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.
