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The window gave a soft, complaining rattle when Richard Ramirez pried it up.
He slid through like smoke, like sin—bare feet, black clothes, eyes wide and hungry. The neighborhood was quiet in that dead, wealthy way. The kind of quiet that meant people thought they were safe. The kind he loved most.
His knife sat heavy and familiar in his hand. A rosary—stolen—wrapped around his wrist like a joke. Under his breath, a low hiss of prayer that wasn’t a prayer at all.
Tonight wasn’t about the thrill alone.
Tonight was supposed to be easy.
He’d watched the house for a week. Lights off early. Blinds closed. One man. No dog. No visitors. He’d seen him once through the kitchen window—tall, pale, moving slow, like he was thinking about something awful.
Perfect.
Richard padded down the hallway, listening. No television hum. No radio. Just the heavy, soft inhale of someone sleeping…and something else.
A smell.
Not dirty laundry, not stale beer.
Corpse.
It hit his nose like a slap. Sweet and rotted and thick, like the air had been breathing meat for days. Richard’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t a smile, exactly.
“What the fuck,” he muttered, almost pleased.
He followed it.
A bedroom door stood slightly open. Inside: darkness, cheap curtains, a bare mattress on the floor. A man sprawled on it like he didn’t care where his limbs fell—tall frame, broad shoulders, messy blond hair. Pale as a corpse himself.
Richard’s gaze traveled, quick and assessing. No fear yet. No wakefulness. Just that deep sleep that came from exhaustion or something chemical.
The room was wrong. Bare. Clinical in its emptiness, except for the sour-sweet stench that clung to everything.
And on a dresser, half-shadowed, sat a Polaroid camera.
A box of photographs.
A bottle that looked like it belonged in a lab.
Richard inhaled slow. His pulse didn’t spike like it did with normal houses. It steadied. Like he’d stepped into a place that finally spoke his language.
He moved closer, knife angled down, his other hand already unbuckling his belt—predatory calm. He’d come for money, jewelry, whatever he could carry.
But his eyes stayed on the sleeping man’s mouth.
Soft. Slightly open. A line of drool at the corner, wiped away by the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
Richard leaned in, voice a whisper against the man’s ear.
“Wake up.”
The man stirred, brow furrowing. His lashes fluttered. And then his eyes opened—light-colored, glassy, unfocused for a second…
Then sharp.
Not fear.
Assessment.
Richard paused. That alone should’ve pissed him off.
Instead it intrigued him.
The man’s gaze flicked to the knife, then to Richard’s face. He didn’t scream. Didn’t scramble. Just blinked once, slow, like he’d woken up to an inconvenience.
“Seriously?” the man murmured, voice low and rough with sleep. “In my house?”
Richard’s lips parted, caught off guard by the tone. “Shut up.”
The blond’s eyes narrowed, and there was something mean there—quietly amused, like Richard was the one who’d made a mistake.
Richard pressed the knife closer, letting the cold edge kiss skin. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”
The man swallowed. Still no trembling.
“Okay,” he said softly, and that was almost worse than begging. “Just…don’t make a mess.”
Richard’s grin turned sharp. “Oh, I’ll make a mess.”
He shoved him down, pinning him, all dominance and weight and inevitability. The man—Jeff, his brain supplied, from something half-remembered, a face from a newspaper, a headline—went still beneath him.
Richard’s heart kicked once.
No.
He stared harder.
The cheekbones. The heavy-lidded eyes. The pale, bland face that looked like a neighbor…until you saw the vacancy behind it.
“Jeffrey Dahmer,” Richard breathed.
The name tasted like rust and recognition.
Jeff’s mouth twitched. “You know me?”
Richard laughed under his breath, a quiet, vicious sound. “Everyone knows you, you sick fuck.”
Jeff’s eyes flicked over Richard’s face like he was cataloging him in return. “And you’re…Ramirez.”
Richard’s fingers tightened in his hair. “That’s right.”
For the first time, Jeff’s expression shifted—not fear, not panic.
Interest.
Richard felt it like a spark in gasoline.
The house smelled like death, and the man under him smelled like sweat and something chemical and human. Richard’s body moved on instinct, cruel and controlled. Jeff didn’t fight. Didn’t plead.
He watched.
He took it with a strange, quiet compliance that felt like consent’s ugly cousin—like he’d decided it didn’t matter, or maybe he liked being overpowered because it took the choice out of his hands.
Richard’s voice dropped to a growl. “You’re gonna take it, huh?”
Jeff’s lips parted. His voice came out soft, sassy even in the dark. “You broke in here. What did you think I was gonna do? Call the cops?”
Richard’s hand slapped over his mouth, shutting him up, and Jeff’s eyes flashed—annoyed, but not scared.
Richard’s head dipped, breath hot. “You talk too much.”
Jeff’s gaze stayed locked on his. A slow blink. A faint, mean little smile under Richard’s palm.
Richard felt something twist in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar.
He’d raped people before. Hurt them. Killed them. It was a ritual. A way to take. To prove he could.
But this…
This was like fucking a mirror.
When it was over, Richard stayed above him, panting, blood humming in his ears. Jeff lay beneath him on that bare mattress, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded—wrecked, but not broken. Not crying. Not begging.
Just breathing.
Richard pulled back, looking at him like he was trying to figure out what the hell he’d stumbled into.
Jeff swallowed, throat working. “Are you going to kill me now?”
Richard stared. “You want me to?”
Jeff’s eyes drifted toward the dresser, toward the hidden ugliness in the room, toward the smell that didn’t belong to a normal life.
Then back to Richard.
His voice was quiet. Sweet in a way that didn’t belong in this house. “You can try.”
Richard’s mouth curled.
He should’ve slit his throat. Should’ve taken whatever jewelry was here and disappeared into the night.
Instead, he reached down, fingers brushing Jeff’s cheek—almost gentle, almost like he didn’t know what he was doing.
Jeff flinched at the tenderness more than the violence.
Richard noticed.
That made his stomach twist again.
“Fuck,” Richard muttered.
He stood abruptly, yanking his pants up, knife still in hand. His eyes scanned the room again, taking in the Polaroid camera, the box of photos, the chemical bottles.
Jeff propped himself up slowly, wincing. He watched Richard like he was watching an animal decide whether to bite.
“You’re not leaving,” Jeff said, too calm.
Richard turned on him, eyes sharp. “Don’t tell me what the fuck I’m doing.”
Jeff’s mouth quirked. “You’re still here.”
Richard’s jaw flexed. He hated that Jeff was right.
He hated that he didn’t want to leave.
He moved to the dresser, snapped on a small lamp. Warm light flooded the room and revealed what darkness had hidden: stains on the carpet. A disassembled power drill. A bag in the corner that looked heavy in a way it shouldn’t.
Richard’s stomach warmed—not with nausea, but with recognition.
Jeff watched him watch. His expression went distant, then faintly proud, then guarded again.
Richard reached into a drawer and found a pack of wet wipes, a towel. Cheap, functional.
He looked back at Jeff, who was still half-naked and marked, breathing shallowly like he was trying not to show pain.
Richard’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “Turn over.”
Jeff’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“Turn. Over.”
Jeff did, slow. He didn’t ask again. He just obeyed.
Richard knelt, grabbed the towel and wipes, and started cleaning him up with grim efficiency. Wiping away sweat, spit, streaks of blood where skin had torn. Jeff hissed once under his breath and then went quiet.
Richard’s movements slowed when Jeff flinched.
“Fuck,” Richard murmured again, softer this time. “Hold still.”
Jeff’s voice was muffled against the mattress. “You’re…cleaning me.”
Richard’s hand paused. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Because I said so.”
Jeff gave a small, breathy laugh that sounded like it didn’t belong in this room. “That’s not an answer.”
Richard’s fingers pressed a little harder, making Jeff inhale sharply. “You want me to stop?”
Silence.
Then Jeff said, quiet and honest, “No.”
Richard’s throat tightened. He finished cleaning, tossed the wipes into a trash can with a sharp flick, then pulled the thin blanket over Jeff’s hips.
Jeff rolled onto his back again, hair sticking up, eyes heavy-lidded. He looked…strangely vulnerable now that the violence had passed.
Richard sat on the edge of the mattress, knife still in his hand because he didn’t know how to exist without it. His gaze drifted over Jeff’s face, and he saw the softness there, the loneliness that had curdled into something monstrous.
Jeff’s voice was barely audible. “You didn’t take anything.”
Richard scoffed. “You don’t have shit worth taking.”
Jeff’s mouth tugged. “Liar.”
Richard’s eyes flicked to the Polaroids. “You keep trophies.”
Jeff’s gaze went cold. “So do you.”
Richard’s laugh was short. “Yeah.”
They stared at each other for a long beat, two predators in a room that smelled like rot and sex.
Then Jeff, quietly: “Are you going to stay?”
Richard’s instincts screamed to leave. To disappear. To keep moving.
But his body didn’t move.
He shoved the knife under the mattress, like hiding it changed anything, then lay down beside Jeff with stiff, reluctant movement.
Jeff went still, like he didn’t trust it.
Richard wrapped an arm around him anyway, pulling him in hard, possessive. Jeff’s back hit Richard’s chest and he let out a small, surprised exhale.
Richard’s voice was low, dangerous even in tenderness. “Don’t get used to it.”
Jeff’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Mm.”
Richard pressed his mouth to Jeff’s temple, almost a bite, almost a kiss.
Jeff’s voice came out soft, sassy even half-asleep. “You smell like cigarettes.”
Richard huffed. “You smell like dead bodies.”
Jeff, after a pause: “Yeah.”
Richard’s fingers tightened at Jeff’s waist, holding him like a claim.
In the quiet, Jeff whispered, “You’re not scared of me.”
Richard’s answer was immediate. “No.”
Jeff’s eyes drifted shut.
And for the first time in a long time, Richard Ramirez stayed in one place until the night bled into morning.
---
## Chapter Two: The House That Breathed
Morning light came in thin and gray through cheap curtains.
Richard woke with his arm still locked around Jeff’s waist, and his first instinct was violence—his body tensing, ready to strike.
Then he remembered where he was.
The smell hit again. Rot, chemicals, and something metallic hiding beneath it.
Jeff was awake, staring at the wall, expression blank like he’d been awake for hours.
Richard shifted. Jeff spoke without looking at him. “You’re tense.”
Richard scoffed. “Shut up.”
Jeff’s mouth twitched. “You’re still here.”
Richard sat up, running a hand through his hair. He hated the daylight. It made everything too real. Too ordinary. Like what they’d done was just another disgusting thing in a long chain of disgusting things.
He looked around again. The room’s ugliness wasn’t subtle in the light.
“Where is it?” Richard asked.
Jeff blinked, slow. “Where is what?”
“The body.”
Jeff’s eyes slid to Richard at last. Cool. Quiet. Mean. “Which one?”
Richard’s lips parted, then curled. “You’ve got jokes.”
Jeff shrugged, small movement. “You’re in my house. You tell me what you smelled.”
Richard stood, pulling his pants on again, scanning. He found the bag in the corner and nudged it with his foot.
Jeff watched him closely. “Don’t.”
Richard froze, then looked back. “Don’t what?”
Jeff’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened. “Don’t touch my things.”
Richard stared at him for a long moment—this pale, quiet man who’d let Richard do whatever he wanted to his body, who’d taken it and then curled into Richard like a lover afterward…
But his trophies?
Those were sacred.
Richard’s smile turned sharp again. “Your things.”
Jeff’s jaw ticked. “Yes.”
Richard stepped closer, towering over him. “You let me break into your house and fuck you, but you’re gonna get territorial about a fucking bag?”
Jeff’s gaze didn’t drop. “It’s not the same.”
Richard leaned down until his face was inches from Jeff’s. “Explain.”
Jeff’s voice came out softer. “It’s mine. It’s what I made.”
Richard felt that phrase hook into him: what I made.
He’d never thought of his violence as making. It was taking. It was destroying.
Jeff’s was…careful. Private. Possessive.
Richard straightened. “You’re fucking sick.”
Jeff’s mouth quirked. “So are you.”
Richard’s eyes flashed. “I’m worse.”
Jeff’s expression turned almost sweet. “Are you?”
Richard’s hand shot out, gripping Jeff’s throat—not hard enough to crush, just enough to remind him who had the weight, who had the strength. Jeff’s pulse jumped under Richard’s palm.
Jeff didn’t fight.
He just stared up with that glassy calm, lips slightly parted, and murmured, “Do it.”
Richard’s breath hitched. Anger flared—hot, immediate.
He released him with a shove.
Jeff coughed once, rubbed his throat, then looked at Richard like he’d just proved a point.
Richard paced to the window, peeked out. Quiet street. No sirens. No neighbors staring. Still safe.
He turned back. “Why aren’t you afraid?”
Jeff pulled the blanket around his waist like modesty mattered after what they’d done. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m tired.”
Richard’s voice dropped. “I could kill you.”
Jeff’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I know.”
Richard stepped closer again, voice low and brutal. “You want me to?”
Jeff looked away this time, jaw tight. “No.”
Richard’s chest tightened with something that wasn’t satisfaction, exactly.
He dragged a hand down his face. “You’ve got—” He gestured vaguely at the room. “This. Why live like this?”
Jeff’s answer was quiet. “It’s easier.”
Richard snorted. “Easier than what?”
Jeff’s gaze flicked back, and for a moment the sweetness was there again, almost boyish. “Easier than being alone.”
The words landed heavy.
Richard had never admitted loneliness. He’d filled it with screaming and blood and stolen jewelry and midnight prayers.
He stared at Jeff, and the urge that rose in him wasn’t just sexual now. It was possessive in a different way.
He wanted to keep him.
Not because Jeff was soft.
Because Jeff was the same kind of monster, just shaped differently.
Richard walked to the dresser, grabbed the box of Polaroids, and flipped it open.
Jeff sat up sharply. “Hey—”
Richard’s eyes snapped. “You said don’t touch your things.”
Jeff’s face tightened. “Yeah.”
Richard pulled one photo free and held it up.
A pale body, posed, dismembered, arranged like art.
Richard’s stomach warmed, ugly and fascinated. “Jesus Christ.”
Jeff’s voice went cold. “Put it back.”
Richard turned, eyes gleaming. “This turns you on, doesn’t it?”
Jeff’s cheeks flushed—anger, shame, something. “No.”
Richard stepped closer, holding the photo out like a weapon. “Liar.”
Jeff’s eyes flicked away, then back, and his voice came out low and sharp. “You don’t get to judge me.”
Richard laughed. “I’m not judging. I’m appreciating.”
Jeff stared at him, breathing shallow. “You’re fucked up.”
Richard’s grin widened. “So are you.”
He tossed the photo back in the box and set it down carefully, almost respectfully.
Jeff watched that small gentleness like he didn’t know what to do with it.
Richard’s voice lowered. “You live alone.”
Jeff’s answer was wary. “Yeah.”
Richard took a slow step forward. “You want someone here.”
Jeff’s jaw clenched. “No.”
Richard leaned down, hands braced on either side of Jeff on the mattress. His eyes burned. “Yes, you do.”
Jeff’s eyes flashed, sassy and mean. “What, you’re offering? The Night Stalker as a roommate?”
Richard’s mouth hovered near Jeff’s. “As something.”
Jeff swallowed, throat bobbing. “You’re insane.”
Richard’s lips brushed Jeff’s, not gentle, not soft—claiming. Jeff stiffened, then melted into it with a quiet sound that pissed Richard off because it sounded like need.
Richard pulled back, eyes dark. “Tell me to leave.”
Jeff’s lips parted. He didn’t say it.
Richard’s hand slid to Jeff’s jaw, thumb pressing into the corner of his mouth. “You like being used.”
Jeff’s eyes narrowed, then went distant. “Sometimes.”
Richard’s voice dropped to a growl. “Good.”
He kissed him again—harder, messier. Jeff’s hands came up, gripping Richard’s shirt like he had nowhere else to put his need.
Richard shoved him down and took what he wanted again, rough and controlled, cursing under his breath, hands leaving bruises. Jeff bit his own lip to stay quiet—then let out a broken, muffled sound anyway, eyes squeezed shut.
After, Jeff lay there shaking slightly, blinking like he was coming back to himself.
Richard’s chest rose and fell hard.
Jeff’s voice was thin. “You’re going to get me killed.”
Richard snorted. “By who?”
Jeff looked at him. “By you.”
Richard stared. The truth sat between them, ugly and intimate.
He grabbed the towel again, cleaned Jeff up again, slower this time, fingers gentler around raw skin. Jeff flinched, then relaxed.
“You don’t have to—” Jeff started.
Richard cut him off. “I know.”
He tossed the towel aside, then lay down and yanked Jeff into his chest again, blanket pulled over both of them like they were something normal.
Jeff’s head rested against Richard’s shoulder. His voice was quiet. “This is…weird.”
Richard’s arm tightened. “Shut up.”
Jeff huffed a laugh. “Bossy.”
Richard pressed his mouth to Jeff’s hair, inhaling. The house still smelled like death, but under it was the scent of Jeff—soap, sweat, something faintly chemical.
Richard’s eyes stayed open, watching the dim light shift on the wall.
He didn’t sleep.
He just held him, like if he let go, the spell would snap and he’d remember he wasn’t someone who held anything gently.
---
## Chapter Three: Two Monsters, One Bed
Night fell again, thick and familiar.
Richard sat at the kitchen table, sharpening his knife with slow, deliberate strokes. The sound was steady, calming. A ritual.
Jeff stood at the sink, washing a glass that was already clean. His shoulders were tense, but his movements were careful, controlled.
They’d barely spoken all evening.
There was a heaviness in the air—not just the smell, not just what they were.
The question neither of them wanted to ask was simple:
What now?
Richard’s gaze tracked Jeff’s reflection in the dark window. “You’re jittery.”
Jeff didn’t look back. “You’re in my house.”
Richard smirked. “Still.”
Jeff set the glass down too hard. “Why are you here?”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “You want me gone?”
Jeff’s shoulders lifted in a small, frustrated shrug. “I don’t know what I want.”
Richard stood, chair legs scraping. Jeff stiffened immediately, like his body expected pain.
Richard’s voice softened into something more dangerous than shouting. “Look at me.”
Jeff turned slowly.
His eyes were tired. Quiet. Sweet, in that sad way. And underneath it, mean as hell.
Richard stepped close, stopping just out of reach. “You let me in.”
Jeff’s voice was thin. “You broke in.”
Richard’s eyes flashed. “And you didn’t stop me.”
Jeff swallowed. “I didn’t care.”
Richard leaned in. “Liar.”
Jeff’s jaw clenched. “What do you want from me?”
Richard stared at his mouth. Remembered how Jeff sounded under him. Remembered the way he’d curled into Richard afterward like he belonged there.
“I want you to stop acting like you’re the only freak in the room,” Richard said.
Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “You want a friend?”
Richard’s lip curled. “No.”
Jeff’s expression flickered—hurt, then guarded again.
Richard reached out, grabbed Jeff by the back of the neck, pulling him in. Jeff gasped, hands coming up automatically to Richard’s wrists.
Richard’s voice was low. “I want you.”
Jeff’s eyes fluttered. He tried for sass, but it came out soft. “That’s not—healthy.”
Richard barked a laugh. “We’re not healthy, Jeff.”
The name sounded too intimate in Richard’s mouth.
Jeff’s breathing hitched. “Don’t call me that.”
Richard’s grip tightened slightly. “Why?”
Jeff’s eyes flashed. “Because it sounds like you care.”
Richard froze.
For a split second, the kitchen felt too small.
Then Richard’s expression hardened, like tenderness was an insult. “I don’t.”
Jeff’s mouth twisted. “Good.”
Richard kissed him anyway—hard, claiming, pushing him back against the counter. Jeff made a small sound, then bit Richard’s lip back, mean and quiet.
Richard growled. “Oh, you wanna play?”
Jeff’s eyes were half-lidded. “You started it.”
Richard’s hand slid down, gripping Jeff’s hip, yanking him closer until there was no space left. Jeff shuddered, eyes closing for a moment like relief.
Richard lifted him onto the counter like he weighed nothing. Jeff’s hands gripped the edge, knuckles white.
Richard’s voice was rough. “Say it.”
Jeff’s eyes opened, confused. “Say what?”
Richard leaned in, teeth grazing Jeff’s throat just enough to make him gasp. “That you want me.”
Jeff swallowed, throat bobbing. His voice came out quiet, stubborn. “You already know.”
Richard’s palm slapped the counter beside him—violent punctuation. Jeff flinched, then glared.
Richard’s eyes burned. “Say it.”
Jeff’s lips parted, then he whispered, resentful and honest, “I want you.”
Something in Richard’s chest snapped into place—possession, satisfaction, something like hunger sharpening into a point.
“Good,” Richard murmured.
He took him there, in the kitchen, because Richard liked the idea of staining every room with proof. Jeff’s hands slipped against the counter, breath breaking, trying not to be loud. Richard cursed under his breath, filthy and relentless, controlling the pace, controlling everything.
Jeff’s eyes watered once—not crying, just overwhelmed—and Richard’s thumb wiped it away with surprising gentleness before gripping his jaw again.
After, Jeff sat slumped on the counter, chest heaving, hair damp with sweat, eyes dazed.
Richard stood between his knees, breathing hard, staring at him like he was a problem he didn’t want to solve.
Jeff’s voice was hoarse. “So…what now?”
Richard’s gaze flicked to the hallway, to the bedroom, to the smell that never left. He thought about police. About headlines. About getting caught. About how staying was stupid.
He thought about leaving, too.
And the idea made his stomach twist like something vital was being ripped out.
Richard grabbed a wet cloth, started cleaning Jeff up again, methodical. Jeff let him, eyes half-closed. When Richard’s fingers brushed a tender spot, Jeff hissed.
“Sorry,” Richard muttered automatically.
Jeff’s eyes snapped open. “Did you just—”
Richard shot him a look. “Shut the fuck up.”
Jeff’s mouth quirked despite himself. “Okay.”
Richard finished, then lifted Jeff down carefully—carefully, like Jeff was something breakable, which was bullshit, because Jeff was anything but.
Jeff swayed slightly, and Richard’s hand immediately went to his waist to steady him. Jeff looked at that hand, then up at Richard.
Quietly, Jeff said, “You’re not as cold as you pretend.”
Richard’s jaw flexed. “And you’re not as sweet as you act.”
Jeff’s eyes flashed. “I never said I was sweet.”
Richard huffed a laugh, then grabbed Jeff’s wrist and dragged him down the hall—not cruelly, but with that same dominant certainty that said Jeff didn’t get to wander away from him.
In the bedroom, Richard shoved the knife under the mattress again, like it was a routine now, like they were pretending at safety.
He pulled Jeff into bed, blanket over them both.
Jeff curled up with his back to Richard automatically, like he’d learned where he fit.
Richard’s arm wrapped around him, pulling him close until their bodies aligned. Jeff exhaled slowly, tension easing.
For a long time, neither spoke.
The house breathed around them—death in the walls, secrets in the corners.
Jeff finally whispered, “Are you going to kill me someday?”
Richard’s answer came after a beat, honest in the way only monsters could be honest. “I don’t know.”
Jeff’s throat worked. “Okay.”
Richard pressed his mouth to Jeff’s shoulder—rough, then softer. “Go to sleep.”
Jeff’s voice was faint, sassy even now. “Bossy.”
Richard’s arm tightened. “Mine.”
Jeff went still at that word, then—quietly, like it scared him—relaxed into it.
Outside, the night stretched on, thick with possibility.
Inside, two killers lay tangled together on a bare mattress, holding each other like a secret neither of them could afford to keep—and neither of them wanted to let go.