#Postcards From America | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theonottsbxtch · 3 days ago

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99 PROBLEMS | MV1

an: this is literally a crack fic, i had the idea when i was listening to 99 problems by jay-z and i was talking to @iamred-iamyellow please enjoy

summary: max never expected to one day have a 17 year old son. he didn't know he was a father. but now he's got to try and figure out how this nerd is his son. and also teach him how to live a little.

wc: 3.3k

Max never thought he’d be a single dad to a teenage boy, but shit happens.

One minute, he was in Monaco celebrating another podium win, champagne-soaked and grinning for the cameras. The next, there was a seventeen-year-old with his eyes and an attitude to match standing on his doorstep with a duffel bag. His name was Noah—“not ‘Dad,’ just Max”—and he wasn’t here to bond. No, Noah was here because apparently the universe thought karma would be funnier this way.

Max was on the balcony of his Monaco apartment replying to a few emails, the city’s lights flickering like a postcard behind him. He could hear Noah inside, rifling through the fridge, muttering complaints about the lack of “real food.”

“Hey, don’t knock the caviar!” Max called over his shoulder. “It’s got protein!”

“Caviar’s not dinner!” Noah fired back, slamming the fridge door.

Max smirked, chuckling a bit. The kid had a point. The life of a Formula One champion didn’t exactly prepare him for raising a teenager. Most days, it was all jet-setting, high-end sponsorships, and a new girl on his arm by sundown. It was messy, but it was his kind of messy. Now? Now, he had to figure out how to squeeze fatherhood in between the chaos.

“You seriously live like this?” Noah asked, stepping onto the balcony, holding up one of Max’s custom helmets. His tone wasn’t admiration—it was judgement.

“Like what?” Max said, not looking up from his phone.

“You know, like...this. Cars, women, parties. I mean, isn’t it exhausting?”

Max chuckled low, pocketing his phone. “Don’t have time to be tired.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “Right. So, uh...where do I fit in this circus?”

Max turned, his smirk fading just enough to let a flicker of honesty show. “Haven’t figured that out yet. But we’ll make it work.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Max glanced back at the city below. “Now, go grab a drink or something. Just...not the champagne.”

And that’s how it started: the driver, his kid, and a life moving faster than either of them could control.

Max hadn’t had a conventional childhood and he could tell this kid did, well as conventional as it was to be dropped off at your dad who you’ve never met’s house a few weeks before your 18th birthday.

He thought that maybe while he was here he could teach him a few things, take him to a few races or something.

Max didn’t really know what to do.

The private gym was tucked into the corner of Max’s penthouse, all sleek machines and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It was rarely used. Most of Max’s training happened at the Headquarters. or with his team, but Noah had been dragging his feet around the apartment all week, so Max figured a little sweat might do them both some good.

“Alright, kid,” Max said, tossing a pair of dumbbells onto the mat. “Let’s see if you’ve got anything in the tank. Ever lifted before?”

“Sure,” Noah replied, unimpressed. He sat down on the bench press, giving the machine a once-over like he was deciding whether or not to trust it.

Max crossed his arms, watching as Noah pushed through a few hesitant reps. “Not bad. But if that’s your warm-up, we’re in trouble.”

Noah glared, setting the weights down with a clink. “Not all of us need muscles for a living.”

Max laughed. “Touché. So, what do you do for fun then?”

“Fun?”

“Yeah, fun. You know, like hobbies, friends, maybe a girlfriend?”

Noah shrugged, grabbing a water bottle. “Not much. I play some video games, read, I guess. Nothing crazy.”

“Read?” Max frowned. “What, no parties? No sneaking out? You don’t go out?”

“Go out where?” Noah’s voice had that dry teenage edge to it. “I’m seventeen. I lived in America my whole life. You can’t even get into a bar without a fake ID there.”

Max froze mid-stretch, eyebrows shooting up. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me you’ve never had a drink?”

Noah gave him a look like he’d just asked if the sky was blue. “No?”

Max stared at him, dumbfounded. “God. If only you knew what I was doing at your age when my dad had his back turned.”

Noah rolled his eyes. “Oh, let me guess. Clubbing in Paris. Drinking champagne with supermodels. Living the dream?”

“Belgium, but close,” Max said, leaning against the bench press. “Keg parties in the back of some guy’s trailer in Hasselt. Terrible beer, worse decisions, and my trainer yelling at me the next morning. Still, though. I can’t believe you’re seventeen and haven’t even had a sip.”

“I mean, it’s not a big deal,” Noah muttered.

“Not a big deal?” Max barked out a laugh. “Mate, by seventeen, I’d already figured out my go-to drink order. Vodka tonic. Not classy, but it got the job done.” He leaned in, his grin borderline mischievous. “We’ve got some work to do.”

Noah held up his hands, shaking his head. “Oh no. You’re not turning this into some wild ‘how to live’ project.”

Max raised his eyebrows, mock-innocent. “Hey, I’m just saying. Gotta live a little.”

“Maybe I don’t want to end up like you,” Noah shot back.

Max laughed again, but this time it came quieter, almost thoughtful. “Trust me, buddy. Nobody ends up like me. Now, come on. Two more sets, and then I’ll show you how to make a proper protein shake. Don’t worry—I won’t spike it.”

Noah snorted, shaking his head as he got back to work. It was just another morning, another disagreement, but Max couldn’t help feeling like they were inching closer to something real. Something like family.

By the end of the week, Noah was starting to think his dad was running some kind of unofficial competition.

On Monday, it was Marie. She was Monegasque, blonde, and talked like she was auditioning for a perfume ad. “Bonjour, mon cher,” she’d purred at Noah, ruffling his hair like he was ten. Max had barely noticed her leave, too busy scrolling his phone for his next big sponsorship deal.

Tuesday brought Yasmin, a Brazilian model who walked around the apartment in Max’s oversized shirt, pretending not to notice Noah glaring at her from the couch. She’d tried to make conversation, something about school and books, but Noah had just shrugged until she gave up.

By Wednesday, it was Clara, who had an annoying laugh and kept calling Max “babe” like they’d been married for years.

Thursday was a whirlwind—two girls, both of whom Max forgot to introduce. One of them waved awkwardly at Noah as they left, heels clicking on the tile floor.

By Friday, Noah wasn’t even fazed. He sat at the kitchen counter, eating cereal while Max brewed coffee, shirtless and looking entirely too smug for a guy running on five hours of sleep.

“How?” Noah finally said, his spoon clinking against the bowl.

Max glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “How what?”

“You know.” Noah waved vaguely toward the hallway where yet another pair of heels had disappeared moments ago. “Them. How do you...?”

Max chuckled, shaking his head as he poured his coffee. “Not that complicated.” He took a sip, leaning against the counter like he was about to deliver some ancient wisdom. “They like fast cars and big dreams. I’ve got both.”

Noah squinted at him. “Yeah, but don’t they know what they’re getting into? Like...you’re not exactly giving ‘dad of the year’ vibes.”

Max laughed, the sound echoing through the kitchen. “Oh, they know. Trust me, they all think they’re the one who’s gonna ‘change me.’” He set his mug down, smirking. “Spoiler alert: they’re not.”

Noah frowned, stirring his cereal. “Doesn’t it get old?”

“What?”

“The whole thing. Girls coming and going. Don’t you ever want...I don’t know, something normal?”

Max tilted his head, studying him for a second. “Normal’s overrated. Besides, why are you so interested? You got someone back in the States?”

Noah snorted. “No. Not unless you count my English teacher who used to give me extra credit just to stop talking in class.”

Max grinned, pushing off the counter. “Smart kid. Learn from me, though—don’t waste your charm on teachers. Save it for someone who can actually keep up.”

Noah rolled his eyes, standing up to put his bowl in the sink. “You’re insane.”

“And yet,” Max said, raising his coffee in a mock toast, “I’m still your dad. Crazy how that works.”

Noah shook his head, walking out of the kitchen. But as he headed toward his room, he caught himself smirking. Max was a mess—there was no denying that. But, annoyingly, there was something kind of fascinating about watching him pull it off.

He had to give him some respect. Three time world champion but he lived his life like an unbothered bachelor that didn’t have a multi-million contract under his belt.

Two days later, Max was standing in front of his wardrobe, trying to decide between a black shirt and a white graphic tee. He ended up tossing the black top onto the bed, shrugging into the white tee. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—a message from the group chat reminding him that their table was already reserved at Jimmy’s.

Max grabbed his watch and headed toward the living room, adjusting it as he walked. Noah was sprawled on the couch, scrolling his phone with the kind of disinterested focus only teenagers could pull off.

“You wanna come?” Max asked casually, pulling his car keys from the counter.

Noah didn’t even look up. “I’m seventeen.”

Max leaned against the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And I’m Max Verstappen.”

Noah gave him a deadpan look. “Yeah, that’s not how laws work.”

Max stepped into the room, tossing his keys in the air and catching them with one hand. “Relax, kid. You’re with me. No one’s checking your ID.” He raised an eyebrow, adding, “Unless you want to stay here and eat more cereal while I’m out having the time of my life.”

Noah hesitated, sitting up slightly. “What, and hang out with you and your harem of club girls? Hard pass.”

Max grinned, crossing his arms. “It’s not just girls. My friends will be there. Good music, good drinks, a little chaos. You could use some chaos.”

Noah snorted. “I don’t think I fit your ‘chaos’ aesthetic.”

Max walked over and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to fit. You just show up, keep your head up, and let the good times come to you. Trust me, kid—it’s not rocket science.”

Noah looked at him, torn between scepticism and curiosity. “And if I hate it?”

“Then you call it a night, and we’ll come back. No harm, no foul.” Max shrugged. “But at least you’ll know what you’re missing.”

Noah sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. But if anyone tries to buy me a drink, I’m out.”

“Deal.” Max grinned, slapping him on the back. “Now, go change. You’re not wearing that.” He gestured vaguely at Noah’s hoodie and sweatpants.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s not wrong; it’s tragic. Go put on something that says, ‘I’m seventeen, but I could still be cooler than you.’”

Noah rolled his eyes but got up and headed toward his room. Max leaned back against the couch, chuckling to himself. This was either going to be a disaster or the most fun he’d had in weeks.

Fifteen minutes later, Noah emerged in dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt. It wasn’t flashy, but it worked.

Max whistled. “There you go. Almost looks like you know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t push it,” Noah muttered, grabbing his jacket.

“Alright, kid,” Max said, swinging an arm around his shoulders as they headed for the elevator. “Welcome to the good life. Try to keep up.”

Jimmy’z was everything Noah expected and nothing he was prepared for. The place was loud, packed, and drenched in neon lights that pulsed to the bass of some remix he didn’t recognise. Max walked in like he owned it, breezing past the bouncers and slapping hands with a few familiar faces on his way to their table.

The VIP section was cordoned off with velvet ropes and framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city. A couple of Max’s friends were already there, leaning back with drinks in hand, laughing at some story one of them was telling.

Max clapped a hand on Lando's shoulder, said something about ordering another round, and then turned to Noah with a grin. “Alright, kid. First drink’s on me.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to drink?” Noah muttered, looking around nervously.

“You’re not supposed to get caught drinking,” Max corrected, flagging down a waitress. “Two rum and cokes. Easy on the rum for him,” he added with a wink.

Noah sat awkwardly, trying to ignore the curious glances from Max’s friends. When the drinks came, Max slid one across the table. “Here. Cheers.”

Noah picked up the glass and took a cautious sip, immediately grimacing. “This tastes like gasoline.”

Max burst out laughing, nearly spilling his own drink. “Yeah, it’s not exactly a milkshake, but you’ll get used to it.”

Noah frowned but kept sipping, each drink slightly less terrible than the last. By the time the glass was empty, he didn’t hate it—but he definitely wasn’t in a hurry for another.

“Alright,” Max said, leaning back and draping an arm over the back of the booth. “Time for your next lesson.”

“Lesson?”

“Yeah.” Max grinned, nodding toward the dance floor where a group of girls was laughing and swaying to the music. “How to get a girl.”

Noah blinked at him. “I’m seventeen.”

“And you’re eighteen in three weeks,” Max shot back, smirking.

Noah raised an eyebrow. “How do you even know that?”

Max sipped his drink, looking almost offended. “I pay attention. I’m not that bad of a father, you know.”

Noah snorted. “Debatable.”

“Hey, come on,” Max said, leaning forward and pointing at him with his glass. “I’ve got three weeks to turn you into someone who doesn’t spend prom night sitting in the corner playing Angry Birds. Let me work my magic.”

“I didn’t go to prom,” Noah mumbled.

“Exactly my point.” Max gestured to the dance floor. “Now, watch and learn.”

Noah shook his head, but he couldn’t help smirking. Watching Max in his element was like watching a lion stalk the savanna. Ridiculous, over-the-top, and somehow annoyingly effective.

Noah leaned back in the plush booth, his gaze flicking nervously between the drink in his hand and the dance floor. “This feels illegal,” he muttered under his breath.

Max, already halfway through his second rum and coke, let out a loud laugh that turned a few heads. “Illegal? We’re in Monaco.” He gestured broadly at the glittering club around them, as if the name alone erased all laws. “The girls here don’t care how old you are, as long as you’re pretty enough.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “And what if I’m not?”

Max leaned forward, smirking. “You’re my son, so of course you are. Trust me, kid, you’ve got the genes. Now, you just need the confidence to back it up.”

Noah rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah, sure. Because confidence is something you can just magically summon.”

“Exactly,” Max said, snapping his fingers like it was that simple. “It’s all in the attitude. Look, you don’t need to be the smartest or the funniest guy in the room. You just need to act like you know something they don’t. Makes them curious. Curiosity’s half the battle.”

Noah stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s the dumbest advice I’ve ever heard.”

Max grinned, sitting back and gesturing to the waitress for another round. “And yet, here I am. Multi-millionaire. World champion. Living proof it works.”

“Yeah, but you’re—” Noah hesitated, then gestured vaguely at Max’s whole presence. “You.”

“Exactly. And you’re half me. Which means you’ve already got a head start.” Max leaned in, lowering his voice like he was letting Noah in on a secret. “Here’s the trick: don’t overthink it. If you go out there looking like you’ve got something to prove, you’ll scare ‘em off. Just...be cool.”

“Cool,” Noah repeated, deadpan. “Got it. Thanks for the groundbreaking advice.”

Max smirked, pushing his chair back and standing up. “Fine. Don’t believe me. But if I come back with two numbers before you even finish that drink, you’re buying me breakfast tomorrow.”

Noah shook his head as Max strolled off toward the dance floor, impossibly confident and infuriatingly charismatic. It was hard not to admire it, even if it made him feel like an awkward kid in comparison.

He stared down at his empty glass, debating whether to order another drink or just leave, when a girl about his age walked past and glanced his way. She gave him a small smile, and Noah froze, his heart racing.

Max’s words echoed in his head. “Just act like you know something they don’t.”

Noah took a deep breath, set his empty glass on the table, and stood up. His palms felt clammy, and every nerve in his body screamed at him to sit back down. But then he caught Max watching from the floor with an infuriating smirk before turning to whichever woman he was talking to this time.

Don’t overthink it, Noah reminded himself. Just be cool.

The girl was standing near the edge of the dance floor with a friend, laughing at something on her phone. She looked up as he approached, her eyes flicking over him in curiosity.

“Hey,” Noah said, trying to sound casual. “You looked like you needed saving from a bad joke.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? And you’re the knight in shining armour?”

“Something like that,” Noah said, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Or at least I’m not the guy who made you laugh like that.”

Her smile widened, and her friend nudged her playfully before disappearing toward the bar. “Smooth,” she said, tilting her head. “Do you use that line often?”

“First time, actually,” Noah admitted, his lips twitching into a nervous grin.

The honesty seemed to win her over. They started talking—light, easy banter—and before Noah knew it, she was laughing at something he’d said about his dad being a “professional bad influence.”

From the booth, Max had a clear view of the whole thing. He nudged Lando, grinning like a proud idiot. “Lan, look!” He pointed toward the dance floor. “The son of a bitch did it!”

Lando squinted, then let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t think he had it in him.”

Max chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his seat. “He’s my kid. Of course he’s got it in him.”

Noah returned to the table a while later, looking flushed and slightly dishevelled. His lips were swollen, and there was a faint lipstick smudge on his cheek.

Max raised his glass in a mock toast. “Atta boy!”

Noah slid into the booth, trying to suppress a grin. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s already a thing,” Max said, slapping him on the back. “You’re officially part of the club now.”

Lando smirked. “Better keep an eye on him, Max. He’s almost got more potential than you.”

“Potential? He’s a damn prodigy,” Max joked, laughing. “First drink, first girl, all in one night. Kid’s got a better batting average than I did at his age.”

Noah rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling. As much as his dad’s teasing drove him crazy, there was something undeniably cool about seeing Max so proud.

“Alright,” Max said, clapping his hands together. “Now that you’ve got your feet wet, let’s see if you can do it again.”

Noah shook his head, laughing. “Not a chance. One’s enough for tonight.”

“Fair enough,” Max said, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “But just so you know—you’ve officially graduated from boring.”

For once, Noah didn’t argue.

the end.

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sematarygirls · 2 months ago

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The House On Peachtree Lane — Rafe Cameron.

pairing: serialkiller!rafe x fem!reader

summary: the abandoned house across the street had always given you the heebie jeebies, its crumbling foundation, and overgrown lawn looking like something straight out of a horror movie. however, when you began to notice a dark figure sneaking in and out of the house at odd hours of the night, you started to wonder if the house across the street was really abandoned at all.

warnings: very dark; viewer discretion adviced, male masturbation, sexual fantasies involving violence, icky rafe, stalking, mentions of murder, degradation, reader is a little freak, some manhandling

word count: 5.6k words !

a/n: starting off october right, yall. i have a strange fascination with writing characters that are actually batshit insane

The abandoned house on Peachtree Lane had a looming presence that seemed to overshadow the other houses on the residential street. Perfectly manicured lawns with each blade of grass a blindingly vibrant shade of green and cut to a perfect two and a half inches—never more, never less—lined the street of white picket fences and pristine white two story homes.

Peachtree Lane was the picturesque suburban neighborhood that you envisioned when you thought of that perfect, upper-middle class lifestyle. Each house was filled with a matriarch that had placed their entire self-worth into being perceived as the nuclear all-American family.

Then, there was that abandoned house. It threatened the image that had been so pristinely crafted to reflect the traditional values of suburban America. It was a blemish on the otherwise immaculate, postcard-worthy neighborhood. It stood tall and haunting in stature, casting a dark shadow over the neighborhood like a storm cloud foreshadowing the eventual fall of rain.

You, like the house across the street, were out of place among the families and elderly couples that lived on your block. You were a single woman in her twenties that had inherited the house after your grandmother passed away—a fact your mother nearly had a conniption over.

Your grass was a dull green, always too long or too short to fit neighborhood standards—both facts that you'd been reminded time and time again to remedy, but you didn't pay the PTA moms much mind. You knew they didn't have anything better to do than fuss over a strangers lawn, especially when they were so desperately trying to ignore the fact that most of their husbands were probably repressed homosexuals or fucking their secretaries.

You felt a sense of kinship with the abandoned house, an odd comfort with the fact that you both seemed to be peculiarly out of place. you often stared at it for hours, observing every detail.

It was a beautiful house with dark, Victorian architecture that stood out among the carbon copies surrounding it. The windows that weren't broken were boarded up, the tall, waist-length grass that surrounded the property and the animal carcasses hidden amongst it acting as a 'keep out' sign for potential trespassers. The roof looked like it was practically caving in on itself, and you couldn't help but wonder why the house was still standing. Why hadn't it been bulldozed and been replaced with another cookie-cutter American Dream Home? It was strange, intriguing even.

Even more strange was the fact that the house, at times, seemed to stare back at you.

Your fingers curled onto the edge of the windowsill, leaning forward and sticking your head out to feel the cool night breeze on your face. Almost instantly, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck perk up, bumps raising on the backs of your arms as the feeling of being watched crept up on you.

Your gaze immediately fell on the house across the street. The pit in your stomach that formed when your eyes darted from each shattered or dirtied window to the next seemed to confirm that your subconscious was almost positive that the pair of eyes on you was in that house.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, your mouth suddenly feeling dry as your eyes narrowed, trying to see past the darkeness and into the old house. You felt a strange vulnerability despite having checked and double-checked the locks on every door and window in your house atleast ten times that night.

Everyone knew of the serial killer that had been plaguing your town for months, brutally killing the fathers and occasional mother of the exact type of families that lined your street.

Knowing that you weren't his target demographic did little to ease your worry, though. There was always that nagging thought in the depths of your mind that you could be next, and that's what made this uneasy feeling of being watched all the more troubling.

Unbeknownst to you, the house on Peachtree Lane that everyone feared—whispers and rumors of monsters and decaying bodies inside keeping anyone from staring too long at the decrepit structure—was not abandoned at all.

Cameron Development owned the building, and when Rafe Cameron took over for his father, he made sure that the house stayed in his possession and that any attempts to renovate or demolish the property had fallen through.

The house, despite being an eyesore, had actually garnered significantly less attention than one may think. No bored, gossip-hungry housewives or nosey elderly couples with nothing better to do with their retirement than people watch would be intruding on his business and noting his presence if it was perceived as uninhabited.

Any spare glances at the house were brief and filled with distain. No one wanted to look at the rotting wood and trash-littered lawn for longer than they had to, which worked in the man's favor. No one would notice him entering and exiting at all odd hours of the night, nor would they think twice about the sharp, metallic smell that permeated the air around the house. It was the perfect cover.

He watched from one of the battered second story windows, sitting on a metal fold out chair with his legs spread wide, his presence hidden by the cover of night. A camera stood on a tripod in front of him, aimed strategically at your bedroom window.

He had been watching you since you moved in, and he knew that some deeply in tune facet of you was keenly aware of this fact. Subconsciously, like the way your eyes flickered to the 'abandoned' house when you felt your hair stand end, you knew someone was watching you, and he suspected that a part of you even liked it.

The way you pranced around your bedroom in your short nightgowns—fitted with a lace trim and small bows or flowers that made his dick twitch in his pants—and got changed carelessly with the windows open, blinds raised, and curtains parted for anyone to see. You were putting on a show for him; he was sure of it.

His bedside table was filled with pictures he had taken of you through your exposed window. In some of them, you were fully clothed—just having gotten back from work or the gym. In some of them, you were wearing those tempting, delicate little nightgowns that he was dying to rip off of you, and in the rest of them, you were completely naked—or naked adjacent. Pictures of you in nothing but a towel, in your underwear, and even completely nude with your tits or perfect ass on display made up most of his perverted little collection.

Nothing came close to the highs he felt when he came to your photos. He had tried, and failed, to find release in other women, fucking them hard and without reprieve to let out his pent up frustration. He even tried pretending they were you, pushing their heads into his pillows, so he didn't have to see their faces and be reminded that they weren't really you, but none of it worked. You were the only thing he wanted.

He watched your gaze dart from window to window, brows furrowing slightly as you searched for the source of that uneasy feeling that had settled deep within you. Strangely, you seemed more curious than you were afraid. He couldn't help himself as he ran his hand slowly up his thigh, fiddling with the button of his jeans and popping it open before pulling the zipper down.

He had a victim in his basement, probably screaming their head off and tugging at the restraints binding them to the chair, but he didn't care. His attention was fixed on you, and the way you seemed to search for him despite not really knowing that he was there.

He pulled his hard cock from his underwear, spreading his legs wider as he leaned back against the chair. His tip was flushed and leaking precum, just the sight of you working him into a frenzy. He swept his thumb over his aching head, smearing the evidence of his arousal across his hot skin. A sharp hiss tumbled from his mouth as he captured his bottom lip between his teeth, watching the way your gaze lingered on the very window he was in.

For a moment, as he dragged his hand down his throbbing length, the thought that you could see him flickered across his mind, and for that brief moment, he wished it was true. He wanted you to see him, to know that you had caused this.

But, then, just as quickly as your gaze had seemingly fallen on him, piercing into his soul in a way that had him groaning with animalistic need, it had retreated.

He watched with frustration, his movements speeding up, mimicking his inner strife for your actions, as you pulled back from the window and drew the curtains. You were teasing him, and he didn't like it.

Your curtains were sheer, so with the wind blowing in your window and the blinds still hiked up, they did little to actually disguise anything going on inside. This fact only fueled his annoyance because it meant that your act was out of defiance rather than self-preservation. If there was anything Rafe hated, it was when people defied him, especially when that person was you.

He tore his gaze from your house, head falling back and lips parting in pleasure as he continued to work his hand up and down his cock. He let his eyes flutter closed as he imagined all the things he'd like to do to you.

He pictured you, bound to the chair in his basement that so many had met their demise in. He would run his knife along your soft, smooth skin and watch you shudder in a mix of fear and anticipation. He wanted you teetering on the edge of terror and desire, never knowing whether he was going to fuck you or kill you.

He let out a low moan, imagining the tip of his knife dipping into your plush thighs. The sight of thick, hot blood dripping down your flushed skin as he carved his initials into your perfect flesh.

He could practically hear your soft whimpers and cries, his hand moving faster as he felt his pleasure building within him. You would beg and plead for him to stop, looking up at him with teary eyes that would only encourage him to keep going, to see how far he could go before he lost all self-control.

He couldn't decide what he wanted more: to hurt you or to pleasure you? Just as easily as he could see you in the basement of his murder house, he could imagine you laying in his bed, blissfully unaware of his dark side and the hundreds of pictures of you just beside your head. He could mold you into whatever he wanted, filling your pretty head with lies that he knew you'd eat right up.

The combined images flickered back and forth between domestic and depraved finally sent him over the edge with a cry of your name—which he'd learned by looking through your mail—as hot spurts of cum covered his hand and jean-clad thighs.

He panted, picking his head back up to look at your bedroom window. You had turned the light out, your room engulfed in a darkness that signified you had settled in bed and would soon be drifting off to sleep, if you hadn't already.

His gaze lingered for a moment longer before he let out a deep sigh, his brows furrowing as he tucked his softening dick back into his pants and stood, stretching his limbs as he wiped the sticky, white substance coating his hand onto his jeans. He walked to the door, giving your window one last glance before leaving and making his way down to his awaiting victim.

You had eventually brushed off that intense feeling of being watched after carefully examining the house and coming up empty. You had chalked it up to your paranoia surrounding the serial killer running amuck in your little town and settled into bed, letting your unease be washed away by the comfort of sleep.

It was only a couple hours later when something jolted you awake, your heart racing as your peaceful state was torn from you, replaced by an indescribable panic of unknown origin.

Your eyes darted around your bedroom, searching for any potential threats that could have been the cause of such a violent awakening, but you were greeted with nothing of note. You exhaled in relief as you confirmed that you weren't in immediate danger, trying to slow the pounding of your heart.

You swung your legs over the side of your bed, toes brushing the soft fibers of your plush rug, which provided a sense of comfort that grounded you to reality as you pushed yourself off the bed and into a standing position. Curiosity gnawed away at you with each growing second that you didn't have an answer for what had stolen you away from such a blissful dreamstate.

For reasons unknown to you, you felt a pull inside you, urging you to tiptoe over to the window. You moved slowly, tentatively, as if any sudden movements would somehow put you in harms way.

When you reached the window, curtains blowing wildly with the force of the wind, you hesitantly reached out, pulling back the sheer pink fabric so you could get a good look at the dimly lit street below.

Goosebumps raised on your arms, a cold feeling creeping up your spine from the mix of the chilly night air and the anticipation of what you might find.

You didn't truly expect to see anything. You lived in a safe neighborhood where the greatest crime to be committed was bringing a gluten dish to one of the neighborhood potlucks, but still, in that same part of you that feared being the Kildare Killer's next victim and always knew to look across the street at the abandoned house when you felt a sense of being watched wash over you, you knew something would be waiting beyond those decorative curtains.

You squinted, eyes scanning the sidewalk for a moment for anything out of the ordinary when suddenly, movement in the tall grass beside the old Victorian home caught your attention.

A figure, clad in a dark jacket with the hood pulled over their head, was dragging something heavy toward the street where a large, dark-colored SUV was idling. Your head cocked to the side, brows furrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity as you watched the person intently.

Even from this distance, you could tell they were tall and, judging by the size of the object they were lugging, strong, which led you to theorize that it was mostly likely a man. You couldn't help but notice how suspiciously human sized the trashbag seemed to be, your mind immediately jumping to the countless news stories detailing the crimes of the Kildare County Serial Killer you'd half-listened to while making dinner countless nights.

You were frozen in place, the rational part of you screaming at you to run to the phone and call the police, but again, that darker side of you prevailed, keeping you exactly where you were as you watched him load the person object into the SUV.

Your trance was only broken when the man lifted his head and looked directly at your window, almost as if he had known you were there. Your eyes widened as you quickly dropped to the floor, not even attempting to get a good look at his face as your self-preservation instincts finally kicked in, and you rushed out of view.

Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest as you sat there, waiting for something to happen. You half expected to hear glass breaking or knocking on your front door as the man tried to dispose of the only witness to his crime, but your house remained silent, eerily so now that you were thinking about it.

You stayed on the floor, your knees pressed to your chest, for what felt like hours as you mustered up the courage to peek out the window and see if the man was still outside. When you finally pushed yourself up, glancing down at the street below, you found it completely empty.

A relieved sigh fell from your lips as you braced yourself on the windowsill, taking a few deep breaths to calm yourself as you tried to rationalize what you'd seen.

Maybe it was just someone cleaning out the old house. In the middle of the night? Your mind had nagged, despite your best efforts to push your doubts away. There was no way a serial killer was operating out of your neighborhood, and there was no way that you had just seen him. You wanted to remain blissfully ignorant as to what you'd witnessed, deciding against dwelling on it if you could help it.

The next day, around three in the afternoon, you were in your kitchen baking obsessively—your own little way of trying not to dwell on the possible murder aftermath you witnessed the night before—when a knock sounded at your front door.

You huffed, wiping your flour-coated hands on your jeans as you approached the door, expecting to see one of the mom's from the neighborhood that wanted to bitch at you about stuff you didn't care about or one of their children telling you that they accidentally threw a ball over your fence, and you had to retrieve it.

However, your eyes widened in surprise, a soft "oh" falling from your lips as you opened the door and came face to face with a tall, imposing man. He was incredibly handsome, clad in black dress pants and a white button up with the sleeves rolled back to reveal his forearms. His brown hair was fairly short and slightly tousled—a contrast to his otherwise put-together appearance.

"Um, can I help you?" You asked, your words laced with confusion. His smile seemed to widen as he took in your shocked expression, gaze darting to the white powder on your jeans before meeting your eyes again.

"I'm Rafe Cameron," he introduced himself, his blue eyes seeming to search yours for any sign of recognition.

"Nice to meet you, Rafe," you said, brows furrowing and tone uncertain. He found your confusion endearing in a pathetic sort of way, though, he was glad. This meant you didn't get a good look at him last night, and the lack of crime scene tape around the house across the street meant you hadn't called the police. Maybe you were more clueless than he thought.

You hesitantly introduced yourself because, even though you were completely unaware of who this man was or why he was at your door, it was the polite thing to do. You stared at him for a moment, cocking your head to the side as the name Cameron echoed in your mind.

"Do I know you?" You asked suddenly, crossing your arms as you pondered. The name was so familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place it. A flicker of darkness crossed Rafe's features at your question.

"No, I don't believe so. I'd remember a pretty little thing like you," he flashed a charming, disarming grin and suddenly, it came to you.

"Cameron Development," you said, demeanor brightening as you finally recalled where you'd heard his name. That smile he gave you was the same one you'd seen on signs in countless empty lots throughout town. "I've seen your signs."

"Right, yeah," he nodded, visibility relaxing a little bit. "I'm just in the neighborhood asking around about that old house across the street. We're interested in renovating it, but we need to do our due diligence."

"Well, what do you want to know?" You asked. There wasn't much to tell about the house. It was old, practically crumbling, but you could see that just from looking at it.

"Well, have you noticed anyone hanging around, maybe squatting inside the house or loitering?" He asked, watching you with an eerie intensity. "I only ask because it could make our job more difficult if we have to fight with any unwanted guests."

"Yeah, no, I, uh, I get that," you cleared your throat, shifting your weight uncomfortably. You didn't like to lie, but you couldn't bring yourself to tell the truth either. You were, undoubtedly, afraid, but overshadowed by that was this morbid fascination that you'd found yourself having for the house and the strange man you'd seen. "I mean, I haven't noticed anyone," you shrugged casually.

He smiled again, still regarding you intensely, but now, also with a glint of curiosity. He nodded, seeming satisfied by this answer. "Well, thank you for your time," he thanked you, your name rolling off his tongue in a way that made your stomach flutter. He said it so confidently, with a certain familiarity that put you strangely at ease for a reason you couldn't quite place.

"Of course," you smiled at him, your cheeks heating up as he stared at you for a few long seconds, taking in every dip and curve of your face, memorizing the way your lips quirked up and your eyes sparkled. He'd never seen you this close before, and it took every ounce of self control not to push his way inside.

"Have a nice day, ma'am," he nodded politely before hesitantly turning and heading back to his car, which was parked right in front of your house.

"You too," you called after him, leaning against the door and biting your lip as you watched him retreat. Once he reached the sidewalk, you reluctantly pulled back and pushed the door closed, not wanting to be caught staring and be perceived as some kind of creep.

Despite knowing where you'd seen his face, you couldn't shake this sense that you knew him from somewhere else, somewhere other than those advertisements posted around town. There was a strange nausea that settled in your throat as you watched him leave, a feeling of dread that perplexed you.

In the following weeks, that gnawing feeling only intensified as your paranoia did. Little things started to catch your attention, your perception of reality cracking with each slightly opened window or drawer, missing piece of clothing, and creaking noise that jolted you awake during the night.

You weren't sure if it was just your mind playing tricks on you or if something was really going on, but you felt like you were going crazy. You felt unnerved being in your own home, like you weren't safe. The feeling of watched had grown to something thick and suffocating, but for some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to do anything about it.

You should've called the police. You should've went to your mother's house or a hotel, anywhere to get away from the man across the street that you suspected was to blame for all the out of the ordinary occurrences, but you didn't. You stayed put, letting yourself be the mouse in whatever sick game he was playing because deep down, a part of you—that you wished desperately didn't exist—was enjoying the attention.

It was around two a.m., and you were tossing in bed, a restlessness settling over you. You'd been obsessing over that house, always staring and seeking signs of life now that you knew someone had been there, and it was starting to take over your life. You needed to know what was in there. You needed to know if it truly was a murder scene.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself up, leaning back on your arms as your eyes darted around the room. Were you really going to investigate a potential serial killer's house in the middle of the night? You pondered the question, briefly wondering if this would classify you as clinically insane.

Clearly, your survival instincts didn't fully develop as a child because you found yourself pushing the comforter from your body and getting to your feet.

You grabbed a plush throw blanket from your bed and wrapped it around your body for comfort and to keep warm as you traversed through your house, down the stairs, and to the front door. You steeled yourself for what you were about to do, slipping a pair of shoes on.

You sucked in one last breath before unlocking the door and pulling it open. Stepping outside, you found yourself pulling the blanket tighter around you as the chilly air brushed against your exposed skin.

The house looked even more imposing the closer you got to it. In the darkness, it seemed like it could come to life and eat you whole. It made you feel so small, so insignificant in a way as you looked up at the looming structure before you.

The wind whistled, echoing through the silent night, which set you even more on edge, but still, you didn't turn back. Your curiosity was stronger than your fear—an incredibly dangerous thing.

You seemed to shrink in on yourself as you stepped onto the pathway to the front door, the untamed grass reaching across the concrete to grab at you. Grimacing, you pushed the grass aside with one hand, the other keeping your blanket securely around you.

Stepping onto the porch, you were careful to step around the patches of collapsing, rotting wood. The front door stared back at you, daring you to open it and satisfy your gnawing curiosity, and you obliged, shaky hands reaching for the knob.

You turned it and pushed the door forward, a deafening squeak of the seldom used hinges reverberating off the ruined walls. The smell of rot immediately infiltrated your senses, making your face contort in disgust as you stepped into the house, eyes flickering from the delicate ground to the dusty furniture inside.

A deteriorated stone fireplace sat against the left wall, the mantle filled with dusty photos encompassed in cracked glass and broken frames. An old, red cabriole sofa—which looked more like a muted maroon color from all the dirt and grime coating it—sat facing the fireplace, a matching arm chair adjacent to it.

You could imagine how lively and warm the house likely once was, with children's feet pattering against the hardwood as they chased each other through the home, careful to avoid their parent's precious vases and other expensive decorative items.

It made you feel sad that such a beautiful home that once knew vibrance and love was now left to be forgotten to the unforgiving perils of time—all the priceless memories and moments that had happened within the walls obsolete when compared to the true vastness of the universe.

You continued your journey into the home, the scent of decay growing stronger with each step you took toward the unknown. You entered the kitchen, brows furrowing as you saw a small doll laying in the middle of the floor.

You crouched down, refraining from reaching out to it. It was a pale fabric doll with stringy, dirtied yellow hair and big blue eyes. What caught your eye, however, was the big splotch of dried blood on the front of her pink dress.

You shuddered, standing back up straight and letting your gaze wander the kitchen, taking in the beautiful antique architecture and color scheme. The cabinets were a rich brown with green accents, a chunk of remaining glass in one of them indicating that it was once a lovely diamond pattern.

Suddenly, a hand snaked around your waist, pulling you from behind into a hard chest. Your eyes widened, and you opened your mouth to scream, but the person behind you quickly clamped their other palm over your mouth.

"You shouldn't be here," the man said threateningly, his breath hot against your ear as he dipped his head down.

Your heart raced in your chest, breath quickening in shock and fear. Your fight or flight instincts took over, unfortunately deciding to freeze instead of doing anything helpful.

Through your panicked haze, you realized that you knew this voice. You had been replaying the short conversation you had with that handsome man since it happened, his deep, smooth voice that made your legs clench and your heart flutter echoing through your mind on repeat.

"What am I gonna do with you, hm?" he hummed, his fingers dancing from your mouth to your neck; meanwhile, his other hand stayed splayed on your stomach, keeping your body firmly pressed against his. His large palm wrapped around your neck, squeezing gently, which elicited a gasp from you.

"Oh, you like that, huh?" You could hear the amusement in his tone as he mocked you. "You're fuckin' sick, aren't you?"

In one fluid motion, he turned you around and shoved you back against the kitchen island. You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth as your back collided with the edge of the counter.

You looked up at him, your eyes widened as your mind raced with conflicting thoughts. You knew you should've tried to run, but when your eyes locked onto his cold, blue ones, you found yourself glued in place.

Your compliance seemed to please him. A sadistic grin tugged at his lips as he looked down at you, reaching out to grab your jaw roughly, his grip bordering on painful. "You saw me the other night, didn't you?"

Your breath hitched, and after a beat of silence, you hesitantly nodded. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you.

"God, you're fucked up," he laughed cruelly, causing your brows to furrow. Was the serial killer who gutted people and staged their bodies for their families to find really calling you fucked up?

"Aw, I'm sorry," he cooed mockingly, leaning so close that you felt his breath fanning your face and could smell the faint scent of beer and a breath mint. "Did that upset you?"

"You killed them," you finally spoke, your voice quiet and shaking with fear and uncertainty.

"Uh huh," he grinned proudly, his voice dropping as he spoke again: "Does that scare you?"

It probably should. You should be shitting yourself right now, screaming and crying while trying to escape. Instead, you were curious—an emotion you couldn't seem to shake lately.

You wanted to know more about him. Why did he kill, and more importantly, why mostly family men and father figures? You wanted to dive deep into his psyche. And, truthfully, the feeling of his hands on your skin was addicting. Now that you'd felt it, you wanted more.

"I don't know," you practically whispered, feeling your cheeks heat up as he regarded you with that same intense stare. His thumb caressed your cheek, feeling the growing heat against the pad of his finger.

He grinned at your answer, his grip on your jaw tightening as he pulled your face forward, smashing his lips onto yours in an aggressive, sloppy kiss. You gasped softly in surprise, allowing him to deepen the kiss by sliding his tongue into your mouth.

Every inch of you was screaming at you to pull away, but you hadn't listened to the rational part of yourself at all thus far, and you weren't planning to start now. Your hands curled into the material of his grey t-shirt, pulling him closer as a small noise of pleasure bubbled up your throat.

His hand slid back into your hair from your jaw, gripping tightly as he tugged your head back a little. His other hand gripped your waist roughly, his fingers digging into your skin through your nightgown.

Rafe had been fantasizing about finally getting his hands on you for months, but never did he think that you'd walk right into his little murder house and practically serve yourself up to him on a silver platter. Something about you knowing what he truly was and fearing him but also desiring him made him want you more than he thought was possible.

When you finally pulled away, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, Rafe's grip didn't let up; in fact, he tightened it the slightest bit, as if he was afraid that you'd change your mind and try to run.

"You know I can never let you go now," he hummed, a hint of smile pulling at the lips. "Can't risk you exposing my little secret."

You looked up at him, your eyes widening slightly as you processed what he had just said. "What?" You asked, lips parting slightly and brows furrowing in confusion.

His gaze darkened as he imagined shoving his dick between your pretty parted lips. "You're mine now, doll," he clarified, leaving no room for argument. "If you're a good girl, I'll let you stay with me at home, but if you try to leave, I'll lock you in this very basement."

You swallowed hard, considering his threat carefully. You didn't want to know what was waiting for you in that basement if you decided to be difficult. "Okay," you conceeded, nodding as you sealed your fate and agreed to your new life under his surveillance 24/7.

As you watched his features soften slightly in satisfaction, you thought about all the barbaric things that had probably happened in this house, all the wonderful memories you'd imagined before now tainted by the sheer weight of what Rafe had done here. How had the once beautiful house on Peachtree Lane, filled with life and love, turned into a house of horrors?

tags .ᐟ @nemesyaaa

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