♡ childish!reader who doesn't really understand the danger he's capable of — or maybe she does, but chooses to ignore it, like a child covering her ears and humming when things get too scary. she sees Rafe with those wide, trusting eyes, still thinking he’s just “a little mean sometimes.”
🔪 killer!rafe who talks to her like she’s made of porcelain, soft voice, low and slow — not because he’s gentle by nature, but because she’s the only thing that calms him. “You don’t need to know what I do, bunny. Just keep smiling like that. Let me worry about the ugly stuff.”
♡ childish!reader who throws small tantrums when he won’t let her go out alone. she pouts, stomps her feet, threatens to “run away forever” — but ends up curled in his lap, hugging his neck and mumbling, “you’re still mean,” while he strokes her hair.
🔪 killer!rafe who gets irrationally angry when someone makes fun of the way she talks, the way she gets excited about childish things, or calls her dumb — because only he gets to tease her, and no one else gets to see her eyes well up. “What did you say about her? Huh?” he growls, already pulling up his sleeves, and she has to tug on his arm with a “Rafie, please don’t be scary...”
♡ childish!reader who decorates his knives with tiny stickers, “so they’re less spooky,” she says. he lets her. he lets her because every time he sees the little pink star on the handle, he remembers why he’s still pretending to be human.
🔪 killer!rafe who lies to her constantly — “that guy moved away,” “there was no screaming,” “my hands are red ‘cause I spilled paint.” she believes him. or maybe she just smiles and plays along, pretending not to see the blood on his boots, because her little world is safe as long as he’s there.
♡ childish!reader who makes him friendship bracelets with glitter beads and crooked letters, proudly tying them on his wrist like she just gave him a sacred gift.
🔪 killer!rafe who becomes obsessed with protecting her innocence, like if he shields her long enough, the rest of the world won’t taint her softness. He’ll kill for her. he has killed for her. And the worst part? She probably knows. And she loves him anyway.
WARNINGS .ᐟ murder, gore, dark comedy, anatomy innacuracies probably, angst?, insane continuity errors with dna evidence, rafe and reader shower together
NOTES .ᐟ i watched this movie called tragedy girls with my mom, and it inspired me to write this. just two bestfriends who love hate to kill together <3 sorry it gets a little rushed at the end. i mostly wrote it for the perimortem banter
"Rafe," you whined, looking down at the blood that had spurted from the random kook boy's neck wound right onto you. "You got blood on my new top," you huffed. "I specifically told you to avoid the jugular, so it didn't cause such a mess!"
"Well, why did you wear your new top to a fuckin' murder scene then, huh, princess?" he scoffed, his fingers flexing around the knife handle as he waved it around for emphasis, the deep red blood glistening under the warm yellow lights.
You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Because I look hot," you said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Now, give me the stupid knife. You aren't even doing it right!" You held out your hand, your stance alone radiating attitude.
He looked at you, a mix of amusement and frustration dancing in his blue eyes. "And you think you can do better?" he sneered. "I mean, for fuck's sake, he's dead. What more do you want, huh?" He complained but nonetheless, did as you said, flipping the knife handle first as he handed it over.
You wrapped your fingers around the handle carefully, ignoring his exasperation as you hummed thoughtfully. "You're just so... unimaginative," you replied, your tone a bit condescending as you eyed the boy's body at Rafe's feet, clearly mulling something over.
Rafe watched you carefully, his arms crossed over his chest—a clear sign of his quickly growing irritation—as he leaned against the wall. "Unimaginative?" he repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "What, are you gonna poetry read his fuckin' corpse or something?"
"Please," you scoffed, shooting him a look as you kneeled down beside the body. Your eyes sweeped over him thoughtfully, using the tip of the knife to brush a strand of hair from his face. "Stabbing is so 90s," you rolled your eyes. "It's not enough to just kill anymore. You have to be... creative," you explained, as if there was a section in Cosmo on being a teenage serial killer.
Rafe threw his hands up in the air, clearly exasperated. "Oh, it's not enough to just kill anymore, we have to be creative?" he parroted, his voice going up an octave to imitate you in an unflattering falsetto.
"Local boy found stabbed doesn't quite have the same ring as local boy found gutted, now, does it, Rafe?" You scoffed, shooting an annoyed glare his way. "It's all about the optics."
"Oh, it's all about the optics," Rafe mimicked again, finding your pretentiousness both amusing and frustrating. You were like those insufferable film bros but with murder.
"Will you stop repeating what I'm saying back to me in that condescending tone?" You stood back up, turning to face him and crossing your arms over your chest. You couldn't work with him being the world's douchiest parrot right in your ear.
"Or what, princess?" Rafe asked, his voice low and mocking. "You gonna time out and have a little temper tantrum because I'm not taking your murder 101 lecture seriously enough?" He pushed himself off the wall, his eyes never leaving yours as he stepped closer.
"I oughta gut you next, you asshole," you threatened, pointing the knife at him for good measure. Although, you both knew that you'd never actually hurt him.
"Oh, yeah? And who's gonna clean up that mess, huh?" He smirked, leaning in close so that his breath was hot against your face. "You can't even handle a little blood on your shirt without whining about it."
You rolled your eyes at his arrogance. He was completely insufferable and annoyingly hot. "Shut up," you retorted sharply, getting back down to your knees next to the boy. You put the knife down for a moment, deftly unbuttoning the buttons of the boy's shirt.
Rafe watched you work with mild interest, his eyebrows raised. "What are you doing now, giving him a post-mortem fashion show?" He asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is why I stick to stabbing."
You ignored his remark, picking the knife back up and stabbing into his sternum. Blood splattered onto your face, your jaw clenching as you used all your strength to drag the knife down his body, cutting him open from his chest to just below his belly button.
Rafe flinched slightly as blood went flying. "Jesus Christ, warn a guy next time," he grumbled, wiping a stray drop from his cheek. He watched you work, a grimace on his face. "Remind me never to piss you off,"
"You already do," you deadpanned, curling your fingers into his skin and prying the flaps open to reveal his internal organs. "Literally every day."
"Ha ha, very funny," Rafe said dryly, his gaze flicking to the organs spilling out of the boy's chest cavity. "What the fuck am I even looking at right now anyway?" He squinted and tilted his head, clearly trying to decipher what parts of the body he was seeing beneath all that blood.
"I don't fucking know. Do I look like a doctor to you?" You looked up at him, shrugging. It wasn't like you'd researched how to mutilate a body prior to this. You were just sort of winging it.
"You look like an insufferable know-it-all who thinks they're better than everyone else," he quipped, crouching down beside you and looking into the body. "Is that... a lung?" He asked uncertainly.
"Didn't I just say I don't know?" You asked sarcastically, giving him an 'are you fucking kidding me right now' look before turning back to peer into the mess of blood, guts, and organs. You didn't really have a plan beyond cutting the poor guy open.
"Well, this is just fuckin' great," Rafe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I was perfectly fine with just slitting his throat and leaving him, but nooooo you had to get all creative and worry about the optics like some kind of psycho Van Gogh."
"Will you calm the fuck down," you groaned, using the back of your wrist to brush a strand of hair out of your face and smudging blood on your forehead in the process. "I can't focus with you whining in my ear."
"Me? Whining?" Rafe scoffed, his eyes widening in offense. "I'm not the one covered in blood and guts, playing amateur butcher here." He shook his head, looking at you like you were the world's biggest idiot.
"I told you. This shit will make better headlines," you defended. "In the wise words of Tiffany, stabbings went out with Bundy and Dahmer," you quoted, tilting your head in thought.
"Great, so now you're quoting fuckin' Bride of Chucky to me?" Rafe rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Leave it to you to overcomplicate something as simple as killing someone.
You grinned, looking over at him as he recalled the exact movie you quoted. "Aww, you remembered?" You had forced Rafe to watch a shit ton of horror movies over the course of your friendship, but you never really thought he was actually paying attention to them.
"How could I forget? You made me sit through every single one of those god-awful films, complete with your annoying play-by-play commentary," Rafe grumbled, but deep down, he loved how excited you got about movies. Your jokes and ramblings were the only thing that made half those movies worth watching.
You turned back to the corpse, letting out a heavy sigh as you sat back on your heels. "Should we just... leave him like this?" You grimaced, not really wanting to touch any of his organs.
"What, you're done now?" Rafe rolled his eyes, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. "I thought you had some master plan to be the next Da Vinci of serial killers."
"Can you even name a Da Vinci painting?" You rolled your eyes, grabbing the knife and standing up, blood coating your clothes and skin. "Besides, I said we had to get creative. I never claimed to know what the fuck I was doing," you pointed out. Though, it was all semantics, really.
"Of course I can name a Da Vinci painting," Rafe huffed, though he couldn't actually remember any off the top of his head. "It's... uh... The Last Supper." He crossed his arms, glaring at you in annoyance. "And maybe the fuckin'... uh, who's that bitch with the brown hair? Oh, the Mona Lisa."
"You remembered The Last Supper before the fucking Mona Lisa—literally the most well known painting in history?" You asked incredulously, shaking your head in disbelief, having a normal conversation with him as if you weren't standing over a mutilated corpse.
"Who gives a shit about the Mona Lisa or The Last Supper for that matter," he scoffed, motioning to the dead body on the ground. "Now what the fuck are we gonna do with this guy, huh?"
You sighed, shrugging. "Fuck if I know," you looked from the corpse to him.
"Well, that's just great," Rafe said sarcastically. "We kill the guy, and now we have no idea what to do with the body. You're a real fuckin' genius, you know that?" He shook his head in exasperation.
"Okay, well, if you wanna get bitchy, technically, you're the one that actually killed him," you said stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest in annoyance.
"Oh, because slashing him open and rearranging his insides was just so innocent?" Rafe retorted, mimicking your stance and crossing his arms.
"Okay, I never said that I was innocent," you defended yourself, gesturing around with the bloody knife as you spoke. "I just said I wasn't the one that killed him."
"Semantics, sweetheart," Rafe drawled, his eyes rolling in annoyance. "Either way, we're both fucked if the cops find this body. So, come up with a plan already." He sighed heavily, looking around the room, as if expecting a solution to magically appear.
"You come up with a plan," you fired back. Why did you have to be the one to fix this mess? You were both royally fucked if shit hit the fan, so why was he putting all the pressure on you?
"Because you're the one with the goddamn imagination," Rafe growled, jabbing a finger at you. "You're the one who wanted to get creative with killing him. So now you get to be creative with getting rid of the body, too."
"You really gonna keep throwing that in my face?" You asked, the tension in the room growing with each passion second. "I was just trying to make things more interesting!"
"Well, congratulations, you succeeded in making things interesting," Rafe spat, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now we're up to our eyeballs in shit and you can't even come up with a basic fucking plan to dig us out."
"I have a plan, you dickhead," you shot back with a huff. "Just carry him to the bathroom," you ordered, motioning to the hallway with the bloodied knife.
Rafe's eyebrows shot up, disbelief written all over his face. "To the bathroom?" He echoed incredulously. "What the hell are we gonna do with him in there? Give him a bubble bath and sing him to sleep?" He threw his hands up in frustration.
"Just carry him to fucking bathroom, smartass," you rolled your eyes. Everything was always a fight with Rafe. He couldn't just do what you asked. No, he had to make a billion sarcastic and bitchy comments in the process. God, he was so dramatic.
"Fine, let's take the mutilated corpse to the fucking bathroom," Rafe grumbled, moving to grab the body. He grunted as he grabbed the boy under the arms "You better have a damn good reason for this, or I swear to God..."
"Do you always have to complain so much," you groaned, trailing behind him. As much as Rafe was being a shithead, you couldn't help but admire the view of his biceps flexing underneath his t-shirt as he dragged the body.
"Would you rather I be all smiles and sunshine while carrying a disemboweled corpse to the bathroom?" Rafe shot back sarcastically. He dropped the body unceremoniously into the porcelain bathtub. "Now what?" He demanded, turning to you with a glare.
"Okay, I did not disembowel him," you said, rolling your eyes at his dramatics as you turned the tub on, turning the temperature to its max. "All his organs are still in his body," you argued, waiting for the water to heat up, occasionally dipping your fingers underneath to test the temp.
"Oh, well, as long as his organs are all nice and cozy inside him, I guess that makes it all okay then," Rafe retorted, watching you carefully as you plugged the bathtub, letting the water fill up.
"The water should burn off any DNA evidence, or at the very least, make it extremely degraded," you explained, steam starting to billow up from the tub and fill the small room. "So, we can just leave him here for like, his housekeeper to find or something."
Rafe's eyebrows shot up, "Leave him for the housekeeper to find?" He echoed, "And what, we just waltz outta here, hand in hand?"
"Aww," you cooed, looking over your shoulder to grin at him. "You wanna hold my hand?"
"Fuck you," Rafe spat, but you could see the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly annoyed but not entirely displeased by the idea.
"You wish," you snorted, willing the tub to finish filling up. You were becoming increasingly aware of how sticky and uncomfortable the blood was on your skin, especially now that it had gone cold.
"In your dreams, maybe," Rafe shot back, though his eyes flicked down to your arms, taking in the crimson stains that painted your skin. "You're a mess," he commented gruffly.
"Well, murder isn't exactly a clean endeavor." You turned the water off and turned back to him, crossing your arms over your chest. Rafe had blood all over his hands and spatter across his face and shirt. He wasn't nearly as bloody as you, but he wasn't clean either.
Rafe looked down at his red-stained hands, flexing his fingers as if just now realizing how messy he was. He glanced back up at you, his expression unreadable. "We should clean up."
"What?" You asked, gaze darting to the glass shower in the corner. "You wanna hop in the dead guy's shower? Seems a little insensitive, don't you think?" You grinned, making a joke of the situation.
"Oh, ha ha," Rafe deadpanned, uncrossing his arms and moving past you to turn the water on in the shower. He turned to you, his expression serious. "We'll shower together."
Your eyes widened a little at his bold demand, but you couldn't deny that it was practical. "Yknow, normally, I'd say you just wanna see me naked," you teased him. "But, that's actually not a bad idea. It'll save time."
"Don't flatter yourself," Rafe scoffed, though his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary. "Less talking, more stripping," he said, pulling his shirt over his head.
You internally groaned at the sight of him shirtless. You'd seen it before, but the view of his toned chest simply never got old. You started to pull your own clothes off. "So, what are we gonna put on once we finish cleaning all this blood off?" You asked curiously, tugging your pants down your hips.
Rafe's jaw clenched as he took in your naked form, his eyes roaming over you appreciatively before he tore his gaze away and finished undressing. "There's probably a robe or something in here," he muttered, stepping into the shower and letting the warm water cascade over his head, falling down his broad shoulders.
You hummed, nodding as you stepped into the shower with him. It was a fancy ass shower with multiple shower heads and streams of water, which made washing up with another person much easier. You tried to keep your eyes North of the equator and not sneak a peek at his dick as you pumped some soap into your palm, lathering it in your hands.
Rafe watched you from the corner of his eye as he soaped up his own hands, his expression inscrutable. "You know," he said after a moment, "for someone who just helped me murder a man, you're awfully relaxed right now."
"You know, for someone who just let me help him murder a man, you're awfully relaxed right now," you grinned, mirroring his sentiment as you rubbed the soap on your body, trying to get rid of the blood staining your skin.
"Touché," he nodded, his hands roaming over his chest and arms, scrubbing away the crimson stains.
"Now, hurry up, so we can get the fuck out of here," you said, not wanting to be in the house any longer than necessary. Every minute that ticked by with you two in the room with your victim, was one minute closer to being caught.
Rafe finished washing himself quickly, his mind already on the task at hand—getting away from the scene of the crime. He turned off the shower and reached for a towel. He handed you one and took the other, both of you drying off in record time and pulling the soft, monogrammed robes on, you muttering something about 'fucking rich people' that had Rafe rolling his eyes—considering the fact that he also had monogrammed robes.
You collected your bloody clothes and the towels you had used, not wanting to leave anything behind before sneaking out of the house undetected and jumping into Rafe's truck parked a few blocks away. Once you were finally away from the house and certain you hadn't been seen by anyone, you let out a sigh, relaxing into the seat after you buckled yourself in.
Rafe started the truck and pulled out of the parking spot, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as he drove away from the house. He glanced over at you, noting the bloody clothes balled up in your lap. "We need to get rid of those," he said, his voice low and even.
"We'll burn them," you shrugged, your tone indicating that it was the most obvious thing in the world. You leaned your head back against the headrest. You were exhausted and oddly, starving. Who knew that murder took so much out of a person?
He nodded. "Let's head to my place. We can order some food and discuss what to do now," he laid out a plan or pieces of a plan rather.
"Sounds good to me," you agreed, looking out the window and watching as the Figure Eight mansions blew by. You couldn't believe that you has just killed someone, and more than that, you couldn't believe you had just killed someone with the kook king Rafe Cameron.
🔪 killer!rafe who stares at himself too long in the mirror, sometimes just to remember he’s real. The blood comes off. The guilt doesn’t.
🔪 killer!rafe who carves out rituals to feel human — a cold shower, a clean shirt, the weight of a familiar knife in his hand — not to heal, but to hold himself together.
🔪 killer!rafe who doesn’t flinch at the sight of blood — not because he’s fearless, but because he lost that part of himself a long time ago. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t hesitate. He acts instinctively, reflexively, like a survival mechanism.
🔪 killer!rafe who sleeps with one eye open, hand always close to something metal, because he knows what he’s done — and worse, what he’s capable of doing again.
🔪 killer!rafe who doesn’t clean his boots after a job, but always wipes them before stepping into his own place, not because of the mess, but because some things feel too sacred to stain.
🔪 killer!rafe who keeps a crumpled photo in his pocket — not for luck, not for comfort, but because it’s the only thing that proves he’s loved by something softer than him. he touches it with the same hands that have done terrible things, and wonders how both can exist in the same body.
“Do I look good ?” - killer!rafe x childish!reader
Summary. rafe takes reader to ballet class
She emerges from the bathroom in her pastel pink leotard and pink skirt, which skims her thighs. She's put two heart-shaped clips in her hair, pulled up into a perfect little bun. Her tights are a little too thin for the cold, but she doesn't care. She just wants him to look at her.
She approaches him, hands clasped behind her back, cheeks a little pink, eyes shining with hope.
“Rafe… do I look good?”
He looks up. She's standing in front of him, all fragile and soft, like a porcelain doll from another world. And it makes him sick.
Because she's beautiful, yes. But…
He stands up slowly, drops the black jacket he was wearing over his shoulders, and approaches her.
His fingers run up her jaw, to her chin.
“You look too good,” he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse. “That's the problem.”
She blinks, confused.
"But… I want to look nice. For you."
He smiles, but it's not sweet, not nice. It's a smile a little too tense, a little too tight.
"You do, bunny. You do it a little too well."
He places a kiss on her forehead and holds her close.
"Let's go. I'll take you."
As he's about to leave, rafe holds her by the wrist, making her turn around.
“Wait” showing her a small camera, "let me take a photo."
The air freezes for a moment, delicate as spun sugar, as she tilts her head slightly and gives him a hesitant smile - the one she's practiced in the mirror, the one she knows he likes. Her fingers tighten behind her back, and she nods shyly, letting him position her.
Rafe crouches slightly, camera firmly in hand. He doesn't tell her how to pose - he never has to. She stands there as if in a dream: tender roses, trembling eyelashes, quivering lips.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
She does, all innocent and hopeful, and he takes the picture.
The click of the camera echoes louder than it should.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, eyes still on her. "You're mine like that."
She doesn't quite understand what he means-not completely-but the way he reverently pockets the camera warms her chest.
Rafe brushes a lock of hair away from her temple, even though her bun is impeccable. It's just an excuse to touch her.
Then, in a low voice, “If anyone else looks at you like that today… I'll scratch their eyes out.”
This is no joke.
But he soothes her with a kiss on her cheek and puts an arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward the door.
"Come on, ballerina. You're going to be late."
And she follows, her cheeks hot again - not from cold, not from fear. Just the feeling of being seen. Noticed. Chosen.
Even if it's by someone with blood on their hands...
how childish!reader will react if killer!rafe yell at her
(reader masterlist )
He screams.
And it pierces her. Clean. Like a stab in the gut.
"Fuck, stop that bullshit for two seconds! Can't you see my head's not in it?! "
Yet she had done nothing wrong, she was just being herself. Maybe too much for rafe at that moment. She didn't straighten him out. She just stands there, frozen, her eyes round, her arms flailing.
Her heart is pounding too hard. But her face doesn't move.
Not a tear. Not a word.
He looks at her, breathless, tense. And she just nods, gently.
"All right... " she says, low. Too low.
Then she turns on her heels, quietly.
Almost politely.
She doesn't run. She doesn't slam the door. She climbs the stairs like a well-behaved little girl. Just as she's been taught.
Don't make any noise. Don't bother. Don't show your pain.
Rafe says nothing. He thinks she's going to pout at him.That she'll look away for two hours and come back with a hug, like always.
But he doesn't know what she's hiding in her room.
She gently closes the door. Sits on the edge of the bed. Keeps her hands firmly in her lap.
And then, without a sound, it creaks.
Her shoulders tremble, her tears flow, silently at first , then she stifles a sob in her sweater. Like she used to do when she was little. When her parents screamed.
Because she's always believed that if you cry in front of people, they leave. Or they hit. Or they scream louder. When she had to behave, even if everything inside screamed too.
She cries into her cushion. Tears you don't show anyone. Not even the one you love.
And right now, even though she knows Rafe isn't like that, her body doesn't care. He panics like it was only yesterday. Like it was still at her parents' house. As if she were six years old and shouldn't cry.
