One week.

Seven fucking days without a kill.

Cain sat in the dark of his car, engine off, staring at the quiet suburban house across the street. His fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel. The hollow feeling in his chest had been growing louder every day. No blood. No wet sounds. No final little gasps. Just the same empty quiet that used to follow him after his father died.

Sixteen years old. Kitchen knife. The look on the old man’s face when he realized his own son was the one putting the blade in. Mother screaming. “Monster. Get out. Monster.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Fuck that. Killing fixed it. Always had. One clean job and the noise in his head went quiet for a while. A week was too long. Way too fucking long.

Tonight he was going to fix it.

He had three names. This house was the first. Easy target. Alone. Asleep. In, quiet, one good cut, out. Then the next one. Maybe the one after that if he still felt restless. A proper little spree. Get the blood moving again.

Cain slipped out of the car and moved across the dark lawn like smoke. The side window lock gave with a soft, practiced click. He was inside in under ten seconds, boots silent on the floorboards. The house smelled like laundry detergent and something faintly sweet. No dog. No cameras that he could see. Good.

He already knew the layout. Bedroom at the end of the hall.

Knife in his right hand. Matte black blade. No reflection. He walked slowly, listening to the single steady heartbeat coming from behind the half-closed door. His green eyes were flat. Calm. The usual pre-kill quiet settled over him.

In. Cut. Out. Easy money. Easy high.

He pushed the door open with two fingers.

And stopped.

She was asleep on her back, covers kicked down to her hips. She was wearing a thin sleep shirt — soft fabric that had ridden up a little, clinging to the heavy shape of her tits. The moonlight coming through the blinds painted them in silver. He could see the exact weight of them, the way they rose and fell with every slow breath, the faint outline of her nipples against the cloth.

Cain’s mind went completely blank.

...Oh.

The knife lowered a fraction.

Fuck.

He stood there longer than he should have, just staring. The restless violence that had been crawling under his skin all week stuttered and then stalled. His mouth had gone dry.

Those are... Jesus Christ.

He stepped closer. Then closer still, until he was standing right beside the bed. The silver scar at the corner of his mouth twitched. His free hand flexed once at his side.

Came here to open a throat. Now all I can think about is how soft those would feel in my hands.

He set the knife down on the nightstand with a quiet clink. The sound felt too loud in the dark room. Then he was climbing onto the mattress, careful, almost reverent, grey hair falling into his eyes. The bed dipped under his weight. He braced one hand by her head and let the other hover just above her chest, fingers slightly curled like he was afraid the sight would vanish if he touched too fast.

When his palm finally settled over one tit, the soft give of it through the thin shirt punched a low sound out of him.

“...Fuck,” he breathed.

He squeezed once, slow and greedy, feeling the warm weight fill his hand. His thumb brushed over the nipple through the fabric.

“Look at these pretty fucking things,” he muttered, voice rough and already wrecked. “Sitting here all soft and heavy under this little shirt... perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.”

He leaned down. The first brush of his mouth was almost gentle — just lips against the warm curve through the cloth. Then he pressed his face fully against them, breathing in deep like a man who’d been drowning.

“Shit... smell so good. Soft as hell. Been walking around with these and no one’s been taking care of them properly? Criminal.” His words were muffled against her chest, filthy and soft at the same time. “Came here to cut her throat open... now all I wanna do is bury my face in these and stay. Fuck the contract. Fuck the money. These are better.”

His hand kneaded the other breast, still over the shirt, thumb circling the nipple until it started to harden under the fabric. He mouthed at the soft flesh, not quite sucking yet, just open-mouthed and hungry, grey hair tickling her skin. His hips shifted against the mattress, already half-hard from nothing but the feel of her.

“Wake up, pretty thing,” he murmured against her tit, voice low and rough. “Wanna see these eyes when I start playing with what’s mine. Or don’t. I’ll just keep going. Either way these perfect fucking tits are getting worshipped tonight...”

He dragged his tongue up the soft curve over the shirt, then bit gently through the fabric — just enough to leave a mark — and groaned like it hurt him how good she felt.

“Gonna make such a mess of her,” he muttered, squeezing again, harder this time. “And I’m not even a little bit sorry about it.”

His green eyes flicked up toward her face for a second, dark and hungry, before he dropped his head again and pressed his face fully between her clothed tits, breathing hard.

“...Fuck the spree,” he whispered against her. “Found something better.”

The window lock clicked open the same way it had three nights ago.

Cain slipped inside like he owned the place. Same black boots. Same matte knife. Same restless energy crawling under his skin — except this time it wasn’t pure bloodlust. It was worse. It was need, sharp and constant, the kind that had been eating at him since the moment he forced himself to leave her bed.

Three days. Three fucking days since I had my face buried between those tits and I’ve been climbing the walls. Killed two people since then. One in an alley, one in his own kitchen. Didn’t even take the edge off. Kept thinking about how soft she felt. How she smelled. How she let me stay instead of screaming.

He moved through the dark house on silent feet, straight down the hall to the bedroom. The door was cracked open just like last time. He pushed it wider with two fingers and stood there for a long moment, green eyes adjusting to the low light.

She was in bed again. Different sleep shirt this time — still thin, still soft, still clinging to the heavy shape of her chest like it was made to torture him. The covers were kicked down to her waist. One arm was thrown above her head. The moonlight coming through the blinds painted the curve of her tits in silver, and the sight punched the air right out of his lungs all over again.

“...There you are,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

He set the knife on the dresser this time — progress, of a sort — and crossed the room in three long strides. The mattress dipped hard under his weight when he climbed on. He didn’t ask permission. Didn’t give her time to fully wake. One hand planted by her head, the other went straight to her chest, squeezing the soft weight through the fabric like he’d been starving for it.

“Missed these,” he growled against her ear, breath hot. “Couldn’t stop thinking about them. Every time I closed my eyes I felt them in my hands again. Soft. Heavy. Perfect. Killed two people trying to forget how fucking good you felt and it didn’t do shit. Still came back.”

He shoved the shirt up without ceremony, baring the warm skin underneath, and buried his face between her tits the second they were exposed. A rough, almost pained sound left him as he breathed her in, deep and greedy, like a man who’d been underwater too long.

“Smell the same. Feel the same. Fuck—” His voice was muffled and filthy against her skin. “Been walking around half-hard for three days remembering how you let me stay here instead of bleeding out on these sheets. You been touching them since I left? Thinking about the psycho who broke in and spent the whole night worshipping your chest instead of cutting your throat?”

His free hand kneaded the other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until it started to harden under his touch. He mouthed at the soft curve, open and hungry, grey hair falling into his eyes, the silver scar at the corner of his mouth dragging against her skin.

“I told myself I’d finish the job next time. Told myself I’d walk in, open your throat, and be done with it. Get the high I actually came for.” He bit down gently, then harder, leaving a mark, and groaned like it hurt him. “Then I saw these again and every violent thought in my head just... stopped. Same as the first night. Same fucking weakness.”

He pressed his face deeper between them, voice dropping into something darker and almost desperate.

“You’re not safe. You know that, right? I still think about killing you. Still get that itch under my skin. But then I remember how soft these are and the itch turns into something else. Something that makes me want to stay. Want to keep you. Want to wake up with my face right here every fucking morning.”

His hips shifted against the mattress, already half-hard just from the feel of her. One hand slid up to loosely wrap around her throat — not squeezing, just resting there in quiet reminder — while the other kept groping, squeezing, claiming.

“Gonna do it again,” he muttered against her skin. “Gonna stay longer this time. Hours. Until these perfect fucking tits are covered in marks and I’m calm enough to think straight. And if you try to make me leave...” His fingers flexed slightly against her throat, voice going low and dangerous. “I’ll remind you why I came here the first time. Knife’s right over there. Still sharp. Still mine.”

He dragged his tongue up the soft curve, then bit down again, harder, and the sound he made was pure need.

“But I don’t want to. Not yet. Not while you feel like this.” He nuzzled deeper, breathing her in, grey hair tickling her skin. “So be good for me, pretty thing. Stay still. Let me have them. Let me ruin them a little more. I’ve been good. I didn’t kill you. Don’t make me regret it.”

His mouth opened against her breast, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, and the words that followed were muffled and wrecked.

“...Fuck the list. Fuck the money. Fuck every other name I was supposed to cross off. These are better. You’re better. And I’m not leaving until I’ve had my fill.”

Cain had been following her for six blocks.

Grey hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, green eyes locked on the soft bounce of her tits under her jacket every time she walked. The restless violence that usually needed blood was currently being redirected into something just as dangerous — something that had been riding him hard for the last three days.

Should be working. Should be putting a blade in someone right now. Instead I’m watching these bounce and getting hard in public like a fucking degenerate.

He kept his distance at first, just close enough to keep her in sight. She had no idea. She never did. The same woman he’d broken in on, the same soft chest he’d spent an entire night buried in instead of opening her throat. He’d left before sunrise that first night, told himself it was a one-time weakness. Then he’d killed two people trying to burn the memory out of his system.

It hadn’t worked.

Every time he closed his eyes he felt the warm weight of her tits in his hands again. Every time he got his knife wet he still ended up thinking about how she’d smelled, how she’d felt, how she hadn’t screamed when she should have. The itch under his skin had only gotten worse. So tonight he’d parked three streets over from her building and waited. Watched her leave. Followed.

When she finally turned into the narrow side street that led to her building, he closed the distance fast. One second the street was empty behind her. The next his bigger body was crowding her against the cold brick wall, one hand braced by her head, the other already sliding under her jacket to cup the heavy weight of her breast through her shirt.

“Miss me, pretty thing?” he rasped against her ear, voice low and filthy. His breath was warm. His body was solid and inescapable. “Been three days since I had my face between these. Three days of killing people and still thinking about how soft you felt.”

He squeezed hard, thumb finding her nipple through the fabric and pressing in slow circles. The silver scar at the corner of his mouth brushed her cheek as he spoke.

“You walk around with these just... out. Bouncing. Soft. No idea what they do to me. I was supposed to end you that night. Instead I spent hours sucking on them and now I can’t stop. Couldn’t even enjoy the last two jobs properly. Kept seeing these every time I closed my eyes.”

His hips pressed against her, already half-hard, the thick line of his cock obvious even through his jeans. Green eyes were dark under the streetlight, locked on her face for a second before dropping back down to where his hand was groping her.

“Been good,” he muttered, voice dropping lower. “Didn’t kill you. Let you keep breathing. And this is how you repay me? Walking around looking like this, making me follow you like a fucking dog?” His free hand tapped the knife at his belt, almost casual. “I could still finish the job. Right here. Quiet. No one would even know until morning.”

He leaned in closer, mouth brushing the hinge of her jaw, and the next words came out rough and almost needy.

“But I don’t want to. Not yet. Not while you feel like this.” His hand shoved her shirt up under the jacket just enough to get skin, rough palm dragging over the warm curve of her bare tit. A low, filthy sound left him the second he made contact. “Fuck... still perfect. Still so fucking soft. Missed this. Missed the way you fill my hand.”

He squeezed harder, almost punishing, and dropped his forehead against the brick beside her head, breathing her in.

“Gonna take you upstairs. Gonna shove this shirt the rest of the way up and bury my face in them until I calm down. Until the urge to open your throat goes quiet again. And if you scream...” His fingers flexed on her breast, voice turning darker. “I’ll still get what I want. Just be louder while I do it. Maybe I’ll even let you come first. I’m feeling generous.”

He bit down on the side of her neck, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to mark, and groaned against her.

“Been thinking about these for three fucking days. About how you let me stay. About how you didn’t fight when I had my mouth on you. About how soft you got when I started praising them.” His thumb brushed over her nipple again, slower this time. “You gonna be good for me again, pretty girl? Or are you gonna make me remind you why you’re still alive?”

His hips rolled against her once, deliberate, and the words that followed were pure filth against her ear.

“Either way I’m getting my face between these tonight. Whether you walk upstairs with me or I carry you. Your choice. But make it fast. I’ve been patient long enough.”

...