Reader Imagines

Spencer's watching you because he loves watching you, and because you're a little off today. There's something about the way you shuffle on your feet or the way you chew on the dead skin of your lip that he finds peculiar. To be fair, you're like this a lot, but today your symptoms are more obvious than usual.

Your eyes scan over the scene with a million different thoughts rushing through your head, less than fifty percent of them actually coherent and fit for conversation.

The three of you spitball ideas back and forth as you look at the man laying cold on the concrete. He's white, lean with light hair and a relatively thin frame. He's nothing like the other two victims, who's physical profiles were all over the place. The only thing they have in common with one another is a single occupation—male prostitution. While this and the first worked on the streets, the second’s job actually took place within a gay strip club a few blocks away from here.

He's got a starting blow to the back of the head, like the other two, and a number of bad bruising and heavy brutality to the rest with overkill to the chest, hands, and genitals. The message feels clear, but there's something a little off.

“Judging by the position of the body,” you speak, your hands restless, “and the way the weapon is discarded, I think our unsub snuck up on our victim in a blitz attack, hit him with the lead pipe, and ran that way.”

You don't point in any particular direction. Spencer glances up from his spot crouched next to the body. Your eyes are stuck on the bloody pipe several feet away from the body toward the secluded area around the back of the building that leads to more secluded walkways through more alleyways.

There is a long pause where they wait for you to explain, but you never do. Spencer thinks you look far off as he examines your face. Derek looks at you, his brow furrowed as he glances around. “Which way?”

“What?” you hum, looking up at him.

Derek elaborates, “Which way did the unsub go?”

It’s your turn to furrow your brow, turning the thin ring on your middle finger. “Did I say something about the unsub?”

Spencer stands, moving over to your side without spending too much time looking at your face. He doesn't want you to feel dumb or awkward, because he loves you and you're just a little forgetful sometimes.

“Yes,” he says in no particular way. “You said the unsub blitzed the victim and ran. Which way did he run?”

He achieves his goal, because you seem to make an “Oh, duh!” face before pointing in the direction of the street. “That way.”

He follows your finger, his brows knitting together. “That way toward the street?” He looks at the pipe, sitting in the exact opposite direction, like they ran and dropped it. “The pipe looks like he'd run the other way to avoid the street. Why do you think he ran toward?” It's a genuine question.

“To throw us off,” you shrug. “It's riskier to go toward the street, but it's also less suspicious than walking alone in the opposite direction where someone could see you and the victim and assume fault.”

He hums. You add on, speaking as quickly as Spencer usually does, “It also means he looks normal enough that he blends in with the crowd. Someone would see a strange figure coming out of a dark alley, no one would really notice a passerby turning a corner. And if this is a popular spot, it's too loud to hear anything going on all the way back here anyway, or no one thinks much of grunting noises when they do hear it.”

You trail off at the end, tight brows staring at the corpse. Derek shrugs, “But what was our victim doing all the way over here in the first pla–”

“There's something in his mouth,” you interrupt accidentally.

“What?”

You kneel down, taking the offered gloves from Spencer and putting them on. You open his mouth just a slight, spotting the white sticking out from under his tongue. Upon seeing it, both of the boys furrow their brows and tilt their heads. Spencer hands you some tweezers he'd borrowed from forensics for this reason.

Carefully, without disturbing the body as much as possible, you remove the strange object from under the tongue. It's a tiny slip of paper, folded up very small and still a little damp from saliva and any other bodily fluids it may have come in contact with. You unfold it.

“‘Unclean’,” Spencer reads from over your shoulder.

“That makes sense for the victimology mixed with the profile. He's a male prostitute,” Derek points out.

“Which explains the locale,” you say, rocking back and forth on your heels.

“What?”

“The locale,” you look up. “You asked why he was here. He must have been working, lured down here by the unsub, who waited for him to turn his back before he struck.”

Spencer agrees, taking a picture of the slip to send to Hotch. “He was killed at night. The streets are crowded, easy to slip into and not be seen. It's more risky to stray by yourself. What you said makes sense.”

You look up at him, standing to your full height again. “What did I say?” There you go again.

Morgan speaks up, “What you said about him runnin’ toward the street.”

Confusion passes your mind momentarily. “He ran toward the street.” You don't say it like a question, you say it like you're trying to back yourself up on it.

“That's what you said,” he insists.

You remember thinking that, but you don't remember saying that out loud.

Spencer swoops in like your hero, brushing his knuckles against the side of your arm. “Remember? You said,” he licks his lips, “ ‘it's riskier to go toward the street, but it's also less suspicious than walking alone in the opposite direction where someone could see you and the victim and assume fault.’ ”

You nod, remembering his word-by-word recitation as you watch him. “Yeah. I did say that.” You flag down one of the forensics workers to bag the evidence. She does so, taking your contaminated gloves with her as she leaves. You squirt a hefty amount of hand sanitizer on your hands from its place on your belt loop. “This is the first victim who's been left behind with a note, right?”

“Yes, autopsy results found nothing like this on the other victims.”

“If the victim was working when he was attacked, it’s possible that, paired with the brutality of the assault and the note left behind, our unsub may be experiencing some kind of internalized homophobia.” You trail off at the end.

Derek shrugs, looking down at the body. “There’s no evidence of sexual assault. Not on the other victims, at least.”

“How old do you think this building is?”

Spencer looks at you, your eyes scanning the wall of one of the buildings you’re between. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth, picking at the dead skin again. He thinks you’re cute.

“Focus, honeybun,” Derek reminds you, pulling your attention again.

“Sorry.”

“Judging by the faded color and uneven edges of the brick, and the decay in the mortar,” Spencer says, “I’d say this building is at least 50 years old. Well kept at one point and then let go not long after its production.”

You nod along slowly, taking in the information with a hum. “That’s cool…” Now that that’s out of your mind, you think for a moment. What were you saying again? Spencer watches your eyes light up. “Oh!” You turn to Derek. “He’s obviously confrontational, but he may still be very insecure in his ability and, thus, have to make up for his pent up energy with an excess of violence. Homophobia would explain the obliteration of the chest, hands, and especially the genitalia.”

Derek raises a brow. “What?”

“You asked about sexual assault,” you shrug. “If he continues to escalate above the note, we may see these words carved into the skin as a substitute for sexual violence, or even just blatant rape activity.”

Derek thinks about that, considering your analysis with a nodding head. He sighs and hums, “Alright, I’ll talk to Hotch.” He begins to turn away, grabbing his phone.

Spencer thinks you may have gotten distracted again because you ask, “Did I do something wrong?”

Derek looks back at you, shaking his head and flashing you one of his charming smiles. “No, honeybun, you’re perfect.”

“Oh.”

He leaves to take that call. You start to walk after him and Spencer gently takes your hand. You turn to face him, confused at first but giving him a sweet smile only a second later. “Are you okay?” he asks gently, his voice soft.

You tilt your head, “What do you mean?”

Spencer shrugs, taking your other hand just to rub his thumbs over your knuckles. “You’re hyper today, a little more distracted.”

As if proving his point, you begin shifting back and forth on your feet, shrugging and then shaking your head at the same time. “I’m okay,” you assure him, squeezing his hands gently. “I haven’t taken my medication in a couple days.”

He furrows his brow, suddenly a little worried. “Why not?”

“Didn’t feel like it. Also, I forgot it.” That makes sense. Spencer makes a mental note to remind you to take them as soon as you get back home. “But I’m okay, prommy.”

He smiles. “Prommy?”

“Promise,” you clarify, letting both your hands down so you can swing his from side to side. He lets you.

“I know what you mean,” he says. Though he knows he should probably be more professional because you’re both in public and leaving a crime scene (and Hotch might reprimand the both of you for it if he saw) he raises a hand to cradle your cheek because he doesn’t care. He just wants you to feel safe and loved. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod definitely. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” The way he says it is soft, as soft as a kiss to your forehead or a brush of his knuckles on your skin. “You know, I love you, right?”

You nod, smiling at him like he’s the world—because he is. “Yeah. I love you, too, honey.” You kiss his cheek quickly and pat it. You probably shouldn’t have done it right then, but you did, and you don’t regret it for even a moment.

Spencer’s just happy you know he loves you. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go before Morgan leaves us.” He takes your hand as you both begin walking. He swings your joined hands, just as he knows you like it.

“He wouldn’t leave me,” you shake your head. “He likes me too much.”

Spencer chuckles. “Everyone likes you.”

“Not everyone.”

He looks at you, furrowing his brow. “Who doesn’t like you?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. And then immediately after, “Why does the sun look yellow? Isn’t it supposed to be white or something? I heard that somewhere.”

Spencer is happy to answer your questions as he opens the car door for you. Derek is already sitting in the front, his hands on the wheel. The passenger’s seat is empty, but Spencer sits in the back with you. You both speak gently so you’re not disturbing Derek. “The Earth’s atmosphere scatters blue light more efficiently than red light, so the slight deficit in blue light means the eye perceives the color of the sun as yellow. But, yes, the sun is actually white.”

“That’s cool,” you mumble. “I think sharks would look cool as hell with piercings. Do you?”

“I do,” Spencer chuckles. In the front seat, Derek shakes his head and smiles to himself, amused by your conversation.

“Did you know that sharks don’t have bones, so when they die, the saltwater dissolves their bodies so the only thing that’s left is their teeth?” You begin ranting, absent-mindedly picking at dirty under your nails. “And also, their bodies are primarily made of cartilage and connective tissue. It’s lighter than bone and keeps them flamboyant. Also, their skin has a similar feel to sandpaper.”

When you ramble, you sound like Spencer. You spend so much time with him and endorse his info dumps so much that you take on his speech style when you go on info dumps of your own. Spencer loves this because he knows that people tend to mimic the people they love as a sign of affection, and you mimic him a lot more than you think.

He also knew about all your shark facts, but he’s happy to listen. He smiles, “Is that what you were doing up late last night?”

You smile a little, turning away from him. “I got distracted.”

“What’s your thought process behind getting from the sun to sharks?” he wonders. “I’m curious.”

You shrug. “Well, you said your thing and I said it was cool. And then I remembered a post I saw that sharks would be cool with piercings. Then I remembered my shark things.” You glance down at your fingers, bringing them to your lips as you notice a tiny part at the very edge of the nail where it would probably tear off. “I just think sharks are cool,” you mumble around your finger.

“They are cool,” he says. He doesn’t want you to accidentally hurt yourself so he adds on, “Will you hold my hand? It’s a little cold.”

You look down at them, “Yeah.” With a nod, you take his hand between both of yours and let them warm his back up. They’re a bit chilly but they don’t feel that cold to you. You hold them anyway, because you love holding his hand. You intertwine your fingers with his and then cover what’s left.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says. He thinks for a moment. “Did you eat today?”

You nod, still watching his hand as you turn it to look at his palm. You gently trace the lines of it, forgetting for the moment that he’d wanted you to warm his hand up for him. But, as usual, he doesn’t mind. “I had a cereal bar this morning. One of those Coco Puff ones. They’re like Rice Krispy Treats.” He doesn’t think that’s sustainable. “And, before you ask, I did have water.”

He smiles. “I know. I told you to drink some before we left. You hungry?”

You shake your head, “Not really.”

“You want a snack?” he compromises, hoping—and knowing—you’ll say yes.

“Yes, please.”

“Okay,” he hums. “We’ll grab one on the way back.” Derek nods gently, remembering to do just that. It will only take a moment.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, his voice lowering to a whisper. He knows Derek can still hear him, but he always just wants to whisper to you.

You look up at him, “For what?”

“Being so perfect.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes but ultimately smiling at the warmth in your chest. “You’re so cheesy, Spencer Reid.”

He’ll gladly be cheesy for you.

Criminal Minds taglist: @queermaxwooo @mdanon027 @lilianhallee @hpstuff244444 @thegr8estpuff @niktwazny303 @bubbles2300 Tag yourself here...

You and Spencer have been going to the library together since you first met. It's always been one of his favorite ways to spend time with you, and now, ever since you got together last month, one of his favorite dates to take you on.

You settle into your usual spot, waiting for him to finish picking out his book. You only look up when he sits down, and your eyes go wide as soon as you do.

Glasses? Glasses. He's wearing glasses. He's sitting right next to you, wearing the most insanely attractive pair of glasses, ones that frame his perfect face perfectly, and suddenly it's hard to breathe.

What's worse is that he doesn't even mention them, quickly kissing your cheek in greeting before pulling out his book. And then he's gone, flipping page after page, completely entranced. You'd miss his attention if you weren't too busy being relieved that he's now too distracted to notice how flustered he's making you.

Plus, it gives you the chance to stare at admire him.

You watch him, wide-eyed, practically gawking at his every move. His hand flexes as he reaches up to adjust his glasses, his other one gently trailing along the paper, his tongue poking out ever so slightly while he's focusing and oh, god, is it hot in here? It feels like it's hot in here.

Unfortunately for you, though, Spencer's way too, well, Spencer to let anything go unnoticed. He feels your eyes on him, looking from his book to you.

"You okay?" He asks gently, tilting his head slightly and oh my god, he looks so good, you're done for.

You scramble to act natural, but it's hard when your book sits abandoned on your lap and practically your whole body was turned to look at him.

"Yeah! Yeah, no, no I'm fine." You try to smile reassuringly, eyes darting back to your book. "I just... I didn't know you wore glasses." You swallow, heat rushing to your face. He's quick to explain, something about running out of contacts? You were too... distracted to really listen, but that sounded like the gist of it. You nod.

"Do you-" Spencer clears his throat, and you're too focused on stewing in your own embarrassment to notice his. "Do you not like them?" The worry in his voice catches your attention, finally looking at him.

"No!" You blurt it out before you can stop yourself. "No, I... I really like them. Like, really, really like them."

"Oh." His voice is soft, a bashful little smile on his face. "I'm glad you like them." He laughs, almost bordering on a giggle, and you don't think you've ever adored someone more.

"Yeah." You smile back, you can't help it. Satisfied, you both go back to your respective books in a comfortable silence.

Until he breaks it. "Guess I'll have to wear them more often, then." He mumbles, mostly to himself, and your head snaps up to look at him again.

"What was that?"

"...Nothing."

masterlist | inbox ← requests open! ♡

He sighs through his nose, closing his eyes as your fingers work gentle circles against his neck at the base of his skull.

"How about this," you begin, and idea sparking in your mind. He peels his eyes open, just to look at you.

Hes a dream like this, his curls spread, dancing across your skin, tickling where they touch. "We take a nap," his face perks up a little "and then we get the noise canceling headphones, and if they don't put too much pressure on your head, we can pop over to Emily's celebration for some hot dogs. How does that sound? We don't have to stay for fireworks if youre not feeling up for it."

He sighs. "I love you." You smile. "I love you. Bed?" He nods, "Please."

"I'll go set it up. Just a sec." You carefully manuver your way off the sofa, leaving a whining Spencer to lay while you go close the curtains, and turn up the AC in the bedroom.

When its perfectly dim and comfortably chilly, you make your way back into the living room, where Spencer has his arm bent over his eyes.

"Okay, handsome. All ready."

He inhales and you make your way over, rubbing his back as he sits up, a slow motion catapult into your midriff. It takes some prying to get him up but you do, leading him into the bedroom.

He breathes a sigh of relief when you both lay down, and he melts quickly as you pull him into your arms, his face seeking shelter in the crook of your neck.

He presses a soft kiss to the skin, pauses a moment, and places another. "Sleep." You say, a little chastising. He chuckles, wrapping his arm around you.

Moments like these are nice. But so are moments like you experience that evening, where Spencer scarfs down a hot dog, posture faltering as he slouches back into the outdoor sofa.

The headphones covering his ears make it a little hard to converse, but he laughs along with jokes anyways, smile seemingly permananet on his face as he watches JJ steal fries off of Emily's plate, as he watches Hotch section off a portion of the grill for Penelope's veggie dogs and for corn on the cob.

And when the fireworks begin that night, he doesnt flinch. His eyes go wide in excitement, his hand finding yours as the colors spread across his face.

Moments like these remind you why its all worth it. And you wouldn't trade them for the world.

Masterlist

You adore listening to Spencer ramble, you really do, but right now, you just want to love on him.

He's explaining the new documentary he just finished watching, but you're too busy admiring him to focus on what he's saying. The way his eyes light up, the excited smile on his face. You're caught up in how passionate he sounds, how smart he sounds.

You feel bad for not paying attention, but he's the one that's being so distracting.

"Y'so pretty, Spence." You feel silly that it's all you can say, but it's all you can think about.

He stops, eyes wide and cheeks burning. He's quick to avert eye contact, looking everywhere but at you as he fights back a dopey smile. You make his head spin.

"Stop it," It's embarrassingly high-pitched, almost a whine. He'd be lying if he said he didn't love when you fawned over him, even though it never fails to fluster him.

He pushes himself closer to you to duck his head into your neck, bashful under your affectionate gaze. You don't let him get away that easily, catching his face in your hands and pressing a kiss to his lips.

"Can't help it," You gush, your foreheads still pressed together after you've pulled away from the kiss. Your lips trail across his cheek, up his nose, to his forehead, and he giggles, ticklish, playfully swatting you away.

In the midst of all his thrashing, he falls back onto the couch. He takes you with him, letting out a comically surprised squeak when you fall on top of him, and you both feel tears well up in your eyes from laughing so hard.

You kiss his nose one last time, for good measure, and he smiles up at you. His eyes are full of affection, hands finding your face to run his thumb along your jawline, up to your cheek. You lean into his touch, kissing his palm.

"You're ridiculous." All fondness, voice raspy from all of the laughing.

"Ridiculously in love with my ridiculously perfect boyfriend, maybe." You tease, he just makes it too easy.

"(Y/N)!" His blush gets impossibly deeper, weakly glaring at you in faux indignation.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop!"

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After a long case, Spencer just needs to be with you. It's become a routine of sorts, and tonight is no different: cuddling on the couch first thing after he got home late.

He lays on top of you, head on your chest. His breath fans against your collarbone, right next to where his long hair is splayed out across your skin, falling over his face no matter how often you brush it away. You watch him intently, admiring his droopy eyes and relaxed, tired features.

Your hand brushes through his hair, twirling a strand around your finger gently. Occasionally, your hand moves up to rub soft circles into his scalp, the feeling making him practically melt.

"Sleepy?" You mumble, but you already know the answer. "You ready to go to bed?"

"Wanna spend time with you." He hums in disagreement, nestling further into you. He tilts his head up to meet your eyes. Yours soften at his response.

You missed each other while he was away, phone calls and texts just weren't enough. You'd spend the whole rest of the night (and all of eternity) with him if you could, but you know he needs his rest.

"There's always tomorrow, angel." Your voice is soft, fitting. You lean in to kiss his forehead, the love you have for him almost overwhelming. He doesn't look convince, so you're left with no choice. The hand in his hair scratches gently at his scalp, and he grumbles. Unfair.

Playing with his hair never fails to knock him out, the sensation so relaxing and comforting that it lulls him to sleep within minutes. If he didn't love it, love you, he'd say that you know him too well. He yawns, and he doesn't even have to look at you to know you're smiling smugly. Maybe he knows you too well, too.

"...Tomorrow?" He concedes, deciding that falling asleep doesn't sound so bad after all. Not when you're holding him like this, taking care of him so well. He smiles, your voice being the last thing he hears before he drifts into sleep.

"I'll be there."

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You and Steve lie on the couch, he on his back, you on top of him, lips tangled in a sweet, loving kiss. One of your hands gently played with the hair at the nape of his neck while the other tangled with his fingers, your intertwined hands resting on his chest. His other hand slid up the hem of your shirt, gently caressing the soft skin of your back with his warm hand, sending tingles down your spine. A movie played in the background, long forgotten as you and Steve lost yourselves in one another. 

You gently pulled at his hair, causing him to groan into the kiss. The sound made you smile against his lips, butterflies spreading their wings in your stomach at the soft sound. Gently, you snuck a hand up the hem of his shirt, fingers lightly grazing his happy trail. 

Steve froze. 

His whole body went rigid, and he immediately stopped kissing you back. His hand also stilled its motion on your back, palm now resting flat against it. 

You immediately removed your hand from under his shirt and pulled away with your brows furrowed. 

“Something wrong, baby?” you ask softly, stroking his cheek tenderly. 

Steve looks away as you ask that, suddenly, unusually awkward. He wouldn't meet your eyes, and his voice came out as a very quiet whisper. 

“The scars,” he whispers. 

The realisation dawns on you then, the same thing that had stopped you from being intimate for the past few months.

Six months ago, the encounter with the demobats had taken place, where Steve had gathered a collection of scars that now littered his entire torso. While you had seen the wounds that would eventually scar, you had never seen the scars themselves. Steve had been incredibly insecure since it happened and had refused to even change in front of you. Where he would flaunt his body to your admiring gaze previously, he had started opting to change in the bathroom or closet, preferring to shower alone, and of course, stopped engaging in bedroom activities. 

“You think you’re ever gonna be okay with me seeing them?” you asked softly, thumb gently caressing his cheek. 

He sighed, leaning into your touch and closing his eyes. “I don’t know,” he murmured, squeezing your waist. “I want to show you, but every time I think about it, I just…can’t.” 

You furrow your brows. “What's holding you back, honey?” 

He opens his eyes again, looking at you with nervousness and a hint of fear. “..that you’d find them ugly,” he whispers. “I'm terrified of the thought of you being disgusted by them. I don’t think I could handle it.” He averts his gaze as if he physically cannot bear to look at your empathetic expression. 

“Baby, you know I’d never feel that way,” you whisper. 

He keeps looking away from you, nodding slightly. 

“Hey,” you tip his chin towards your face, urging him to look at you again. “I love you, Stevie. I could never ever be disgusted by your body. I’m gonna love you no matter what, and I’m gonna love these scars just as much,” you reassure him softly. 

Steve simply looks at you with an apprehensive gaze for a few seconds as if searching for a sign of insincerity or dishonesty. When he finds none, he nods and quietly whispers, “Okay.” 

You smile slightly in response at finally having gotten through to him. He smiles as well, seeming a bit more sure and confident than he had before, the nervousness in his gaze lessening significantly. 

He moves, urging you to move off him, and you do, straddling his hips and sitting back on your calves as you wait for his next move. Steve sits up, arms crossing at the hem of his shirt as he slowly begins to lift it up and off. 

Your breath hitches in your throat as the scars slowly get revealed to you, each one bringing back the horror of that day in the Upside Down when you thought you’d lose Steve forever. You remember exactly which wounds he had, how he had gotten them, and how you had been helpless to protect him that day. Your hand lifts of its own accord once his shirt is off, silently asking for permission to touch. 

Once he nods, you touch him gently, fingers caressing the scars that litter his chest, lightly grazing the silvered edges of each, feeling the raised skin there. He inhales sharply at the first touch, but eventually closes his eyes as you continue lightly feeling the scars. His hands move back to your waist, running up and down your sides. 

You lean forward and softly press your lips to the scar around his neck, peppering the length of it with silent declarations of your love. 

Steve’s eyes fly open as the first kiss registers, and his hands tighten at your waist. He stares in astonishment as if he can’t believe what's happening, but as you keep going, he relaxes into your touch. As you move down his torso, giving each scar the same love and devotion, Steve lies back down, guiding you back with him. 

“God, I’ve missed this,” he exhales in relief. 

You smile against the skin of his stomach. “Me too,” you murmur. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed seeing you shirtless.” 

He shakes in silent laughter underneath you, and you shoot him a smile. “Can’t say I haven’t missed being naked with you either. It's been months since I properly worshipped you.” 

You pull back slightly. “Damn Harrington, five minutes of having your shirt off and you’re already thinking of being in my pants,” you tease.  

He laughs. “I can’t help it, doll. You’re way too gorgeous, and I’ve missed you so much.”

You kiss up his body and press a sweet kiss to his lips. Steve hums happily against your lips and pulls away with a smile. “So you really don’t mind them?” he murmurs. 

You shake your head. “I really don’t, baby. They’re beautiful to me, just like the rest of you.” 

“Well then,” he gets up and lifts you in one swift move. 

You yelp, arms flying around his neck. “What are you doing?” you ask as he starts walking. 

“Making up for the past six months of celibacy,” he says mischievously. 

You giggle in excitement. “I’m more than down for that,” you respond. 

Your favorite ways to cuddle during the daytime tend to be positions where you can easily move into a cuddle session; ones you particularly enjoy are when one person supports the other, such as you laying your head on his shoulder and draping the rest of your body over his lap, or him resting your head on your lap. You often alternate who supports who. It allows for conversation to be had easily, and is a nice way that you can fit yourselves together - but at the same time, it allows you to show each other vulnerability, a way of saying I’ve got you without words.

At nighttime, a preferred way you like to cuddle is one of you hugging the other halfway down their chest, head tucked into the crook of their arm. It takes a while to fully get him out of Chronicler mode when during this, but it’s not something that’s an ordeal - rather, there’s a gradual shift from him gently tracing the lines of a new map he’s drafted on your skin to simply caressing you.

Location-wise, it can really be anywhere - though the bed is the most obvious option, you’ve often found that you spend just as much time on the couch or the rug, wherever it just feels right (and for days on which it’s needed, both of you appreciate you having the foresight to plan multiple comfortable spaces around the house for conveniency’s sake).

If there’s enough around, I think that Chance would really enjoy having a lot of pillows and blankets to nest in - it makes it feel homey to him, and he likes the feeling of the weight, the same as how he enjoys wearing his cloak. Maybe better yet, a blanket or a pillow fort - not only is it super comfortable and welcoming, it’s a perfect place to have your own little stories to tell in!

He does tend to naturally steal all the blankets away from you, although it’s not like you mind too much - you can always use him as a pillow anytime. Though it makes it fairly warm to cuddle, and Chance himself doesn’t run the coolest, it’s a comforting feeling. (Although you make a note to tell Hector to turn up the AC during the summer months.)

Can talk to you about anything, from outlining his massive campaign plans to simpler stories like Teddy’s. His wide array of voices always makes it entertaining, and it’s sometimes even hard to go to sleep because you’re so invested in what comes next!

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking (and almost certainly it’s because this author fidgets a lot with their hands), but I think a thing he does unconsciously is gravitate towards your hands a lot: interlacing your fingers, running a thumb over your knuckles the same way you’d absentmindedly run your fingers over his edges when in his regular D20 form. It’s a special sort of intimate connection - a way for your everyday affectations to be reciprocated when he can. (You did tease him about it when you realised it felt familiar, and he immediately turned red, the dork that he is.)

Sometimes, during a particularly intense session of G&G, Chance will get really into it. It’s one of the things you love most about him - it’s how you first got together, after all! - but it can take a lot out of him, and you’ve caught him staying up much too late much too many times lately.

This time is one of those; from the doorway, you watch as his glasses glint with passion in the light of the desk lamp, chuckling to himself as he creates another boss enemy or magical item, not registering your presence at all. It’s passionate, and incredibly hot. But you also see the way he’s getting tired in the ways that his shoulders slump and he restarts the same miniature twice, his eyes having unfocused and brushed red paint all over its face instead.

You know there’s no way you’d be able to drag him up to the bed in this state; he’d protest, only to then fall asleep face first onto the desk surface, which would no doubt be more uncomfortable for him.

You’re suddenly struck by an idea and begin going to talk to a few other dateables and assemble your plan. —— ‘Really, I’m fine. I just need five more minutes. There’s just a few more touches I need to make-‘

‘I know, Chance, I know,’ you say lovingly, tugging him along to the living room. ‘Why don’t you just come and see what’s over here?’

He stops in the entryway, as if he can’t believe his eyes. When he turns to you, from the look on his face is the same as when you agreed to play through a campaign with him the first time. ‘You made a pillow fort?’

‘Technically, it’s the official “Citadel of Comfort”, fortified with only the purest grade couch cushions, pillows, and blankets,’ you state with pride. ‘I even gave it a little moat with a drawbridge, although it’s a welcome mat and easily the most uncomfortable bit of it. The rest is better, I promise.’

‘Is all of this for me?’ You nod, and he wavers. ‘Well, I guess I can stay for a little while…’

Giggling, the two of you crawl into the fort and spread yourselves out on the mountain of pillows you placed at the back, assuming a position familiar to both of you: you tucked underneath his arm, him stretched out and weighed down with a mass of blankets around him as if in his own little fortress. You ask him if he wants to tell you what he was working on, and he beams like all the rays of the sun, launching into it immediately with enthusiasm.

You look at him. Under the canopy, the light is dim, and the blanket you’d chosen for it reflects the softness in his expression, his eyes staring upwards as he enthuses about the new challenges he planned for his players in the upcoming adventure. You hum along; it’s always nice to see him in his element, and you know his passion is unfettered by his sleep until he’s able to recount everything. —— Eventually, he drifts into silence, and you can feel a change in the way his touches are farther drawn apart, imprecise; his breath fans over your skin, a mechanism slowed to a halt.

‘You didn’t have to,’ he says at last.

‘I know. I wanted to, though.’ You move your head next to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. ‘You’d do the same for me.’

‘Mm.’ Absentmindedly, he runs his fingers over your knuckles, a gesture it seems like he’s made many times over; it’s strikingly similar to the way you roll his die form between your fingers during your work, a comforting action when you have nothing to do with your hands.

‘You’re doing it again, you know,’ you tease lightly.

He flushes, the blush spreading like wine to the tips of his ears. ‘Am I? I hadn’t noticed,’ he laughs sheepishly. ‘Force of habit, I guess. I’m so used to you doing the same to me, it must have carried over somehow.’

‘I like it, though,’ you say. ‘It’s cute. You’re my lucky die, and I’m yours - isn’t that nice?’

He lifts your arm, presses a kiss to it, and envelops you even tighter in his arms, protecting you. ‘It’s perfect.’

Instantly, your mood is lifted as your favorite shower (your only shower) greets you. Setting all your products and other hair tools on the ledge of the sink, you look at Johnny with a smile on your face. “Hi Johnny-baby.” You reply, moving close to give him a peck on the cheek. The way his face flushed, a blush spreading across his cheeks and creeping to the tips of his ears made you smile more. But you choose not to comment on it, lest he turn into a tomato all together. You know he’s a sucker for nicknames, both giving and receiving them, so you never miss the opportunity. Clearing his throat once, as if that will dispel the heat on his face, Johnny nods to the heap on the sink. “Wash day?” He hums, chuckling as you groan. Being your shower and all, Johnny is more than familiar with the ordeal that is your wash day. But this time is different, you can see and hear him now. All the times he’s wanted to help but simply couldn’t, now was his chance. If only he could muster up the courage.

“What's going on in that head of yours?”

Johnny tensed at the sound of your voice, you always seemed to know when he was thinking too hard. You tilted your head slightly, encouraging him to spill, silently reveling in the confused expression on his face. The shower seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he wore his heart on his sleeve, taking your basic perspective skills as some sort of magical gift. “Well, I… I was wonderin’ if I could possibly– and feel free to say no sugar, I won’t take no offense–” Johnny starts, his eyes focused on the bathroom tile, deliberately looking away from you. You take hold of his wrist, looking him in the eyes. “Baby, just spit it out. You’re going in circles.” You interrupt gently, as much as you love to hear him talk, he’ll skip around the point for eternity if you let him.

He lets out a dry chuckle at your words, he knows you’re right but god, was he nervous as all get-out. “Would you be kind enough to let me help out? With wash day that is?” Johnny breathes, vaguely gesturing to the products. Before you can even respond, he’s speaking again. “It’s just I know how hard the washin’ can be. And I reckon you’d like some help. But, of course, you’re free to decline– like I said darlin’ you won’t hurt me.” He rambled, his forehead pressed against the shower head, his gaze once again deviating from you. Letting out a giggle, you cup his cheek in your hand, gently guiding his face to you. “Johnny. I would love your help. Thank you for offering, you’re so sweet.” You hum, kissing the tip of his nose before moving back. You couldn’t help but laugh some more as he subconsciously leaned closer as you pulled away.

Deciding that you’ve procrastinated long enough, though talking to Johnny is worth it, it’s time to hop to. You grab the bottom of your pajama shirt and lift it over your head. Johnny, being the gentleshower he is, turns away as you undress. It’s funny really, he’s definitely seen you naked more times than you can count given that he’s a shower. Though, you wonder if he turns away everytime. Soon enough, your clothes are in a heap in the corner and you step into the shower. The space is small, as most showers are. Your body is damn near pressed against Johnny’s, with little wiggle room. You’ve never actually showered with Johnny when he’s awakened but oddly enough; you’re not nervous. You can’t say the same for him though.

His body is rigid, his eyes darting everywhere but at you, and it’s almost like he’s afraid to breathe in your general direction. You figured given what he is, this would be no different than usual but clearly you were wrong. “Listen Johnny, we don’t have to do this. I understand if you’re not ready to see me.. like this. Don’t sacrifice your comfort for my sake.” You state, feeling slightly self-conscious, though you know you have no reason to be. Your comment instantaneously grabs Johnny’s attention. It almost gives you whiplash, the way his blue-green eyes stare at you, like he wasn’t avoiding your gaze moments ago. “Now you wait just a goshdarn minute sugar. I’ll admit; my heart’s racin’ like a coon dog in heat–” You snicker, making him smile, “but that ain’t got nothing to do with you darlin’. Why it’s about me being too doggone nervous around someone as ravishing as yourself. ‘Specially in such an intimate setting.” Johnny explains, his cheeks flushing slightly, as if he just remembered the situation at hand.

“Are you sure?”

“Hon, I'm sure as the day is long.”

Now it was your turn to be flustered. This tone shift from nervous to confident was unexpected but not unwelcome. You turn on the water and adjust the temperature, water cascading down both you and Johnny. Before you put any product in your hair, you always wash first, otherwise the product makes your skin dry afterwards. As if reading your thoughts, though you’re sure he just memorized your routine, Johnny plucks the pink loofah off his chest without a second thought. “You can take stuff off?” You ask, mildly bewildered. Johnny lets out a hearty laugh, “Well, I’m a shower ain’t I?” He replies rhetorically, grinning boyishly as you look away. “Aw baby doll, don’t go gettin’ shy on me now. You ain’t got nothin’ to be embarrassed about, it was an honest question.” He reassures, getting the soap and lathering the loofah thoroughly. Deciding to not embarrass yourself further you reach for the loofah but Johnny holds it just out of your reach. “Now hold on sweet thing, I know I said I’d help with your hair washin’ but do you mind granting me the honor of washin’... all of you?” He asks, his southern drawl becoming more pronounced.

For a moment you just open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. Where was the guy that was just too nervous to look at you? Where did he store this sudden confidence? As you pondered on how fast Johnny can switch tunes, he was overthinking. “Shoot, that was too far, wasn’t it? I swear, I always end up puttin’ my foot in my mouth.” He mutters to himself, completely oblivious to your flustered but willing state. “No no no, Johnny. I-I’d like that, a lot actually. You just…caught me off guard.” You explain quickly. He looks at you through the wet ringlet curls that cling to his face, “You ain’t just sayin’ that to make me feel better? ‘Cause I won’t do anythin’ you don’t want me to do.” He declares, his voice stern. You shake your head, wordlessly taking his hand that held the loofah and pressing it to your chest.

“I want you to.”

“...you sure?”

“As the day is long, right?”

You could’ve sworn that you saw hearts form in his eyes at your words. Johnny, smiling like he just won the lottery, takes the loofah and starts rubbing it against your collarbone. The soap lathers as he does so and you smile at his concentrated expression. His touches are soft and careful, being mindful of intimate areas by constantly asking if he was good to continue. He hummed a tune from some song you didn’t recognize as he worked, the consistency of it almost like a lullaby. It wasn’t until he leaned down to your ear to tell you to turn around did you snap out of your trance. “Don’t go gettin’ sleepy on me now, we still gotta wash that hair of yours.” He chuckled, his hands gently taking hold of your hips and turning you around. Your back was facing his front, as he resumed washing you. The loofah gliding back and forth, from your shoulders and slowly making its way down.

Johnny’s touches were innocent, you know that much, but you couldn’t help but feel warm all over. The whole ordeal was tender and soft, but you would be lying if you said your mind didn’t wander elsewhere. “Darlin’…” Johnny starts, one hand on your hip as he moves the loofah in circular motions on your lower back, “I’ve called you ravishing, and that you are, but you’re a real sight for sore eyes, y’know that?” He hums, leaning down to press a soft and chaste kiss behind your ear. You say nothing as you resist the urge to shudder at his words. He places the loofah back on the rack– himself, before reaching out the shower to grab your shampoo. As the cool air from the bathroom mixes with the steam from the shower, you remember the whole point of you being here. Wash day.

You’re surprised by how little you have to direct Johnny on what to do. He parts your hair, albeit clumsily, with your pick-tooth comb into four somewhat even sections. The shower is gentle in how he detangles with the brush, shampoos and conditions each section of hair thoroughly. Continuing to use the wide tooth comb to comb from the tips of your hair to the roots. He repeats the shampooing and conditioning twice, as he’s seen you do many times before. Once done with each section, he wraps them up by doing two twists each section. Leaving you with eight, clumsy but good enough twists. You sigh, content, as Johnny takes his shower head and presses it real close to your scalp, just to make sure all the product is thoroughly rinsed out of your hair. All while shielding your face from the product with his palm over your eyes.

“All done, sugar.”

You briefly glance through the foggy glass and catch your reflection in the mirror. Sure, the parts were messy and the twists.. were something! But in reality Johnny had saved you a lot of time doing the whole wash, detangling, and twisting process on his own. Time you would’ve undoubtedly used to crash out on how long this process can be without said help. “Johnny baby, this looks great. I can’t thank you enough.” You exclaim, reveling in the way his face flushes at your praise. Before either of you can really process it, you're hugging him, arms wrapped around his neck, chest against chest, and head against his shoulder. Immediately, Johnny is stiff and you remember that you’re naked.

Apologies are muttered as you pull away hastily, bumping into the shower wall, now flustered yourself. Johnny manages to squeak out, “It’s fine!” as he composes his own self. That self-conscious feeling from earlier creeps back in and you’re acutely aware of how long you’ve been nude in Johnny’s presence. You give the shower and wobbly smile as you get out of the shower and quickly grab a towel to wrap around yourself. You have a half a mind to just snatch your dateviators off and leave it at that, but you hate rushed goodbyes. Sterling yourself, you turn to Johnny, who’s still very much rigid and as red as a tomato.

“Thank you Johnny, seriously.”

“O-Of course, darlin’. I’m just happy to help.”

There’s a brief pause, before you cross the bathroom again and give Johnny a chaste kiss on the lips. It’s slow but tender, your lips locking together perfectly as if they were made for one another. Johnny hands rest on the small of your back and your hip as he deepens the kiss slightly and you just barely catch yourself from moaning into his mouth. It physically pains you to pull away but making out in a towel, with shampoo and conditioner infused water rushing down your face isn’t necessarily your idea of a good time. So you pat his shoulder and break the kiss, thoroughly enjoying as his lips pout and how his body leans forward in hopes for more.

“Helping me out the way you did? That means more than you know.”

Johnny’s slight pout turns into a smile as he kisses your forehead.

“Well, what kind of shower would I be if I ain’t help my sugar out? My mama raised me better than that. Besides, I enjoyed it and I wouldn’t mind doing it again.. just say the word darlin’ and I’m yours.”

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