#Autistic Reader

[frostkissedheart]

— You Make Sense to Me; Loki × autistic!reader headcanons.

Just deluluing, don't take this too seriously, I'm not a writer and I don't really speak english, yadayada

— masterlist.

Loki didn’t understand at first; not because he didn’t want to, but because Asgard has no word for autism. No diagnosis. No language to describe sensory overload, masking, or stimming.

When you told him, carefully explaining how your brain worked differently and how the world often felt too loud, too fast, too much, he was quiet. Not in a judging way. Just... listening. For once, someone was actually listening.

Loki saw it as familiar. That deep, aching feeling of being out of step with everyone around you. The way you had to learn scripts to get through social situations? He’d kinda done the same his whole life, aways the outcast.

On hard days, he creates magical quiet spaces for you: dim light, soft cushions, no sound at all. Just calm. Just peace.

“You are not broken,” he tells you, his voice low, almost a whisper. “You are not less. You are... uniquely attuned to a world that rarely deserves your trust.”

Loki quickly learns your “non-verbal days.” He doesn’t force you to speak. In fact, he gets so good at reading your body language, he often answers questions you never say out loud.

He doesn't touch you without permission during your bad times. The first time you reach for him, even just a fingertip on his hand, he freezes in place. Like you gave him a gift.

He picks up on your special interests and becomes intensely invested. You like marine biology? Suddenly he's summoning illusions of glowing jellyfish across your ceiling. “I thought you’d like to see one up close.”

In your first meltdown around him, you try to hold it together, because you're so used to masking. You're afraid of scaring him off. But Loki’s not fooled. He’s been watching you carefully, gently, learning your patterns.

Loki doesn’t panic. Not for a second.

He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t crowd you. He just kneels a short distance away and says, calmly, “I’m here. You are safe. You are allowed to feel everything you feel.”

He will stay by your side, trying to magically soothe you until you finally come back to yourself. Exhausted and raw, you whisper an apology.

He frowns. “Apologize? For surviving the weight of the world with a mortal’s heart?” He gently offers his hand. “You owe no one that.”

Later, he creates a safe wordless signal just for you, so next time, even before it gets that bad, you can let him know you need to leave or pause. No questions asked.

From then on, he doesn’t just protect your body; he protects your peace.

[obsessivevoidkitten]

You're an autistic biologist that has crashed on a strange planet. A curious male naga approaches as you leave your wrecked ship.

Your universal translator implant is working and you strike up a conversation.

Obsessed naga man flirting: "Wow, you're so small and soft! I would really like to get to know you better~"

You, wanting to satisfy scientific curiousity: "And you seem very large and durable, perfectly adapted to this environment! I am very interested in learning more about you too!"

Your Research Journal: A friendly native seems interested in the exchange of information. I am eager to learn more about this species.

[eowynstwin]

anatidae - conception, i.

After several happy years together, Ghost and Soap finally convince you to have their child. - ghoap x reader. audhd reader. reader has a nickname. established relationship. polyamory. baby fever. manipulative Soap. smut. breeding kink. anal sex. top Soap. bottom Ghost. sex as manipulation. - Masterlist. Ao3

Eventually, they convince you.

It is impossible to tell who your daughter’s father is for two reasons:

One, when she opens her tiny eyes, one is blue, and one is brown. Complete heterochromia, unlikely to change.

And two—with every passing day, she looks more and more like you.

Four years old; roly-poly with baby fat, little legs and arms she doesn’t quite know what to do with yet. She fills the spaces in your plural household that you did not know were empty until she found them, with her curiosity, her laughter, her boundless appetite for each minute of every day.

She’s smart. Very smart, quick not only to learn but to apply her lessons to new contexts. She sleeps through the night almost every night since the three of you brought her home, turns her nose up at nothing you offer her to eat, never wanders far from you or her fathers at the park or the store.

She’s perfect—even though she has not yet uttered a single word.

Your baby. Your Lizzie.

And actually, it’s Soap’s idea.

His eldest sister’s middle child is turning six, so the three of you pile into his car on a warm Saturday morning to make the drive to the suburbs. The MacTavish-Donnelly household overflows with children in party hats and benevolently bored parents when Ghost pulls the old Jeep up to the curb, boxing some unfortunate van in the driveway, and your trepidation is visible the moment your shoes hit the pavement.

Being your partner has uncovered a new layer of perception for Soap and Ghost; they see and hear things they previously would have ignored, because with the way you move through the world you can ignore nothing.

You described it once having a live wire for every nerve ending; everything, everywhere, screams at you all the time.

So when you pause on the sidewalk when you see a trike in the front yard, and a few adults holding punch cups on the stoop chatting, Soap knows why he hears the wrapping paper around the present in your hands crinkle, your grip tightening.

He throws an arm around your shoulder and brings his lips to your ear. “You got your wee earplugs, aye, Ducky?”

“Yes,” you whisper nervously.

You sway into him at his touch—it’s grounding, you’ve explained. It keeps you from floating away, expanding outward to try to figure out everything happening around you. Nothing beyond the sphere he and Ghost make matters so much.

He kisses the soft spot of your jaw. Ghost comes up to your other side and pulls your hand up into the crook of his arm. “We can set the place on fire, if need be.”

“Don’t burn my sister’s house down, please, LT.”

“Sink fire. Set off the alarms, that’s all.”

You give a little sniff of laughter, and, thus fortified, the three of you advance.

There’s Twister in the living room next to a table piled high with a rainbow of gifts, children tumbling around each other on the mat and laughing while music plays on the telly. Pastel streamers and balloons festoon everything (the middle child being celebrated should grow up without any proverbial complexes, Soap thinks), and confetti is abundant on the carpeted floor like a piñata molted on its way through.

There are the usual stares as they walk through the house. Soap is used to it—likes to flaunt it even, sometimes—and Ghost has never given a shit what anyone thinks. But you seem to shrink even further between them as you feel watched, curious eyes wondering if the mousy little thing between them really arrived with two men.

Luckily, they find Mary in the kitchen, and even despite how obviously harried she is, wisps of hair flying around a lopsided ponytail, Soap’s sister brightens when she sees them.

“Johnny!” she exclaims, swooping him into a hug he’ll never get too big to fall into. “And Simon and Duck! Thank goodness, we’re about to cut the cake and we might need crowd control.”

“Mary,” grunts Ghost.

“Hello Mary,” you say.

Mary releases Soap and smiles very kindly at you. Out of all his siblings, she’s been the most fond of you from the start—probably, he thinks, because she sees something to nurture in you.

At that moment, two of Mary’s children and three of Soap’s nieces and nephews, including the birthday boy, rush in to glom around Soap’s legs, and after the choruses of “Uncle Johnny!” collide with him, they backwash toward Ghost, who always has candy in the many pockets of his utility pants for them to scavenge.

Soap’s family has accommodated you well, though—they flow around you like water, barely touching, and you take the opportunity to give Mary your own hug.

“We’re doing crafts in the backyard, Duck, I thought you might like that,” his sister says, patting your back.

You pull away and give her a smile. It’s one of Soap’s favorites; small and mysterious, and completely genuine. The one that means you’re very pleased, and you don’t feel pressured to show it.

“Yes,” you say, and you vanish outside to sit with the quiet ones.

Ghost allows himself to be dragged off by the rowdier kids, leaving Soap to lean against the kitchen counter and smile at his sister; when when she lifts a cup to sip at some punch, he taps her belly with two fingers.

He’d felt it when she hugged him. A little firmness, hidden by the weight she’s never managed to lose after three pregnancies, and the loose shirt she’s likely wearing to hide the growing bump.

“Number four,” he murmurs.

Jealousy, a thin, sharp garrote, tightens in a spool around his stomach, but it’s an old feeling—one he’s learned how to ignore, until it stops aching.

(Compromise—sacrifice. It’s how a relationship between three people sustains itself. Everyone in his plurality has given something up, or learned to live with something else, or adopted new practices they might otherwise have never picked up. It’s a solid, even foundation, and the last thing Soap wants to do is take a hammer to it.)

His sister’s face softens with warmth. The glow of it suffuses the stiff lines of her posture, gentling the anxiety that has fizzed in the way she stands.

“Our last one,” she says quietly. “We haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Planned?”

“No. God! Could you imagine? Mum and Dad are crazy enough.”

Soap smiles. “We turned out alright.”

Mary runs her hand over her stomach, quick but loving. “Yeah, we did. Remember me though? Swore I’d never become her, and look at me now.”

A house full of toys shoved into every corner; sippy cups in a wire drain basket by the sink. The long hem of her tunic shirt creased by tugging hands. The jamb of one door anointed with three different colors of sharpie, hatch marks measuring years of rapid growth.

Light, and warmth, and color.

“You’re happy, though,” he says.

“I am.” She aims a little grin into her cup—an expression he’s seen her make more often with every consecutive pregnancy.

A secretive curve of her lips. Tranquil, with the familiarity of some hidden insight, as if Mary can see facets of happiness that—to Johnny—remain a mystery.

“I always thought this would be you, you know,” she says. “If you married a girl, I mean. Then you and Simon got together, and I figured not, but…”

Soap settles his crossed arms lightly on his chest, sucking one cheek between his teeth. He sets his gaze on the rainbow of letter magnets on her fridge, spelling out the names of her children. “You know her. It wouldnae—wouldnae be a good idea.”

Mary nods. “And she doesn’t want any?”

“No. Neither of ‘em do.”

He feels his sister’s eyes on him. Probing, in only the way a mother of three’s can be—though even before having children, she’s always been able to see through him in a way no one else ever has.

“I dunno abou’ that,” she says eventually.

When he looks up at her, her gaze is angled elsewhere—toward the sliding glass of the back door, where a table piled high with cheap craft paints and canvas board and grubby jars of water are attended by the clan introverts. You’re the only adult sitting with them, happy not to be bothered—

But a little one comes shyly up to you, a messy painting clutched between two paint-smeared hands.

It’s Mary’s youngest, Angus—and her shyest. He comes to stand beside you with his shoulders hunched, eyes big and trepidatious as he waits for you to catch sight of him.

Soap watches you greet the lad when you notice him. The expression on your face doesn’t change; you always speak to the children the same way you speak to adults, no exaggeration, no upward pitch. Angus stretches his arms out to present his creation.

You look at the canvas when it’s offered to you, and then in a smooth motion you slide out of your chair to crouch down to the boy’s level. As Soap watches, you cross you legs and invite him to sit in your lap, and then, with as serious an expression as you might have at a gallery showing, you begin pointing at different places on the painting. One arm is wrapped loosely around little Angus’ belly, holding the child to you like a stuffed toy.

One side of the canvas is in Angus’ hand; the other is in yours.

He can’t hear what you’re saying, as he watches your mouth move, but Angus positively glows with the obvious praise you’re giving him. When he turns to look up at you, you give him your mysterious little smile—

Something hot blooms in Soap’s chest.

Then there’s a shriek of laughter in the living room, and when Soap turns to look, he sees Ghost on the Twister mat, huge body set in an arch, feet on green, hands on red.

He’s going to bitch later about his back or his knees, Soap can already hear it ringing in his ears—but right now Ghost holds position as kids crawl underneath him or do their best to clamber over him like climbing a mountain. Then, suddenly, Ghost collapses with one of their nephews worming over his belly, throwing his arms around the kid and hauling him over his shoulder.

“Bloody mountain goats, I look like a jungle gym to you?” he barks, baring his teeth in a mock-snarl. Though at home he’ll have it on as often as not, he never wears his mask around the children.

Ghost surges up to spin the boy around, and the other kids crow with laughter and demands for a turn of their own.

“Watch the lamps!” Mary cries out, undercutting her warning with a laugh. “You’re as bad as the wee ones, Simon!”

The heat in his chest billows. St. Elmo’s fire catches in his alveoli, flash-burns the lining of his lungs inward to cloak his heart in a white blaze. Heat sears his neck upward to flood across his face.

He thinks of you, belly round, breasts heavy. Ghost with a baby in his arms, a tiny thing made tinier by the bulk of his huge frame. A toddler clinging to your leg, face tipped up to look at you with adoring eyes, or napping at midday, thumb in mouth, on Soap’s chest.

It takes his breath away. The kitchen sways around him, the earth’s center of gravity shifting. A fissure crack the casket of his want.

Mary catches his eye with a knowing grin.

He starts with Ghost.

You’re going to be the harder sell. Early in the relationship, the three of you had sat down to discuss this, and you had been unequivocal—no kids. You did not want children, and you did not want to be pregnant.

It was a sensory nightmare, you’d explained. The thought of sticky hands reaching out constantly to touch you, and shrill, high voices shouting and screaming, with no knob to turn down the volume, made you shudder with fear. Piles of toys to trip over, when your balance is medium on a good day, and no moment to sit down in silence without the risk of it being interrupted by some little goblin’s insatiable demands.

Put that way, Soap could see your point. He remembers his parents’ most exhausted days, dealing with no less than five children in the house and seven for birthdays and holidays. That kind of exhaustion would weigh on anyone, but for you, it would be a different beast entirely.

And Ghost was in accord—both for your sake, and his own. By then, he had told you and Soap about the Sonoran desert, Sparks and Washington, burning down his own house with four bodies still warm inside it—one smaller than the pool of blood it lay in.

He did not want to bring something into the world so easily taken out of it.

Soap could see that too. Certain moments in the field live permanently now in the folds of his brain, bloody and ugly and grisly in the way most people only encounter through fiction. Too real to him now not to look at his nieces and nephews sometimes with dread tearing up his gut.

Soap was outvoted. Moreover, he was convinced. So he kept his desires to himself.

But that evening after the party, he can’t stop thinking about it. A little bundle with his eyes, and your mouth, and Simon’s nose. Little hands curling around his fingers. A high chair at their dinner table, right next to his place. Bedtime stories. Halloween costumes. Friday night movies, like his Dad used to set up for him and his brother and sisters, popcorn fights during action scenes and falling asleep in piles on the floor.

Soap has always wanted children. Always. He thought he could give that up, being with you and Ghost—what’s between the three of you is rare, precious, more than worth having even by itself. He loves the life he has with his little family, and he wouldn’t change it.

But expansion isn’t exactly change, is it?

The more he thinks about it, the more right it feels. The more he can already feel the weight of his child in his arms. And he knows it would make the two of you happy, even despite the trepidation you and Ghost share. Neither he nor you grew up in happy homes overflowing with love—it’s natural that neither of you can see the potential of it.

But Soap did. Soap can.

He doesn’t mind being the visionary. He’s more than willing to lead the charge. He can do the work of opening his partners’ eyes—

And he’s not above fighting dirty to do it.

It starts with getting Ghost on his back. You’re out one night teaching an evening class (bento dinner in hand, an extra square of chocolate Soap snuck in at the last moment), so the next few hours are just for them, and Soap takes possession of every minute.

It’s always a sight. Ghost is the biggest man Soap has ever been with—and to have that huge body below him, fatty muscle red and quivering, hips rolling with a needy cant as Soap slowly drags his cock in and out of him, is something that never fails to take his breath away.

He massages his hands up and down Ghost’s chest, cupping his heavy pecs and thumbing his nipples as the big man’s eyes sink closed and his bitten mouth drops open. Between them, his cock, blustery red and standing straight up, twitches every time Soap pushes in, dripping clear and messy all over his stomach.

Ghost’s hands are vice-tight on Soap’s hips, but he doesn’t urge him to speed up, doesn’t snarl at him to get on with it, like he usually might. No—Soap set the mood just right, backing Ghost into the bedroom with soft kisses up his neck and softer hands wandering up his shirt. It’s honey-sweet and slow as dripping molasses, with Ghost hot and tight around him, their groaning breaths mingling as they hang there together in the moment.

Watching Ghost’s belly jump with pleasure, Soap says—breathlessly, as if letting it slip out—“I wanna get her pregnant, Simon.”

It’s only supposed to test the waters. Take Ghost’s temperature, see where his head’s at. Soap is ready for anything—for Simon to freeze, to glare at him, even to shove him away.

But instead—

“Fffffuck,” Ghost growls, chest expanding, stomach going concave as he heaves a deep breath in.

His brows screw together, upper lip curling, and he draws so tight around Soap that he has the delirious notion that Ghost is going to pull his cock clean off. If Ghost had been blushing before, he’s positively blazing now, red blooming bright across his face and chest and all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Soap knows immediately what’s happening—Ghost is on the razor’s edge of coming.

And all it took were those six little words.

“Yeah?” he presses, blending the long thrusts he’s kept steady until now into a few short, quick ones. “Yeah? You like that idea? Her all big with our baby, Si, something we put in her? Us?”

Ghost pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, throwing his head back. “Fuck—Johnny—” he snarls.

“Did y’see her with the wee ones?” Johnny croons, pressing the heels of his hands into Ghost’s stomach. “She’d be so good with a baby, Ghost, I know it. Our baby.”

Ghost starts panting, hard, grunting like an animal with every exhale. He’s never especially talkative during sex, unless it’s to give instruction or bark an order, but now it seems that language has completely abandoned him, as he tries to get Johnny to fuck him faster with the roll of his hips, trying to thrust his cock into the open air.

As if you’re already there, already taking him, and Ghost is trying to get himself as deep inside you as he can.

Johnny wraps one hand around it, sliding his fist loosely up and down. He can practically feel Ghost’s heartbeat plunging through every raised vein. If Johnny had the flexibility, he’d bend down right now just to get it in his mouth, but as it is he contents himself with getting Ghost’s precum all over his palm and licking it off with his tongue.

“Probably take a few tries,” says Soap, closing his hand back around Ghost’s cock. “Though with two of us, probably not long. Not if we go one right after the other, every time we can, aye?”

He pauses to spit on the red, exposed crown, circled round by thumb and fingers, so he can lube up his grip. Ghost’s dense, heavy thighs shake around his hips, as Soap thrusts his cock as deep as he can and slides his hand down to Ghost’s base. He mimics the squeeze of Ghost’s ass around him—the tightness of your cunt swallowing him up—as he jacks him off, up and down at the same time he pulls in and out.

“Fuck,” Ghost breathes, “Johnny, you—Johnny—”

“Sounds good, doesnae?” Soap says. “Gettin’ her between us, not stoppin’ ‘til somethin’ takes.”

“Fuck!” Ghost shouts, and then he’s gone, balls drawing up, a stream of white jetting out so hard it lands on his chest, right in the valley of his swelling pecs. Soap fucks him through it with his hand, and slams his hips hard against Ghost’s as as he chases his own end—

“Just—like—this,” Soap growls, tether snapping, and he empties himself as deep as he can into Ghost, cock pulsing as ecstasy pours up and down his stomach. He swears he can feel every drop of cum leaving him, and worries wildly that there won’t be enough left for you later, as the intensity of his orgasm seems to empty his balls of every last reserve.

He holds himself still for a moment after, still buried in his partner, nerves alight with an ecstasy so bright and so fervent that it’s sharp enough to cut him to the bone.

He feels very present. Anchored and secure in this place and time. At home, Soap struggles often with the feeling of being tugged in a hundred different directions, all at once, myriad urges to see, do, and act all clamoring at him for attention. It’s something that keeps him alive in the field—that keeps him thriving on deployment, really—but constantly on his toes when he’s home, all safe and sound.

Always searching, it feels like. Always looking for something he needs, and almost never finding it. The feeling quietens when Ghost curls his hand around the back of his neck, or you lean your head in close to his to kiss him or to speak.

Now—it’s silent.

A father. He’s going to be a father.

Panting heavily, Ghost finds his voice—at least, enough of it to start laughing.

“Spoiled brat, you are,” he chuckles in his steel-edged tenor. “You know that? Spoiled.”

Soap grins at him, caressing one thigh. “Your fault.”

“Mm,” Ghost hums, having long known that he’ll give Soap whatever he wants. The hard cut of his mouth is pulled into a wry smile. “She ain’t gonna fold so easy, Johnny.”

Soap pulls out of his partner, and crawls up to lay next to him. “I know. S’what I like abou’ her, after all.”

Ghost hums again. He lifts one arm to wrap around Soap’s shoulders, drawing him close, idly tapping his fingers on his tricep.

“You’re gonna have to get a desk job,” he says.

His tone is thoughtful, but Soap knows the words to be absolute.

Once you’d agreed to be theirs, Ghost had retired. It had surprised Soap and you both, but Ghost treated it as the most natural thing in the world. And it didn’t take very long, after the dust settled, for Soap to see why��you needed care, more than Soap had realized, and for Ghost, that need superseded any of his desire to remain in the field.

And Ghost was good at caring for you. It seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing: remembering what you liked to eat, helping you with your stretches, using the special brushes you had to wake your nerves up every morning. Putting together a schedule and keeping you on it, making sure you got to work on time and bringing you home at the end of every day.

And as you began to flourish in receiving his care, so too did Ghost flourish in giving it.

The hard edges of him softened. The sharp tones of his voice blunted. Soap saw Ghost become a steadier version of himself than he’d ever seen before—and he saw you blossom with a happiness that, at the inception of their odd relationship, had only begun to bud.

“Lookin’ after her is one thing,” continues Ghost. “I’m alright bein’ the hardass, ‘cause you make up for where I’m shit. But a kid’s different, Johnny. You don’t get to come and go as you like with a kid. It’s all, or nothin.’”

And Soap has to be honest with himself—a corner of his stomach clenches. There is a clarity in the smell of oil and gun smoke that he’s failed to find anywhere else.

But it does not dim the sunlight shining in his chest.

He knew it would happen someday, to old age if not a bullet. So to a baby?

Better than he really could have hoped.

He swings one leg over Ghost’s hips, and pushes himself up to straddle his partner. Ghost smirks beneath him, hands rounding the curves of his waist, sliding backward to palm Soap’s ass before traveling further down to squeeze his thighs.

“Gonna be fun, LT,” Soap agrees, grinning. “I hear pregnancy makes you horny as hell.”

“Bloody fucking hell, Soap,” Ghost snorts, lifting up to one elbow and dragging him down by the neck for a kiss.

next chapter early access

author's notes: y'all wore me down. I'm writing baby fic. What has the world come to

[rotting-inkblot]

Bouncing Bunny ~ {Autistic Bunny! Reader x Barry blurb}

Warnings: Suggestive, implied/referenced drug dealing

After a while of hanging out in Barry's bedroom, having had been told to stay in there while he was dealing with clients, he eventually comes back to find you seemingly trying to distract yourself from the noise of his business, scrolling through your phone and bouncing on his bed, making the cheap mattress squeak in a consistant pattern that gives you a sense of comfort. As soon as you hear the door shut behind him, you flick your gaze up to his, dropping your phone in your lap, "Hi."

"You really are a rabbit, damn." His words come with a half-laugh and cause you to tilt your head.

"Oh my god!" As soon as the realisation of exactly what he means hits you, you're a little shocked you didn't catch on any sooner, "Thats why you call me bunny?"

"Took ya long enough," stepping closer, Barry pushes a few strands of hair from your face and quickly pecks a kiss to the top of your head before grabbing his stash from the closet, dropping it down next to you, "you bounce and hop like a lil' bunny, shit's adorable. Makin' my bed squeak all on your own."

"When your clients are gone you can make it squeak with meee..." drawing out the last vowel, you can't help but laugh at the light shove he gives you and the grin the spreads on his face, putting on a fake pout and whining to tease him "I'm dying from lack of attention, big beeaar."

"Needy bunny," Barry grabs what he needs and shoves it all in his pockets, moving to stand directly in front of you and bend down into your personal space, making your cheeks flush as his nose brushes against yours, "gimme 10 minutes, you get all my attention after I get this bitch out, yeah?" When you only give him a nod and a hummed-out affirmation, he tuts and smiles, "Words f' me, bunny, I know you can still use 'em."

"Yes, sir."

"Good lil' rabbit."

[bunnis-monsters]

Hiii! Love your work!

If it's okay, I would like to send in an ask for your snow leopard hybrid. He is absolutely my favorite! This is so random but I was thinking of him with an autistic reader who is like constantly playing with his tail and ears. It's just the perfect stim toy because it's all warm and soft. I was thinking like she presses it to her cheeks or chest different parts of her body and bro can't help but get horny from it.

I know it's random and it's cool if you don't wanna do it, this has just been floating around in my mind for a while.

Have a good day/night/evening! :)))

He’s always been pretty patient with you, and tolerates pretty much everything.

You had a bit of an overstimulating day, so now all you want to do is cuddle with your lover.

His ears are soft and fluffy, fun to pet and tug on. With the right amount of scratching, he’ll begin to purr for you.

In all honesty his purring is soothing as well, so you play with his tail as he begins grooming your head. He swishes his tail a bit, smiling down at you fondly when you giggle and reach for it again.

Sometimes you’ll just bury your face into his fluff, too emotionally drained and overstimulated to talk or be playful. When that happens, he’s quiet, and will rub your back or play with your hair if you allow it.

Other, you rub a bit too much. Some days he’s more sensitive than others, and with all the petting and touching, he’ll get hard instantly.

Don’t worry, jerking him off feels nice too, and you like watching him cum all over your hands. He’s very affectionate with you after he’s had a nice orgasm, even more so than usual.

[ashlynlovestlou]

i've gotten two requests for this, so here's a little something for both of them :)

cw: abby anderson x reader , reader has autism , abby being a sweetheart , mention of sensory issues (food & clothes) , mention of hyper-fixations

masterlist

daily click

ꕤ₊˚ abby would definitely be the type to buy you all the things that you're hyper-fixated on. literally anything you're obsessed with, whether it be a movie or a book or an animal, she'd buy it for you because she loves the way your eyes light up whenever you get new things.

ꕤ₊˚ on the topic of hyper-fixations, she could spend hours and hours listening to you yap about the things you're passionate about. even if she doesn't necessarily care, she'd just sit by you and watch you talk, so enamored by the way you stutter because of how excited you are.

ꕤ₊˚ shes the most patient human being ever. if you were having a meltdown she'd ask if it was okay to stay with you. it you wanted to be alone, she'd leave you alone, but if you let her stay, even better. she'd stay with you until you'd calm down

ꕤ₊˚ if you two were ever out at a party or somewhere loud, she would make sure the loudness doesn't bother you. and if it did, she would have one hand on your shoulder and best believe she'd get you out of there

ꕤ₊˚ speaking of sensory issues, she is very aware of what triggers you and what doesn't. every time you would come over she would make your favorite foods, or at least your safe ones.

ꕤ₊˚ aside from food, i feel like she would also have a bag of your comfort clothes in her car or a drawer in her dresser for them. just in case you need to change into something that doesn't bother you as much.

in other words, this girl is downBAD for you and would do anything to make you happy :)

[sadembryhours]

can please you write about an autistic readerx Peter Parker or Gilbert Blythe? (if you could do romantic that’s would be nice but you do whatever you want✨) I think they would be PERFECT for this!!! Thank you! ❤️❤️❤️

burning candles! ♥︎ tasm!peter parker

synopsis : autistic!reader waits for peter to find someone better. [that time never comes]

cw ; comfort , not all autistic people are the same, this is just how it is for me! , lowercase intended , [name] used in place of y/n

if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.

there’s a puzzle in front of you, half-done as the steaming mug beside you warms the air. there are headphones on your ears, playing the video you’d been thinking about all day.

placing the last blue-colored piece, you take a small break to stretch your limbs. after looking at the full size picture, you decide yellow will be the chosen color next. you blink, eyes tired and back aching but your mind refusing to let you rest until the puzzle is done.

a small, hesitant tap hits your left shoulder. you jump slightly, head turning slowly to see beat up converse falling off of mismatched socks. you sigh, “hi, peter.”

“hey, lovey.” he smiles — you can’t see it with your back to him, but you can hear the grin he holds. a soft brush to your back before he sits on the chair behind you. “wanna join me up here for a bit?”

you do, placing your headphones on the table and grabbing your drink. you allow peter to grab you, maneuvering your body until you’re sideways on his lap. he sighs happily, “missed you today.”

you smile, eyes still on your favorite mug. “missed you, too. your cologne smells nice.”

“it’s new!” peter grins again. his nose hits your temple, lips popping onto your cheekbone, trailing down to your cheek slowly. “glad you like it. thought you would.”

the room grows quiet as peter scrolls through his phone, his left hand rubbing your back. you take a peek at his feed, dimming a bit at how fun it looked. pool parties ; clubbing ; long drives that lead to a road trip — you felt like you made him miss out on it all.

“will you get bored of me?”

peter pauses, his thumb hovering over his phone. you stiffen, nails grinding against the ceramic in your hands. “why would you ask that?”

you shrug and try to divert him — try to change the subject. it’s too late, though, as peter sets his phone down and focuses on you. “[name]. why would i get bored of you?”

“im not very fun,” you admit. you glance at him fleetingly, seeing how sincere and warm his eyes were. “i stay in and do boring things like puzzles. you might want to do more and i won’t let you.”

“you don’t force me here against my will.” peter’s tone is aghast — offended almost as he speaks. his hold tightens momentarily as he scoots you closer. “i like watching you do things you enjoy. even if you think they’re boring.”

your gaze falls again as you adjust his phone to sit the way you want it to. your fingers curl at the habit, pulling your hand away from it slowly. “even when i do things like that?”

“yeah,” he lets out a breathy laugh. “it makes you feel better. that’s all i care about — your comfort.”

your eyebrows furrow, nose scrunching. “that’s weird. you should care for yourself more.”

peter laughs again, his nose poking your temple as he kisses the side of your ear. “that’s what you’re for, hm?”

——♥︎——

you didn’t specify which peter this was for, so i hope this is okay ♥︎ thank you for your request!!

sadembryhours © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know.

[petaldarling]

"and I am the idiot with the painted face,"

a/n: they notice you masking! :3

cw: cursing, autism, poor explanation of masking (i sort of only found out I was masking a few months ago lol)

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

RAHHHHH I LOVE COMFORT RAHHHH

[a-spes]

I was thinking about what going out with Wanda and Nat' as an autistic person would be like, because I feel they would be such supportive and accommodating girlfriends.

I feel like they would be absolutely perfect at anticipating your meltdowns because they know you so well that they've learned to read the signs.

—

You went to the restaurant with them and a part of the team for a girls night. You were having a great time and everything was going fine, until it was not anymore.

Quickly, everything became too much. The sound of the cutlery, the people eating, walking, talking, .. it is all giving you the urge to rip your ears off so you could eventually be at peace. It is getting so loud, and so obsessing, that you can't think about anything else.

Obviously, they saw what was happening before you did. It always happens that way, because you keep pushing your boundaries, always refusing to acknowledge the signs of an upcoming meltdown.

But they do.

The women know the signs. There is no chance that they would miss the way you stopped talking a moment ago, how you are not eating anymore, you fork playing with your food without actually taking a bite. There is also that slight frown on your face that betrays your worries. It is obvious that you are getting more restless as the minutes go by — you wouldn't stop shifting in your seat, unable to find a comfortable position.

You were sitting in front of them. You are the one who insisted on taking this specific place, if it was up to them, you would have spent the dinner between them, but you wanted to be as close as possible from Kate and Yelena. They are funnier — but you wouldn't tell that to Wanda and Natasha, you don't want to get in trouble.

“Come here, baby. You should definitely have a bite of my meal, you would love it,” she calls, and you don't hesitate a second before joining her, sitting on her lap when she silently asks you to do it. The meal was just an excuse because the woman is aware that you would have never admitted your struggles if she had simply asked if you were fine.

She feeds you a first bite, then handing you the fork so you can take more of the meal by yourself. It allows her free hands to find a place on your ears that they are now covering. Her touch is soothing, especially with her thumb running circles on your scalp, and so is her gesture. It may doesn't dumb down the world completely but, at least, it makes everything a little more bearable.

In the meanwhile, Natasha left to buy some headphones at the nearest shop. Unfortunately, they have forgotten yours at home. Yet, she doesn't care about spending hundreds on new ones — partly because it is Tony's money, mainly because she thinks you deserve it. When she comes back, less than fifteen minutes later, and eventually put the headphones in your ears, it feels like bliss. The world is eventually quiet, and you feel like you can properly breathe for the first time in the past hour.

[blckbrrybasket]

Disruption of Mind

Rafe Cameron x Autistic!Gn!reader

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: (quick) strangers to lovers, overstimulation, very slight angst, mainly fluff, Topper

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.4k

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: canon divergent 🩶

Rafe and you had been dating for almost a year now. It was odd when he was finally left to find peace after Ward died. He had decided to stay in the Outer Banks, wanting to get serious. Obviously though, Rafe would still throw a party here and there. That’s how he met you.

He had found you speeding away from the party up the stairs. At first Rafe had assumed you were somewhat shady, running away so briskly, so he’d followed you. That thought was soon squashed when he saw your hand covering your ear, shoulder pressed to the other as you tried the knobs of different rooms. You definitely seemed more upset than trying to bang someone where you shouldn’t be.

Rafe’s brows furrowed when he followed you into his room that had swung open under your command. “You good?” He almost jumped when you did, your body pivoting towards him. Your eyes were wide and frantic and you sputtered over your words. “Shit- sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” You nodded rapidly, too rapid for comfort and jerked your head to the door. “Too loud,” was the first thing he heard from you and he automatically closed the door.

There was a pause as Rafe considered the odd situation. “Better?” He prompted and looked over his shoulder at you. You slowly nodded and sunk to the floor, Rafe mirroring you shortly thereafter. What else was he supposed to do? Sure he could kick you out but he wasn’t blind. Something was up. Somehow he picked up to be quiet and he made no move to speak, even when your breathing evened out. Eventually you had apologized, embarrassed, yet he hadn’t accepted it.

To him there was no reason to say sorry and that thought only solidified when you hurriedly explained that you were overstimulated, a somewhat common occurrence. A few years ago Rafe would probably have had a different reaction, not able to understand so easily, but nowadays he liked the silence. He could relate to not wanting to have so many people around you. And while that wasn’t the only thing your autism affected he didn’t care, it was just another part of you.

That night he’d brought food up to you, leaving you with his number when you inevitably left.

Months later Rafe found himself with four tickets to go see Gunna in concert. It was a given that he invited Kelce and Topper, but he also wanted to invite you. If he could he would take you everywhere with him. The two of you ran over how the venue would be smaller with no seating, but you’d prep and bring headphones in case of overstimulation. Rafe was hesitant, not wanting to force you into an uncomfortable encounter. However, it was one of his favorite rappers and you’d do damn near anything to make him happy. How could you pass up the once in a lifetime opportunity?

After hours of reassurance that you’d be fine he was finally at ease with the idea of you coming along. He was excited, truly. Rafe had made sure that the group would arrive a bit early to secure a good spot without being trapped against the railing. By the time you made it to the front of the space, Rafe kept his arm around your waist, promising enough room for you in the crowd.

His tall figure bent to rest his chin on your head. “Havin’ fun?” Rafe murmured to you as the opener started, and you were. It was effortless to become fully immersed, jumping when instructed, happily yelling the lyrics, and leaning against Rafe for support when the crowd shifted. Being lost in the excitement caused a challenge to tell when you were reaching your limits. Kelce and Topper had retreated to the back after a while to grab waters. When they hadn’t come back the two of you figured the crowd had closed in, and they wouldn’t be able to come back to the front again.

You didn’t pay too much attention to their absence as you sang along and bobbed next to Rafe. He was too captivated by how ecstatic you seemed to care about the others. Time seemed to pass on its own, hours ticking by in seconds. Neither of you noticed how long it’d been till the crowd erupted, demanding for an encore. Seemingly brought down to reality, Rafe intertwined his hand with yours and used his height to weave through the crowd. People eagerly made room for you to pass, eager to get slightly closer to the rails.

Dazed by the loud music and lights you felt like you were floating through the venue. Luckily, Rafe caught Kelce and Topper’s eye and nodded towards the exit, signaling it was time to leave. They didn’t put up a fight, aware that the crowd was about to get worse when everyone made their way out. Leaving a song or two early always helped avoid shoving their way back to Rafe’s truck.

Once you pushed open the doors, the cool night air brushed against your flushed face. Rafe immediately turned to check if you were doing okay. Seeing your radiant smile made his heart soar. “Doing okay?” He spun you around to face him, hand falling to the small of your back when you bumped into him with a giggle. “Yes! Oh my god, Rafe, that was amazing.” A grin spread across his face as he couldn’t resist scooping you into his arms, dashing to his truck.

Behind him, Topper and Kelce protested having to run. “Keep up then!” He shouted above your laughter. Maybe if you hadn’t been so swept up you would have realized the signs of overstimulation creeping in, or if you had taken a moment to breathe you would have recognized the overwhelming nature of the situation. Sometimes you aren't able to, nobody is perfect. As Rafe flung open the door and helped you in your seat you felt the high energy beginning to fade.

It was an almost dreadful feeling, but you pushed through it. Adapt and overcome, wasn’t that the saying? You didn’t want to spoil anyone’s night! Yet you certainly didn’t expect the volume of Topper and Kelce when they hopped into the truck. They went on to scold a smug Rafe who simply turned on the truck, engine revving and music coming on. The overlapping stimulants hit your ears all at once, your brain near spasming at the speed of the environment changing.

The conglomerate voices made it hard to discern who was talking and what was happening. “Yo, you good?” Kelce tried, but failed to get an answer from you. The question drew the attention of Rafe as you leaned forward to try and turn the music off. God why were there so many dials on his stereo? The frantic movement of your hands desperately shutting down the sound dawned on Rafe. You were overstimulated.

Far too overwhelmed to realize it was mainly quiet now, aside from the radio and Topper, you tapped away at the controls. Rafe reached over, making sure not to hit your hand in the process, and shut off the music entirely. “Shut the fuck up.” One sentence from Rafe but it was enough for Topper to snap his mouth shut. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” You whispered in embarrassment, covering your face with your shaking hands.

Rafe leaned over to press a chaste but tender kiss to the backs of them. “Can I touch you?” He murmured. Normally, he’d mull over how Topper and Kelce perceived him, but not now. Not when you needed him. You nodded slowly, tensing momentarily when the palm of his hand settled on your head. He didn’t stay still for long, gently stroking your hair down to sooth you. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. It happens.”

“But-“ you started, but Rafe shut it down. “Nah. No but’s. We’re all fine, and ‘m sure Top and Kelce are too.” Rafe’s stern look at the two had them stiffening. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all good as long as you’re good,” Kelce responded. Topper sighed as if he were going to protest until he conceded. Honestly he was more pissed at Rafe snapping at him. “I’m fine…can we still listen to music though?”

“Topper,” Kelce groaned in annoyance at his insistence. You looked between the seats and smiled at Topper. “It’s okay.” And maybe it was, but they were all thankful that you couldn’t see the deadly look in Rafe’s eye. “We’ll play your playlist a’ight babe?” Hearing the tension in his voice you peered up at Rafe. “Are you okay?” Instantly, he softened at your gaze. “Always when I’m with you.”

As Rafe began to drive, he left his hand open and inviting on the console for you to hold whenever you felt comfortable.

[gofishygo]

when price first talks to autistic reader, he doesn't get why they're not making eye contact- because he's, y'know, an old man, he finds it disrespectful. is leaning over a tiny bit and searching for your gaze, only for you to keep looking away.

but when he does figure it out by looking through your files, he puts a steady hand on your shoulder instead. it's a way for him to feel connected to you when he's speaking and his touch is nice for grounding you when the never-ending buzz of the barracks gets too loud.

[unkn0wn-writing]

Hiccup x G/N, Autistic Reader

Summary: You hide away from the rest of Berk and Hiccup finds you.

Warnings: Descriptions of behaviour the reader does. Tried to keep it as neutral as possible, but I don't think it completely worked.

Word Count: 1.3k

Notes: None

If Hiccup had to pick a word for you he wouldn’t be able to find one. At least, not one that he thinks completely fits you.

There are words that may work, but not fully. They’re only half of who you are.

You’re… a strange one. But suppose that he is as well. He isn’t the typical Viking one might think of.

But you’re drifting off from conversations that don’t keep your interests, always on the outskirts of whatever it is the other Vikings are talking about.

It doesn’t help that they don’t try to include you in the conversations either.

Ruffnut grumbled about how you hadn’t gone along with her and her brother's midday idea that they’d sprung up on you. You’d drifted away from them, ever so slowly, as they spoke over each other and argued about it.

Fighleg murmured about your aversion to some of the items in the dragon fighting arena. It had been after the fighting rather than mid-fighting, luckily enough. He’d also mentioned to Hiccup how you seemed so intrigued by one of the textures you’d been given in the past.

Astrid had once spoken about how you’d do some odd movements or echo phrases other people had said or hum to yourself. But she’d also spoken of how quiet you are. Days where you’d say nothing, just remain silent. Either drifting away from people or staying too close.

Snotlout also spoke of how you’d distance yourself from other people. it seemed more of a complaint than making a note about who you are, however.

Stepping around Berk carefully - half to get used to the new leg, half to just take his time and see how much it’s all changed - he frowns (more to himself than anyone else).

Unable to see you, he treks onwards, Toothless bounding up beside him and following wherever he goes. The dragon’s hovering (can dragons hover?) around him as he moves.

“I’m fine,” he says as Toothless slightly moves into his path, as if trying to get him to go back and sit down.

Toothless makes a vaguely annoyed noise at him and he nods his head with a roll of his eyes.

“Sure, sure, sure. I can go back in a bit. I’m fine for the minute. What - what’s that look for? It’s the truth.”

Once more, Toothless grumbles back at him. He huffs, but continues onwards. Bending down and passing by low branches.

He doesn’t feel you’d be in here, but so far, everywhere else he’d tried he hadn’t found you.

It’s either this, you’ve disappeared off to somewhere or you’re really good at hiding. Or he forgot to check some other place.

He’s not sure which is the most likely.

Huffing as he whacks some twigs out of the way, he shakes his head. Trekking onwards, his eyes shift around. Meeting only green, green, more green and some brown from the trees.

No sign of you just yet.

Toothless hops ahead of him, seeming to no longer want to try to get him back to the main island of Berk to rest and just going along with Hiccup.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t too long for the dragon to give up. Or not surprisingly.

Nearly stumbling over an overgrown root, he grasps out for something. Hands reaching the sharp bark of a tree and smooth scales of Toothless.

“Thanks,” he says, wiping his hands on his vest then continuing onwards.

A little further, then he’ll turn back if he can’t find you. Just a little more.

Shaking his head, it dips, hair hanging over his eyes as he focuses on the forest floor and not falling again.

Eyes roving around the space once more, he lets out a short breath.

Not here, so far.

Just where could you be?

You can’t have run off to just anywhere. From what he’s heard, you stick to the same few places if something happens to upset you. All the one’s he’s checked so far you aren’t there.

Where could you be?

Glancing around once more reveals he’s lost Toothless.

How did he lose a dragon? One of life’s greatest mysteries.

Pushing through a few bushes, he huffs a breath. Now he’s looking for a person and a dragon. Who could he possibly find first?

Both, actually.

At the exact same time.

You’re sat beside a bubbling creek, limbs brought close together. Cuddling into yourself, almost. The water spits out at you, but it never reaches your skin.

Toothless is beside you. He’s fidgeting, sitting down then getting back up. The dragon finally decides to settle beside you, laying down on the rock you’d perched yourself on.

“Hey,” he says, clearing his throat after. You glance behind yourself for a moment, checking he’s there, then you move back to stare ahead.

Strange is a word to describe you. He’d consider this all quite strange, really.

But he doesn’t feel it fully encapsulates this movement. It’s not… too strange, he thinks.

In the past, even without meaning too, he’d heard whispers of you. Running away, hiding from the world, until you later come out as the same person as before.

This…

You don’t seem completely like the same person as before. Not here. Not beside the creek that kicks up water every so often then settles back down.

“Hey,” he says. You glance over at him as his voice rebounds across the unending space you’ve kept a secret. He’d tried to keep his tone soft, but it still echoes about the two of you, as if he’d still spoken far too loud.

“Everyone thought we’d lost you,” he says, aiming for a joke. He just gets a shake of your head and you look away from him in reply.

Days in the past, there had also been days in which you’d not speak to them. You’d just sit quietly, letting people try to talk to you and not receive a response or you’d try get them to leave you alone.

Today seems like it might be one of those days. One where you just want to be left alone with no one to bother you. Just you and the creek to keep you company.

However, you don’t try to get him to leave as he slowly draw closer to you.

He considers his options. Asking you what happened wouldn’t be the best; you likely wouldn’t give a response.

Maybe asking how he could help would work better? But, then again, it might not. You still might not answer.

So… seeing if he can stay with you seems like the best solution. If you’ll allow him.

“Is this space taken?” he asks, motioning to the space beside where you're sat. Eyes draw over to it, up to him, then away.

No response, but you’re not shooing him away. At least, not yet.

Toothless lets out a low warble from beside you. Not one that’s upset or angered, it’s more close to contentment.

Or the dragon’s telling Hiccup to stop being an idiot. He can never completely tell which it might be in those moments.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. You look back at him. Slowly, almost hesitantly. But not hesitantly?

It takes a short while before you seem to respond. Even then, it isn’t verbal. You just nod.

Hiccup nods back. He settles on the floor, Toothless wrapping himself around you both.

Neither of you speak during the time. He gazes out, watching the sky or the trees whistle along.

At some point, he takes his small notepad out to make notes.

You don’t move much. He doesn’t force you to. He doesn’t try to make you speak or talk about… this, letting you remain there. A presence for him and him a presence for you.

It’s relaxing. It’s nice.

By the time the sun sets, he still doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he feels you’re… better? Somehow?

Less tense, he thinks is the right wording for it.

It’s nice.

Eyes moving to the sky, he hums then motions to you, “want to go back?”

Still, you don’t reply. But at his offered hand, you stand and quietly follow him back into Berk.

[eowynstwin]

anatidae - conception, ii.

After several happy years together, Ghost and Soap finally convince you to have their child. - ghoap x reader. audhd reader. reader has a nickname. established relationship. polyamory. baby fever. manipulative Soap. manipulative Ghost. smut. breeding kink. double penetration. sex as manipulation. - Masterlist. Ao3

previous

The temperature changes.

Mary gives birth in the fall of that year. Four children—she now has four children, only a year or two separating each, and just the thought of that many loud, unpredictable kids in one house is enough to make your head hurt and your heart speed up.

You don’t dislike children, not in the slightest—often, you’ve found them to be better company than many adults, much smarter than usually given credit for and often much kinder.

The trick of it is simply in being honest with them, and giving them the space to be honest with you too. Most people your age are uncomfortable with such directness; but kids, you’ve learned, not only need it, but crave it, in a world that usually dismisses their hunger for understanding.

It’s not difficult to realize that you relate to them, more than just a little. The world around you has never not felt inscrutable. To feel that way, and to also not be able to pick your own bedtime? You feel more sorry for them than you expect most everyone else does.

It’s just that…well, they’re also children.

Loud, grabby, demanding black holes of need for care and feeding on a constant basis, with ever-evolving desires that are impossible to keep up with. Sticky nearly all the time, and impossible to reason with when they get a notion in their head that they won’t let go of. Irrational, unreasonable, hypersensitive to the slightest discomfort, and once you think you’ve figured them out the day changes, and they become different beasts entirely, based seemingly on no rationale whatsoever.

More trouble than they’re worth, you think, no matter how much you may relate to them.

You and your men arrive at the hospital just a few hours after the delivery, and are ushered into a room in the maternity ward that’s already stuffed to the brim. Soap’s mother, Mary’s husband and children, and a few other members MacTavish clan, cousins or second cousins or something, along with balloons and flowers in as many corners as will hold them.

Mary, on the bed, is wan, sweaty, and gently smiling. Her arms encircle a tiny bundle against her chest, swaddled in pink blankets.

“Well done, Mar,” Soap enthuses, going to her bedside to kiss her cheek. He gazes down at his new niece, eyes soft. “Looks just like you.”

“Thank god,” his younger sister Beth enthuses, elbowing Mary’s husband with a teasing grin. Ian gives a sheepish smile; he’s almost as haggard as his wife, having spent the entirety of her labor at her bedside.

Conversation ebbs and flows around the room; you let it wash over you without trying to participate. The lights are fluorescent overhead, and the hospital is busy outside the door. There’ll be an angry buzz in your head when you get home.

Simon, who understands, keeps a heavy arm around you, huge hand curled over your hip and gently rubbing. You focus on Johnny, still smiling, eyes sparkling, as he nudges into the bundle with one index finger.

Simon’s hand tightens. He pulls you tighter into his body.

A little spark. Something tickling the back of your neck.

Johnny, with gentle, steady hands, lifts the bundle from Mary’s arms and draws it into his own. It’s tiny, even with the blanket corners spilling over his broad forearms, light pastel against hirsute sun-brown. The corners of his eyes crinkle, mouth curling, and then—he looks up at you with a diamond-bright gaze.

Simon speaks, with an odd, soft quality to his voice, charged like a sweater from a tumble dryer. “Well, let’s get a look, sergeant.”

Johnny approaches, and brings the baby into view.

Small. So small. A little face, squished by nine months of tight development, and even smaller hands, slight fingers curled up by round, red cheeks. It isn’t pretty, not in the slightest, but it looks as fragile as spun glass. You’re struck with a sudden relief at the full swell of Soap’s biceps, one pillowing the baby’s head; you’d trust very few people without his strength to keep such a delicate little life safe.

And it is a life, isn’t it? Even so small. You reach out to touch the tips of your fingers to the baby’s hands, and find them as warm and soft as Mary’s belly had been, the one time she invited you to feel the baby kick inside her.

“Mary, was it very hard?” you find yourself asking. Even small—this came out of her body. “Do you feel alright?”

Mary laughs. “I’m alright, Duck.” Everyone in Soap’s family uses the nickname they’d given you, rather than your actual name. “And as she’s my fourth, no, it wasnae so bad.”

Soap recaptures your attention with glowing eyes. “Hold her, Duckie.”

“What?” you say. Heat rushes to your face. “No, I—I don’t know how.”

“Yeah, y’do,” he murmurs. He rumbles with a low brogue, accent stronger with some strange intensity. “Come oan, it’s alrigh’.”

“Hold her,” echoes Ghost. “We won’t let you drop her.”

With tentative arms, you reach out, and Soap carefully shifts the baby into your hold.

So small. Warm, from the heat of Soap’s chest and from the baby’s own body. Heavier than you expect, even despite weighing almost nothing at all. You crane your head down to look closer at the baby’s face; her tiny nostrils flare, just the slightest, with every whisper of breath she takes, and before your eyes, her little mouth suddenly opens wide in a yawn, fists curling and relaxing, as she shifts and settles.

Soap in front of you, hands cupping your elbows, toes of his shoes touching yours; Ghost a crescent around you, making you a shield of his body. You, headache forgotten, the rest of the room suddenly fallen away.

The baby in your arms, at the very epicenter of you and your partners.

Some line of tension connects between Simon and Johnny; you feel it pull taut, though you don’t know why.

“Hello,” you say to Mary’s daughter, something moving inside you. “Hello, baby.”

Back at home, they pull you into the bedroom. Something spools around the three of you, drawing tighter, narrowing the space between your bodies. Their hands splay around the curves of your body, slipping beneath your clothes and gently easing them off, as you trade warm, wet kisses between the three of you.

“Want you t’take both of us, alright?” Soap murmurs in your ear, on your heels as Ghost tugs you toward the bed.

You nod, already lightheaded. You’re dizzy with unexpected want for them, keyed up from Soap climbing into the backseat for the drive home to tongue your neck and squeeze your breasts over your shirt. The both of them have been oddly intense since the hospital, barely speaking, and if you didn’t know them as well as you do now, you might have been afraid they were angry.

But no—you recognize it for the single-minded pursuit that it is. The undivided focus on their objective that they have honed on the whetstone of constant deployment.

The energy of that focus buzzes between them as Ghost pulls you over him to straddle his hips, and Soap works both hands between your legs to get you ready to take him. Keyed up as you are, it takes very little time before Ghost is sliding into you without a whisper of resistance, his girth stretching you tight and snug enough to take what little remains of your breath away.

It culminates with Soap working a plug into you from behind while you ride Ghost, your front flush to his, with heavy tattooed arms banded around you to hold you down. Their combined body heat swelters the room, dewing your skin with perspiration that pearls up every place their skin meets yours.

“Breathe out for me, Duckie,” Soap croons, massaging the fat of one cheek, and circling the rim of your ass with the plug’s tip. “Push out for me a little—that’s it, what a good girl.”

A high, strangled noise escapes you, muffled by your face pressed into Ghost’s chest, one huge hand of his spread over the back of your head. Slick with warm lube, the toy stretches you, stretches you, wider and wider until it pops in and seats itself—and then you feel the weight of Soap’s cock land over it.

Neither of them say anything. Ghost’s girth draws you even tighter with the addition of the toy, sliding slowly in and out of you as he rolls his hips between your thighs. All that populate the bedroom are the shared moans and groans coming from the three of you as Ghost fucks you at a languid pace and Soap presses your cheeks together to frot between them.

You don’t have to do anything; they manipulate you as they please, hands greedy for your bare skin, bodies moving against yours with no hurry to get anywhere very fast.

Ghost’s breath is steady and strong in his chest, wiry chest hair prickling against your cheek as you rub your face on it. His skin is hot beneath your spread palms. Humidity gathers between the three of you, sheening your skin, warm and cloying and sticky.

Soap’s hands slide from your ass up your flanks, and then he’s lifting you away from Ghost’s chest to bring your back to his front—trapping his cock against the small of your back as his arms wrap around you, and his chin nestles in the crook of your neck and shoulder. Ghost’s hands descend along your hips to sink into the fat of your thighs.

Slowly, decadently, Soap cups your breasts with spread hands, caressing around them, pressing them up against your chest and playing the tips of his fingers along the hard beads of your nipples. He lowers them slowly and skims his hands down your ribcage to cup underneath the softest part of your belly, pressing divots just above your mons, massaging, up and down, over your hips and back to your stomach.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs into your shoulder, as one hand falls to nestle around your clitoris, which pulses hard and hot with arousal. He moves his hips idly against your back, the hot line of his cock a slow piston from cleft to sacrum.

“Gorgeous,” Ghost agrees. “Our girl.”

You seize your bottom lip with your teeth, breath stuttering in your lungs, and turn your head aside—you can never look directly at them when they praise you, even though whenever they do it feels as though the sun is rising in your chest.

“So good to us,” Johnny says, wrapping a brawny arm around your shoulders, resting his head against yours to murmur the words directly into your ear.

His voice is low and husky, purring. A predator to its mate. He rests your full weight against him as Ghost moves in and out of you, unhurried, languid; slow enough to let you feel every inch of him entering, and leaving, and entering you again, cockhead reaching so far into you with every thrust that he brushes lightly against the plug of your womb.

Their eyes hadn’t left you the moment you’d accepted the baby into your arms—electric. So intense you could feel the tingle of it everywhere their gazes landed.

“Even when we don’t deserve it,” says Simon, thumbs drawing little circles into the insides of your thighs. “Love you, Duck.”

“So much,” Johnny echoes. “You give us so much, bonnie girl.”

Heat suffuses your entire body, gathering where one of Johnny’s fingers taps against your clit. Simon lifts his hips to push into you, all the way to the wide base of his cock, so deep and so tight that your first orgasm of the night spills out and floods you, lighting up every nerve, fireworks popping between every place your body meets theirs. You squirm in Soap’s arms, ecstasy hijacking your control as scratch your nails across his thighs.

Soap gives you a moment to catch your breath, still caressing your belly, and then purrs, “You think you can take me now?”

“Y—” you stammer, voice lost to the ebbing climax, “y-yes.”

“Come here,” Ghost says, wrapping his hands around your wrists, and Soap lets you go to lay back down on top of Ghost’s chest.

The bigger man cups your jaw with one broad hand and tilts your face up to his, pressing his mouth to yours, open and hot with his labored breaths. He licks between your teeth, messy and wet as Soap eases the plug out, and you hear behind you the sound of a cap popping open.

Warm lube dripping between your cheeks, and Soap pushing it in with the blunt end of his thumb. He slides in to his first knuckle, digging his fingertips into the swell. Then, withdrawing, the slick sound of his hand around his cock, up and down, right before he presses the head into the tight furl of your hole.

“Push out for me again, aye?” he murmurs, laying a lube-sticky hand on your lower back.

You mindlessly comply, still distracted with Ghost’s mouth, and slowly, so slowly, Soap works himself in, easing his way with shallow, testing thrusts, soothing you when you whine at the burn by wedging his hand between your and Ghost’s body’s to pet at your clit.

He finds the right angle, and then in one, smooth, easy motion, Soap slides in to the base, filling you up so swiftly you gasp high and sharp, and they both shush you, four hands sweeping up and down your body to calm even the spark of any tension. Your heart thrums in your chest, in your neck, all the way down in your clitoris, and you pant as Soap leans over you to paint kisses on your shoulders and along the knobs of your spine.

Soap drops his weight over you and cages you in with his arms on either side of you, rocking his hips, moving his cock against Ghost’s with only the slightest membrane separating them. Ghost holds still, letting you acclimate, distracting you with soft, warm kisses, tongue curling around yours as he reaches over you to fit his hands around Soap’s ass.

You’re so…full. If you thought the plug had stretched you out before, it’s nothing compared to this—your partners claim every bit of empty space inside you and make more for them to fit. Neither of them are small men, and they fill you so tightly you wonder how you don’t simply burst from it. You can barely breathe; you can barely think with the both of them inside you.

But it feels right. It always feels right. Soap, and Ghost, with you between them. You, filling in the mismatched spaces where they don’t quite fit together—them, slotting right into every place you need them.

More together than simply the sum of all three—

“You want one just like it?” Soap murmurs, moving against you, thighs flexing behind yours.

“Want…one…?” you repeat, dizzy, breathless, flattened by his weight pressing you down into Ghost’s body.

“Want us to put a baby in you, Duckie?” Ghost asks. He gives a smooth roll of his hips up into you, punching the remaining air from your lungs. “Give you something back, for all you give us?”

Hands tighten on you; then their thrusting quickens, uncoordinated, their huge bodies corrading you between them.

“I—I—” you stammer, as Ghost finds your hand and wedges his fingers between yours—the other sliding up to cup the back of Soap’s neck.

“Cannae stop thinkin’ abou’ it,” Johnny says, hot breath in your ear, pressing kisses along the back of your neck. “Our baby in your belly, Duckie, ours.”

“It wouldn’t—” you pant, “it couldn’t—”

“Don’t try to figure it out, Duck,” Ghost says, soothing, but firm. “You don’t need to. He’s just talkin.’ Let ‘im talk.”

“Would be so grand,” Soap slurs. “Jesus, it’s all I think abou’ now. Wan’ to fuck you every day, fill you up with us, ‘til it’s leaking out of you all the time, Duckie, every minute, ‘til somethin’ takes, an’ then we’re always in you. And then you’re so big and full of us it’s got to come out—”

Heat bolts through you, searing your face. Fire in your belly heats your breath, burns your esophagus as you pant against Ghost’s chest. You squirm between them, chasing the spark dancing just in the vicinity of your clitoris, but there’s no room for you to move between them, surrounded on all sides by their thrusting bodies.

“Oh,” you moan, warmth gathering inside you, thinking of tightness and heaviness, feeling the solid weight of their hands on you.

“That sound nice, Duckie?” Ghost murmurs in your ear. He lets you and Soap go, and drags his hands down to your ass cheeks, gripping with wide fingers and spreading them for Soap to admire what’s happening between them. “You want us to get you pregnant, sweetheart?”

“Take such good care of you,” Soap continues, “both of you, Duckie, we would. Our little family.”

“Johnny’d need some training,” Ghost murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but don’t worry, I’d get him there.”

“I—” you try to say, “I—I don’t, I…”

They don’t let up—Ghost pushing into you as Soap pulls out, so that you’re not empty for even the stretch of a heartbeat. It doesn’t give you a single clear moment to think, to find that rational, logical part of you that is ready to argue at a moment’s notice why childbearing and child rearing is such a horrible idea.

Instead, all you think about is the bundle in Soap’s strong arms—and how you wished, very suddenly, you could’ve seen Ghost hold it, too.

“It,” you pant, the force of their bodies jostling the breath from your lungs, “it sounds—nice—ahh!”

They fill you at the same time, all the way to the root, and grind you between them with tight, quick movements of their hips. It rips the cord of your orgasm, and you clamp around the both of them so tightly it would risk forcing them out if they weren’t so adamantly pushing in—you seize up between them, throwing your head back to land in the cradle of Soap’s shoulder, and dig your nails into Ghost’s pectorals, jaw slack as you jerk with every intense wave.

“Ah—ah—ahh!” you wail, as they fuck you through it, hands gripping you, chasing climax with ramming hips, and then liquid warmth floods you, fast and thick, so much you feel it spill out of you and start mixing as it drips down.

They don’t stop—

“Come on, again, bonnie, we can get you there again, come on,” Soap growls in your ear. “We’re still hard, come on, come on.”

Hands—you don’t know whose—wedge between your bodies, and fingers touch the live wire in your clitoris, circling roughly, and the scream of a frightened animal escapes your throat as they yank you right back over the edge. You finish a third time without having begun, locked in place and unable to escape it, and you can only thrash against them, sanding yourself against the hard planes of their bodies until, finally, they take their hands away.

Heavy, humid breaths; movement settles as the three of you pause to catch them. Soap pulls out first, but Ghost makes no move to, and they shift so that he can turn and lay you on your side without slipping out.

Soap pushes your leg up to hook over Ghost’s hip, and curls his thigh up under yours. They press you between them like a flower, tight and snug, and exchange a kiss over your shoulder as you shift between them, getting comfortable.

“Ghost,” you say, feeling their cum begin to cool on the insides of your thighs. You want to wipe off before it and the sticky mixture of your and their sweat all across your skin begins to dry.

“Little longer,” he murmurs. He presses his mouth to the crown of your head, and cups your jaw with loving hand.

Soap snorts quietly and kisses the back of your neck. “He’s jus’ keepin’ you warm for me, Duckie.”

He slips his hand between your and Ghost’s chests to curve it around one of your breasts, thumb finding the nipple. You make a soft sound in your throat, overstimulated, but unwilling to beg him off.

You lay like that for a little while, the three of you, curled into each other’s bodies and sharing your evening breaths. You would get cold, sweaty and naked as you are, but their combined heat cocoons you, cradling you in a soft warmth that, if you closed your eyes long enough, would lull you to sleep.

But something runs its fingers down the back of your mind. Lightly, gently, but enough to demand your attention, fuzzy and clotted though it may be.

“What’s gotten into you two?” you murmur.

There’s a beat of silence that you have learned, by now, indicates that Simon and Johnny are having a conversation with their eyes.

It used to make you insecure, in the early days of your relationship with them—feeling your own inadequacies in communication. You’d frequently thought you would never be able share the same ease they had together, the effortless understanding, the perfect alignment of intention and interpretation.

But as it does with nearly everything else, time proved to be the antidote to such poison. Ghost can read the angle of your shoulders like a large-print book; Soap can coax you to meet his eyes with a practiced twitch of his fingers, usually because he wants to make you laugh. The unspoken languages shared between lovers are a living practice of constant collaboration.

So you know that whatever they say to each other right now has something to do with you—

And with the baby they insisted you hold.

But you retreat instinctively from the idea as soon as you approach it. Repelled, like a drop of oil in water.

“Nothin,’ Duck,” says Ghost, squeezing your neck muscles between his fingers, rubbing the tension from them with a deep, probing pressure. “Just talk, remember?”

Soap kisses your neck again, distracting you, and then your shoulder. “I’m gonna clean off, Duckie. He’s gonna keep you stretched out for me, then I’m gonna fuck you nice and slow, how’s that sound?”

Talk—that’s all it was. Just talk. Your men have said more outrageous things in the bedroom, in the throes; notions of forcing you to walk around nude at home, chaining you up in the basement, making a pet out of you, cloistering you away from the world in some cabin in the Cairngorms where no one can find you, and they can have you all to themselves.

Post-coitus, it’s meant nothing. They still massage your aching thighs and remind you when your next classes are. Talk like that only serves the imagination—

This is no different.

Ghost finally pulls out of you when Soap returns, still heavy and thick even when flaccid, shining and sticky with clear slick and white cum. You turn on your back, and he slots in behind your head, resting against the headboard.

Soap works himself back up with quick pumps of his hand along his shaft, and without preamble he slides into you, displacing Ghost’s cum still inside you with an obscene squelch. It gathers around the base of his cock and catches in the dark curls of his pubic hair.

“Jesus,” he groans, rolling his hips. “That’s a lot, Ghost, hell’s bells.”

It seeps in the creases of your folds as he slides his cock in and out of you at a languid pace. Soap lowers overtop of you, forearms bracing on the mattress, and kisses the hollow of your throat, then the heavy line of Ghost’s cock just above your forehead, before rising back up to settle on his knees.

“Don’t waste it,” says Ghost. He also settles on his haunches, and you crane your head to brush your lips against his shaft. He snorts. “Good girl.”

His heavy hands fall on your breasts, cupping, squeezing, pinching your nipples—as if something might come out. Soap cradles your stomach again, dragging his hands around it like a potter shaping clay.

Nothing. It means nothing.

next chapter early access

a/n: i'm ovulating can yall tell

[dreamwavesexploringreality]

Foxes

Requested: Chishiya x Autistic Reader.

Where he lets the reader talk about her hyperfixations, like foxes.

--

Probably the last thing Chishiya expected after returning late from that night’s game was for Y/N to drag him up to the rooftop and sit beside him to talk.

"And did you know that foxes have different types of vocalizations to communicate? They can scream, howl, bark, and even make a strange noise called gekkering when they fight or play!" Y/N said, her words spilling out in an avalanche of enthusiasm.

Yes. Foxes. That was her latest fixation. Chishiya settled into his place, resting his head against the wall behind him and letting out a sigh. He closed his eyes, allowing the girl’s soft voice to rock him gently, momentarily easing the tension from the hours before.

"Ah! And their pups…"

"Kits," the man interrupted softly, still with his eyes closed.

"Yes! Kits! They’re born practically blind, completely dependent on their parents to survive, and they have to work together. Isn’t that amazing?"

Chishiya’s lips curled into a small smile.

"Fascinating," he whispered.

"Also, did you know they can hear a mouse moving under the snow from over a meter away? They use the Earth’s tilt and the magnetic field to hunt with precision." Chishiya couldn’t see her, but he knew she was swinging her arms to emphasize her explanation.

"I’ve heard something about it," he lied.

Then suddenly, silence took over the scene.

Chishiya opened his eyes and looked at her. She was staring at the horizon.

"Foxes are incredible," she sighed to herself, her gaze shifting to the ground as she played with her hands.

The man noticed the change in her demeanor and focused on her for a few seconds. The full moon illuminated her profile, making her glow in a special way. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, a usual sign when she talked about something that excited her.

"Why do you like foxes so much?" he asked, not looking away.

She lifted her head, staring ahead, and remained thoughtful for a few minutes. When she finally had her answer, she turned to look at him.

"Because… they adapt. They always find a way to survive, even in the harshest environments. And they’re clever. I think… I don’t know, they’re just amazing."

Chishiya gave a slight nod, a sign of understanding. He paused for a few seconds before speaking.

"So, they’re like you," he said, turning his gaze back to the wall in front of him.

The comment seemed to take her by surprise, and she didn’t respond. As the silence began to weigh on them, Chishiya turned back to her. She was already looking at him, her eyes wide, radiating curiosity and something else the man couldn’t quite discern. The silence stretched a few seconds longer, during which the world seemed to stop spinning. Then the man spoke again.

"When they’re in danger and can’t protect themselves, do you know what foxes do?"

"They seek shelter," she answered quickly.

"Exactly," he whispered, raising his eyebrows slightly. "If you need to talk, I’m here." He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

The girl noticed her vision blur in an instant. Overcome with emotion, she took the man’s arm and buried her face in his shoulder. Chishiya was a strange man; she knew that from the moment he saw her shiver amid the chaos of a pool party and led her to the calm of this rooftop. She felt the tears slide down her cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Chishiya’s face remained calm and serene. He had slightly opened his eyes when he noticed the girl beginning to cry and hoped she had understood what he was trying to convey, even though he didn’t have the exact words for it. Using silence as his response, stillness returned between them.

By the time he realized it, the first rays of sunlight were beginning to illuminate the sky. When he turned to look at her, he found her peaceful, sleeping expression. Chishiya relaxed his shoulders, filled his lungs with air, and closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into that long-awaited dream where the world disappeared and it was just the two of them. Alone. Together... Perhaps with a fox or two wandering around the area. The thought made him laugh. He sighed. "As long as she is happy…"

© 2025 [@dreamwavesexploringreality]

---

I really hope you all like it!

I hope I captured the character well, especially when it comes to the little details of autism.

To the person who requested it, I really hope you enjoy it and that I got the character right! It’s such a fascinating topic to write about, and I loved exploring it. Can’t wait to hear what you think! ✨

[magical-reid]

Unspoken Symphonies

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Autistic!BAU!Reader

Word Count: 900

Prompts: 1: “I just cant see myself ever living without you.” 

24: “I don’t care what others say, I want to be with you and that’s all that matters to me.” 

Summary: In the BAU bullpen, Spencer is captivated by your presence, his attention fixated on you as you effortlessly point out the small distractions around him, forging a quiet but intimate bond. Despite the team's skepticism about your unconventional relationship, Spencer defends the unique connection you share, realizing that understanding each other is more than enough to make it work.

WARNING(?): I really tried my best to appropriately portray an autistic reader, however, if anyone finds that I didn't handle this situation appropriately for whatever reason, or if anyone is uncomfortable with how I portrayed the autistic reader, let me know and I will take this down. If anyone would like to better inform me on how to better write for an autistic reader I will take any tips happily.

The bullpen hummed with the quiet murmur of the BAU. Keyboards clicked, files shuffled, and the faint aroma of coffee mingled with the scent of printer ink. Yet, for Spencer, the center of his universe wasn’t the case files scattered across his desk or the faint sound of Morgan’s teasing laughter in the distance. It was you—perched on the edge of his desk, legs swinging idly, your gaze fixed on the ceiling as you traced invisible patterns with your fingertips.

“Hey, genius,” you said softly, tilting your head to glance at him. “You’re staring.”

Spencer flushed, tearing his gaze away and pushing up his glasses. “Sorry, I just—your observations always fascinate me. What are you thinking about?”

“The light,” you said simply. “It’s flickering. Almost imperceptibly, but it’s distracting.” You pointed upward, your movements deliberate and precise. “Doesn’t that drive you crazy?”

He followed your finger, squinting at the offending fluorescent bulb. “Oh, now I can’t unsee it,” he said with a sheepish smile, leaning forward. “But no, it doesn’t bother me as much as it seems to bother you.”

“Lucky you.” You shrugged, lowering your hand. “It’s not just the light, though. The air conditioning vents are whistling again, and Morgan has been tapping his pen against his desk for the last five minutes.”

Spencer’s lips quirked into an affectionate smile. “And you’re still managing to sit here with me?”

“Of course.” You turned to him fully now, your tone earnest and direct. “Because you’re here.”

His heart swelled at the simplicity of your statement, but before he could respond, Emily approached, arms crossed and brow arched.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, her tone teasing but laced with curiosity.

Spencer straightened in his chair, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of a file. “No, not at all. We were just—”

“Talking,” you interjected, your voice level. “Is that not allowed?”

Emily blinked, slightly taken aback, before recovering with a grin. “Of course it is. Just don’t let Hotch catch you slacking, okay?”

You nodded, your expression neutral but your fingers drumming rhythmically against the desk. Once Emily walked away, you leaned closer to Spencer. “They think we’re weird, don’t they?”

Spencer hesitated. He wanted to deny it, to shield you from the judgments of others, but you were too perceptive for that. “They… don’t understand,” he admitted finally. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?” Your voice softened, your eyes searching his. “It doesn’t bother you when they look at us like we’re… not normal?”

Spencer frowned, reaching out to brush his fingers against yours, an unspoken reassurance in the gesture. “Normal is subjective,” he said gently. “Besides, I don’t care what others say. I want to be with you, and that’s all that matters to me.”

Your gaze lingered on his, unblinking. The world around you seemed to fade—the whirring air conditioner, the tap of Morgan’s pen, the low hum of office chatter. It was just the two of you, cocooned in your own space.

“I just can’t see myself ever living without you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of absolute certainty.

The words hit Spencer with a force he hadn’t anticipated, stealing his breath and grounding him all at once. He tightened his grip on your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You won’t have to,” he promised.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

(Later That Evening)

The team’s skepticism had been a silent undercurrent for months now. Conversations would lull whenever you entered a room, and Spencer could feel the weight of their glances. But tonight, as the team gathered at Rossi’s for dinner, the unease was almost palpable.

“Spence,” JJ began cautiously, her tone gentle but probing. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he said, though he already suspected the question.

“It’s just… you and Y/N. You’re so different. Don’t get me wrong,” she added quickly, “you seem happy. It’s just… it’s not what we expected.”

“What did you expect?” he asked, his voice calm but tinged with defensiveness.

JJ hesitated, searching for the right words. “I think we just don’t… understand your dynamic. You’re so—analytical. And Y/N is so—”

“Direct?” Spencer supplied. “Blunt? Honest? Those aren’t bad things, JJ. They’re part of why I love them.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” JJ said quickly. “It’s just… different.”

Spencer leaned back, his expression softening as he glanced across the room to where you were chatting with Rossi about a book you’d both recently read. “Different doesn’t mean wrong. We might not fit into the conventional mold, but we understand each other. That’s more than enough for me.”

JJ smiled faintly, a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. “Fair enough.”

As the evening wore on, the team began to see it—how you instinctively leaned closer when Spencer rambled, grounding him with a single touch. How he adjusted his pace to match yours, always attuned to your needs. And how, despite their initial doubts, it was clear that you and Spencer had created a language all your own.

In the quiet moments, you and Spencer didn’t need words. The world didn’t have to understand your connection, because the two of you had already found something far more valuable—a love that fit, in all its imperfect perfection.

[bad268]

I'm really excited about the autistic reader fic as a fellow autistic who really wishes there was a bit more inclusivity in the fanfic space. Could I request an autistic driver reader with Pato O'Ward where the reader comes off as cold to people who don't know her and Pato is convinced she hates him until Marcus or Callum accidentally tells him she has a crush on him

Stone Cold Finally Thawed (Pato O'Ward X Autistic Driver! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/Indycar

Requested: Clearly (based on my own autism so be nice!)

Warnings: Autistic reader, sexual innuendos, no use of Y/n (used Stone Cold)

POV: Second Person (You/your/They/them)

W.C. 1705

Summary: Who knew Callum and Marcus were great wingment? And who knew Pato had a lot of sexual innuendos?

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

You didn’t get the name “Stone Cold” for nothing. You just lived for racing, and that was it. You couldn’t care less about the other things with racing, but that’s just how you were. It’s always been this way. You came to race, and race you did. 

To anyone else, you were standoffish. You didn’t talk to anyone unless spoken to, and you were known to disappear after every session. You were only ever seen with your teammates, and even that was pretty slim. You just didn’t mesh well with them.

When you found out that you were being dropped from JR Motorsports, you decided to try your hand at open-wheel racing. IndyCar was something you had always thought about going into but never had the chance until you were dropped. Prema gave you an offer you simply couldn’t refuse.

Callum was another quiet driver, so it was easy to get along with him. He also made the promo days a lot easier to go through with, and by the start of the season, you would consider him one of your friends. Callum even took it upon himself to introduce you to a couple of other drivers, namely Marcus and Pato.

Marcus was always around because he was Callum’s best friend, so it wasn’t long until you started looking forward to hanging out with them.

Pato was another story.

You just wanted to sit in his presence, but from the brief meeting you had with him, he’s like an energetic puppy! Callum told you that’s just how Pato is. As much as you wanted to get to know him, you got overwhelmed by the short dose you had of him.

It was almost immediately that Pato noticed your cold deminer. Part of him thought you hated him, so he did the only reasonable thing he could: ignore you. 

At first, you thought Callum and Marcus had talked to Pato about toning it down around you, but then he just wouldn’t acknowledge you. At least Callum or Marcus would nod your way or gesture for you to join their conversations if you wanted to, but Pato just pretended that you didn’t exist. That’s when it became a problem.

“Did you guys tell Pato to ignore me?” You asked, approaching the two of them sitting in a random trailer. 

“Has Stone Cold finally thawed?” Callum joked as he leaned back in his chair to watch you round the couch and sit next to Marcus.

“That’s not funny,” You quipped back, glaring at Callum. “He’s completely ignoring me. I thought you guys told him to chill, no pun intended, out.”

“No, we didn’t tell him anything,” Marcus admitted, propping his foot up on his knee to face you and Callum. “At least I didn’t.”

“No way,” Callum gasped suddenly, “You have a crush! There’s no other reason you would be asking about him. I know you enough to know you wouldn’t care this much if someone wasn’t talking to you. You’d probably be happy if no one spoke to you at all.”

“You’re right about the not talking to me part,” You agreed with a small smirk before it dropped just as fast as it appeared, “But the crush part, I don’t know, man.”

“If you have a crush or if you believe him calling it out?” Marcus clarified.

“Both. I don’t know him enough to know if it’s a crush,” You cringed for a second, “That makes me sound like a child having a fucking crush.”

“Well, then why do you care if he’s ignoring you?” Callum asked, amused, and he was truly finding way too much joy in this situation.

“Because…” You trailed off as you thought about it. “I just wanna be around him, but it’s like he’s repulsed by me. I don’t know what else to say about it.”

You didn’t want to talk anymore. Not about this, not about Pato, not about anything. You got up from the couch and retreated back to the Prema hospitality and into your driver’s room.

Callum and Marcus knew they would have to pull some strings to get Pato to go to you first. They knew you, and they knew you would avoid, bury, and move on. That’s always how you were with your feelings. It also didn’t take a genius to notice this.

“Hey! Pato! My favorite short-term teammate,” Callum exclaimed as soon as he spotted Pato at the track and ran to catch up with him. “How are you, my friend?”

“Why are you kissing my ass?” 

“Am I not allowed to catch up with my closest friend on the grid?” Callum sweet-talked as he put a hand on Pato’s shoulder. From behind Callum, he heard Marcus mutter, “Ouch,” under his breath, but Callum just jabbed his elbow back into Marcus.

“You’re lying!” Pato shouted with a smile, “You’re trying to get something because everyone knows that you and Marcus are best friends.”

“Ok, you have a point,” Marcus said, coming to stand on Pato’s other side, “But we have an offer for you.”

“I’m not gonna be your third.”

“That’s not what we’re asking.”

“It’s about Stone Cold,” Callum immediately cleared up, sending Pato a side-eye.

“Ok, I’m listening,” Pato dragged as the three drivers moved into a less busy part of the paddock.

When you finished the race, you were pleased with your placing. It was your first top-five of the season, and with it being so early in the season, you only expected to get more comfortable as the season went on. 

You finished up post-race media, and you were ready to slip out of the paddock unnoticed. It was a talent you knew well, and somehow, the media could never figure out how you did it. 

You made it to the Prema trailer, ready to change out of your team kit into something more discrete and comfortable, when you saw a figure leaning against the door. It didn’t take you long to recognize the bright orange as an Arrow McLaren kit, and it took only a second longer to identify the figure as Pato. 

“Congrats on your win,” You commended as you passed him. He promptly followed behind you as you went through the trailer, stopping just outside of your driver’s room. “Can I help you?”

“Do you have plans later? The guys were planning to go bar hopping, but I want to head back to the hotel,” Pato explained quickly before looking at the plain look on your face. “You’re busy?”

“I never said that,” You replied dryly. Pato’s eye widened, but he didn’t know where to go with this, so you took it to continue. “I thought about getting takeaway and watching the Formula 1 replay.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” Pato perked up, “What kind of takeaway are you craving?”

“I don’t know,” You shrugged as your face scrunched up, “Chinese?”

“I like Chinese,” Pato agreed before deciding this was his time to shoot his shot, “Do you want to catch a ride with us and they can drop us off at the hotel?”

“I actually have a car rented,” You answered, “If you want to meet me at the hotel, I can pick up the food, and we can watch the race in my hotel room.”

“Oh my god,” You heard through the wall before someone banged against the wall. “He’s asking you out!”

Your eyes moved to meet Pato’s nervous gaze as he offered you a small smile.

“Really?” You questioned, and Pato reacted with a quick nod. “In that case, you can ride with me.”

Later that night as you watched the podium celebration for the Formula 1 race, you sat in a comfortable silence with Pato until he sighed, drawing your attention away from the screen.

“I just have a couple questions,” Pato started.

“They crossed the line first, second and third. Does that answer your question?” You responded, turning your body to face him on the bed.

“What…” Pato trailed off before chuckling to himself for a second. “Thank you for that information.”

“Anytime,” You smiled, “Proceed with your actual questions.”

“One, if Callum and Marcus didn’t tell you yet, I really like you,” Pato started, “Can we do this again?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s another race next week. Maybe not Chinese again, but I liked this. It was fun.”

“Not this specifically,” Pato broke it down even more. “You and me doing something. Maybe dinner or something.”

“Oh,” Your face dropped for a second before coming back with a huge smile, “I’d like that too.”

“Cool.”

“Cool. What was your other question?”

“Why do you have your own car?” Pato couldn’t help himself. “As far as I know, each team only funds one car for the drivers, and they all have to share it.”

“I fund my own rental,” You replied as if it were common sense. “I like having escape plans, and if I wanna leave, I can leave.”

“That’s gonna come in handy,” Pato trailed off with a smirk.

“Why would you say that?”

“No reason.”

A few races later, you and Pato walked hand-in-hand into the paddock for the Indy 500. Boy, was that unexpected. Not only did the media never see you walk into the track, but this time you were walking in with someone. Someone who was very prominent for grand entrances. 

“Looks like Stone Cold has finally thawed,” Callum teased as he and Marcus met up with the two of you just before your first interviews of the day. “How do you feel?’

“Like there are too many people looking at me,” You admitted quietly, squeezing Pato’s tighter as you looked around at all of the cameras pointed at the four of you. The glasses on your nose did nothing to block who you were looking at. “I just wanna get in the car.”

“Hate to break it to you, but we don’t get in the car today,” Marcus said with a mock pout, bumping into Pato’s side. “Maybe Pato can hide you somewhere.”

“They do have their own car for a reason.”

“Quick getaways, not what you are thinking,” You immediately clarified, pointing at Callum and Marcus. “I learned that this is a sexual innuendo.”

~~~~~

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