Gaz begging you, the resident asexual, to pretend to date him because you won't make it weird and try to trap him into a relationship he doesn't want like other people have and because his parents won't get off his back about him being a perpetual bachelor but instantly falls in love when you do the smallest of things.
holding his hand suddenly makes him sweat. kissing his cheek short circuits his brain. he's all warm inside when you call him "babe" or "honey" like he's really yours. and did he ever tell you that you look absolutely gorgeous in that blue sundress?
like. he's never wanted to bask in your affection more now than ever. he relishes your sweet gaze and smiles and settles into your touch so much that it looks so believable to his family that he's actually in love and is finally getting out of his bachelor phase.
it's terrifying to him because what they see and believe might just become very real to him.
"you two make a lovely couple." his mum says to him after dinner and it really cements in his brain that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to settle down for once.
but then you cease all girlfriend activities when the night ends. quitting him cold turkey like he meant nothing to you had his head spinning from the whiplash because he went from being "come here, baby" to "see ya later, bro" real quick and he's never felt more like an addict because he wants more of your love now baby come back to him :(
Gaz does not understand how you can just switch from friend mode to girlfriend mode and back again without so much as blinking an eye and it bothers him so much because he can't go back to seeing you as any less than the person he wants to spend the foreseeable future with meanwhile you're just going about your day like nothing is wrong.
A short story exploring the relationship between Onyankopon and a neurodivergent Reader written with Level 2 Autism and severe interoceptive hyposensitivity. While you struggle with verbal communication and often feel isolated by your differences, you have found a haven in Onyankopon. Through flashbacks, the story explores how you have built a healthy, non-codependent relationship, how you navigate intimacy as an asexual partner, and how Onyankopon has helped you learn to love yourself.
○●3,435 words, fluff, autistic reader, canon Onyankopon behavior (blessing y'all), slice of life, flashbacks, emotional regulation, scrapbooking, established relationship, will expand later, petnames/name-calling (love and sweetheart/sweetie), etc●○
For the Gala Of Pride (A Pride Month Collaboration Between @h3avenlyglory & @mtcloudsworld)
Recommended Audio: "All the Flowers in Time" by Jeff Buckley & Elizabeth Fraser
The melancholy, sweet chords of Violet Indiana fill the quiet bedroom, Robin Guthrie's distinctive voice weaving through the air as the ep track "Special" plays from the small speaker. It is a familiar comfort, a rhythmic symphony that grounds the room. The heavy curtains are drawn back on just one side, allowing the late afternoon sun to flood the space, casting a deep, warm orange hue across the bedsheets and the workspace spread over your lap.
You are absorbed in your junk journal. Your fingers smooth down a scrap of yellowed newspaper print, its fibers rasping satisfyingly against your fingertips. This page has a vintage theme. Carefully arranged across the cardstock are buttons in shades of black, brown, and beige, alongside a strip of film that Onyankopon brought home for you weeks ago. You slide a thumb over the plastic of the film, a smile tugging at your lips.
He should be home soon.
Your internal clock registers the time through the shifting angles of light on the wall. He promised to pick up groceries, along with the fabric you wanted for the background of your next spread. Your eyes drift to the cubby unit stretching along the bedroom wall. It houses thirty journals, their spines bulging with drawings, cut-outs, ribbons, tags, and strings. Some of them date back to your youth—archives of your mind’s need to touch, sort, and preserve.
The click of the lock echoes down the hallway, followed by the thud of his footsteps.
He's home.
You pick up a tarnished coin and apply a drop of glue to the back, pressing it into the center of the page. In your mind, you picture him in the kitchen, unpacking the bags, placing every item onto the shelves you prefer, maintaining the order that the household.
For some reason, he has occupied your thoughts all day.
A constriction flutters in the center of your chest—a buzz that resembles anxiety but carries no dread. Your heart accelerates, and your skin tightens. You don't realize that the room has heated under the sun; your brain fails to process the cue of overheating until it overwhelms you. Sensing discomfort, you instinctively kick the blanket off your leg, letting the air hit your skin as you begin to rock back and forth on the mattress.
Your mind drifts back to a summer afternoon during the first year of your relationship. You stood in the middle of a crowded zoo, the sun's glare filtered through your specialized glasses. It was Onyankopon’s first time visiting a zoo, and you had been eager to show him the exhibits. You stood near the enclosure, your eyes tracking the movement, but your body was beginning to shut down. You wore a thin polyester coat in the dead of July, your hyposensitivity masking the fact that your temperature was skyrocketing.
Onyankopon hadn't been watching the giraffes; he had been watching you. He noted the flush on your cheeks, the dampness at your hairline, and the way your rocking had turned stiff and frantic. He didn't make a scene. He didn't ask why you hadn't realized you were sweating. He simply stepped into your line of sight, his frame shielding you from the sun, and smiled.
"Hey," he had said, his voice cutting through the static of the zoo. "It's getting hotter. Want me to carry your coat for you?" As you shrugged out of the fabric, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a chilled water bottle, pressing the plastic against your palm. "Let's take a seat in the shade for a bit. Since we're out in the sun being so active, we both need to keep up with mandatory water breaks. Drink with me."
The memory leaves a warmth in your chest. You reach into the basket beside you, pulling out a handful of leaves you collected last year, gluing them along the border of the newspaper clipping.
Another memory surfaces, dissolving the sound of the music for a moment. You were tucked under the covers in this bed, the screen glowing with an episode of The Originals.
He leaned against the headboard beside you. "Are you hungry?" he asked, looking down at your profile. You shook your head no, your eyes locked onto the screen. He knew your eating schedule by heart, but he always checked anyway, just in case a craving managed to bypass your lack of internal cues or you simply wanted a snack. "I made chicken, cheesy broccoli, and rice earlier," he said, a meal he knew you would eat, shifting his weight. "There is a container right on the middle shelf of the fridge if you want to heat it up later. Okay?"
You nodded.
He had slid into the bed beside you, leaning over to kiss your forehead, his skin smelling of eucalyptus and mint. Turning onto his side, his hand reached for the volume of his scripture on the nightstand. He was a spiritual man, driven by a love for people and an unyielding code. Yet, in all the time you had spent together, he had never once forced his faith or his ideals onto you. He simply lived them, providing a harbor where you were allowed to exist exactly as you were. You loved how authentic he was in every facet of his life.
When the show lost your attention, you had slid across the sheets, pressing your shoulder against his ribcage.
He looked down, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Want me to read to you?" he murmured. You nodded, closing your eyes, knowing his voice would lull you to sleep within minutes.
A knock at the doorframe pulls you back to the present.
Onyankopon stands there, looking so put together—slacks, a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and leather shoes. He always looks neat, a contrast to the mess of paper, knick-knacks, and glue surrounding you.
"Hey," he says, a smile breaking across his lips. "You doing okay in here?"
"Yes," you reply, your voice small, but certain.
You watch him walk to the foot of the bed, setting down a grocery bag. He reaches inside, pulling out a square of crimson fabric—the weave you had been hunting for. Next, he slides a bag of organic fruit gummies across the covers, knowing you despise the chemical taste of artificial candy.
"I found a few things I thought your book might like," he says, a glint in his eyes. He pulls out a sheet of stickers that shift from purple to teal when tilted against the light, along with packets filled with glitter shapes and characters. Finally, he unrolls a remnant of material. "The clerk called it bubble foam fabric. I think you'll like it."
You sit up, clearing your workspace. One by one, you open the packages, your fingers tracing the holographic stickers as they shift under your touch. Onyankopon steps away, unbuttoning his shirt to toss it toward the hamper and taking off his pants before sliding into basketball shorts. He returns, sinking into the mattress beside you, his legs stretching out as he watches you examine the materials. He watches your fingers grip the edges of the encapsulated stickers, shaking them vigorously. Inside the plastic casing, the cartoon characters and glitter cascade through the fluid, catching the amber glow of the bedroom.
In the quiet warmth, ease settles over him. He reflects on the six years the two of you have built together. The journey had its initial hurdles. Onyankopon spent his life traveling, flying across horizons, and navigating a tapestry of cultures, so treating people with dignity was second nature to him. He didn't have an ableist bone in his body, but opening his heart to a neurodivergent partner in the intimacy of a shared home presented a new learning curve.
He remembers the early days of figuring out the shifts in your environment. There were afternoons when you would slip into non-verbal states, or moments when overstimulation crested into breakdowns that shook your frame. He didn't panic, and he never made you feel less-than, even when arguments occurred due to misunderstandings. Instead, he learned and grew. He committed your routines to memory, adjusted to the rigidity of your schedules, and adapted his own life to accommodate your needs. In turn, he watched you strive just as hard, expanding your own boundaries to adapt to his world and routines.
It is a balance—never codependent, but rooted in a mutual effort to understand one another. Looking at you now, content as you manipulate the colors of the stickers, he knows he doesn't just love you; he admires the resilience required to navigate a world alien to your needs. He counts himself fortunate that you chose his arms as the place to lower your guard.
A memory from his perspective flashes through his mind. He remembers a night a few months ago when you suddenly climbed onto his lap, straddling his waist with a burst of verbal energy. You spent forty minutes detailing an article on the auditory communication of elephants, your hands carving the air. In the middle of a sentence about low-frequency vibrations, you halted, blinking at his jaw before asking, "Are you ever going to grow out a beard?"
He was amused by the pivot, cradling your waist with a laugh. "I'll let it grow for a few weeks," he promised. "Don't think you're going to be playing in it."
You gave his chest a pinch before burying your face into his shoulder, letting him trace circles on your back as you murmured promises of love.
Back in the orange light of the bedroom, you press your thumb into the bubble foam fabric he just gave you. Satisfaction ripples through your nervous system. The material offers a dense resistance before springing back, its micro-bubbles triggering a calming sensory wave. You press it again, your chest rising as you exhale fully.
"This is nice. Thank you," you murmur, looking up from the foam to meet his gaze. "Do you want to journal with me?"
Onyankopon’s smile widens, his brown eyes reflecting the late sun. "I can do that for a little before I head down to the court."
He slides off the bed, walking over to the bottom shelf to retrieve his journal. He has completed only two volumes, unlike your sprawling library.
Onyankopon walks back and slides onto the edge of the mattress, the frame creaking as the springs dip under his weight. He opens his journal across his lap to the unfinished "Flower Garden" page, but his gaze drifts back to you.
The golden hour sun streams through the blinds, illuminating your features and making your eyes gleam with a focus that catches in his throat. Affection surges in his chest—an urge to photograph this flash of peace—but he settles.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his voice dropping into the register reserved for you.
He leans close, his breath warming your skin before his lips press a lingering kiss to your cheek. His stubble grazes your jawline, sending a shiver through you.
Before he pulls away, you tilt your chin, catching his mouth. The kiss deepens, breaching your usual fleeting touch. It unfolds deliberately as your tongue glides against his, drawing him in. His lips part, meeting you with an unhurried sweetness that sharpens the flutter in your chest into an ache.
When he disengages—leaving a breath of space between your lips—a knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Did you miss me today?"
"Yes," you say cleanly, the word the simplest bridge your mind can construct. Articulating expansive thoughts is difficult; words tangle and vanish before reaching your tongue, confining you to silence or the safety of your favorite subjects.
Looking down at the paper scraps in your lap, you realize how much easier it is to breathe in this room. For most of your life, you lived under the isolating pressure of feeling different from everyone else. Memories of youth carry an ache—the teasing from peers who mocked your rocking, or inability to catch on as fast, the reprimands from adults who misread your silence, and the vulnerability of your own body.
Your interoceptive hyposensitivity alienated you from your own form. You recall the shame of past accidents because your brain missed the signal of a full bladder, or weeks of constipation because you couldn't feel the cues of digestion. You spent days freezing in a t-shirt during winter or sweating to exhaustion in a long-sleeve shirt during sweltering weather, oblivious to the danger until someone intervened. Even during high anxiety, you missed the sensation of your racing heart, recognizing panic only when your hands shook and your mind shut down. You grew up feeling broken, marooned by a body that kept secrets, certain no one would share a life with someone who required strict routines to survive.
But those shadows no longer hold power.
You slide your thumb over a bottle cap on the page, shifting closer to him. Onyankopon didn't just step into your world; he mapped its geography. He learned to read the shifts in your posture long before you struggled through an explanation.
Your mind drifts to a rainy evening years ago when you kissed on these sheets, the air warming. When his frame pressed you into the mattress, his eyes searched yours in the dim light, reading the boundary of your expression before you could formulate your comfort level.
“Do you just want to make out tonight?” he whispered, his hand framing your jaw with protective gentleness.
You nodded, relief washing through your chest as he pulled you against him, content to hold and kiss you for hours despite his arousal. Rooted in his faith, Onyankopon believed every soul was designed by God exactly as intended. He never viewed your asexuality as a hurdle or a deficit. To him, your intimacy wasn't a flaw; it was an integral part of your design. You shared sexual intimacy occasionally, and it remained a safe experience—never a demand.
Over the years, his unshakeable praise and open devotion moved you. In turn, his consistency built confidence within your mind. You weren't just surviving your differences; you thrived within them, loved completely.
The realization of how safe you are, how thoroughly understood after years of loneliness, swells beyond what your system can contain.
Your fingers work frantically, pressing the bubble foam, then shifting to spin a laminated paper wheel in the binding. You need the movement, the contrast of colors, and the control, but your throat locks, tightening. Before your brain can decode the emotional shift, tears spill over your lashes, tracking down your cheeks.
Onyankopon notices the instant your rocking hitches. His pen stops. "Hey," he says, his voice sharpening with alertness as he sets his journal aside. "What's wrong?"
You cannot answer. Your verbal processing collapses under the wave of emotion. Panic spikes in your chest; your hands tremble as you swipe at your face and shove your journal toward the edge of the bed. Your mind locks onto a single goal—protecting the paper, the film, and the buttons from the moisture.
Onyankopon shifts, sliding into your line of sight. His face is inches from yours, his eyes focused with tenderness.
"Talk to me, sweetheart," he murmurs, his hand hovering near yours, waiting for permission. "What's happening in there?"
You shrug, your chest heaving as a sob escapes. Your hands twist into your lounge pants, your body rocking harder against the mattress as you ride out the surge.
Knowing abstract explanations are impossible right now, Onyankopon breaks the situation into manageable phrases. He skips asking why you cry and helps you scan the physical world.
"Are you sad?" he asks quietly.
You shake your head, tears still falling.
"Are you in pain?"
You pause, your brow furrowing as you look at him. The question triggers that familiar disconnect. You don't know. You must manually check your body—scanning stomach, arms, hands—trying to discern if the pressure in your lungs is a physical injury or the sheer weight of emotion.
Seeing confusion cloud your features, Onyankopon's posture relaxes. Concern leaves his shoulders, replaced by a gentle cadence. He knows how your mind handles internal cues.
"Are you overwhelmed?"
You exhale shakily and nod. That word fits.
"Do you want to lie down with me?"
Instead of answering, you crawl across the bed, pressing your palms against his chest to push him backward. Onyankopon yields, sinking onto his back against the pillows. You collapse over him, burying your face into the crook of his neck.
His arms wrap around your torso, locking you against his chest in a firm hold that provides the deep pressure your nervous system craves. Your tears wet his collarbone.
"I've got you," he rumbles, the vibration of his chest acting as a frequency that cuts through the chaos. "Come on, breathe with me."
He takes an exaggerated breath, ribs expanding against yours, then exhales in a steady sigh. You close your eyes, focusing on that physical rise and fall, letting his body act as the clockwork your system forgot. You match his rhythm, inhaling eucalyptus, clean laundry, and craft glue, letting the pressure of his embrace ground you.
Time passes in the quiet room. The orange light deepens into a twilight purple along the walls. The crying tapers off, leaving your skin cool and your mind clear, your body settling into a peaceful rest against his weight.
Another memory shifts into focus. The morning after his thirty-fifth birthday, the bedroom sits quiet as early light drags across the floorboards. Remnants of the celebration—a few ribbons and an empty plate—occupy the kitchen counter down the hall, but here, the world shrinks to the space between the sheets.
You are tangled together naked, skin pressed flush against the expanse of his chest. For someone who struggles to feel the internal mechanics of their own body, Onyankopon’s skin is visceral. He is a furnace beneath the cotton sheets, his heat seeping into your muscles, giving your nervous system a solid boundary of where you end and he begins. You lie still, your cheek resting over the steady thud of his heart, listening to his lungs expand and deflate against your ribs.
His arm rests against the small of your back, fingers tracing patterns over your skin. There is no rush, no pressure; your intimacy has built its own path, rooted in respect and presence rather than expectation. You tilt your head back, meeting his eyes.
Onyankopon is already staring down at you, focused. In the gray morning light, the lines of his face relax, the fatigue of his work replaced by serenity. He doesn't look away when you catch him watching. Instead, his thumb moves to your jawline, sliding over the skin, his touch light but deliberate.
"I'm really happy with you," he whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates into your chest.
You don't answer right away, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, enjoying the texture against your palms. You shift your hips against his legs, a movement to soothe yourself in the quiet space.
His gaze locks onto yours, refusing to let the moment pass without clarity. He shifts, pulling you closer until your noses almost touch, his breath warm on your lips. "I look at you, and I look at everything we've built here, and I am just so grateful. I appreciate you. Everything you do, the way you care for this space, the way you love me... it means the world to me."
The vulnerability in his voice is real. He has spent his life looking out for the world, carrying the expectations and needs of others, but in this bed, he allows himself to be held, to be safe and cared for. You press your forehead against his brow, the contact tight and reassuring.
"I love you," you tell him, the words simple and clean.
He chuckles, his arms wrapping around your torso, pulling your naked frame against his. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a kiss against your pulse point, holding you in the quiet dawn until the sun rises high enough to turn the room gold.
"I'm really happy with you," you whisper into his neck, the words small, honest, and unprompted.
You can't see his face from where you are buried against his shoulder, but you feel the catch in his chest. When he shifts, tightening his hold, emotion wrecks his features—his eyes gleam, his lips parting in a smile. His heart swells. He knows what those words mean coming from you, and exactly where you learned them.
With everything he’s been through, Ghost hasn’t had much relationship experience. Maybe he’s had the off hookup every now and then, but as the scars add up he finds himself more and more reluctant to be seen naked. I mean, it’s pulling teeth to get him to go to medical when it’s needed.
So when he starts seeing you, he’s nervous. This is his first serious relationship ever, and while you’ve been very patient and understanding with him, he’s dreading the night you ask him to bed you. One night does indeed come, where you’re lounging in bed wearing nothing but a loose shirt and undergarments, he’s expecting you to seduce him.
But you just… don’t…?
“Hey, Si. New episode of Mystery Files is out. Wanna watch it?”
He finally notices the bag of crisps in your lap, your eyes on the TV across from your bed, and your lack of notice that he’s just out the shower, still damp, in just a tight tank top and grey joggers. Soap tells Ghost all the time that people love a muscular man in that attire, so how come you’re so casual?
“Are you not physically attracted to me?” Ghost asks. He knows some people date purely for personality, and while he had his doubts about his own, it’s a possibility that may be all you like about him.
“What? Of course I am,” you assure, your attention snapping to him. “Why do you ask?”
“You never wanna fuck,” he says rather bluntly. “We’ve been together, what? Eight months? Thought you might’ve wanted to by now…”
You pale a little, assuming he’s implying that he would like to be intimate.
“Oh, shit… I-I never told you…”
“Told me what?”
“I’m asexual, hun. I don’t experience sexual attraction.”
His brows furrow slightly in confusion and interest, so you continue.
“I think you’re incredibly handsome, scars and all. You’re beautiful. I just don’t have any desire to have sex, y’know?”
Ghost’s eyes, in contrast to what you expected, light up at this knowledge. You mean to tell him he doesn’t need to get naked in front of you at all? He’s thrilled! Now, Ghost can take or leave sex, but now he knows there's a word for it and that he's not alone feeling that way.
Without another word, he’s joining you in bed for snacks, a good cuddle, and the latest episode of your favorite show. He’s also definitely teasing you later for calling him handsome, but you’re quick to snap back with him stuttering the first time he complimented you — which was adorable by the way — and he shuts up.
Summary: Your planned road trip home for the holidays is in peril when your car decides to die on you. Luckily, Jack Abbot comes to your rescue and offers to drive you, now the only problem is a snowstorm that takes you both by surprise.
wc: 4.8k
Warning: Trapped in the snow, cuddling for warmth, no y/n, no pronouns for reader. Lots of fluff! Use of troublemaker, sweetheart, and (1) kid as nicknames for reader.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x ace!muralist!reader (Masterlist: for context but not required for this story to make sense)
You’re a week away from your work's holiday closure when your car decides to bite the big one. It starts smoking and shaking on your drive home, the wheel fighting you when you try to pull over. And you thank your stars the road’s been recently plowed, empty parking spots still clear for now.
You frantically pull over, turning off your car, and getting out, in case it decides to blow up on you. Digging through your pockets, you whip out your phone, thumbing over Jack's contact. You were coming home from the end of your work day, but you know he’ll have just gotten up an hour or so ago to start getting ready for his day.
Hesitating just for a moment, debating if you should call him or someone else. Not used to having someone to call about these things, instead of just handling it yourself, going straight to finding and calling a mechanic.
Is it too early in your relationship to go to him for this kind of thing?
You hit dial anyway. Hear the line ring once, almost twice.
“Hey Troublemaker, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Comes Jack’s soothing rumble, made tinny through your phone’s speaker. For a moment, you’re distracted from your car’s impending death by how excited he sounds that you called.
You don’t phone him often, though he makes a point of calling you when it’s been more than a few days since you’ve seen each other in person. You’re trying to get better at phoning him, instead of just texting. You feel bad calling because you have a problem, and not just because you want to.
“So smoke coming out from your car hood is normally a bad thing, right?” You wince, as if downplaying it will somehow make your car fix itself.
You barely get the words out before he barks down the line, “DO NOT touch the hood, there might be a fire in the engine, you could burn yourself trying to open it.”
“Noted,” You say, grinning a bit at the sudden shift to protectiveness in his tone, “I turned my car off, I guess I’ll just keep watching and hope it doesn’t explode?” Not sure what else you’re supposed to do, you don’t know the first thing about cars.
You can hear shifting on his end, papers shuffling, his breath coming quicker like he’s rushing around his place.
“Where are you? I know a guy who I can call to get it towed to his garage, he’s good, trustworthy.” Of course, Jack knows a guy; he has some kind of connection for every conceivable problem one might run into.
“Um, I made it about halfway home before I had to pull over.” You say, looking around the dark street to get your bearings.
“Drop me your location and I’ll call him on my way to pick you up.” He says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like he wouldn’t be going well out of his way to do this for you.
“No, I mean, I can take the bus the rest of the way. You have work soon, just give me this guy’s number, and I’ll get it sorted.” You can’t help trying to brush off his offer; you’re still learning to accept help when someone offers it.
“I have a few hours, that’s plenty of time to wait with you and then drive you home. I'll pick us up something for while we wait. You up for a quick coffee?” He presses, knowing he needs to push you sometimes. He’s noticed you have a habit of avoiding depending on other people. Before he quickly follows up with, “Well, coffee for me, Chai for you.”
You melt a little at the reminder that he knows you well enough to know you prefer tea to coffee, and that Chai is your favourite.
You watch the smoke trailing from your car hood disappear into the cold night air, “That sounds perfect."
Jack Abbot is a problem solver, a fixer. It's something you noticed about him during your time volunteering in the ER, especially witnessing some of his more creative saves. But having him go out of his way to fix things for you, has been a little hard to get used to.
You've always solved your own problems, especially since moving to the city. Even when you lived at home with your family, they were there for support, but you did the heavy lifting.
It feels like you're losing control when Jack takes over and fixes your problems for you. Not to mention the gnawing feeling, that you owe him, that you need to pay him back.
So you feel out of your depth when, later that evening, you find out that on top of arranging the mechanic, Jack has already paid for the tow and told the mechanic to charge him for whatever needs fixing.
You try to play it cool when you text him, but he must be able to read between the lines, because he’s on the defensive right away. Texting that it was just easier that way, made more sense since they're his mechanic anyway, his card was already on file. He doesn’t send any emoji’s but you can practically see him shrugging his shoulders with a dumb little fake frown on his face, practically screaming sorry, not sorry.
Before you have time to dive into just how weird it makes you feel that he spent so much money on you without even asking, the mechanic follows up to tell you your car is basically a write-off; they can fix it, but it would cost more than the car is actually worth.
And sure, it's old, and you haven't been the best at looking after it, but you like your car, you’d spent years working summer jobs and part-time on weekends in high school so you could save to buy it. And it's been reliable, till now, and really good on gas.
So you tell him you want him to go ahead with the fix, and to switch payments over to your card. For now, your car is stuck in their garage, unsafe to drive, and because of the holidays, the parts will take a few weeks to ship. Which is fucking awful timing, you were planning on road tripping to visit your family for the holidays once your office closed.
Jack comes over in the morning, after his shift, with the promise of driving you to work before he goes home to sleep. You know he must be exhausted, he waited with you for the tow before driving you home and rushing off to work.
Now he's back at your place again, just over 12 hours later, though he doesn't show how tired he must be. Once he’s made it inside, he pulls you into a tight hug and places a lingering kiss on your forehead, practically nuzzling into your hair.
Sighing, you tuck yourself into his body, digging your nose into the junction of his neck, enjoying how he smells a little of hospital antiseptic and mostly of his own musk from working hard.
“My cars fucked.” You mumble into him, words muffled by his scrubs.
One of his hands rubs soothingly up and down your back, “They'll fix it, it's just gonna take a little while.”
“Yeah, I'm just mad at myself for not taking better care of my car. Plus, now I’m not sure how I'll see my family for Christmas.” You say, feeling a little antsy broaching the subject. Jack knows about your plans to go home for the holidays, you have other plans to celebrate with just him once you’re back. But you worry that he’s going to jump straight into problem-solving mode, you just want some time to think about it on your own for a bit.
Maybe you could fly, though the ticket prices are gonna be astronomical and there's a good chance they'll be sold out. Or you could rent a car… it's all gonna be pretty out of your budget.
“We'll figure it out.” He says, squeezing you tight and making your belly turn to goo.
“Mhm, future problem, for now, I need to finish packing my lunch.” You say with a sigh, running your hand through the soft curls at the nape of his neck before extracting yourself from his arms.
At this rate, you're really considering staying in Pittsburgh for Christmas. You've had no luck finding a decent plane ticket, and rental cars are just out of the question expensive.
You’re making dinner while you’re on the phone with Jack, as he’s getting ready for work, bemoaning the topic once more when he casually offers to drive you.
There’s silence on the line while you process what he just said. Because for him to offer to drive you, five and a half hours out of his way, to what? Stay with you and your family for the holidays? After only kind of being together for a few weeks, knowing each other a grand total of two months, that’s just crazy.
“I don’t know, Jack… that might be moving a little quick, don’t you think?” You ask, alarm bells ringing through your brain that sound shockingly similar to the sirens from Kill Bill.
“It doesn’t have to be, we can make it a fun little road trip, and then I’ll hole up in a hotel somewhere while you visit your family. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a vacation, I could use the break, there’s no pressure to make this a big meet-the-family, hullabaloo. Unless that's something you’d like…” And you nearly groan, because he kind of sounds like he wants that to be something you’d like. But you are not ready to explain to your family that not only are you in a relationship for the first time ever, but he’s also older than you, by a not insignificant, number of years.
Sometimes, you forget how much older he is than you, but then he’ll say some shit like hullabaloo without batting an eye, and you’re violently reminded of that fact.
“Don't you have holiday plans with your family?” And as soon as you ask, you realize he’s never told you anything about his family, not if his parents are still alive or if he has any siblings. It’s another stinging reminder of how little you still know about each other.
“No… actually, my parents live in the UK, moved over maybe ten years ago, to be closer to our extended family. So I don’t see them too often, maybe every few years. It’s been hard to pull myself away from the ER long enough to make an international trip.” He rumbles, sounding a little distracted, like he’s trying not to dwell on how little he sees them.
“Are you close with them? I don’t think I could handle my Mom being so far away. Sometimes, I struggle with her just being a semi-annoying drive away.” You ask, mind drifting as you wonder what his childhood was like, what his parents are like.
“Nah, distance is good for us, trust me, if my Father and I were still on the same continent, there’s a chance one of us would’ve killed the other by now.” And that is a sentiment you know all too fucking well. Your patience will be sorely tested by your Dad during your holiday visit.
“Damn, maybe we have more in common than I originally thought.” You can’t help but mutter, sparking a startled laugh out of Jack.
“Perfect, we can bond over our shared daddy issues on our road trip. What do you say, sweetheart?” Well, with an offer like that… yes, obviously.
Now that your road trip has turned into a two-person adventure, you drive headfirst into preparing for it, buying snacks, and putting together playlists. Packing and wrapping presents for your family, and finishing off a handmade Victorian puzzle purse letter for Jack. You’ve always struggled finding the right presents to buy for people, but making presents, on the other hand, well that you excel at.
So you spend days writing a letter to Jack, about all the little things you notice and appreciate about him, how he makes you feel, how glad you are that your lives have crossed paths and intertwined. Then you intricately paint and draw on the card stock and fold it together into a complex little square. You also buy him an expensive bottle of whisky, just to cover your bases.
Jack picks you up from your apartment, meeting you at your door and grabbing your suitcase before you can even protest. Once he has it all loaded into his car, you reach out and squeeze his hand, thanking him for offering to do this.
It's snowing a little as he opens the passenger door for you, helping you up as he always does. It feels more like Christmas than you've felt in a long time.
Something about getting older has made the holiday lose some of its charm, slowly drained of the warmth it gave you when you were a kid. But here, now, you feel that spark again, the joy of being with someone important to you and enjoying good music and quality time together. You even curated your treat bag to be holiday themed, adding in mandarin oranges, soft homemade gingerbread, a Terry's chocolate orange, hell, even candy canes.
The interior of his car is big and comfortable, and you excitedly settle in for the long drive. More than ready to leave behind the dirty grey slush coating the city and hit the open highway.
You make it three and a half hours into the drive when the snow that started as specks, barely sticking to the ground, turn into fat heavy flakes that batter the windshield and blanket the road. Going from the pretty swirling dots of poor visibility to the near whiteout of a blizzard in just a few minutes.
You hear Jack swear quietly to himself as he tries to manoeuvre the worsening winter storm. There are no cars ahead of you to give any idea of where the lines of the road, or really the road itself, are.
“Shit, ok, don’t worry.” You’re not sure who he’s trying to calm more, you or himself. “I can’t pull over yet, in case someone can’t stop or see and plows into us. Do you have service? Can you look and see if there’s a rest stop close by?”
You grab your phone as quickly as you can, pulling up a map and frantically searching to see how close you are to any place you can use to pull off the highway. But your cell reception is out. You keep swiping, trying to reload the map, but it only shows that stupid no service try again button.
“No service, oh god, we’re so fucked.” You whine, craning your body around to see snow engulf the car through every window you try to look out. You’re surrounded by a sea of white.
“That’s the spirit. Nothing gets you through an emergency quite like panicking immediately.” He says, tone flat and, despite his maintained focus on the road, nearly dripping in sarcasm.
“I can panic and keep an eye out for a way out of this mess all at the same time, thank you very much.” Comes your haughty reply.
“Me-ow” and if his hands weren't gripping the wheel so tight, you think he would have pretended to claw at you.
Hysterical laughter bubbles out of you at the absurdity of it, but you quickly cut yourself off as you see what looks like snow piled around a side road.
“Jack, there! 3 o'clock, that looks like a side road-” You point fast, nearly jamming your finger against the windshield in your haste.
“Good eye, sweetheart.” He praises, his knuckles still clenched hard on the wheel, joints looking like they’re trying to burst out of his skin with the force of his grip.
When he slowly turns right onto the side street, the car drifts ominously, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll end up in the ditch, snow blanketing the car so no one finds you until it’s too late. Your hand shoots out to grab his arm, but Jack has it handled, overangling the tires to correct the direction of the car.
He continues for a few minutes on the snow-covered side road before slowly coming to a stop under the cover of trees. The snow is piled high, but his four-wheel drive makes it easy enough to pull over, especially now that he can take his time without worrying about getting rear-ended.
With the car idling and the snow muffling all the sound around you, it feels peaceful. You have a moment to think about how badly this could have gone wrong if you had been driving by yourself in your little car.
You’re both silent for a moment, the windshield wipers off, snow quickly covering the glass, casting you in shadow.
“If there wasn't a small chance of us freezing to death, I would say this is a pretty nice way to spend time with you.” You say, looking over to him.
It’s not often that you get to just watch him, it’s nice, seeing his gaze shift through the car side windows. His face soft and open as he watches the snow pile up around you. The falling flakes create a constantly shifting pattern of light over him, highlighting the salt and pepper in his stubble and the strong line of his nose.
“And here I thought the freezing to death part only added to the ambiance.” He deadpans, looking over to you, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
You have the sudden, intense urge to climb over the middle console and right into his lap.
“Think we’ll be stuck overnight?” You ask instead, distracting yourself.
“Hard to say, it doesn’t look like it’ll stop too soon, and even if it does, I don’t know if the roads’ll be good enough to drive on.”
“Well, I’m thinking, we try to get comfortable then, do these seats recline?” You ask, hand searching for a button or something along the side of the seat. When you manage to find a lever and give it a yank, the whole seat flies back nearly flat, making you gasp.
“Oh, that’s the good stuff,” You say, satisfied, kicking off your shoes to prop your socked feet up on his dash and winding your arms behind your head. “Now all we need is some entertainment.”
It’s easy for a while, he turns the engine off to conserve gas, and you retrieve your coats so you can use them like blankets. You chat and pilfer your snack bag, and you would honestly place tonight as one of your top dates so far. Not that it’s even technically a date.
The hours tick by, and you check outside, seeing the snow hasn’t stopped, just barely slowed. It’s nearly pitch black out now, and you have to make peace with the fact that you really will be stuck overnight.
He turns the car on again every few hours to warm it up, going outside to make sure the exhaust hasn’t been covered. But the snow is starting to get in the way of opening the car door, even after Jack tamps down what he can with his shoes to make a path around the car. You’re a little worried that soon you’ll be trapped completely.
With the looming thought of potential death, even if logically you know you probably won't die, you make a stupid last-minute decision. While he’s outside doing another car exhaust check, you crawl into the back and rifle through your suitcase, digging out the wrapped whisky and your letter. Because if you're going to die, you want to be a little drunk.
You have a minute to try to nicely display your present to Jack, but it doesn’t work, the whisky keeps trying to roll off the dash, and it doesn’t fit in his cup holders. He’s opening the car door again before you figure out a nice way to present it all, so instead, you just hold them both awkwardly in your hands. Looking at Jack like you're a deer caught in his headlights, even though this was your idea.
He freezes with the door still open, not quite moving to get in yet. “What’re you doing?” He asks, coming back to himself as a gust of wind sends a cold burst of snowflakes into the car, lumbering back into the driver's seat.
“Ok, don’t make fun of me, but I just thought,” And you say the next part really quickly, hoping he’ll gloss over it if you do, “on the off chance that we do die, you might as well get your Christmas present now!”
There’s something tender in his eyes when he looks at you, seeing the embarrassed and tentative look on your face, your hands outstretched towards him, shaking a little as they hold a cutely wrapped bottle and a folded, painted square of paper.
“I’d never make fun of you,” He murmurs, adding on, “except for all the times you really, really deserve it.”
You shove the gifts over to him, affectionately telling him, “Just take them dickhead.”
He places the wrapped bottle gently on his lap and starts turning over the folded letter in his hands, making you second-guess giving it to him, not having thought this through. Your original plan was to hide it somewhere in his bags so he would find the gift and letter after he dropped you off and went to his hotel. But this way means you have to watch his reaction in real time.
“You don’t have to read it now, I know it’s a little cheesy.” You fumble, trying to take it back somehow, make it like he didn’t see it in the first place.
“Uh-uh, no take backsies now, what happened to might as well since we’re going to die?” He’s still turning it over in his hands, examining all the small details you’ve painted and drawn. “How do you open it?”
“I said on the chance,” You mumble, hands reaching over to gently pry open the first tucked paper fold, leaving it in his hands as he unfurls the rest of the first layer.
The silence in the car is agony as he reads the small script you’ve adorned the edges of that first layer with. You look at him from under your lashes, your head tilted down to mostly face your lap. There’s a small smile tugging at his lips, his eyes shining as they dance over the page.
He pulls open the next layer, his mouth dropping open as his hands smooth the paper flat. “This is incredible.” He breathes, eyes tearing away from the letter to stare at you.
“You like it?” This is the most vulnerable you’ve ever been with someone romantically, your heart written and drawn on the page in his hands.
“I fucking love it, this is the most thoughtful- fuck- Sweetheart this- you mean so damn much to me.” He nearly groans, “I really want to kiss you, would that- can I?”
His eyes search yours for any signs of discomfort, but you lean forward, really wanting to see what kissing Jack will be like. Your heart speeds up as you think of your previous dating attempts and how each new person and each new first kiss left you feeling nothing, or worse, feeling like a trapped animal.
One of your hands settles for leverage on his knee, shifting so you close some of the distance between the two of you. His hand comes up, caressing the side of your face before he cards his fingers through your hair.
He tugs you forward, your stomach swooping as your lips meet. His lips are soft, pressing insistently against yours, chaste and sweet. His stubble rubs roughly against your skin as he presses deeper against you before pulling back a breath and diving back for one more smack of his lips.
And then he's peppering your face with kisses, everywhere, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere he can reach. Pealing into laughter, you try to rear back, but he has your head in a vice grip, and the onslaught continues.
Finally, he lets you go, looking self-satisfied as you flop back into your seat, breathless and flushed.
While you regain your senses, he unwraps the whisky bottle, letting out a whistle as he recognizes the label as a favourite of his. He’s quick to open the bottle, smelling the warm spice of alcohol that wafts out.
“One for luck.” He says, cheer-sing it your way before taking a sip straight from the bottle.
From there, you take turns sipping the sharp amber liquid, it burns your esophagus going down, but leaves a pleasant warmth. You don’t have the palate to know good whisky from bad whisky, but this one seems ok enough to you; it’ll get you tipsy anyhow.
You’re pleasantly buzzed and are comfortably settled back into your reclined seats when you look back over to Jack and feel another tug of desire to be close to him. Not intimate, kissing him was nice, but it still didn’t do anything for you, you just want to be close.
“Jack…” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to.
“Yeah, troublemaker?” He turns to meet your eyes, sounding relaxed.
“Would you hold me?” You ask, and see his eyes flash playfully at your request.
“Fuck, I thought you’d never ask, get your butt over here!” His hands reach out to start pulling you his way, making you giggle and nearly collapse over the console as he tries to manhandle you.
It’s awkward, with the layout of the car and the steering wheel, and since you're trying to conserve heat, you can’t just step out of the car. You decide the passenger seat is the better option, so you crawl into the back while he shifts over, his prosthetic catching on the console and making him swear. He fumbles into the seat, and you wonder why he doesn’t just take it off, your mouth moving before you even think, asking him as much.
His eyes cut to yours, something dark and intense in his gaze.
“What, you should take your prosthetic off, there’s no way you’ve been comfortable keeping it on as long as you have.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, his eyes searching yours, and you wonder, for the first time, if like you, who’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting to see what part of you he’ll learn about and decided is too much; if he’s been wondering what part of himself will be too much for you to handle.
“Don’t stay uncomfortable cause you think you might freak me out. Trust me, I can handle seeing your stump.” You goad.
Then he shifts, breaking eye contact and leaning forward to get the leverage to take his prosthetic off. The musty smell of trapped sweat permeating the car. It’s quickly replaced by a lemony smell as he takes out lysol wipes from his glove box to clean off his limb and the liner of his prosthetic.
It takes him a few minutes, but by the time he’s done, the tension is gone from the air of the car.
“Alright kid, come on over.” He says, voice light.
He’s pressed up against the center console as far as he can go, giving you a bit of wiggle room to crawl over him and settle along his right side. You manage to slide into place half on top and half beside him, leaning back, angled along the car door. You try not to put too much weight on Jack, a little worried you’ll squish him.
Clearly, he can feel the muscles straining in your body, because one hand comes up to pull your right knee forward across his body, shifting you so you’re lying stomach down, flat overtop of him, and then his right arm snakes along your spine and presses you down.
You relax into his hold, your breathing slowing down to match his, and his body heat seeping into you. You could easily fall asleep like this.
“Thanks for coming with me and saving me from freezing to death on my own.” You murmur drowsily.
“That’s what I’m here for. Besides, no one else I’d rather be trapped with.” His hand comes up to stroke your hair, before he continues, “Get some sleep troublemaker, I’ll make sure we don’t freeze.”
It’s easy to fall into dreaming after that, knowing Jack will keep you safe.
A/N: This is my first holiday drabble, and I had a LOT of fun writing it, I also got stuck in a lot of places cause my brain kept going realism route (What do they do if they have to pee!!) But I really like how it turned out.
I love comments (seriously, they make my day), so let me know if you liked this! I'm also always open to requests, my asks are open.
pairings: Jack Abbot x asexual!reader (gn!reader but fem!reader in mind while writing)
summary: you come out to Jack, your boyfriend, as asexual
warnings: mention of acephobia, if you squint reader is questioning where on the ace spectrum they fit, mention of Jack’s amputation, Jack calls reader sweetheart, Jack might be ooc, heavily self inserted
a/n: I actually wrote this one a while back to cope with my brother’s reaction when I accidentally came out to him
a/n 2: Trying something new with the layout, which I’ve been meaning to change for a year now
The pothole right outside Jack’s driveway (that he was seriously considering fixing himself) had now become a small pond. It had rained for three days straight now. The water racing itself to reach the flower boxes by the windows. Your flower boxes. His eyes kept moving from the dark clouds outside to the watch on his wrist. It was surprisingly his day off. Or perhaps it wasn’t that surprising anymore, since he had taken more time off work ever since he started dating you. Which leads to now. You were supposed to have gotten home at least two hours ago.
Jack had to pull a double shift yesterday so he hadn’t been able to go with you to celebrate your brother's birthday. Which he wasn’t all too happy about if he remembered all your gossip from your family. Your brother was… well he wasn’t outright mean but he could slip in comments that shouldn’t be said that went right past your parents head growing up.
The tv was playing on the show you’d wanted him to catch up on so you could watch the latest season together. You’d planned to start it today since he only had two episodes left until he was on the same season as you. But that seemed to not be an option today. It was almost midnight after all.
The food was left in the oven to try and keep its heat. He much preferred it if you ate real food over fast food. Besides, he was a good chef, he prided himself in being able to make the one food you didn’t like enjoyable.
He was just about to call you when he heard the car roll up in the driveway. The gravel making that familiar sound under the car's weight.
His brows creased as he couldn’t hear the car door slam shut. Nor the big dark brown front door opening. Or your feet against the doormat trying to get rid of the dirt that stuck to them from the rain. He swore you always complained about stones getting stuck in the grooves of your shoes.
Walking with his crutches to the front door his hands curled against the door handle at the same time you pushed it down.
“Hey swee-“ what he was faced with was not what he expected. “sweetheart what’s wrong” it could have very well been rain that made your cheeks wet but he knew better than that.
Putting all his weight against the doorframe his hands let the crutches fall against the wall with a soft thud. Hands caressing your cheeks instead. Wiping away the tears. His thumb gently moved over your lip after you licked it clean of the salty water.
“I’m fine” your sniffles said otherwise.
“Sweetheart?” blue locked onto his favorite color that was your eyes. Lips moving down at the heartbreak clearly visible.
“Mm fine Jackie” the nickname set a wrong taste on your tongue. It wasn’t usually tinged with sadness and heartbreak. But with a glint in your eye and a full smile as you’d tease him about something. The nickname didn’t sit right in Jack's ears either. Not now when tears ran down your cheeks and your eyelashes stuck together in black globs.
“You’re not fine love” his hand went to cup the back of your head as he brought you forward into him. Pressing your face into his shoulder while your hands grabbed a fist full of his shirt.
Eyes closing you let yourself be held by Jack. Hands tightening on his shirt as if it’d bring you physically closer to him.
“Did something happen? Was it your family? Your brother?” when a sob left you at the last word he shifted gently to have a better hold of you without having back pains in the morning by leaning against the doorframe. Though he’d gladly be in pain tomorrow if it meant you’d be okay today.
His head leaned against yours. Arms tightened around you in a soft squeeze as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Do you wanna talk about it?” The murmur left him whilst his lips still hovered by your hairline.
“Not really… but I think I have to” you sniffle. His arms tighten around you once more at the sound. Burying your nose into his neck he buries his face in your hair. The slow steady miniature rocking from side to side did a lot to soothe your worries, but never fully.
Taking in his smell that always somehow calmed you down, you push away slightly. You should have told him a while ago that you were on the asexual spectrum. Actually when you started dating. But he’d never questioned or pushed you on having sex. So it never came up. And you didn’t want to destroy what you had. Your partners before had left when they found out. Or they’d try to “fix” you or guilt trip you into having sex. And when you still said no they’d leave, most of the time they’d break up over text or ghost you completely after the first date if you even got that far.
You should have known Jack wasn’t like that. But at the start of the relationship, even now, the fear still lingered. So you never told him that part of you.
The way your fingers picked at your nails didn’t escape Jack’s notice. As you both went into the kitchen. Leaning against the counter he assessed you worriedly. Taking in the way you bit the inside of your lip. The way your eyes refused to look at him. The distance you made sure to keep. A distance in space that was never there between the two of you. Not even when you fought over petty things you could never remember in the end.
Swallowing thickly your fingers finds the dish towel. Thumb gently moving over the J.A. You had custom made on all of his dish towels. Folding the fabric back and forth to calm yourself a soft huff escaped you as you thought back on the situation. In all honesty your brother had left you sad and feeling completely invalidated.
“I-“ a shuddering breath left you “I told my brother something and he didn’t react well”
“Yeah?” He tries to catch your eyes. “Mind telling me what you said?”
Lip trembling even when you caught it between your teeth the words left you in a quiet mumble. “That I’m ace”
His eyes squinted for a second. Crow’s feet more prominent as he tried to decipher what you’d mumbled so nervously under your breath. “What?” He didn’t mean to be mean about it, he just hadn’t heard you.
A deep breath left you before you looked straight at him. Taking courage from the deepest part of your heart. “I’m asexual… or well somewhere on the ace spectrum” and there it was the nervousness that settled deep in your bones. Draining the calcium from your bones, leaving you weakened and easy to break. Or at least that’s what it felt like waiting for his reaction.
“Okay” Jack’s words were slow, dragged out. His body inching towards you, whilst he still kept himself pressed against the counter to not fall over by the lack of two feets. Wanting to close the space and hold you once more, his hand already reached impatiently for contact. Clearly seeing the worry etched in your clenched jaw, and slight crease in your brows. “What did your brother say?”
Jack's words, spoken so carefully, caught you off guard for a second. He hadn’t made a big deal out of it. Had just accepted it and moved on to what had caused you to cry. No anger splayed on his face because of the secret you’d kept for the entirety of your relationship. No “I can fix you” or “have you tried it though”. The usual words of “oh so you’re just celibate” or “you’ve just had bad partners, it’ll be different with me” weren’t voiced. Just “Okay”. Which in all honesty made your heart ache in a good way. Jack accepted things so easily, took things in a stride and adapted. Maybe that’s why he was such a good doctor. Perhaps it was one of the things that drew you to him during long shifts and nights filled with coffee runs.
“Y-you don’t mind?” Hope set alight in that deep dark part of you that thought you’d never be enough for anyone. That simply holding hands and cuddles weren’t enough. The small kisses you’d stop before they went too far always left a guilty taste on your lips. Like you were withholding parts of Jack’s happiness with lock and key. You should have known Jack was different. He had never been like your exes.
It should have been enough for your past partners. If they’d truly loved you they’d be able to compromise and find a way around your sexuality. Whatever the solution may have been. Instead they just up and left without even trying. Even if most of them probably wouldn’t have worked out, trying was better than being completely invalidated and belittled for something they couldn’t force you into liking.
It should have been enough to be able to hold each other without expectations of more. Innocent love without the clouded judgement lust sometimes brings should have been enough. So why was it never enough?
Unlucky was what you always found yourself to be.
And yet… and yet here Jack was. Eyes watching you with a kindness he only reserved for you. Love tinting the corners of his lips in a soft reassuring smile. “Why would I mind”
Luck had no part of it. It was just the universe finally granting you the support and care you deserved.
“Because I’ve kept it from you, b-because you’ve probably been waiting for the time I’m ready and I may never be because it’s not really something I want and-”
“Sweetheart” he moved your head to face him with two fingers, stopping you from rambling. “I love you, and you telling me this, now, doesn’t change that, it’s just getting to know you better” He smirked slightly at the way your expression softened. He still had it in him, it seemed. To disarm you so effortlessly, by simply saying “ I love you”.
The soft thuds from the rain hitting the windows filled the room.
“Are you sure you know what I mean? what I’m talking about?"
“Y/n” his hands went back to your cheeks. He almost wanted to shake you for doubting him. “I know what asexual means, I know what you’re talking about” he couldn’t stop the charmingly flirty smile from appearing. The same smile he’d give you numerous times while he teased you at the hospital to see if he could make you blush. “I promise you, when I say it doesn’t change how I see you, I mean it”
“You don’t think I need to be fixed?”
“Never” his arms encircled your waist. Pushing you forward into him. Your face against his chest like many early mornings after a shift when you couldn’t sleep. Jack's head falling into place on your head. Fitting together like the blue nitrile gloves you used during your hectic shifts.
“My brother said I’m just pretending, that everyone wants sex, I didn’t mean to come out to him” something you now regretted blurting out. “don’t even remember how the topic came up”
You felt his hum vibrate in his chest. “Anything else he said?” He truly never had liked your brother whenever he had met him. This just solidified his opinion on him.
“That asexuals aren’t real, that I’m single-handedly ruining every relationship I’ll ever have by making my partners sacrifice the one thing that makes it a romantic relationship and not a platonic one, cause apparently you can’t love someone romantically if you don’t want to have sex with them” a teary fake laugh escaped you. That reasoning felt absurd. How cold romantic love must be if the only difference is having sex or not.
“You know that’s not true right? There’s more to it than being physically intimate”
“I know” you lifted your head slightly from his chest. It was easy to see that your friend's words and your brother’s words were wrong in the presence of Jack. He loved you without the expectations of more. He accepted you as you were and was willing to talk and compromise if need be and not just give up or force what he wanted onto you.
Asexual!reader on a relationship with asexual!Dex
Tags: Established relationship | Masc reader | Drabble
Word count: 283
A/N: This is was a mix between self indulgent and a headcanon hehe, enjoy.
Asexual!reader with little to no sexual urges, meaning Dex and you get intimate very few times. And Dex is surprisingly fine with it, you thought he'd use guilt to manipulate you into having sex after knowing how intense and obsessive he could get, but no. The man genuinely respected your boundaries and was more than ecstatic when either of you went down on each other.
Dex doesn't have much of a sexual desire either, not as low as yours, but he does enjoy sex for the emotional attraction, connection, vulnerability and symbolism of it. You're his boyfriend, "normal"partners share sexual moments, it was dictated by societal norms, no? He internalized that when he was a teen, observing his peers have their first encounters. He didn't have much experience himself, since finding and getting into a relationship with his beloved North Star always took literal years, and his line of work didn't help with that. Sex wasn't something he was willing to do until around a month together with his partner, he had to be sure everything in the relationship went smooth as silk before that.
The issue though, is that whenever Dex used toys on you, his fingers, or his dick, it always hit the perfect spot, over and over again. It unfailingly left you trembling and with a numb mind, a never ending pleasure that left you breathless without fail. You often thought about that comment Dex made when it was your first time together, how he didn't exactly know what to do or how most of the time, asking you to guide him. How could he be so good at giving pleasure when he had barely practiced it before?
summary: After the early stages of relationship bliss, familiar insecurities start to eat at you…
det./cw.: description of feeling inadequate, discussions of asexuality, eatablished relationship, hurt/comfort, angst but not really angst yk? they love you very much, no use of y/n
A/N: This is the first thing I’ve ever written tbh (might delete it again), it’s very very self indulgent because I’ve been feeling a little off these past days and was craving reassurance in my sexuality after devouring most of the ace!reader content on here. Anywho, English is not my first language and I proof read this once maybe, so bear with me.
My participation in this fandom does not mean I support or agree with JKR, her opinions, or her values. I don’t.
Things with Sirius and Remus felt easy. After all, they say the honeymoon phase of relationships is light and bright. It was almost surreal, having long before decided that love was not in the picture for you, that the lack of sexual desire predestined you for a life of loneliness. But they proved you wrong, persisted, and won you over slowly.
But, after the rosy haze of early love clears a little, insecurities pave their way into heart and head. Joining a relationship after they established a rhythm was difficult, Sirius and Remus had been together for a while before falling in love with you. Not questioning your place in their hearts, especially when you question yourself daily as is, proved itself to be herculean. But maybe it’s your tendency to overthink pulling a prank on you. Maybe you just imagine them gravitating to one another in rooms, or laughing about jokes that have long been established between them, excluding you without the intention of doing so.
Sometimes, then, it feels like you have not quite surpassed the status of friends in more than the word, stuck in a limbo between platonic and truly romantic.
A spectator to their love rather than a participant in your own relationship.
These thoughts creep in during the small moments. When you watch them dance at a party like they can anticipate the other’s next movement, when they’re telling stories about their school days, when Sirius automatically orders Remus’s food, knowing his preference, and then turns to you to ask what you would like to have.
Or when they’re both late to dates, like now.
You prepared everything for a cozy night in: dinner, tea, a movie, a soft record in the background. They arrived almost an hour late with guilty apologies and soft kisses to your head. They ‘got caught up’ as Remus so delicately puts it, the blooming hickey on Sirius’s neck and the slight glow to them both telling you enough.
It’s not that you feel bad about them having sex, you would never dare to. Quite the contrary; You basked in the knowledge that while they loved and cared for you, they still had one another to love and care for, and to satiate those desires that you do not need to satiate yourself. That you cannot concentrate on the movie or Remus’s warm hand on your thigh lies solely with feeling less than, because they arrived late due to being caught up in one another. The movie’s picture blurs when your eyes lose focus, mind running in circles around the usual thoughts that plague you, that plagued you long before they entered your life in a contradicting storm of affection and mindfulness. If you were normal, you could have been there. Participated. Known what it feels like to be loved like that and not feel like they were afraid to touch you.
Remus notices the exact moment you zone out; he always does. His fingers squeeze your thigh gently. “Dove?” When you don’t reply, he repeats the affection, Sirius looking over as well now. You hum and look at him, shaking out of your spiral for a moment to give him your undivided attention.
“You okay? Seemed like we lost you there for a moment.”
“Oh, yes, sorry.” He smiles gently, “penny for your thoughts?” You return the smile, “not important.”
Now Sirius chimes in, “always important if it’s occupying your mind like that, lovely.”
With how they both look at you now, nothing but adoration reflected in their gaze, you feel your sinuses burn and tears push against your lash-line. “Sorry,” you mutter quickly and press your palms into your eyes, voice giving out halfway through the word. Suddenly it feels like you’re alone on a stage, spotlight bright and insistent on you sharing something with the audience that consists of your boyfriends. There’s a moment of silence before the couch dips on your other side as well, now sandwiched between both men.
“Take your time, focus on your breath,” Remus instructs gently, the way his fingers flex slightly on your thigh before retreating to his own to not crowd you the only indication of any inner distress he feels. Sirius is less subtle; you can feel him shift nervously beside you. “What’s wrong, baby?”
You just shake your head, not trusting your voice yet. It’s a curse, really, how it refuses to cooperate in moments when everybody expects you to articulate yourself. They give you the time you need, Sirius’s hand interlacing with one of yours in reassurance, lightly at first should you feel like you need to pull away, then more firmly when you don’t. Taking a moment to sort your thoughts, you grapple for a way to voice your feelings sensibly. “Are you two sure you want to be with me?” By the silence that follows, you’re sure to have caught them off guard. “Of course we are, dove. Why would you think we wouldn’t want to be with you?” You take a breath, using your free hand to wipe beneath your eyes. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just… not offering enough. Logically, I know you love me, you have told me as much, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that.”
“You don’t need to do anything in particular to deserve our love,” Sirius’s thumb strokes over you’re the back of your hand when he says that, his tone softer than you expected. Your heart squeezes.
“Every moment you two share feels sacred, like it’s an honour to witness it. And then I ask myself how I deserve to be part of that, how will I ever know you two the way you know one another. I can’t participate in the most intimate moments. I can’t have sex. And just maybe… I’m too broken to be with.” You reply, voice barely above a whisper. No turning back now, you’ve laid out your most crucial insecurity before them to do with whatever they please to. To your surprise Sirius looks baffled, appalled almost, that you would talk about yourself like that. Remus’s face tightens minutely, but understanding fills his eyes.
“Knowing a person takes time. We don’t expect you to achieve that immediately, dove. That is the fun of a relationship – learning each other’s uniqueness. Being asexual does not mean you’re less worthy of getting to know and love us or be loved and known. It just means that we have to find ways to make you feel as appreciated and desired without sex. We should have properly asked what affection you feel comfortable with and learned your boundaries. I’m sorry if we made you feel like you’re not enough, and I’m sure being late today hasn’t helped much.” You nod, new tears filling your eyes. “I should have communicated that earlier.”
“It’s my fault, really,” Sirius chimes in in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “I hold back so much when you’re close, I never know what to do with the urge to squeeze you that you give me, so poor Remus had to compensate. Really ought to know what I’m allowed to do with you, lovely. I’ll go mad.” You laugh a little, squeezing his hand. “How about we start with cuddling and the occasional kiss?”
They don’t seem to need to be told twice. The movie is rewound and you find yourself in a tangle of limbs and warmth soon after. For the first time in a while, your brain is quiet. You’re not broken; all you needed was somebody willing to love you the way you didn’t know you needed to be loved and accept the ways you don’t want to be loved.
Asexual!Reader x Shanks, Law, Marco, Ace (individual)
obvious mentions of sex, but nothing explicit. Asexuality and sex-repulsed themes. Happy Pride Month!!
Shanks
- Explaining that you’re asexual and sex-repulsed was probably a bit tedious tbh
- He might not understand the intricacies of it, but he supports you and is proud that you told him
- He’s def had his share of relationships/flings, so I think he’d understand that what you want and what others want can be different while still maintaining healthy relationships
- Says it, too, but not in so many words
- If you ever feel insecure or pressured by anyone to want or participate in sex, he would be defending you ten toes down
- Probably whips out the explanations and vocabulary you rambled to him when he was drunk
- Makes sure you know that he knows you don’t have to want or participate in sex to love someone and show it
- Still makes dirty jokes and ends up explaining them to you if you don’t understand them
- If you do, he’s delighted because the fact that you don’t like sex but still get jokes is funny to him
Law
- Being that he’s both a doctor and survivor of a plague, he’d understand that you don’t want sex
- Being a doctor, a naked body is a naked body to him, and germs are also bad
- Also a big defender of you if anyone says anything
- Pulls out medical terms and explains things if people just need to be educated
- Whips out the nastiest fave if people are just being hateful
- I headcannon he’s demi so I think he gets it to an extent
- He’s doesn’t seem like an overly touchy guy aside from a very select group of people, so I think your explanations would make sense to him and he’d tell you that, too
- Would do research into asexuality if you asked (I think he would also be happy to know thing about/for his crew)
Marco
- another doctor, so a body’s a body in most instances for him
- Might not fully understand a complete lack of desire for sex, but supports you
- Another one to stand ten toes down if someone’s hateful
- Feels like an advocate for knowing things about yourself, so he’s more than happy that you know yourself
- Being in a crew as big as Whitebeard’s was, I think he lowkey at least heard it all, so he’s probably not phased by much
- A big supporter of saying you aren’t broken or messed up, you’re just you
- Tbh takes it in stride
Ace
- Firstly, the abbreviation is his name so he’d probably like that
- Secondly, I don’t really think he’d give a damn
- “Ok? You’re still you.”
- Also a big supporter of “you aren’t broken, you’re just you”
- Probably a little confused about not wanting sex at all, but understands that everyone’s different and has different preferences
- Probably asks a lot of questions about it and how you figured it out and why
- He’s definitely one that understands love doesn’t need to be and shouldn’t be shown only through sex
- Like, Luffy’s very affectionate and they grew up together, so he for sure is comfortable with casual intimacy in any relationship
- Has a script to whip out when people are being rude (he write it down to make sure he didn’t mess up)
- Thinks it’s great that you know yourself and are comfortable with yourself
a/n: thank you so much @ianmoone000 for this request! One of my friends is ace, and I’ve thought about demisexuality for a while now.
To everyone under the ace umbrella: you’re so valid and so great! Keep being yourself, and be proud of who you are! Happy Pride, guys!!
