Jim x Dwight Oneshots *smut warning*

Jim as the Scranton Strangler

*TW mentions Murder, Violence, Alcoholism, Parental Abuse*

As I sit at my desk in Dunder Mifflin, the usual hum of the office fills the air. I stifle a yawn, feeling particularly tired from my sleepless night.

Stanley flips through his crossword puzzle, his gaze focused on the black and white grid. Phyllis quietly types away. Angela, with her ever-present scowl, arranges her cat-shaped sticky notes in perfect alignment.

Dwight is currently absent from his desk, no doubt engrossed in one of his many peculiar rituals. It's the perfect opportunity for a prank.

Dwight has meticulously password-protected each of his files on the computer with the name of a mythical creature. It's both impressive and a bit sad that I know each one of them. But that's just a passing thought—a brief glimpse into the desperate lengths I go to for even a moment of Dwight's attention.

With the files suitably rearranged, I sit back, satisfied with my handiwork. As the seconds crawl by, I find myself growing restless, eagerly awaiting Dwight's return.

Dwight enters the room, his eyes focused ahead, his mind likely occupied with thoughts of productivity.

I meet his eyes and offer a nonchalant wave. "Hey, Dwight."

Dwight's eyes narrow, suspicion etched upon his features, and he approaches his desk with caution. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head, his mind trying to decipher the potential pranks that await him.

I watch as Dwight's fingers dance across the keyboard, his attempts to access his meticulously organized files met with failure. "What the—?" he mutters, his voice a mixture of bewilderment and annoyance. His gaze shoots towards me, accusation lingering in his eyes. "Jim! What did you do?"

I shrug, unable to contain the satisfaction that bubbles within me. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Dwight," I reply, "Maybe it's a glitch in the system? Or did you forget your mythical creature passwords?"

Dwight lets out a frustrated grunt, his hands slamming against the desk. The defeat in his eyes is almost tangible, and I savor the moment, reveling in the power I hold over him, however small it may be. "What's wrong, Dwight?" I ask, trying to sound innocent, but failing miserably.

Dwight whirls around, his eyes blazing with fury. "You know exactly what's wrong, Halpert," he seethes, his voice dripping with venom. "You've messed with my files again."

I shrug, unable to keep the grin from my face any longer. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't," I say coyly.

I lean back in my chair, my eyes fixated on Dwight's frustration. It's a moment of blissful triumph, a flicker of connection that I secretly yearn for. I soak in every detail—the creases forming on Dwight's forehead, the intensity in his eyes, the way his lips purse in concentration.

The sound of footsteps interrupts the playful banter between Dwight and me. Michael strolls into the office with a sense of urgency, his brows furrowed. Pam, manning the reception desk, doesn't miss a beat.

"What took you so long, Michael?" she asks.

Michael practically throws a newspaper down onto her desk, a look of anger on his face. "That's why!" he exclaims, pointing at the front-page story. The headline catches everyone's attention, and a hush falls over the office.

Pam glances at the newspaper and raises an eyebrow. "When did you have time to buy a newspaper if you were already late?"

Michael dismisses her question with a wave of his hand. "That's not the point, Pam. The point is that the Scranton Strangler struck again!" he announces with dramatic flair.