simon being a silent guy, but his daughter being the most vibrant, babbly baby possible. that’s because she’s gone on you.
you talk too much, it’s been on every report card since you were in year 5. your teachers recommended an adhd assessment, but the waiting lists were too long and your parents couldn’t afford to go private. so you’ve been bouncing off the walls since you were in school.
you met simon outside a coffee shop, whilst going to your corporate job, and after he’d been discharged. he seemed hollow, too silent, and you’d spilled coffee all over him, forgetting you didn’t have an extra arm when you were adjusting your bag’s strap.
you’d apologised (eight times) offered him another coffee (he wanted it black) and then talked his ear off for the next three hours. he didn’t say much, just nodded or shook his head, but you spoke enough for the two of you.
you left with his number on a piece of tissue, and that was how it began.
now, holding violet in your arms as she babbles away, you love to play with her, speak to her in baby talk, she’s so intelligent. but when she babbles at simon, it’s hilarious, because he doesn’t know what to say.
she’s always making him smile though, and she can’t get enough of her dada anyway, so you count that as a win.
her hands bat the scars on his cheek, twisting the skin, but he just smiles again.
“dada scar.” she says, seriously, “hurt?”
he looks at you, and then back at her, “not anymore.”
“no more?” she asks, her eyes big as she presses her face into the cheek. “owie.”
“no more owie.” he whispers, before putting a kiss on her head. she starts to babble again about her new favourite colour (it’s green, today.) and his eyes catch yours.
Lately I’ve been getting a kick outta the idea of Ghost having a girlfriend that Johnny is painfully interested in (tale as old as time). But she a lil neurodivergent and selectively mute (edit; I originally labeled reader as non-verbal, but I was made aware mutism more accurately describes this!). She’s comfortable enough with Simon that she’ll talk to him when they’re alone, but she won’t say a word to Soap (she doesn’t talk to the other guys either, but you know that Johnny chooses to take it so damned personally).
The worst part is that Soap will say shit to her, and she’ll give Simon her little signal so he can bend down and she can talk to him so fucking quietly. It’s like they speak a different language and Simon is the interpreter. And it’s so infuriating to him because shit like this will happen.
“Ain’t you looking a right picture, bonnie— that dress new? Fits ye like a damned glove, sweetheart.”
You tug on Simon’s sleeve so he can lean down. Soap is rocking back and forth on his heels, anticipating an answer. He’s down so bad, he doesn’t even care that he’ll hear it from Simon’s lips and not yours. You whisper for what feels like minutes on end.
“She says thanks.”
“God damn, L.T.— you know she fuckin’ ‘ad to ‘ave said more than that!” He whines indignantly, Simon smirking. Simon knows all about his little crush, and chooses to let the lad suffer. His time will come when you’re ready.
This goes on and on for months on end— and you know what? It’s hard for Johnny to jerk off to the image of you wedged between him and Ghost when he has no idea what you sound like, moaning or otherwise. You can probably see him half hard in his jeans every time he heads home from a movie night with you and Simon.
“G’night, L.T. Night, hen.” Soap’s almost all the way down the walkway when he hears something almost inaudible over the ambient sounds of the night.
“Goodnight, Johnny.”
Now that’s gonna keep his fantasies fed for weeks.
(a self-indulgent imagining of them with a neurodivergent MC)
✨ xavier & overstimulation
(not the sex kind, sorry. but probably that too) Xavier completely understands when you get overwhelmed by existing. he gets the same feeling sometimes. you develop a code for it eventually, a combination of eye contact and eyebrow-raising that signals to the other person that you need out, whether from a Hunter’s Association party or a grocery store with way too many people. back at home, you’ve created a haven together- eye masks and soft blankets for him, headphones and fidgets for you, whatever makes you feel peaceful and calmed. the ceiling lamp is absolutely not allowed- Xavier drapes the walls with soft spheres of light or swirls a firefly-glow of sparks along the bed in a warm canopy.
🎨 rafayel & hyperfixations/jumping hobbies
you might as well consider collecting hobbies a hobby in itself. crochet needles and yarn, jigsaw puzzles, a wood burning setup, a console and video games- whatever brings you joy, Rafayel is enthusiastically behind it. he doesn’t judge you for wanting to learn a new art style out of the blue- he’ll sign up for a pottery class with you and buy you pounds of clay. he loves your passion and enthusiasm and matches it with his own. he loves being creative with you, in whatever form it happens to take that day. plus, with the amount he spends on paint and canvas, he’s not about to judge you for getting boxes of new supplies for something. he’s hyping you up every time! even if it isn’t an interest he shares, he’s happy you’re happy.
🩺 zayne & health anxiety/ocd
no matter how many times you ask for it, Zayne is happy to give you reassurance. yes, that chicken was cooked all the way. you have a weird flutter in your chest? of course he'll listen to your heart. he listens to every symptom, every worry with unfailing patience. after all, he wants to be your protector, your safest place- this is just one way to be that for you. he never makes you feel irrational for your fears, just steadily helps you face them each and every time. he doesn't judge your compulsions, but he offers his expertise whenever you ask- he lets you take your temperature ten times a day but also explains the normal range and when to actually worry.
💭 sylus & overthinking
okay hear me out, this goes both ways: he helps ground you when you’re overthinking negatively but also supports you when you’re being enthusiastic about literally anything. he’s all in- if you have a favorite tv show he’s watching every episode and reading every analysis of it so you can discuss. he’s fully invested in your office drama, your gossip, your made-up stories about the bird family that lives outside your apartment window. but he also soothes you when you spiral into worry or fear. he happily goes through what-if scenarios with you, most of them ending in him spectacularly defeating anything that could ever threaten you. he makes it clear over and over again that you’re completely safe with him, physically and emotionally.
❤️🩹 caleb & insecurity
his life mission to make you feel adored. he makes a point of worshipping every part of you, especially anything you consider a "flaw". nothing is too much or too little- you're perfect exactly as you are. if he overhears you complaining about your thick thighs on a call with Tara, he's going to be buried in them later that night, pressing kisses to every inch. he loves working out and training with you. if you want to get healthier he's gladly cooking fresh ingredients into nutritious meals and helping you build up a fun fitness routine- but if there's even a hint of it being because you don't like the way you look in the mirror? he's going to benchpress twice your body weight in front of you just to prove he can. or better yet, he flings you over his shoulder easily and brings you to the bedroom to "work on your confidence".
Pairing: Professor!Wanda Maximoff x Professor!Natasha Romanoff x Autistic!Fem!Student!Reader
Summary: After failing several assignments, and two exams you spiral into shame and anxiety, only to discover that Professors Maximoff and Romanoff are secretly fighting the university for your right to resit and succeed academically
✦ ──── DINING
hannibal lecter x autistic!reader
masterlist — taglist
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wc. 1k
premise.
based on this ask!
i’m so excited to hear autistic!reader and hannibal are getting multiple parts, i literally stimmed lol. i feel so seen. thank you. 💜
warnings.
none.
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The house was alive with people.
This was arguably your least favourite time of the week, Dinner Party Night.
You stood beside Hannibal near the entrance hall, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your sleeves for what must have been the twentieth time.
You had practiced.
You had spent nearly an hour deciding what to wear because Hannibal always looked immaculate, and you wanted people to look at the two of you and think you belonged together.
You wanted him to be proud.
His hand found the small of your back.
"You are tense," Hannibal observed quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
"I'm trying not to be," you admitted.
His thumb rubbed a slow circle against your waist, he turned toward you fully, shutting out the arriving guests for one fleeting moment.
"You owe no one a performance," Hannibal said gently.
"I know," you whispered. "But... they're your friends."
"They are my guests."
"They're important." you argued.
His expression softened.
"You," he corrected, "are important."
The warmth of his words settled somewhere inside you, but they did little to quiet the nervous buzzing beneath your skin.
For the first hour, you tried, you truly tried.
A woman with pearls asked about your hobbies.
You answered honestly.
"I enjoy categorising books in our library by publication date."
She blinked.
"Oh."
Silence.
You weren't sure whose turn it was to speak.
Eventually, she smiled politely before excusing herself to refill her wine.
Another guest began discussing opera.
You knew quite a lot about opera.
You talked for nearly ten minutes about funeral marches in nineteenth-century compositions, the symbolism of death in stage direction, and the historical evolution of requiem performances.
Halfway through, you noticed his eyes wandering toward someone else.
Had you said too much? Too little? You couldn't tell.
He thanked you awkwardly before drifting away.
Every conversation felt like being handed a script with half the pages missing.
Everyone else somehow knew when to laugh.
When to interrupt.
How long eye contact should last.
When a question required an honest answer and when it required something... prettier.
You never seemed to know.
By the time dinner was served, your chest felt tight.
The dining room buzzed with conversation.
You couldn't find a place to fit.
So you stopped trying.
Quietly, you slipped away from the crowd.
There was a small armchair, your favourite one to be clear, just beyond the library.
You sat there, folding your hands together.
You ounted the raindrops racing down the glass.
One.
Two.
Three.
The numbers made considerably more sense than people.
You stared outside, trying very hard not to cry.
Not because anyone had been cruel.
Nobody had.
They had all been perfectly polite.
You had wanted tonight to go well.
You had wanted Hannibal to look across the room and think...
That's my darling.
They're extraordinary.
Instead...
You couldn't even figure out how to have a conversation.
You hadn't heard the approaching footsteps, you only noticed them when someone stopped beside your chair.
"You've disappeared," Hannibal said gently, his voice carrying no accusation, only quiet concern.
You looked up at him.
His expression was as composed as ever, but his eyes had softened the moment they found yours.
He crouched beside your chair rather than standing over you, bringing himself to your level.
"Is everything all right?" he asked softly. "Do you require anything?"
"I'm fine," you answered quietly.
He studied your face for a long moment.
"You may tell me," he said, his tone as gentle as the rain against the glass.
Your fingers twisted together tightly.
"I think..." you began hesitantly, searching for words that never seemed to come as easily as everyone else's. "I think I'll just sit here for a little while."
Hannibal nodded
"I'm sorry," you whispered after a moment.
His brow furrowed ever so slightly, "What are you apologising for?"
"I don't know how..." You paused, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "I don't know how to talk to them."
"I wanted to. I really wanted to make you proud."
Hannibal reached for your hands, gently untangling your fingers before enclosing them within his own.
"My dear," he said warmly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, "you were doing wonderfully."
You blinked, "I was?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation.
"I kept saying the wrong things."
"There are no wrong things," Hannibal replied calmly.
You frowned slightly, "They stopped talking to me."
"They exhausted their own ability to contribute," he corrected with quiet certainty.
Despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips.
Hannibal smiled in return.
"I watched you this evening," he admitted. "You made an effort because you knew it mattered to me... I know how difficult that was for you. I saw every conversation you began."
He lifted one of your hands and pressed a lingering kiss against your fingers, "I also saw your courage."
"You should not measure your success by whether strangers understand you," Hannibal continued gently. "Measure it by the fact that you tried despite your discomfort."
"I am immensely proud of you." He smiled ever so slightly.
"And," he added, "I would be delighted to hear everything you know about nineteenth-century opera."
"I suspect," Hannibal said thoughtfully, "that your observations are considerably more interesting than those of my guests."
"They might become rather detailed."
"I should hope so."
"They could last an hour."
"I shall consider myself fortunate."
You shook your head, a genuine smile spreading across your face now, "You really don't mind?"
"My love," Hannibal said tenderly, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "there are very few things I enjoy more than listening to you speak about something you love."
The ache that had settled inside your chest all evening began to loosen.
Because the one person whose opinion truly mattered had never wanted you to be anyone other than yourself.
You leaned forward, your lips met his in a gentle, lingering kiss.
When you pulled away, Hannibal rested his forehead lightly against yours.
You smiled, your heart feeling lighter than it had all evening.
summary: clark takes you to the hardware store, your least favorite place. you’re neurodivergently wired to have sound sensitivity, so the harsh sounds drove you up a wall. lucky for you, your boyfriend understood your machine quite well. his obsession with your nuts and bolts helps you stay grounded… in more ways than one.
word count: 2.2k
contains: fluff & sensory overstimulation. suggestions of future smut… maybe part two eventually… chubby!reader if you squint, loud noises, hand stimming, sound overstim. clark is a freak about you. calls you kitten teasingly (but he means it.) *no use of y/n
a/n: another request for a lovely anon! <3 i picked the neurodivergent half of your prompt only because i’m not well acquainted enough with ED experience and didn’t want to misrepresent. being neurodivergent, though… i know a little about that. this is mainly based on my personal experience with it. hope you like. :)
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Clark watched your fingers flex. There was a melody to it. Open, close, open, wiggle, close again. Silent music that punctuated the start and stop of your thoughts, the rise and fall of your heart rate. You clenched harder if you were nervous, or if you couldn’t find the right words to explain yourself. You barely clenched at all when you had his fingers running through the ends of your hair. He thought the music of your brain was beautiful. A tune to which you held the conductor’s baton, but to which he beat the drum, to keep you on time. He watched again as your fingers twitched over your skirt, and then the music came once more– open, close, open, wiggle, close.
It wasn’t surprising to either of you that the stimming was rearing its head, because you were standing beside Clark in a line at the hardware store, and you were extremely against the hardware store. It was like a mine field of violent and unexpected noises. Men in canvas jackets would literally rev a chainsaw without notice, and then let out some animalistic cowboy’s yodel. Men screwed with the wrenches in cubbies and made metal scream against neighboring metal. Wooden planks dragged from piles like nails on a chalkboard. The paint mixing machine rumbled harshly. Nuts and bolts dropped on the floor. Loud men, loud men taking up the air, pumped with entirely too much testosterone and not enough warning. Older men with ambiguous intentions would brush past Clark and yourself, rattling voices questioning, “Whaddaya doin’ bringing that pretty thing ‘round here?” and “Look at you carryin’ wood, princess!”
Clark knew that being in the little Smallville institution was a sensory nightmare for you, but you seemed to jump at the chance anyway each time he had to make the trip. He suspected it had something to do with watching him stack everything in the truck bed and unload it when he got it back to the farm. Or maybe it was the way he talked respectfully to the shopman Sam, using all the right technical language, laughing at farming jokes that only someone who knew the craft could pick up on. Surely if he asked you, he’d be proven right, but he liked to watch the way your face lit up at those little things and revel in the projection. Perhaps the torture within the equipped walls was worth the results, but he did feel quite guilty watching you twitch and jump at all the noise. Your sensitivity to sound, among the other neurological quirks you possessed, wasn’t something he wished to inflame.
His hand adjusted around the few planks of plywood he held by his side, and a gallon of baby blue paint dangled from his other palm. You two were actually here for a project that arose from your own ambitions; you’d read in the Daily Planet that there was a small trend going around in the city which made your literary heart soar. Unknown contributors were nailing these ‘little libraries’ next to newspaper boxes, painting the structures in bright colors and hinging little plastic doors on the front, and placing free books to take or lend as passerby pleased. It was encouraging sharing stories with the world, people you’d never know, people who something you left inside might possibly leave an impression on forever. You imagined nailing one of these book boxes to the Kent Farm post would be perfect– people drove past coming to and from town, so maybe they'd stop– take a book, leave a book, you’d write on the door. You wanted to stock it and keep it cared for. Clark barely had to listen to your proposal before he packed you into the car.
He smiled softly as you rocked on your feet while the customer ahead of you both in line had an asinine conversation with the woodsy owner. He nudged your arm with his elbow.
“Okay?”
You blinked and your head jerked up towards him, palms flexing yet again. “Hm?”
“I asked if you were okay,” he chuckled.
“Oh! Yeah. Fine, good,”
Clark’s baby blues caressed the slight anxious flush of your cheeks, and he hummed softly, “Mm. Right. We’ll be away from the noise in a minute. Stay strong, pretty.”
You shot him a soft glare, lacking any real anger, and you nudged his arm back.
The man at the head of the line let out a barking laugh and scooped up his bag, grumbling something about being back in a few days, and Clark quickly swooped in to get his supplies rang up.
The only cashier, only stocker, only owner- a tall, stocky man talking through a magnificent beard, smirked at the hulking boy before him. “Mr. Kent Junior! How ‘bout that? And you brought the girl! Nice to see you, cupcake,”
You offered a pursed-lip smile, tucking your hair behind your ears, and your hands flexed ever quicker. You didn’t try to answer, you just swallowed thickly and let Clark handle it.
“My girl comes with me everywhere, Sam,” Clark smiled, but there was a bite of authority there, as if the unspoken words that followed were, She’s got a name and you know it.
Sam made serious efforts to chain Clark to the register, asking questions about the farm, about how it’s running without his dad, about his sweet mother and her seat on the Senate; Clark indulged each inquiry with charming grace, as always. Short but satisfactory answers, sly glimpses at his watch to subconsciously alert Sam of his dwindling time. It seemed like the man would never stop, he just kept asking and asking, even after Clark had carefully folded his receipt and shoved it into his red pocket, and had the plywood and paint back in his possession. But there was someone, somewhere out there who was looking out for you– albeit in a distasteful way– because another customer, a man quite old for hardware shopping, knocked over a bucket of nails. The shrieking of sharp metal scraping the concrete floor made you jump out of your skin, and you shook your head out, jerking it into your shoulder a few times, trying to squeeze the sound out of your ears. Your hands leapt to cover your ears, just for a second, and you winced, curling your fingertips into your hair.
Clark was swift in placing the wood and paint against the register and slipping an arm around the small of your back, hand curling into the pudge of your side, and his lips found your temple. Gentle and concise, he tapped his pointer and middle finger against your hipbone in twos, mimicking a slower heartbeat. Thump-thump, thump-thump. His voice was like a feather down your spine.
“Shh, s’okay. Just some nails. Easy, baby.”
You subsided into the touch, and you tapped the back of his palm. Thump-thump, thump-thump. Grounding. You’d learned it together. A ribbon of joy wrapped around his heart, rushing giddily through his bones, because you were so cute he wanted to burst. He peppered the side of your face with kisses, disregarding the masculine environment he was absolutely polluting with passion.
“Theeere she is,” he grins, “See? Can’t hurt ‘ya.”
A soft giggled bubbled up in the back of your throat, and you threaded your fingers over the dips of his knuckles. “Clark– Clark, hey, we- we’re in a store!”
The farmboy rolled his eyes and left one more lip-smack against your cheek before untangling from you and gathering his supplies up again. Sam gives him a cocked eyebrow and, chuckling gruffly, he supposes, “Odd one, ain’t she? Twitchy as a bug.”
Clark could barely muster the expected grin, and for him, it was quite mean! He didn’t like when people commented on your quirks. Ever. But he managed one anyway, and without words, turned on his heels to usher you out of the store. You smirked softly and muttered as you passed through the metal-frame door: “Brr. Is it cold in here, or is it just you?”
Clark snorted at your quip and hauled the bound planks across the lot to the truckbed. You trailed behind, looking at the eroding grey lines specifying parking spots from the one beside, the cement cracks stuffed with burgeoning green grass. This hardware store had been in Smallville forever, and Clark looked like every gorgeous boy who ever built anything in this town, in his own way. The curvature of his muscles flexed and ebbed as he shoved the planks in and dropped the paint tin on the bed, shoving it back so it wouldn’t roll around on the drive home. Your lips curled up, sweetly cheshire, as you got your payment for coming to the world’s worst store.
Clark peeked up at you as he flipped up the trunk door, and he brushed his palms on the blue of his jeans. “Easy, tiger. You look like you're gonna pounce.”
You laughed softly and tilted your head, hair tickling your eyelashes. Your fingers tapped at your thigh now, no more flexing, no more stress. “Tiger?”
Clark stalked around the edge of the truck, watching how you turned on your heels to back up in anticipation, and his hands followed the expected trajectory; hooking your waist and pressing you to the metal, boxing you in with a smile. He leaned in to nuzzle your cheek, eager as a puppy, and he kissed down the curve of your face, eyebrow to jaw, fingertips rising to map the dip.
“You’re right. Not a tiger. Kitten, maybe.”
You blushed and curled into his touch like an unshrinking violet, pressing a rosy lipstick-kiss to the meat of his palm. “Clark, we’re in public,”
“What was that, cupcake?” He chuckled, “God, sometimes I want to– just… yell at Sam for stuff like that.”
“Guys throw punches for far less,” you beamed, nosing his cheek. That yell was hard for him to even consider (how cute). “You have remarkable self-restraint. Almost alien.”
Clark sighed in faux-annoyance. “Low blow.”
“Had to.”
His hands tickled at the small of your back and you squawked, elbows knocking into the metal of the truck. “Hey- Clark!”
His eyes squinted devilishly. He always picked the worst times to tickle you, and it was because of his freakish fascination with the way you twitched. Your hands hovered in the air, half-touching, half-not, fingers splaying, face twisting. You squeaked and giggled and tried desperately to wriggle free. Now you were a spasming kitten without claws. He refused to let up until you were red in the face and breathless, and whining about the soreness his fingertips left behind. He smoothed his palms up your back and scattered smooches all down your neck and collarbone in repentance, smiling like a fool.
“Jeez… you're gonna bruise me one day, Clark!”
“But you look so pretty when you squirm,”
You burned cherry red and swatted at his arm, but it fell lame on the Kryptonian mass. The mauve of his lips quirked into a grin and he shut up your incoming complaint, the movements lazy and slick with the saliva he swiped across them just moments ago. You might’ve kept insisting about public indecency if the careless way he bit at your lip didn’t have you purring. Docile even when his hands squeezed at the softness of your behind, riding your skirt up.
“Mmf- Clark!” you grumbled into the kiss, hands rushing to cover yourself up.
The silent You’re flashing me to the people in this parking lot was amended with a snarky, “They’d be– mmf– so lucky.”
He kissed you into oblivion to watch how your fingers twitched and clamped midair, fist, flex, fist, flex, working overtime so you didn’t slip away into dreamland. Soft heat curled in wisps between his hips. God, he just wanted to eat you alive sometimes.
Without warning, he whisked you off the ground and flung you unceremoniously into the passenger seat of the cab. You plopped down, accidentally knocking your noggin on the back window. “Oof- hey!”
He laughed and leaned in to kiss your cheek, passing over the bump dotingly. “Sorry, baby. Got excited. Just- buckle up, we gotta get back.”
You watched him dart to the driver’s side, and you flushed, mumbling teasingly. “You’re that excited to build my library?”
The truck rumbled to life as Clark lunched across the truck cab to catch your lips again, and his hand curled under your chin possessively. “Pretty girl,” he crooned, “That’s a stupid question an’ you know it.”
You did know it. He was lucky he closed the back up, because he tore out of that lot like a man being chased. Between the way your hand curled over his bicep, and the merciless rouge kisses you pressed to his neck as he tried not to veer off the road back to Kent Farm, he was all but exploding to throw you onto a bale of hay and give you a sensory overload that you’d beg for. You barely had time to ask if he’d let you do the pretty blue painting to the little wooden box before he whisked you into the house. He loved the way you twitched, and he would see you do it again, in a matter of minutes. The world could wait on your library one more day.
You are a Forensic Pathology student on a scholarship that doesn’t rest nor sleep, and a campus employee with more uniforms than regular clothes.
It isn’t glamorous, it is simple, you like simple.
The MMA fighter — who you staple closed every now and then — is the polar opposite of simple.
He's also too persistent, too cocky and he keeps showing up even when you keep turning him down.
Who's giving in first?
Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University; Slow Burn; Slow Build; Slow Romance; Blood and Injury; Dead People; Eventual Smut; Angst; Harassment; Mahito is his own Warning; Sukuna is young and dumb; Jealousy; Bullying; Harassment; Idiots in love; sukuna is obsessed; we love obedient men
Ao3 link if you prefer!
art by avecot
(🥀) This arc is complete, 17 chapters.
Thank you all who commented, read, enjoyed, shared, etc! 💕
Ch1. How to staple a live exhibit
Ch2. How to Outlast a Grin Without Giving Ground
Ch3. How to Chart a Persistent Symptom
Ch4. How to Pronounce Time of Trust's Death
Ch5. How to Sit With Consequences
Ch6. How to Store Boundaries at 4ºC
Ch7. How to Chart Reckless in Ink
Ch8. How to Take a Hit and Not Waste It
Ch9. How to Guard What Isn’t Yours
Ch10. How to Want Out Loud Without Dropping the Clipboard
Ch11. How to Accidental Bench Sedation
Ch12. How to Hold Hair, Not Leverage
Ch13. How to Touch Without Ruining the Air
Ch14. How to Keep Your Hands Steady While Your Heart Learns a New Rhythm
Ch15. How to Be Soft in Public Without Dropping Your Edge
Ch16. How to Request Contact and Obtain Orders
Ch17. How to Win Boring, Pass Loud, and Celebrate Like an Idiot
Winter Break. How to Wear a Dress, Dance with a Wolf, and Decide You Want the Rest
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.
