Reader Imagines

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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