danny on his couch, The Strangers on his computer. Apparently, his cock does not care at all that this is not an appropriate moment to be chubbing up in his sweats. Apparently, his cock just cares that usually, usually it would be in Dwight’s hand, and he’d be getting off right about now. (Why did he pick one of his favorite films to jerk off to? Momentary insanity is the only explanation.) The addition of the hottest guy Dwight knows is not helping things.
He wants to grab a blanket, hoodie, anything to throw over his lap. As much as Danny looking at his dick would be, in most circumstance, a-fucking-mazing and the best thing to happen to him maybe ever, Danny catching him hard in the middle of a horror film night might actually be the worst ever. There is no way that Danny won’t notice his dick if Dwight moves.
The apartment is too warm. Dwight tries to spread his legs a little, slow enough not to draw Danny’s attention. His cock rubs against his boxers. His sweats are stretched tight across his lap. On screen, the Man in the Mask is hacking down the door. It sends a little thrill through Dwight, just like always. He wants to pull out his cock and jerk himself off to the movie, wants to stick a finger up his ass while he watches. He is so fucked up. No wonder he hasn’t even hooked up in years.
Dwight shoots a glance sideways. Danny is staring at the screen, looking utterly enthralled. His mouth twitches every so often, tiny expressions flitting over his face. But otherwise, he seems to be in another world.
Dwight’s dick is still hard when the film finishes. He is, absurdly, about two good strokes away from spilling. Danny stretches, one arm brushing Dwight’s side.
“B-bathroom,” Dwight stutters. He jumps up, trying to walk normally as he darts into the down the hall to the bathroom. He locks the door behind himself then shoves his sweats down to his knees.
The head of his cock glistens with precome. Dwight wraps a hand around himself and starts in. He’s been jerking himself off to this movie since it came out. He squeezes a little tighter, biting his lips so that he doesn’t make a sound. It’s hard and fast and not very good and - “oh, fuck” - he comes in less than a minute.
Dwight leans back, panting, against the door, sweating in his t-shirt. He looks down at his hand. It’s covered in come. A little drop has fallen on his boxers where they’re between his ankles. Dwight licks his fingers clean. Salty. Dwight pulls up his pants with his clean hand, then washes up. He splashes a little water on his face, sighing as it hits his flaming cheeks. He’ll just have to pray Danny doesn’t ask about why he took so long.
***
When Danny asks Dwight if he wants to get lunch, it’s mostly idle curiosity. Dwight is cute enough, and Danny hasn’t had a proper fuck in a long time. He hasn’t started feeling the itch to start a new design either. Going to Dwight’s house might make things a little more interesting. After all, it was gratifying to watch Dwight so flustered he almost walked into the wall of his cubicle when Danny said, “see you later.”
He can pinpoint the exact moment things change. They’re sitting in Dwight’s tiny living room with The Strangers playing on his laptop. Danny is focused on not getting worked up by the thrill of the hunt. On screen, the main characters have started their retreat to their bedroom, trying to hide from the killers. And…
Holy shit.
Dwight is more than half hard in his sweats. Danny bites his lip and iron fills his mouth. He licks the blood off his mouth as he watches Dwight shift a little. There’s no sign that Dwight even knows that his dick is plump and starting to strain against the soft fabric of his pants. Danny glances back at the film. He tries to focus on it, but all he can think about is the fact that dorky little Dwight is next to him, looking as though he could come in his pants at any moment.
The couch dips a little as Dwight shifts again. Danny watches out of the corner of his eye as Dwight spreads his legs a little wider, his sweats stretched taught. Danny can’t believe that Dwight doesn’t realize what’s going on. He makes no move to cover himself, however. On screen, one of the killers is taking her turn stabbing the main characters. Danny crosses his legs. He hadn’t expected this evening to go this way. Maybe a little bit of a cuddle on the couch, get Dwight warmed up. Not this.
Danny hardly notices when the movie ends. He’s fixed on the tiny hitches Dwight’s hips are making, the way Dwight’s eyes are fixed on the screen, as though he can’t bear to miss a moment. His cheeks are pink, and his hair has come out of its gelled spikes a little. He looks like just the slightest move could have him spilling in his ratty sweatpants.
He jumps when Danny stretches, elbowing him in the side. Dwight mutters something about having to use the restroom and Danny barely bites back a snicker. The minute the door closes behind Dwight, Danny is up, stalking silently behind him. He leans against the door.
On the other side, Dwight is making soft little gasping whimpers. Danny thinks he can even hear the slap of Dwight’s palm. Danny’s own cock is starting to make itself known, pressing against the stiff fabric of his jeans. There’s a muffled “oh fuck,” from the other side of the door.
Danny runs a hand over his face. This is not at all what he was expecting, but there is something delicious about little, twitchy Dwight getting worked up enough to have to run rub one out just because of some horror movie he’s watching. It’s altogether shocking, in just the sort of way that makes Danny desperate to learn more.
He slinks back to his space on the couch, settling in just as Dwight reappears. He spreads his legs a little, getting more comfortable. Dwight’s face is wet, as though he splashed water on it.
“So,” Dwight says, “Did you change your mind about it?”
“Definitely,” Danny grins at him, all sharp teeth and hard edges. “I think I just needed to see someone else enjoying it.”
“Oh!” Dwight flushes. “New eyes always help I guess.”
“It had more depth than I remembered,” Danny offers. He actually did think the film was better this time around, even before he got a little extra show. “And it helped to see you enjoy it.”
Dwight swallows hard, his throat bobbing up and down. The drops of water on his forehead sparkle in the glow from his computer. He’s oddly pretty, out of his cheap shirt and tie. Danny can imagine playing a bit with him, especially now that he knows where Dwight’s interests lie.
“Popcorn?” He offers Dwight the bowl. As Dwight takes it, Danny licks his fingers, his tongue swiping over them. Dwight bites his lip. Danny smirks. He might be able to have some fun here.
***
Danny settles himself on Dwight’s sagging couch. It’s been a week since they watched The Strangers. Dwight had made his way over to Danny’s cubicle the next day at lunch time.
“W-want to get lunch?” he had asked.
Danny had grinned at him, teeth pressing against his lip.
“7-eleven?” He’d asked. Dwight had nodded. “No egg sandwich this time.”
“Definitely not,” Dwight had said.
And that was that. They’ve settled into a routine, coffee and energy drinks for Danny, coffee and whatever strange convenience store food Dwight decides is worth a try for Dwight. It’s fun. He likes seeing Dwight’s bland exterior, knowing that something nasty and wrong is hiding underneath. It reminds him of Jed, of all the other roles he’s played himself.
So now he’s back again, in Dwight’s house, wondering if he’ll get more of a show tonight.
“So, I have to admit, I’ve never actually seen it,” Dwight is saying.
“Never?” Danny grins. This is going to be great. “It’s the literal foundation of a genre!”
“You think Peeping Tom is the foundation of the slasher genre?” Dwight asks. “But the reception was terrible!”
“So what?” Danny says. “When you watch it, you’ll understand. You can’t look away.”’
“Ok then, put it on,” Dwight grins.
Danny starts the film up. The familiar score fills the room.
He practically has the film memorized, has seen it so many times since he first stuck it into the VHS player when he was home alone, just old enough at eleven to be captivated. He thinks he could recreate it almost shot for shot. So, he knows just what’s happening on screen when Dwight starts to lick his lips.
When the first victim’s dead body is pulled from her house, Dwight shifts. He spreads his legs wider, his knee almost knocking into Danny’s. Danny slides just a little down the couch. Dwight’s leg is hot against his when Danny brushes it. Dwight doesn’t move.
Dwight is wearing sweats again, and his dick shows as a hard line in them. It softens a little as the story progresses. Then, when Lewis kills his next victim, Dwight’s hips actually hitch upward for a second, as though looking for friction that they expect to find. Danny is mesmerized. He wishes he could take a picture, Dwight spread out on the couch, looking for all the world like he has no ideas what’s going on inside his pants.
There’s a light flush on Dwight’s cheeks. It deepens as the movie goes on.
“Oh fuck,” Dwight breathes out, when the movie switches to Lewis watching a snuff film. Dwight is breathing a little harder now. Danny feels like he’s watching the film for the first time through Dwight’s eyes. Dwight’s ratty couch creaks as Danny crosses and then uncrosses his legs.
The only thing Danny doesn’t like about Peeping Tom is the ending. Dwight doesn’t seem to be bothered, however.
“Oh. Oh, wow,” he sighs as the credits start to roll.
“So, what did you think?” Danny asks. Dwight runs a hand through his hair.
“I, um,” Dwight looks as though he’s going to gather himself together enough to talk to Danny about the film. Danny slides just a little bit towards the center of the couch, following the dip of cushions that have seen better days. He presses his leg into Dwight’s once again.
“Gotta piss,” Dwight jumps up. Danny bites back a laugh. He follows Dwight on silent feet, just far enough back from him that Dwight doesn’t notice. The bathroom door slams shut behind Dwight. Danny pops the button on his jeans and sneaks a hand down the front of them as he listens to the clearly audible panting.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dwight seems to be chanting from the other side of the door. Danny isn’t sure he’s hard enough to get off before Dwight is done in the bathroom, especially given how desperate Dwight sounds through the wall. But the drag of Danny’s palm across his cock feels amazing. His knife scars, and the calluses left by his pens contrast delightfully as he spreads precome across the head of his dick. He’s toying with it, listening to the whimpers falling form Dwight’s lips.
“Holy fucking hell,” Dwight groans. Danny bites back an answering sound. He jerks himself a little harder, imagining Dwight pressed to the other side of the door, head thrown back and that pretty neck exposed. Danny would whisper in his ear, asking what’s gotten him so worked up. And Dwight would sound just as sweet as he does right now.
From the bathroom, Dwight’s muttered curses have turned into wordless gasps and bitten back groans. Danny jerks himself harder. He might actually be able to get off if Dwight keeps this up.
“So hot,” Dwight mumbles. Danny’s sure that Dwight had more to that sentence, but the door muffles it. It’s enough, though, that combined with the hour and a half of blood and knives they’ve just watched, Danny’s cock gives another little spurt of precome. On the other side of the door, Dwight moans.
Danny can imagine what Dwight looks like, flushed cheeks, his glasses getting foggy, his round ass up against the door as he fucks his hand. What would he be like with blood spattered across his lips and down the front of his t-shirt?
It’s this thought that makes Danny come, sudden and hard. He bites back his own moans, spilling into his waiting hand. For a moment, he sways, winded. Then he manages to turn around and slip back over to the couch. His hand is covered in come. He looks around for something to wipe off with, but there’s only one paper towel crumpled on the coffee table. It takes off some of the come, but not all.
Dwight’s moans are audible now even from the couch. It’s so hot, and Danny looks down at his hand. Then he licks himself clean, sucking his fingers, fucking his mouth with them for just a moment. He pops his fingers out of his mouth when he hears the door to the bathroom open and slips the come-covered towel into the pocket of his sweatshirt.
“So, you liked it?” Danny asks Dwight after he comes down the hall. He smiles innocently up at Dwight. Dwight falls heavily down onto the couch. He nods.
“It was- Like, it didn’t have the blood of something like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but it was a million times more extreme. I actually felt like I was there.”
“That’s what I love about it,” Danny admits. “It’s so intimate.”
Somehow, Dwight flushes even deeper.
“It’s also…” Dwight swallows hard enough that Danny can see his throat bob convulsively, “The killer needs to watch his movies so badly, and watching him… It makes me feel like I was a part of the murders.”
“Fun, right,” Danny says.
“No!”
Danny laughs. He pokes Dwight in the side with one finger, watching as Dwight squirms.
“You know you had fun,” he says. Dwight looks down at the hand that Danny used to poke him. It’s the hand Danny just licked clean of come.
“You’re teasing me,” he says.
Danny grins.
“Maybe a little,” he says.
***
It’s a Wednesday, and Danny is in his ratty armchair, looking through his most recent photo album. His jeans are open; he’s got a hand wrapped around his cock. He strokes himself slowly as he flips through the pictures. There’s a fantastic shot where the woman is stumbling backwards. She was trying to get away from Danny as he chased her to the top floor of her house. Her face is twisted in terror, a slice along her cheek where Danny had given her a little taste of the future. The composition is particularly good. Light slants across her face, a parallel to the line of blood. It looks almost planned. Danny might think it was, if he didn’t remember pulling out Philly as he stalked towards her, snapping away just to capture her face. But it’s ended up being almost cinematic in its quality.
Dwight would love it.
Danny’s hand tightens on his cock abruptly. A moan spills from his lips. He’s never had anyone to share his work with, not like that. It’s always fun to see stories in the news, to hear people at work talking about how the local serial killer has struck again. But he’s never had someone to appreciate his pictures. And meek little Dwight, jumping at shadows and diving into the bathroom to escape their boss when at their job, is the last person that Danny would have imagined was interested in Danny’s work.
Dwight’s so much more than he appears. Danny twists his wrist as he starts to stroke himself faster. Dwight would probably be hard just flipping through Danny’s album. Danny moans as he imagines it. He’d press it into Dwight’s hands, let Dwight page through. He pumps his cock faster. He’d suck Dwight off, lips wrapped around his cock, a finger up Dwight’s tight ass.
Danny comes as he imagines Dwight cooing over the final photo in the album, the kill shot.
He slumps in his chair, come cooling on his chest. Dwight, with his sweet little stutter, the nervous way he pushes his glasses up, and the way he pants to himself as blood pours from a victim on screen, is something else entirely.
Danny grabs a nearby washcloth and wipes him off. Just a little push, and he’ll have just what he wants. Dwight is so close to perfect. Just a little work, and he will be.