#(head)canons

You slip out of bed, alert now, padding barefoot to slide open the glass. You’re hit with a spray of cold water and a gust of wind, followed by the feeling of wet fabric against your bare skin, goosebumps rising. Rafe shuts the window behind him, sealing the chill outside, before slumping against you. He’s soaked, hair sticking to his forehead, his blue polo shirt glued to his toned torso. 

You pull back to look at him, noticing the bruise on his left cheekbone. “Hey… what happened?” Rafe’s blue eyes are darker in this light as he shakes his head, before pulling you closer, his hands around your waist. His head drops into the crook of your neck as he breathes you in. You try again, brushing his hair out of his face gently: “Rafe? What’s going on?”

“They were talking shit about you. I couldn’t just stand there,” he mumbles under his breath, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear. 

He got into a fight. Again. 

You step back, keeping him close while fumbling to turn on your nightlight. You freeze when the room lights up, illuminating the cuts on his face and the blood seeping through his shirt in the shape of a gash on his stomach. 

“Oh my God, Rafe…” you trail off, taking another step back to fully assess the severity of his injuries. That’s when you notice his hands, knuckles bloodied and bruised like usual after a fight. 

“It’s nothing, okay?” he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse.

“It’s not nothing, Rafe. You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be fine. I always am.” He tries to add a smirk, but it falls flat. Rafe sighs before adding: “I just… I needed to see you. Needed to know that you’re okay.”

“Rafe, I’m fine. You are not.” 

You proceed to grab his arm, still soft, and lead him into the bathroom, making him sit on the edge of the bathtub like always. Rafe finds it cute how you always boss him around when he comes to you like this. It doesn’t help that you’re in those cute little shorts as well. 

You turn around to grab the first-aid kit that you keep in the bottom cabinet of your sink. For emergencies like this. Rafe showing up to your house half-bruised and bleeding has happened more times than you can count now. You pop the first-aid kit open and place it on the sink counter before grabbing an antiseptic wipe. 

“Why do you always have to do this?” you sigh, pretending to be pissed off, but it comes out more as worried.

Rafe just sits there watching. Taking in the way your hair falls loosely around your shoulders, slightly dishevelled from sleep. The way you turn to him with those concerned eyes that you try to hide and stand between his parted legs. 

You slowly reach up and press the wipe to the cut on his jaw, trying to be as gentle as you can while cleaning the wound. Rafe doesn’t wince; the cut isn’t that deep, but he clenches his jaw instinctively. He tries his best to stay still and let you patch him up. 

“Maybe I like it when you take care of me like this.” It’s clear Rafe is trying to hold back a smirk. You press down just a little harder with the wipe, not enough to hurt him, just enough for him to notice. 

“You think this is funny? What if you like… ended up in hospital or something!”

That just makes him try not to laugh. “They were talking shit about you, what was I supposed to do?” he says, putting on his innocent eyes.

You try to focus on cleaning his cuts, telling yourself his pout does not faze you. But it does. And he knows it. 

“You can’t just go and start a fight with anyone who says something about me, Rafe,” you exhale, putting the used bloody wipe on the counter, grabbing a new one to clean whatever mess is hiding under his shirt. 

“Why not?” Rafe asks like he genuinely doesn’t have a clue as to why it’s wrong.

“Because-” you cut yourself off, taking a breath before saying more quietly, “Lift your shirt.”

“So bold now, are we?” Rafe teases. 

You just narrow your eyes, waiting for him to do as you said. Rafe groans, muttering under his breath, “You’re no fun.”

He slips off his shirt, revealing his toned arms and defined torso, along with a new cut across his stomach, red and swollen. It looks bad. Like really bad.

You freeze, staring at it. Sure, Rafe’s probably gotten hurt worse, which is why he’s unbothered by it, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever get used to seeing him hurt. 

“How… how did this happen?”

“We both kinda fell… on a glass table,” he shrugs. You don’t say anything. You can’t. You don’t know whether to be upset, concerned or pissed. Rafe notices your reaction. The worry bleeding into your eyes despite your conflicting emotions.

“Hey, don't worry, I'm okay,” he tries his best to reassure you. When you still don’t say anything, he pulls you closer by the waist, leaving you no choice but to look at him. 

“I really do try not to get into fights. It’s just… I get so mad when they say stuff about you.”

Your voice comes out quieter now, the fight gone. “It’s not worth getting hurt over, Rafe. I’m not-”

“Don’t. You are worth everything, you hear me? I’d do anything for you.” His thumb brushes over your bottom lip before he leans in and kisses you, his mouth moving against yours, soft for once.

You kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his neck when his warm hands slip under your little singlet top, fingers brushing against your skin. Rafe’s tongue swipes along your bottom lip, and you take the invite, parting your lips. “Mm…” you hum, pulling back a few seconds later before things get too heated. 

You still have to clean him up. “Don’t think this makes anything okay. I’m still mad,” you huff before grabbing a cloth and some disinfectant. 

His smirk comes back full force. “You should’ve seen the other-”

He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you press the disinfectant-soaked cloth against the cut. “Fuck…” Rafe groans under his breath. It burns like hell.  

“And this is why you shouldn’t get into fights,” you lecture, before grabbing some antibiotic cream, layering it carefully over the wound before wrapping it with gauze. 

Rafe sighs as the sting fades, leaning back on his hands, braced against the edge of the tub. He runs a hand through his messy hair before looking at you with his usual smug look, “What would I do without you? Hm?” 

You bite your lip, trying to hide a smile, looking down. Rafe catches it and tilts your face back up. “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs before kissing you again. 

“You’re welcome,” you whisper against his lips, then: “But you have to make it up to me.”

“Of course,” Rafe laughs lowly. He stands up, towering over you now. His warm hands slide right back down to your hips, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “How about… we go shopping tomorrow? Just you and me?”

“I’d like that…” you whisper, looking up at him. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face before: “Can I stay the night?”

You can't help the small laugh that escapes you, the lingering worry finally melting out of your chest. "You think I’m letting you go back out in the rain to waste all of my effort cleaning you up? Come on." 

You turn off the harsh bathroom light and lead him back into the dim, warm glow of your bedroom. The rain is still drumming a heavy, steady rhythm against the glass. Rafe wastes no time peeling back your thick white duvet and sinking into the mattress. He sighs heavily, the exhaustion of the adrenaline crash finally hitting him as he pats the spot right next to him. "Get over here, baby." 

You slip into bed beside him, the satin of your pyjamas sliding against his bare chest. The second you're under the covers, Rafe hooks his leg over yours, pulling you flush against his side. His long arms wrap around your waist, burying his face right back into your hair, breathing you in.

"If you get into another fight tomorrow, I'm locking the window," you whisper into the dark, resting your head carefully on his chest, above his bandaged stomach.

"Mm... sure you will," Rafe mumbles against your neck, his voice thick with sleep. His grip tightens around your waist just a fraction more, completely content. "Goodnight, baby." 

You close your eyes, listening to the rain and the steady beat of his heart. "Goodnight." 

a/n: tysm so much for 100 followers!!! it's only been a month since i've started this blog and i cannot tell you how grateful i am for all the love and support. this is my first fic so and hopefully you guys like it. i've got lots more content coming soon including more short fics and headcanons!

dividers: @cursed-carmine @chrisssiren

★ You have ritualistic market visits. Roy insists on going every Saturday, your hand tucked in his much larger one, that tattoo on full display. He knows all the vendors by name. Buys you fresh flowers weekly. “Orchids today? Or you like da plumeria?” And he carries everything, won’t let you touch a single bag.

★ When he passes you in the kitchen, the hallway, anywhere really—his hand finds your head automatically. Sometimes it’s a kiss pressed to your crown, sometimes just his palm resting there for a heartbeat. Grounding himself. Reminding himself you’re real.

★ You’ll find him at 2 am, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, fixing some gadget with a focus that’s almost reverent. When you pad in sleepy eyed, he pulls you into his lap without looking away from his work. Keeps one arm locked around your waist. “Go back sleep if you like,” he murmurs. “I gotchu.”

★ This man’s camera roll is seventy percent you. Candid shots mostly, you reading, laughing, sleeping in his shirt. When caught, he’s unapologetic. “What? You pretty. I like lookin’ at pretty things.”

★ He’s so fun and whimsy with you. First time thunder rolled through, he built you a blanket fort without being asked. Fairy lights he’d been “meaning to install” suddenly appeared. He crawled in beside you, this giant man folding himself small, and distracted you from the hectic storm outside with banter and stories from his past.

★ You get a monthly allowance. And it’s fatttt. He insists even if you make your own money. And still insists on buying you things, having you save your money for you. He’ll pay for your nails. (If that’s what you like.) Take you out to expensive restaurants and eat with amazing views. If you wanna have a fun night and go clubbing he’s basically your personal body guard. He’s great at extravagant. It’s easy. But he’s also sentimental.

★ He’ll buy the book you mentioned once. The specific tea or coffee you like but can’t always find. A weighted blanket because he noticed you sleep better when he’s holding you. (It’s especially nice when he’s out working.)

★ When you talk, everything stops. Phone down. Tools down. Eyes fixed on you like you’re reciting scripture. And he remembers everything—your best friends promotion, that song you hummed Tuesday, the outfit you glanced at while out. All the small things really matter.

•••

NSFW

★ Those huge, rough hands that can manipulate the smallest wires, the most delicate circuits? They know exactly how much pressure, where to press, when to be gentle and when to grip hard enough to leave memory shaped shadows on your hips. “Tell me if too much, yeah?” Even when you both know you’ll never say stop.

★ His accent deffo gets thicker. Especially when he’s inside you, words spilling against your throat. “So good fo’ me—das it, das my baby—”

★ Roy doesn’t just compliment, he worships aloud. A running commentary of “Look how perfect you stay,” “You know how beautiful? Nah, you don’t even know,” “Gonna take care of you so good, baby, I promise—” until you’re dizzy with it.

★ Cockwarming. Elaboration? Sometimes after, he just… stays. Keeps you connected, pulls you onto his chest, idly plays with your hair. “Not lettin’ go yet.” Like the separation physically hurts. And when you clench around him—involuntary, aftershocks—his breath hitches, “Shoots, baby, tryin’ kill me?”

★ He’s strong as fuck. He knows this. And enjoys it. There’s something about being able to maneuver you exactly where he wants you that makes him almost feral.

★ Lifting you against walls or holding you suspended, one arm banded across your waist, back against his chest while he shoves his free hand down your pants, thick fingers fucking into you. “So light, baby, like nothing. Can do this all night, yeah? You like?”

★ He joins you in the shower “just to help.” Runs soap slick hands over every inch of you. Presses you against cool tile, water pourinh over both of you. “Gotta make sure you all nice and clean” You’re the cleanest person alive by the time he’s done.

★ One time, he took you down to the shore after dark. Blanket. Stars. His hands under your shirt while waves crashed nearby. “Nobody around but us, baby.” The ocean was loud enough to swallow your sounds. He took full advantage.

★ Roy leaves marks. Thoughtful about placement, where only he’ll see them, where they’ll peek out just enough to remind you. Sucks bruises into your inner thighs with the same focused patience he uses on his tech. “Jus’ one more, promise.” (It’s never just one more.)

★ Aftercare Isn’t Optional. The man who takes you apart so thoroughly is meticulous about putting you back together. Always. Warm cloth, cold water, gentle hands checking in.

★ “You good? Need anything? Tell me true now.” Wraps you in his arms like a shield after, nose buried in your hair, “Did so good fo’ me. Always so good.”

girldad!jake, who is insistent on taking your daughter out for ‘daddy daughter dates’ every weekend because he deserves some one-on-one time with her (even though he’s already spending every second he can with her).

girldad!jake, who carries your daughter so much that you’re convinced she’s never going to learn how to walk. god forbid you ever tell him to let her down, he’ll respond with a pouty “but baby, her legs are so little. she must be tired”, or “just 5 minutes longer! then she can walk all she wants,” (but he does not, infact, put her down after 5 minutes).

girldad!jake, who lifts her up from under her arms, credit card slotted between her tiny fingers, to let her tap his shiny black card for the $300 worth of clothes that you had both hand picked out for her. 

girldad!jake, who cries more than you do when you both send her off for her first day of daycare. “i can’t believe shes growing up so fast,” is all he can manage through the ball of tissues scrunched in his hand.  

girldad!jake, who leaves small notes in her lady bug themed lunch bag (even though she doesn’t know the alphabet yet), which he insists that her teacher read to her every lunch break.

girldad!jake, who lays beside you in the late hours of the night, analyzing the shadows of your face in the blue light that is the moons casting. “she has your eyes, and she looks just like you when she smiles,” is what he whispers against your lips before pressing a soft, tender kiss against them. 

girldad!jake, who physically cannot say no to his little girl. if he ever takes her out shopping, just know that hes coming home with a trunk full of toys that are almost exactly like the ones she already has. its gotten to the extent that the spare guest bedroom in the house has now become her personal toystore, but he will never change his ways because it would mean that he doesn't get to see his wifes smile in hers.

girldad!jake, who would rather spend his time watching youtube videos on how to do a french braid than go to sleep because you had gone away on a business trip, and he knew that your daughter would audibly sob if she couldn’t have her favourite hairstyle for daycare. 

girldad!jake, who would get caught playing ‘tea party’ with your daughter when it was past her bedtime, in which he would recieve a soft scolding from you before shes put to bed. as soon as the door clicks softly behind you, he cracks a smile, which is then followed by a giggle, which is then followed by a burst of laughter. “my little girl invited me to her very special tea party, was i supposed to say no?” was all he could say before you yourself had burst into laughter with him. it was then that he pulled you against the warmth of his chest, planting a soft kiss on the top of your head with a whispered “i’m so glad i chose to have a kid with you.”

girldad!jake, who brags to all of his friends about how adorable his daughter is, and how beautiful his wife is for making such a perfect creation. “sunghoon seriously, look at her,” or “jungwon, she said her first word yesterday!” as hes actively shoving his phone in their faces to show them the countless videos and pictures that have filled his camera roll.

girldad!jake, who, of course, got his daughters first word to be “dada”. 

Obsessed!Mickey Barnes jerking off to the thought of you every night. He tries not to. He swears he tries. But the second he’s alone in his bed, his hand is already slipping beneath the covers, stroking himself to the memory of the way you smiled at him that day, the way your fingers brushed against his when you handed him something. He bites his lip to keep from moaning your name, but sometimes he slips. He wants you so badly it hurts.

Obsessed!Mickey Barnes getting hard just from being too close to you. It’s humiliating. You’ll brush past him in the halls, and suddenly he has to think about something else, anything at all before it becomes obvious. He swears he isn’t some pervert, but his body betrays him every single time.

Obsessed!Mickey Barnes stealing little things from you just to feel close. Hair ties, pens, even the smallest scraps of paper with your handwriting on them—if it’s yours, he wants it. He keeps them hidden in his room, a little shrine of stolen pieces of you, pulling them out when he needs to feel closer.

Obsessed!Mickey Barnes dreaming about breaking the rules for you. Kenneth’s no-sex rule? He wants to follow it. Really, he does. But if you ever whispered, “No one has to know,” in that soft, teasing voice of yours, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d break every rule, risk everything, just to have you.

Obsessed!Mickey Barnes hiding in your closet when you come home early from your shift. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He had just come to be close to you, to lie in your bed for a moment, to breathe you in. But when he heard the door open, panic set in. There was no time to escape, so he scrambled into your closet, heart hammering, praying you wouldn’t notice the way the door was slightly ajar.

Obsessed!Mickey Barnes who ends up watching you without meaning to. He swears he didn’t mean to see anything. He should have closed his eyes, should have turned his back away from the gap in the closet. But then you started touching yourself—right there, in your bed, technically in front of him, although completely unaware that he was hidden just feet away. His mouth went dry, his whole body frozen as he watched, mesmerized, unable to look away.

Obsessed!Mickey Barnes who can’t help but touch himself too. He tries to stay still, to stay quiet, but it’s too much. The way you whimper, the way your breath hitches—it’s torture. He palms himself through his pants, biting his lip so hard he almost draws blood. He knows it’s wrong, knows he shouldn’t, but the way you moan has him coming undone, desperate and aching for you in ways he can’t even describe.

Obsessed!Mickey Barnes hating himself for it but knows he’d do it again. When you finally sigh, when you finally relax, he’s still trembling in the dark, spent and ashamed but so, so addicted. He waits until you’re asleep before slipping out, forcing himself to pretend like it never happened. But deep down, he knows—if it ever happened again, if fate ever put him in that position once more—he wouldn’t hesitate to touch himself once more.