Jack Ashford

"I’m the guy your mother warned you about… and your father probably drank with."

Name: Jack AshfordAge: 32Gender: MalePronouns: He/HimSexuality: Bisexual (in the past with lots of woman, prefers men now emotionally, but has history with all genders)

Occupation: Freelance Writer | Former Trust Fund RebelAccent: American
(Northeastern, with a rough edge)Voice Claim: A rasp like whiskey-soaked gravel; sounds like he’s either flirting or arguing. No in-between.

📜 History

Born into a disgustingly rich family with a father who weaponized expectations and abuse, Jack was the “golden boy” who cracked under pressure. After years of silent trauma and rebellion, he fell into drugs, parties, and violence.

He met Damien—a quiet, grounded man—while spiraling. Their love was real, if short-lived. Damien's suicide shattered him, pushing Jack to finally seek help.

Now, he's trying to stay clean, wandering from town to town, freelancing as a writer, and avoiding anyone who might make him feel something.

More Facts

"Don't get too curious"

Jack is a wildfire in slow motion—you think you’ve got a handle on him, and then he burns down your assumptions. A walking contradiction, he’s too smart for his own good and too damaged to care. Brutally intelligent, recklessly seductive, and deeply self-loathing, Jack hides sharp emotional trauma behind a mask of charm, snark, and volatile confidence.

He flirts like it’s armor and fights like it’s the only language he trusts. Loyal to a fault if you manage to break past the barricades—but good luck getting there. He feels everything too deeply and pretends it’s nothing at all.

Jack doesn’t seek chaos. He is chaos. Beautiful, exhausted, and always five seconds from either kissing you or throwing a punch.

  1. Likes: Unlit cigarettes, meaningful silence, fucked-up poetry, broken people with soft hearts

  1. Dislikes: Authority, pity, small talk, anyone who brings up his father

Eyes:
Amber-gold with a perpetual “what the fuck do you want” intensityHair:
Black, messy, like he just ran a hand through it mid-fightBuild:
Cut and lean, not gym-perfect but earned through fights and chaos

Tattoos:
Jagged black ink crawling over his chest and arms like stories not toldDistinguishing Marks:
Freckles, facial scar under the eye (from a broken bottle), occasional smudge of eyeliner or sootClothing:
Leather belts, fingerless gloves, always shirtless or barely clothed unless it's freezing—he dares the world to lookAura:
Dangerous but magnetic—like a Wildfire in human form, all adrenaline and ache

Fun Facts

Has a tattoo of a cracked whiskey glass on his hip (symbol of survival).Always has dogtags around his neck that he got from Daisuke.Fluent in French, though he rarely speaks it.Can quote poetry from memory, usually after three drinks.Prefers music that is very personal to his past.

Quotes

"I don’t do love stories. I do cautionary tales.""You kiss me like you want to save me. That’s the problem.""I’ve buried better men than you… but I still see their names in my dreams.""Owned not by chains, but by the way he looks at me."

My Story

The tile’s cracked. Like everything else in this goddamn place. Filthy, chipped, brown with age or blood or both—I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. I’ve been staring at it for five minutes, lighter twitching in my palm like it has a pulse of its own.I haven’t smoked in three months.
Not since the hospital. Not since I clawed my way out of the pit with teeth and torn nails.
Not since the last time I heard Damien’s sister’s voice through a payphone, asking if I was still breathing.I toss the lighter. Hard. It clatters into the sink, bounces, spins like it’s trying to run from me too. It stops beside a wad of paper towels soaked in blood.Someone else’s fight. Someone else’s story.
And still, it feels like mine.I should be numb by now.
To the filth.
To the fallout.
To the ghosts that follow me like shadows I can’t scrape off.But today’s different.
Today, Damien died.Three years ago, I came home wrecked—eyes glassy, heart hollow, high on borrowed chemicals I didn’t even pay for. The kind of high that makes you forget your name but remember every single thing you’re trying to bury.The kitchen lights were still on. The oven still warm.And there he was.Damien.
On the floor.
So still.
So fucking quiet.A single letter resting on a cutting board like a final course:
“I’m sorry, Jack. But I was always just a ghost to you.”I didn’t cry at the funeral.
Didn’t cry after.
Didn’t cry ever.That’s not how my father raised me.He built men, not boys. Machines, not sons.Perfect grades. Polished shoes. Articulate lies.I was fluent in French by ten, skipping grades, reciting poetry at country club brunches while he smiled like he owned me. Like I was proof of something.
But when I tripped on a math problem, I got glass to the face.
When I said I didn’t want Yale, I got a cigarette ground into my thigh.
When I kissed my first boyfriend behind the tennis court fence, I got a shattered nose and no phone for three months.So I learned to cope.
I learned how to bleed pretty.Leather jackets. Sharp smiles. Fists before feelings.
I fucked strangers just to feel something. Got arrested because it felt more honest than Sunday dinner. I called it rebellion.
It was survival.People said I was charming. Dangerous. Magnetic.
They didn’t see the cracks under the surface. The rot.But Damien did.He was quiet, kind, hands always dusted with flour like he was made of softer things.
He worked the Montclair estate, fed my father's guests like they weren’t monsters in ties.And he saw me.
Saw me.Didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.He loved the mess.
Until he couldn’t anymore.Now I’m thirty-two. Sober-ish.
Driving nowhere across dusty states in a rusted-out car with a half-finished book and a half-functioning soul.
I’m not afraid of dying.I’m afraid of being loved again.A knock at the door breaks the spiral.
I flinch.A voice behind it—low, tired. Maybe human:
“You okay in there, man?”I stare at my face in the cracked mirror.
It doesn’t look like me.I splash water on it anyway.
Cool. Pointless.“Yeah,” I say.
A lie as soft as breath.
“Just washing off the past.”---------------------------------------------------------------------------
For a long while, there was nothing else than this.Until I met him.Daisuke.I didn’t meet him in some beautiful, cinematic way. There was no music, no sudden revelation, no fucking light breaking through the clouds.He found me.
I remember hearing footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried.White hair. Dark eyes. A face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. He looked at me for a long moment.I still couldn't explain what existed between us. It wasn't friendship. Not really. It wasn't love in the way I'd understood love before. It was something stranger. Something heavier. Something that settled into my bones.I would look at him sometimes and wonder how the hell someone I'd known for such a short part of my life had managed to become so deeply woven into it. He wasn't the person who saved me. I don't think anyone could've saved the man I was. But he gave me something better.A reason to save myself.For the first time, surviving wasn't about proving my father wrong. It wasn't about outrunning Damien's ghost. It wasn't about waking up the next morning simply because I hadn't managed to die the night before. It was about him.About waking up and knowing I'd get to see him. About having somewhere to return to. About having someone whose existence made the future feel like something other than a threat.I used to think I'd die for the people I loved. That was easy. I'd always been good at destruction. Good at throwing myself into fire. Good at bleeding. Good at taking a bullet. Good at making pain mean something. I'd kill for Daisuke. Without hesitation. If someone came for him, I'd become something ugly enough to make them regret ever learning his name.But somewhere along the way, I realized something far more frightening. I wouldn't just die for him. I'd live for him. And that was harder. Because dying is one moment. Living means waking up every morning and choosing not to disappear. It means staying sober when every old instinct screams for an escape. It means putting the lighter down. It means letting someone see you when you're not charming, not angry, not bleeding, not pretending. It means believing that tomorrow is worth reaching.And Daisuke somehow made me want tomorrow. Not because he fixed me. But because, for the first time in my life, I wasn't walking toward death anymore. I was walking toward someone. Toward him. And maybe that's what our connection was.
Not a chain. Not a cage. Not salvation.Just two broken fucking people standing beside each other—and somehow making each other believe that staying was worth it.