Retail Exposure Therapy

Jeff clocks in at 9:58 a.m., two minutes early because being late makes his brain feel like it’s vibrating under his skin. His coffee already half gone, Smile walking at his side like a shadow that breathes. The store smells like smoke, weed, and whatever incense corporate thought was edgy this season.

Jane’s behind the counter with her clipboard. “You’re on the back wall all day,” she says. “I’ll run jewelry and register. Toby’s up front folding — corporate wants the T-shirt wall ‘perfect.’”

Up front, Toby is already stacking cotton squares with monk-level focus, shoulders twitching now and then, a quiet whistle slipping out between breaths. He gives Jeff a thumbs-up that turns into a quick hand shake tic. “We got this,” he mutters.

Jeff nods once and heads to the back. Smile pads beside him, vest on, ears forward, steady as ever. Smile settles near his boots while he straightens boxes, lines up displays, and flips into work mode — neutral tone, no judgment, just answers.

The first customers are awkward couples pretending they’re just browsing novelty socks until they drift toward the sex toy wall like magnets. Jeff leans against the shelving, arms crossed, neutral face on.

A nervous guy picks up a box, flips it over three times, then whispers, “Uh… is this… waterproof?”

Jeff answers without blinking. “Yes. Also quiet. Battery included.”

Smile settles at Jeff’s feet, chin on paws, calm in a sea of giggles and plastic packaging. A woman asks for recommendations “for beginners,” cheeks bright red. Jeff switches to his work voice — direct, respectful, no jokes. He gestures to a lower shelf, explains features in plain language, and hands her a recommended product. 

She leaves relieved. Jeff exhales.

Jane passes by, gives him a subtle thumbs-up.

Another couple hovers near the shelves pretending to compare belts before drifting further into the back.

“Uh,” the guy says, voice low, “which ones are… quiet?”

Jeff gestures to a row without making it weird. “Those three. Rechargeable. Different intensities.”

They relax almost immediately. People usually do when someone treats their questions like normal human questions.

Smile dozes, chin on paws, unbothered by the giggles and whispered debates over packaging.

A group of college kids barrels in like a storm — loud laughter, jangling bracelets, energy that bounces off the walls. They wander straight to the back and start grabbing things just to see reactions.

One guy picks up a flogger and swats his friend across the thigh.

Smack.

Laughter explodes. Someone grabs a second one. Another smack, harder this time, the sound sharp enough to spike Jeff’s nerves.

Smile stands, pressing into Jeff’s leg.

Jeff steps forward, voice calm but firm. “Hey — not for play fighting in the store. Put it down, please.”

They pause, startled.

“Seriously,” Jeff adds, meeting their eyes. “You can look, ask questions — just don’t hit each other with the merch.”

A girl snorts. “Okay, fair.”

They set the floggers back on the hook. One of them mutters an apology; another asks an actual question about materials and safety. Jeff answers professionally, redirects the energy into browsing instead of chaos.

Jane gives him a subtle nod from across the aisle — good call.

The group leaves a few minutes later, still loud but no longer weaponizing the merchandise.

Jeff exhales. Smile leans heavier for a second, then settles again.

 His thoughts start to tangle — words overlapping, whispers creeping in at the edges.

Smile stands and leans gently into Jeff’s leg.

Jeff grounds himself in the weight, the warmth, the steady breathing at his side. He focuses on straightening up merchandise, restocking products, and counting rows of lube. Jane turns the music down half a notch from the back — small adjustment, big difference.

Up front, Toby folds T-shirts with surgical precision. A sharp vocal tic cracks through the air; he winces, then keeps going, stacking shirts like a champion. Jeff catches his eye from across the store. Toby salutes with a roll of X-large size stickers. Jeff laughs.

The back wall brings out the most honest versions of people.

A middle-aged woman wants something comfortable and asks Jeff to explain the difference between silicone and plastic like she’s comparing kitchen tools. He does — simple, clear, practical. She thanks Smile on the way out like he helped pick.

A bachelor party wanders through asking embarrassing questions on purpose. Jeff keeps a straight face, answers what’s real, ignores the rest. Jane swoops in to redirect them toward novelty party favors before things get too obnoxious.

A middle-aged man approaches the wall like he’s about to confess a crime.

“So,” he begins, too loudly, “my wife says I’m… emotionally unavailable.”

Jeff nods. “You looking for something specific?”

The man launches into a fifteen-minute monologue about marriage, intimacy, and an unfortunate incident with massage oil. Jeff listens, redirects gently, recommends a couple of options that prioritize comfort and communication.

Halfway through, Jeff’s focus flickers — a shadow moves wrong in the corner of his vision. Smile nudges his hand, a quiet hey. Jeff blinks, re-centers, finishes the explanation.

The customer leaves with a small bag and a sheepish “thanks, man.”

Jeff scratches behind Smile’s ear. “Good.”

Jane watches over the back while Jeff eats in the stockroom — a sandwich Liu dropped off earlier. Smile curls against his boots. The fluorescent hum is softer back here; the quiet helps.

Toby pops his head in between customers snagging a quick chug of water. “You alive?”

“Barely,” Jeff says.

Toby laughs, then hiccups a sudden bark-like tic and grimaces. Jeff bumps his shoulder. No big deal. Just two coworkers surviving retail.

In the last few minutes of his 30 minute break Jeff finishes the last bite, grabs a swig of water, and heads back out.

Mid-afternoon hits hard — someone triggers a novelty scream button near the registers. A second group laughs too loud. Jeff’s thoughts start to blur, whispers crawling along the edges of his focus.

Smile nudges his hand.

Jeff steadies himself by reorganizing a shelf — counting rows, aligning boxes, breathing in rhythm with the dog’s quiet presence. Jane lowers the music slightly, subtle but noticeable.

The world settles enough to keep going.

A woman in her fifties asks for something “not too intense but not boring.” She’s honest, curious, and completely unashamed. Jeff appreciates the straightforwardness. He walks her through materials, noise levels, cleaning routines. She thanks Smile on the way out like he personally approved her purchase.

A teenage couple wanders in next, whispering and giggling. Jeff keeps it professional — answers their awkward questions, stays firm on his personal boundaries, and redirects them to novelty items that move them away from the creature cocks. Jane handles a return at the counter with her usual calm authority. 

The afternoon blurs into a rhythm: questions, recommendations, restocking, breathing.

Energy crashes hit Jeff hard around late afternoon. His limbs feel heavy, thoughts foggy. He leans against the wall a second longer than usual.

Smile stands, presses into his thigh.

Jeff takes the hint — drinks water, rolls his shoulders, resets the display. Jane clocks the shift in his posture from across the store and tell hom to take a quick five-minute break. No fuss. No spotlight.

In the back room, Jeff sits on a crate while Smile rests his chin on Jeff’s knee. The world slows enough to feel manageable again.

After work crowds roll in — couples, curious solo shoppers, people who clearly drew the short straw in a friend group dare.

One guy asks Jeff if Smile is “trained to detect bad decisions.”

Jeff deadpans, “Just mine.”

Even Jane cracks a smile at that.

Toby’s still folding T-shirts up front, stacks growing and collapsing as customers dig through them. He rebuilds each pile with relentless patience, shoulders twitching, voice humming through tics and laughter.

Jeff keeps moving — answering questions, straightening displays, reminding a group gently not to open merchandise to test vibration settings.

Smile stays close, grounding and steady through every spike of noise or flicker of unease.

A bachelorette party giggles through the aisles. A guy in a suit pretends he’s lost while asking extremely specific questions. Someone sets off a novelty sound button that screams every time it’s pressed.

Toby’s tics spike with the noise; he hums louder to steady himself, folding faster, hands moving like metronomes. Jane floats between registers, refunds, and customer drama like a general on a pothead battlefield.

Jeff keeps his voice level, answers questions without judgment, and lets Smile anchor him when the chaos threatens to tip him over.

At one point, a customer asks if Smile is “trained to judge people’s purchases.” Jeff blinks, “Yeah.” The customer laughs; tension breaks.

The door locks at eight. The store goes quiet in that sudden, almost sacred way retail spaces do after a long day.

Jeff and Toby restock the shirt wall together — Toby lining up stacks of shirts with obsessive symmetry, Jeff refolding shirts. Jane counts the till and taps keyboard numbers like a drumbeat.

When everything is finally squared away, they collapse near the counter with deep sighs.

“Flogger kids were… something,” Jane says.

Jeff huffs a quiet laugh. “Could’ve been worse.”

Toby salutes Smile with a perfectly folded black T-shirt. “Employee of the month.”

Smile thumps his tail like he accepts the honor.

Jeff leans against the counter, tired but steady. The day wasn’t perfect — there were whispers, dips, spikes — but he stayed present. He helped people. He made it through.

After bag checks, Jane flicks off the lights one by one. Toby shoulders his backpack, humming under his breath. Jeff clips Smile’s leash, gives one last glance at the quiet aisles.

“Same time tomorrow?” Jane asks.

Jeff shakes his head. “Nope, I’m off tomorrow.”

“Alrighty then,” Jane says. “Catch you later.”

Toby gives a small wave. “Have a good ni—hah—night… get home safe.”

Outside, the evening air is cool. Smile walks half a step ahead, steady tension guiding the pace.  Jeff feels wrung out but grounded — a whole shift spent answering weird questions, managing chaos, and staying present despite the noise in his head. He heads towards his car, just another long, messy, ordinary day at work with coworkers who get it and a dog who never leaves his side.

Working Smile

Hello everyone! Been working on this AU since I was like 16 years old and just now feel more secure with it to finally write my first fic within the AU. I'll talk about Jefferey specifically just to keep things short, he never became Jeff the Killer when he was 16 (he is 24 in this fic) he had his first psychotic break and believed that his brother, friends and him were killers being controlled by a tall figure he referred to as Slenderman. After his first Inpatient stay he was diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder Bipolar Type.

I do want to say I personally do not have Schizoaffective Disorder, I did a lot of research over the years and watched multiple videos of people with the disorder explaining and sharing their experiences. As I find many Creepypasta fics that deal with mental illness often accidentally portray the illness in a stigmatizing way. If you have Schizoaffective Disorder Bipolar Type and feel this is not the case feel free to comment and let me know so I can make appropriate changes.

I also tried a new writing style to make it seem more like a clinical log?? IDK if I pulled it off very well though. I'm still new in general to writing fanfictions this is only my 4th or 5th one I've written. So I'm still trying to find my style and how I want to write if that makes any sense.

*Originally posted on Ao3*

Morning — Structure Before Thought

Jeff doesn’t wake naturally anymore.

Sleep is inconsistent — three hours during manic stretches, fourteen during depressive crashes, fractured REM cycles full of auditory hallucinations and intrusive imagery. His phone alarms escalate every ten minutes. They rarely work.

Smile does.

At 6:30am the first alarm vibrates. Jeff groans but does not move. His breathing is shallow; his hands twitch against the mattress.

Smile initiates the wake (your ass) up protocol automatically. 

He jumps onto the bed and settles across Jeff’s hips first — controlled, trained weight. Deep pressure therapy designed to stimulate proprioceptive input and interrupt dissociation. Jeff tries to roll away. Smile adjusts, shifting higher until his chest presses firmly into Jeff’s ribcage.

A low whine. Persistent nose nudges to Jeff’s jaw and hands.

Jeff finally inhales sharply and opens his eyes.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m up.”

Smile doesn’t disengage. Not yet.

He reaches toward the nightstand, grabs a small fabric pouch by its tug loop, and drops it onto Jeff’s chest — medication kit. Inside: mood stabilizer, antipsychotic, water bottle clipped to the side.

Jeff hesitates. Morning paranoia still lingers; sometimes he believes the pills are poison or surveillance tools. On those days he stares at them like they might bite.

Smile presses harder.

Jeff swallows the medication slowly. Smile watches his throat, waiting for confirmation. Only when the pills are taken does the dog shift his weight and hop off the bed.

Without Smile, Jeff has gone days without medication. With Smile, adherence increases enough to keep his symptoms from escalating into full psychotic crisis most weeks.

Mid-Morning — Hallucination Management

Schizoaffective symptoms are unpredictable.

Some mornings Jeff is lucid and quiet. Others begin with auditory hallucinations layered over reality — whispering voices commenting on his actions, shadows that move when nothing else does.

Today starts with confusion.

Jeff stands in the hallway, staring into a corner. His lips move in silent conversation. Shoulders tense, posture defensive. His eyes track something that isn’t there.

Smile approaches slowly and sits at Jeff’s side.

Jeff’s voice is barely audible. “Are you seeing that?”

He swallows. “Check.”

Smile scans the environment — neutral posture, tail relaxed, ears forward but not alert. No threat signal. He turns back and presses his flank firmly into Jeff’s left leg. Sustained pressure. Warmth. Familiar weight.

Jeff’s breathing stutters. His eyes flick to the dog.

Smile licks Jeff’s hand — repetitive sensory input designed to interrupt fixation and redirect attention to present physical sensation.

The hallucination loses focus. Jeff blinks, then looks down at the floor.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Okay. Not real.”

Smile remains in contact until Jeff’s posture loosens and his gaze stabilizes.

Early Afternoon — Manic Escalation

Mania doesn’t arrive gently.

It builds through small behavioral cues — faster speech, pacing, inability to sit still, grandiose ideas spoken half aloud. Jeff begins moving through the apartment rapidly, knocking objects over, laughing at nothing. His hands flex repeatedly near the pocket where he keeps a folding knife.

Smile tracks every movement.

When Jeff grabs his hoodie and moves toward the door, Smile positions himself sideways across the threshold. Exit blocking — a trained task for moments when impulsivity spikes and risk increases.

“Move,” Jeff snaps.

Smile does not move.

Jeff pushes lightly at first, then harder. Smile plants his feet and maintains eye contact. One controlled bark — sharp, deliberate — interrupts the escalation.

Jeff freezes.

Smile retrieves a thick tug rope from the corner and shoves it into Jeff’s hands. Redirected motor activity. Something repetitive, physical, grounding.

Jeff resists for several seconds, then grips the rope and pulls. The interaction becomes rhythmic. Muscles engage. Breathing deepens. Speech slows.

After several minutes Jeff collapses onto the floor, exhausted. Smile transitions immediately into deep pressure therapy, laying across Jeff’s thighs and lower abdomen.

The manic surge does not disappear, but it reduces enough to prevent Jeff from leaving the apartment in an unstable state.

Late Afternoon — Depression and Neglect

Energy crashes are severe.

By mid-afternoon Jeff lies motionless on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He has not eaten since morning. His phone alarms go off repeatedly — reminders to hydrate, check in with friends, stretch — but he ignores them.

Smile switches task sets.

He retrieves a water bottle from the floor and places it against Jeff’s hand. No reaction. Smile repeats with a prepackaged meal container. Jeff turns his head away.

Escalation protocol begins.

Persistent pawing at Jeff’s chest. Cold nose pressed against his throat — an uncomfortable but effective stimulus. Low whining increases until Jeff sighs and sits up just enough to drink.

It’s minimal intake, but it interrupts the total shutdown that often leads to multi-day rapid or neglect cycles. Smile remains nearby, periodically nudging Jeff’s arm to maintain engagement with the environment.

Later, Smile drops the leash into Jeff’s lap. A trained cue for movement.

Jeff hesitates for several minutes before standing. The walk is slow and silent, but it gets him outside — sunlight, air, mild sensory input that reduces the depth of the depressive spiral.

Evening — Public Exposure and Paranoia

Crowded environments increase Jeff’s paranoia.

During a short grocery trip, he becomes hypervigilant — scanning faces, muttering about surveillance. His posture stiffens; his breathing grows shallow.

Smile shifts into forward lead grounding.

He walks half a step ahead, maintaining consistent leash tension to encourage a steady pace. When Jeff stops abruptly, Smile leans his body weight against Jeff’s shin — tactile reassurance and spatial orientation.

Jeff whispers, “Check,” again when a stranger laughs nearby.

Smile scans neutrally, then presses into Jeff’s leg. No alert behavior.

Jeff exhales slowly and continues walking. The outing ends without confrontation or panic.

Night — REM Disturbance

Nighterrors remain the hardest symptoms to manage.

Jeff thrashes violently in his sleep — shouting, clawing at invisible threats. His hands grasp for objects that are not present.

Smile jumps onto the bed and applies full-torso deep pressure therapy. He licks Jeff’s hands repeatedly until muscle tension decreases and Jeff wakes.

Jeff sits up, disoriented, breathing hard.

Smile presses his head under Jeff’s chin, maintaining contact until Jeff’s respiration slows. If an evening medication dose was missed, Smile retrieves the pill pouch again.

The night terror ends faster than usual. No self-injury occurs.

Between Tasks — Relationship Without Romance

Jeff rarely speaks affectionately to Smile.

His language is blunt. Functional.

“Move.”
“Stay.”
“Check.”
“Good.”

But his behavior tells a different story.

He leans into the dog during psychotic episodes. He reaches for fur automatically when panic spikes. He allows physical closeness that he does not tolerate from humans.

One night after a long manic crash, Jeff sits on the floor with his back against the wall while Smile lies across his boots.

“You’re not here to make me scary,” Jeff says quietly, almost to himself.

Smile shifts his weight — grounding pressure without a command.

“You keep me… operational.”

He rests his forehead briefly against the dog’s shoulder. Three minutes of stillness. Breathing synchronized.

No hallucinations. No pacing. No intrusive thoughts loud enough to overpower reality.

Just a handler and a working dog performing their roles — one managing a brain that refuses consistency, the other applying trained tasks with mechanical patience.

Smile does not cure Jeff.

Jeff still experiences hallucinations, manic spikes, depressive crashes, medication side effects, and long stretches of instability. Some days the tasks are not enough, and Jeff requires clinical intervention beyond what a service dog can provide.

But Smile’s work creates space between impulse and action. Between hallucination and belief. Between neglect and basic survival.

The tasks are repetitive, structured, clinical:

• Medication retrieval and adherence monitoring
• Deep pressure therapy for emotional regulation
• Hallucination interruption through sensory grounding
• Exit blocking during impulsive manic episodes
• Retrieval of food, water, and mobility cues during depressive states
• Nightmare interruption during REM disturbances
• Forward lead grounding and environmental scanning during paranoia

No aggression training. No protective commands.

Just consistency.

And on nights when Jeff sits awake in the quiet, hands tangled in black and white fur while his thoughts finally slow enough to rest, Smile remains exactly where he is trained to be.

What the Holler Never Forgives

The night it finally happened, the heat still hadn’t broke. Storm clouds stacked up over Lookout like bruises, thunder grumbling but never quite committing. The power flickered twice before giving up altogether, plunging the holler into dark so thick it felt touchable. Mark lay on his narrow bed in just his boxers, sweat slicking his ribs, listening to cicadas scream like they were trying to outdo the silence inside him. He was nineteen now—too old to still feel this scared of his own want, too broke to go anywhere else, too rooted to imagine a life that didn’t involve this valley and its sharp edges.

The knock came soft at the back door. Three taps. Pause. Two more. Jed.

Mark sat up so fast he got dizzy. He eased through the trailer, careful not to wake his mama, and slipped out into the night. Jed stood there in the yard, barefoot, dreads pulled back into a low ponytail that left his face bare and honest. He looked nervous in a way Mark had never seen—hands flexing, jaw tight.

“You okay?” Mark whispered.

Jed nodded, then shook his head. “Ain’t sure.”

That made something settle and flare all at once inside Mark. “Me neither.”

They didn’t touch at first. Just stood there with the dark humming around them, neighbors’ houses close enough you could hear a TV laugh track somewhere uphill. Close enough for eyes. For rumors.

Jed finally spoke. “Mama thinks I’m stayin’ at Sam’s. If she knew I was here—”

“I know,” Mark said. “Same.”

They looked at each other like they were about to jump off something high. Jed exhaled slow. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” Mark said, fast and fierce. Then softer: “I’m just scared.”

Jed stepped closer. Not touching yet. “Me too. Whole damn life, feels like.”

The trailer door creaked when Mark opened it, and both of them froze, listening. Nothing. Just night. Just heat. Just the sound of their own breathing.

Inside, the dark wrapped around them. Jed’s shoulder brushed Mark’s arm and that was enough to make Mark’s knees threaten to give. They kissed like it was an accident. Then like it wasn’t. Jed’s mouth was warm, hesitant at first, like he was waiting for God or the holler or somebody’s dead daddy to strike them down. Mark’s hands shook when he reached up, fingers brushing the loose ends of Jed’s dreads where they escaped the tie. Jed made a sound—low, surprised, almost a laugh—and kissed him deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of Mark’s lips until he opened for him with a soft gasp.

Mark pulled back, breath ragged. “If we do this… I don’t know how to be normal after.”

Jed rested his forehead against Mark’s. “Ain’t nothin’ normal about us anyway.”

That did it. They moved to the bedroom like they were sneaking into church after dark, careful, reverent, terrified. Jed sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, like he was waiting to be judged. Mark stood there a second, heart hammering. Every sermon he’d ever half-listened to rang in his ears. Every slur muttered at the gas station. Every warning dressed up as love. "Don’t give folks reason."

He climbed onto the bed anyway.

Jed’s hands were on him then, pulling him close, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of Mark’s neck. Mark shuddered, his head falling back as Jed’s teeth scraped his pulse point. He was hard already, aching in his boxers, a dizzying wave of want and shame crashing through him. He felt like he was burning up from the inside out.

Jed’s fingers found the hem of Mark’s t-shirt and tugged it over his head. The air was cool on his sweat-damp skin. He felt exposed, pale and freckled in the gloom, but Jed just looked at him like he was something to be cherished. He leaned in and kissed Mark’s chest, his tongue swirling around a nipple until Mark was biting his lip to keep from crying out.

“Jed…” Mark breathed, his hands fumbling with the waistband of Jed’s jeans. “Please…”

Jed helped him, shucking his own pants and boxers until he was naked. In the dim light from the window, he was all sharp lines and smooth, dark skin, his cock hard against his stomach. Mark’s mouth went dry. He’d never seen anything so beautiful, so terrifyingly right.

Jed gently pushed Mark back against the pillows, his movements sure and confident. He knelt between Mark’s legs, his hands stroking Mark’s thighs. “You sure ‘bout this?” he asked, his voice low and serious.

Mark just nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

Jed reached over to the nightstand, his hand fumbling in the drawer before coming up with a small bottle of lube. Mark’s face burned. He’d almost forgotten he’d put it there, a secret hope he was too scared to admit to himself.

Jed coated his fingers, his eyes never leaving Mark’s. “Relax for me, Red,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”

Mark tried, but his whole body was a live wire of nerves. He’d never let anyone touch him like this. It was intimate in a way that felt more vulnerable than being naked. He felt Jed’s finger press against him, a strange, insistent pressure. He tensed automatically.

“Hey,” Jed said softly. “Look at me.” Mark met his gaze. “I got you. I promise.”

Mark took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Jed pushed in, slow and careful. It was a strange sensation, a fullness that bordered on pain but wasn’t quite. Jed moved his finger, crooking it slightly, and a bolt of pure pleasure shot up Mark’s spine. He cried out, his back arching off the bed.

Jed did it again, and then added another finger, stretching him, opening him up. It was overwhelming, a dizzying mix of pleasure and the sharp edge of pain. Mark was panting now, sweat beading on his forehead, his hands clutching at the sheets.

“Jed, now,” he gasped. “I can’t… I need…”

Jed withdrew his fingers, and Mark felt the loss acutely. He watched, mesmerized, as Jed slicked himself up, his jaw tight with restraint. He positioned himself over Mark, his forearms braced on either side of his head.

“Last chance,” Jed whispered, his voice strained.

Mark just wrapped his legs around Jed’s waist, pulling him down. “Do it.”

Jed pushed in, and it hurt. It was a sharp, burning stretch that stole his breath. He cried out, his hands flying to Jed’s shoulders, his nails digging into the skin. Jed froze, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.

“Breathe, Mark,” he gritted out. “Just breathe with me.”

Mark squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to obey. The pain slowly began to fade, replaced by a deep, aching fullness. He shifted his hips, experimentally, and the friction sent a jolt of pleasure through him so intense he saw stars.

“Move,” he begged. “Please, Jed, move.”

Jed did. He started slow, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, each stroke a deliberate, devastating act. The bed springs groaned in time with their movements, a rhythmic creak that sounded like a drumbeat in the quiet room. Mark was lost, a tangle of sensation and emotion. The shame was still there, a cold knot in his gut, but it was being burned away by the fire of Jed’s body, by the way he was looking at him, like he was the only thing in the world.

He wrapped his arms around Jed’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation. He could feel the sweat on Jed’s back, the muscles in his arms flexing as he drove into him, harder and faster now. The thunder rumbled outside, closer this time, a deep, guttural sound that matched the rhythm of their bodies.

Jed’s hand snaked between them, wrapping around Mark’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. That was all it took. Mark came with a strangled cry, his body arching, his release tearing through him like a lightning strike. Jed followed him over the edge a moment later with a low groan, his body shuddering against Mark’s.

After, they lay tangled in the dark, sweat cooling, thunder still threatening but never breaking. Jed traced circles on Mark’s back.

“You think we’re goin’ to hell?” Mark snorted softly, his voice wrecked. “If hell’s real, it’s already this place half the time.”

Jed went quiet. Then: “I ain’t ashamed. I’m just… scared to death.”

“Me too,” Mark said, his voice thick with emotion. “But I ain’t sorry.”

Jed kissed his shoulder. “Good. Cause I don’t think I could stand that.”

Outside, a truck passed slow on the road. Voices drifted. Someone laughed mean. The holler reminding them it was still there, watching, waiting. Jed tightened his arm around Mark anyway. They didn’t have words for what they were yet. Didn’t have safety. Didn’t have a future that didn’t feel like guesswork. But for that night—just that night—they had each other. And somehow, that was enough.

Morning came too fast, the sunlight slicing through the thin curtains like a judgment. Mark woke with his heart already a frantic drum against his ribs, the dread hitting before he even opened his eyes. Then he felt the warmth beside him, the solid weight of an arm thrown over his waist. Jed. Still here. Relief hit him so hard it almost hurt, a sharp, sweet ache that chased away the fear for a bare second.

Jed blinked awake a moment later, his eyes unfocused and soft in the morning light. Then memory crashed back in, and his whole body went tense as a piano wire. “Shit,” he whispered, the word raw in the quiet room.

Mark sat up, dragging a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “Yeah.”

They listened. The house was silent. No footsteps in the hall, no clatter of pans from the kitchen. Just the distant hum of a lawnmower uphill and the shriek of a jaybird outside the window.

“My mama’s gonna have my hide,” Jed said, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Told her I was at Sam’s.”

“I know,” Mark said, his own voice rough. “Mine thinks I was sleepin’.”

The silence that followed felt different in daylight. It wasn’t the soft, intimate dark of the night before. It was a bright, loud silence, full of the threat of being seen, of being caught. Every creak of the trailer’s frame sounded like a gunshot.

Jed finally sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. He looked at Mark, and in the harsh morning light, Mark saw everything cross his face: the fear, the guilt, the lingering want, and something that looked awfully close to grief.

“You regret it?” Mark asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Jed’s answer was immediate, fierce. “No.”

Mark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the air leaving his lungs in a shaky rush.

Jed swung his legs off the bed, pacing the small strip of floor between the bed and the wall. “I just… I don’t know how to be this and still survive here. How do you walk down to the store knowin’ what you did the night before? How do you look Mr. Henderson in the eye when he’s talkin’ ‘bout burnin’ in hell?”

Mark leaned back on his hands, the sheet bunched around his own hips. “Me neither. But I don’t know how to un-be it now. It’s done. It’s in me.”

Jed stopped pacing. He turned, his expression raw. “You think folks already know? Like, can they see it on us?”

“Folks always think they know,” Mark said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Ain’t never stopped ‘em from bein’ wrong.”

Jed snorted weakly, a sound without any real humor. He crossed the room and dropped back onto the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumping. “If somebody saw me leavin’ this early…”

Mark reached out without thinking, his fingers catching Jed’s wrist. The skin was warm, the pulse beating fast under his touch. “Hey. Look at me.”

Jed did, his dark eyes full of a storm Mark knew all too well.

“You didn’t take somethin’ from me,” Mark said, his voice firm. “You didn’t ruin me. Last night didn’t make me weaker.”

Jed’s jaw worked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Felt like it made me softer.”

Mark smiled, just a little, a sad, knowing thing. “Maybe that ain’t the same thing.”

Jed stared at him like the thought scared him more than the threat of hellfire ever had. Just then, a truck rumbled past outside, its engine loud in the quiet. Both of them froze, Jed’s hand tightening around Mark’s wrist until his knuckles were white. They waited, holding their breath, until the sound faded down the road.

Jed leaned in, pressing his forehead to Mark’s, their breath mingling in the small space between them. “I don’t know what we are,” he admitted, his voice cracking.

Mark closed his eyes, soaking in the warmth of him. “We’re careful.”

Jed huffed a laugh. “We ain’t been good at that so far.”

Mark laughed with him, a soft, breathy sound that was more relief than humor. “No. But we’re tryin’.”

Jed kissed him then—quick, fierce, like stealing something precious before it could be taken away. Then he pulled back, his expression shuttering, the walls going back up one by one.

“I gotta go,” he said, the words heavy with finality.

“I know.”

Jed stood and started gathering his clothes from the floor. He dressed quickly, his movements efficient, his back to Mark. When he tied his dreads back, his fingers were shaking, but the ponytail he created was neat and controlled, a piece of armor against the world.

At the bedroom door, he hesitated, his hand on the frame. He didn’t turn around. “You still want me back?” he asked, his voice so low Mark almost missed it.

Mark didn’t pretend. He didn’t hedge. “Yeah.”

Jed nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head. “Good.”

Then he slipped out, and Mark heard the soft click of the back door closing, the sound of his bare feet on the dusty dirt outside.

Mark sat on the bed long after, the spot beside him still warm, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The sunlight streamed in, warming his skin, and for the first time in a long, long time, the heat didn’t feel like it was trying to kill him.

Petri Dish Disappointment

TRIGGER WARNING!! - Self-harm & Eating Disorder

Nathan hated life for as long as he’d been conceived, being tossed back and forth across his hometown like an unwanted stray dog by divorced parents. He doesn’t blame them, he blames the rabbit doctors that made him inside a petri dish. IVF the medical practice of creating children for people who couldn’t naturally conceive. Something his parents thought, mainly his mother, would solve all their marital issues. It didn’t, Nathan made all the problems more clear; they divorced when he wasn’t even a year old. At school he was ritually harassed and bullied a dark cloud loomed over him. He confided in a blade and toilet bowl, skin splitting gashes listened better than any human ear ever could. The toilet bowl let him pour his guts out until he was left an empty shell. Sitting opposite of the bowl, blade discarded at his side realization creeps up on him like wolf to a sheep. It — didn’t help anymore the blade nor the toilet bowl, for the first time it felt like talking to a human. His knees creep up to his chest, heart pounding in his ear, hands reaching to grip at his hair. Inescapable sobs screeched out, tears creating waterfalls down his puffy face. Hair sticking to saliva coated fingers blood drenching the dirty bathroom tiles. chest heaving.

He’d stay like this, until Sabrina came home to hear his cries she tries to comfort him the best she can. While tending to the gashes along his arms afterwards wrapping a blanket around those boney shoulders, coaxing him out of the bathroom into their bed. Running her long delicate fingers through his long light brown hair allowing him to cry into her shoulder.