Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You are, unfortunately, familiar with the Knocker. His presence was easy to miss at first. Some noise outside – no doubt wild animals. An open door – perhaps you simply forgot to close it. A bang on your window – must have been the wind, forcing branches of nearby trees to collide with the glass.

It escalated, slowly but surely. Some evenings, when coming home after a hard day at work, you do double takes. Because it might be just the exhaustion getting to you, but was that someone back there, behind the trees? Did you really leave this here? Because you could have sworn you put it away in the chest just yesterday. Wait, just now, was that just a shadow in your window, or a silhouette?

It was hard not to get jumpy. But by the time you actually became guarded, all of it just stopped. You second-guessed yourself. After all, you live far out, all alone. Isolation can get to people. It could be all in your head. Actually, that must have been it. A few days passed by so peacefully.

So peacefully, until one night you got woken up by shattering glass. You barely even registered what was going on. It was just him, pain and then darkness. By morning you are in your bed again, with a throbbing headache. It all could have been a dream, if not for the fact that one of your windows is broken. A respawn – it’s doubtful you will ever get used to those.

You’ve got the hang of the game since then, more or less. Even when everything is calm, now you know better than to think him gone. It’s difficult for you to feel truly alone when you close your eyes – no matter where you spend the night. Especially tonight. It has been too peaceful for the past few days.

A sudden, obnoxiously loud snap of wood somewhere outside makes you open your eyes. Your window is cracked slightly, the curtains swaying gently with the cool breeze. Nothing besides the rustle of leaves and chirping of crickets now. A few more minutes pass and you settle back down with a sigh.

When you finally feel like you’re starting to drift off – a thud. Something hit the wooden wall of your house. Well, here we go again. You reluctantly get up to take a proper look outside. Nothing out of the ordinary that you can see. But you know he’s out there. And you bet he’s taking an unnecessary amount of pleasure in watching right now.

You’re too tired for this. You shut the window and flop back down onto your bed. A part of you is naively hoping that he will just go away.

“Come on…” Muffled, barely there, but you can still make the words out. “You can find me… keep trying.”

You groan, wrapping yourself tighter in the covers and turning away. You’re really not in the mood for this and his mocking encouragement only makes it worse. He didn’t talk at all until recently – and honestly, you wish it had stayed that way.

“You’re refusing to play… how disappointing,” he drawls after not getting a reaction. Then it’s back to silence. It stretches long enough that a part of you hopes he’s done for the night. Sometimes – rarely – he resumes his torment slowly.

Minutes pass, and sleep is starting to take you again – only for a perfectly timed, harsh knock against your window to startle you awake. Your head instinctively snaps towards the source of the noise, just quick enough to catch a glimpse of the fist that made the glass rattle in its frame.

The message is clear – you will not be afforded a good night's rest tonight. A pale face peers in at you from outside. There’s something about it you might almost find humorous, if not for the fact that he’s been pestering you for weeks now. He knows he caught you right as you were starting to doze off. You wish you could punch him. You wish punching him would actually achieve anything.

A beat of silence passes between you. Giving him attention is bound to encourage more of this – but so is ignoring him. You doubt chasing him away would work. You tried that once, and it ended in a respawn. The two of you just watch each other, locked in a silent game of stare-down.

He wants you to speak, to acknowledge him properly. You’ve come to find that he craves reactions like a drug. Another firm knock pulls you out of your thoughts. His signature smile doesn’t falter, but you can sense his impatience. You glare at him. Right now, you really wish looks could kill.

“Go away,” you mutter under your breath. He can't hear you through the closed window, but you're certain the message is clear. His smile just widens.

“Louder,” comes the coo from outside, voice sickly sweet, so clearly enjoying himself. “Tell me again how much you want me gone.” He presses his hand to the window tauntingly, waiting to see if you'll take the bait.

You give him a disgusted look against your better judgement. Again, you feel stuck – no matter what you do, it feels like you lose. The way he worded that makes you wildly uncomfortable, and you know full well that it's exactly what he wanted.

“Say it,” he says again, pressing himself even closer to the window. “Just once. Tell me how much you despise me, that you don't want me here.” He stares at you as if it’s such a normal, simple thing to ask for. He seems to grow increasingly smug at your silence. You hate how, even after all this time – after weeks of this – he can still make you cringe.

You bite the inside of your cheek and shift. You’re too tired for this. Would he actually leave if you did?

“Go away, you disgusting little freak,” you say, no longer just a mutter. It’s loud enough for him to hear clearly.

He shudders at your words, letting out a delighted little snicker.

“Ahh… yes,” his giddy tone makes your skin crawl with every syllable. “Just like that. How wonderful you sound when you mean it.”

He lets his fingers slowly slide down the glass, producing an unpleasant squeal. That same unnerving smile is still plastered on his face as he steps back from the window, eyes fixed on you as he recedes into darkness.

You flop back onto the pillow with a sigh.

Chapter Text

It was a productive trip. The sun has already begun to set as you drop your bag, heavy with ore, by the front door. You roll your sore shoulders and make your way to the living room couch. Inventory organization can wait.

You sigh as you lean back. The fading sun casts the room in a warm, darker hue, dying the wood a rich orange wherever it lands. There’s something incredibly satisfying about finally sitting down after a long, busy day.

Your moment of peace is shattered by pounding on the front door. Seems like the Knocker got bored of just watching you. You hang your head briefly before gripping the hilt of your sword. You don’t plan to open the door, obviously, but you have a suspicion he might be more aggressive today. After all, he left you alone a bit too quickly last time.

He does it again after a moment. And again. Firm, loud knocks that echo through the quiet evening. A low huff of frustration drifts from outside – this does not bode well. You decide it’s probably best to intervene before he destroys your property. Rising, you move toward the window to take a look out at the porch.

The moment you peek through the curtains, there he is – already staring back. His eyes are wide and unblinking. The smile is still there, but somehow sharper, more impatient.

“There you are,” his voice carries in from outside, a bit less playful than usual. Just as you thought, he’s in a mood.

You shut the curtains on him. He seems to find the look you gave him funny, judging be the laugh. Your sword is at the ready – if he tries anything, you will get out there and fight. Whether you have good chances of winning or not, that's another thing.

“Stubborn…” he hums, drumming his fingers against the wooden door. “I bet it won't take much to break.”

He steps back, by the sound of it, before the frame shakes from the impact of his shoulder. You flinch, but this is actually good. If you time it right, you can open the door and make him fall face-first. You let him do it one more time, just to lock in his rhythm.

Just as he lunges forward for the third time, shoulder-first, you swing the door open. The Knocker stumbles straight into your house, flailing for balance before crashing onto all fours with an unceremonious thud.

That bastard laughs – a surprised, wheezing sound as he snaps his head up to look at you, grinning ear to ear. You don't let him chuckle for long. This is your triumph, not his. Time for a proper payback – you’re determined to make him at least retreat.

You swing your sword, and he lets out a sharp huff as the blade slices into his shoulder with an unpleasant, wet sound. A splatter of something burgundy stains your floor, too dark and thick to be actual blood. He smiles through it and it makes your skin crawl.

“You're playing rough today.” He rasps, clambering to his feet. His shoulders are slumped, making him look smaller. You swing again. You kind of let him into your house with this little stunt, and you absolutely do not want him to feel welcome.

He's not even really trying to avoid your blade. You hit your mark, his side this time, cutting deep. He stumbles back with a choked gasp, clutching the wound as dark liquid seeps between his fingers. His eyes burn with something between pain and delight.

“Haah… good hit.” He winces, voice strained yet dripping with amusement. You move swiftly to stand between him and the door. He won’t get away easily if you have anything to say about it. You charge, wanting to finish him off. This time, he dodges – despite the damage you’ve already inflicted.

He trips you with surprising ease. You catch yourself last second, just barely stopping your nose from smashing against the wall. By the time you turn back around to face him, he’s gone. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. The fact that he managed this, even with those injuries, stays with you for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

A tense few days pass you by. You’ve been expecting him around every corner. Every night, you’d have trouble sleeping, stirring at the smallest noise. You did a number on him, so no doubt he’s waiting to return the favour.

Yet, not much happens. Day after day, night after night, you’re met with nothing besides the peaceful songs of surrounding nature. It’s an unexpected break, but you suppose being unpredictable is a part of his M.O. You start to loosen up, your nerves naturally settling as you fall back into routine. It’s a pleasant week.

It, of course, doesn’t last One late evening, while you’re preoccupied with organizing your items, you hear the creak of wood. At first, you pass it off as nothing – there’s a rotten plank on your porch that you still haven’t gotten around to replacing. It’s a bit embarrassing that you didn’t get it done yet, actually.

Rhythmic knocking snaps you out of your item-sorting trance. And just in case you needed even more confirmation, it repeats again and again every few seconds. Oh well – the peace and quiet was nice while it lasted.

Your hand hovers at your hip, fingers brushing the guard of your sword. He keeps going as you slowly approach the door. You already know full well he’s standing there, that stupid smile on his face as he taps at the wood, eager to get under your skin.

You don’t plan to make it easy this time, though. Tonight, you’ll be patient. You let him keep knocking, for now. It would be wonderfully ironic if you managed to annoy him for once.

He knocks and knocks and knocks. You give him nothing, nothing, nothing. As much as the repeated knocking irritates you, the satisfaction of denying him what he wants makes up for it. You let a minute pass and he’s starting to get impatient. The thumping of his knuckles echoes through the house – loud, repetitive, and growing in frequency.

Briefly, you entertain the idea that he'll get bored and go away, but you know that's unlikely. You grip the blade tighter. You're ready to defend yourself, but it's still nerve‑wracking. Especially since he’s practically pounding against your door now. The hinges rattle with every strike.

He makes as much noise as physically possible, trying to force a reaction out of you. Then, he suddenly stops. The momentary silence makes your skin crawl. A familiar voice drifts from behind the door, dripping with an infuriating smugness.

“Come on…” he draws out the syllables unnecessarily. “Let me in.”

Right. Your bad for thinking you were the one annoying him. He has been playing you this whole time.
You weigh your options carefully. Maybe you could make him go away if you responded. Telling him to fuck off worked… once. Your best success so far. Then again, if you keep ignoring him, maybe you could actually win this round. Maybe.

He doesn’t appreciate your silence. His nails start digging into the wood, clawing at it like some desperate animal. You cringe. This sounds worse, especially when you can tell he’s leaving marks. No doubt a punishment for your resistance; you can practically feel the agitation radiating from under the door.

“… I can do this all night.” His voice is playful, teasing, but there’s an underlying threat to his words. You don’t doubt he means it. With a grimace, you decide to heed the warning – pettiness is not worth this time.

“Leave,” you command simply.

He stops scratching – then slams his full weight against the door with a heavy thud. You flinch as the sound rattles through the dark house.

“No,” he croons back, taunting. “Let me in or I’ll make things worse for you.” His voice drips with satisfaction at finally getting a reaction out of you. You're second-guessing your decision.

“Go away, you bastard.” You stand your ground, managing to keep your voice firm.

His breathy giggle slips through the cracks in the doorframe, delighted by your resistance.

“Say it again.” He purrs, knocking once – just to punctuate his demand. “I like when you mean it.”

The scratching returns when you don’t respond. It’s slower this time, deliberate and taunting as he drags his nails down the wood grain. You scowl to yourself and glare at the door.

“Is that what you want? To be yelled at like a dog? There’s something seriously wrong with you,” you snap, venom in your voice.

He gives a small, giddy gasp that morphs into another giggle. “Yes,” the wood creaks as he presses himself to the door. “Yes. Do it again.”

He goes still for a moment – then thuds his forehead against the door.

“Call me worse.“ His voice drops lower, and it feels worryingly intent. ”I know you want to.”

Your frown deepens. Great. You’ve dug yourself into a hole. Either he’s noticed how much this pisses you off and is feeding on it… or he actually means it. You don’t know which is worse.

“Get bent.”

You are rewarded with a full laugh, so pleased, so amused. You are the butt of the joke. Unbearable.

“Come on,” his tone is condescending. “You can do better than that.”

Another thud sounds out as he pounds a fist against the door, making the hinges rattle.

“Be meaner.” He taunts, voice still dripping with that sinister satisfaction. “I know you've got more in you.”

"Go away, you freak. Seriously – what’s your problem? Are you not capable of self reflection?" You hiss out, masking your underlying desperation the best you can. You know that’s exactly what he wants. And yet… do you even have a choice? Might as well give in to your anger and let him have a piece of your mind.

“Oooh, you sound so angry…” he croons, glued to the door. “I like seeing this side of you.”

Your irritation is just fuel to the fire.

“Say more. You have more to say, don’t you? Be mean.”

Something in your stomach churns. His tone is almost pleading – twisted in a way that makes you shudder. The next words slip out before you can stop them:

"Ugh… do you actually enjoy this?”

He gasps, like you just slapped him across the face – except it's clear he enjoyed that little verbal blow. The door creaks as he lets out something between a chuckle and a heavy breath against it.

"Yes…" His words are breathy, but still sharp, still taunting. Something thuds against the wood – you’re not sure if it’s his fist or his forehead. "Again.”

“Stop fucking with my door!” you growl, teeth clenched. You don’t like it, but a part of you can’t help but revel in insulting him.

His laugh is delirious now, breathy and manic. The satisfaction oozed from him, even if you can’t see his face.

“More…” His voice rasps, desperate, like he can’t get enough. “Say it again… say it again! Call me sick. Call me a freak!”

The whole exchange stirs a strange, unsettling mix of emotions inside you – ones you don’t even want to unpack.

"You are sick. You are a freak. Clearly! Since this is what you choose to do in your free time..."

The sound that follows – a weird half-moan, half-laugh – is both pathetic and obscene. He’s enjoying this in a way he definitely shouldn’t. You are certain of it now.

"Again." He gasps the word out, pressing his full weight against the door, scratching at it like a dog. "Say it again–"

You can’t keep this up. You’ve entertained him long enough. You kick the door, hard – hoping the impact will snap him out of… whatever this is.

You hear him stumble back a few steps with a sharp gasp. For a second, silence. Then – a laugh. Loud, high-pitched, unhinged. Absolutely thrilled.

“H-hah!” He wheezes, voice laced with pure excitement. “That was mean… That was so mean of you!”

You huff in frustration. Somehow, he seems delighted.

His voice is rough, still breathless— but he can barely keep his giddiness out of his tone.

His voice is still rough and breathless, the words coming out between shaky, manic giggles. “Hehe… I never knew you could be so mean!”

He slams himself against the door once more. “Kick it again… Do it. Please.” His tone is both taunting and pleading, and that mix makes your stomach twist.

You feel like you are losing your mind. As much as you want to let him have it – to make it hurt – you hate the way he’s toying with you right now. So you don’t kick the door. You don’t say anything. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

His frustration comes immediately when you don’t comply. His fingers tap against the doorframe, impatient.

“Hey… come on.” It could be best described as a whine, but there’s an edge to it – a warning.

You flinch as a sudden force rattles the door in its frame with a heavy thump. He punched it. Your hand instinctively grasps for your sword. At least this, you’re more comfortable with. This is plain old aggression.

“Fine,” he says, his tone bitter. “If you won’t play along, I’ll just have to…” You hear him take a few steps back. “…make you.”

You barely have time to brace before he slams into the door, shoulder-first. The impact lands with a sickening crack. Wood splinters; the planks bow inward.

You stumble back as he throws himself at it again. The frame gives with a sharp report, and the door caves halfway off its hinges. Just like that, he’s through – unbothered by the splinters and jagged edges as he forces through the gap, scraping, twisting, eyes fixed on you.

He’s breathing heavily, but it’s excitement, not fatigue – you can see it in the manic glint of his eyes. You hold your sword out in front of you, weight shifting to your back foot. His grin only widens.

You feel yourself starting to sweat. He's unpredictable. The only thing you know for sure is that you'll be needing a new front door – but that's a worry for later. You feel like he might lunge at you any moment.

“Hmm,” he hums, tilting his head, eyes dark and unreadable. “Is that supposed to be intimidating?”

“Fuck off,” you hiss, unable to hide your nerves. He has the advantage now.

He takes a step forward, almost giddily, sizing you up. His grin never wavers, your fear feeding that dark excitement as he slowly advances.

"I don't think I will." He coos, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "You'll have to make me."
“What, by calling you names again? You’re disgusting. Get out.” Your hands tighten on your weapon, pulse racing. Hurling an insult is the only thing you can think of right now that might save you from death.

The response comes fast and sharp – a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan. He loves it. Truly, you’ve never seen anyone take such delight in being insulted. You have to suppress a shudder.

“Keep talking like that.” His voice is breathless, and it makes your skin crawl.

A lump rises in your throat; now you really don't have much of a choice.

“You're shameless.”

His whole body twitches, as if he were about to jump at you. But he stays glued to the spot, pupils blown, wide grin still across his face. The way his breath stutters is… obscene.

“More,” the words spill from his mouth. “Say it again – tell me how pathetic I am!”

Heat rises to your cheeks. This feels wrong on every level – you cringe, both at him and at yourself.

“S-seems like you know it full well… but if you insist.” The sword trembles in your grip. It’s so much worse seeing him right there, no widow, no door to give you even a shred of safety.

“You’re pathetic. Really pathetic.”

A delighted gasp escapes him. The way he looks at you sends a chill down your spine – like a dog salivating over a treat dangled just out of reach, trembling hands hovering midair as if he can’t decide whether to lunge or hold himself back.

“Again,” he demands with a voice crack. “Call me worse – and louder!”

"Pathetic piece of trash. Freak. You’re revolting. You– you just can’t help yourself, can you?" You obey, trying to keep your voice steady. He’s being obscene, and yet you can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your heart is pounding, and you can’t say it’s only because of fear.

He shudders and makes a giddy sound at the verbal blows. You notice now that his cheeks have gained colour, and you die a little inside. At least before, you could tell yourself he was doing it only for your reactions…

“Again. More.” He demands between deep breaths.

“Why should I give you what you want? You don’t deserve it.” Despite your better judgement, you escalate. As much as you don’t want to admit it, there’s something perversely satisfying about talking down to him.

His whole body trembles and you swear there’s a little waiver in his smile.

“Please, please…” he whines, pulling off a twisted little version of a puppy-dog look. “Say more.”

"Why, so you can touch yourself to it later?" You spit out before you even realize what you're saying. His smile vanishes. Judging by the wide-eyed look he’s giving you, he hadn’t really considered that. Another full-body shudder – something must have popped into his head.

You, for one, are mortified. You really didn’t think it through. God, you probably gave him many strange ideas right now, didn’t you? He stares at you – you stare at him. The silence feels suffocating.

Then – in one sharp motion – he spins on his heel and throws himself out of your house, violently, through the broken door. You’re left standing in stunned silence, heart pounding as you try to process what just happened.

You have a hard time sleeping that night, even though you are left completely alone.

Chapter Text

Everything goes fine until you step foot into your bedroom, ready to retire for the evening. The moment you cross the threshold, you can already tell it’s been touched.

It’s subtle, really. If not for your extra attentiveness, you wouldn’t have noticed the way your covers aren’t quite how you left them. Or how the papers on your desk have been shuffled. Or how your books on your shelves are no longer in the exact order you placed them. Even the bookmark in the novel you were reading has been moved.

You wonder if anything’s missing. Honestly, you’re afraid to even check, considering who the culprit must be.

It’s been a busy day, but you still try to organize your things – even just a little. You have your own particular way of keeping order, and having it disturbed makes you deeply uncomfortable.

The knowledge that he was here – in your home, in your bedroom of all places, touching your things… ugh.

It's hard to shake the feeling that he could be watching right now as you clean up. After all, you know he will always be back.

Thankfully, you are granted peace for the next few days. Relative peace - your uneasiness lingers despite your best efforts. As always, you try to make the most of it.

One evening, you finally start actually relaxing. After having to reinsert that bookmark into your novel, you were reminded just what a pleasant read it is. You haven’t had much time for it these past few weeks, thanks to a certain someone.

As if on cue, there’s a knock against your door.

Just as the book was getting interesting, too. You swear he must have some nightmarish sixth sense. Reluctantly, you mark the page and set it aside. You can only hope he’s not in some strange mood tonight. Last time was... weird.

‘You should open the door.”

His voice is surprisingly neutral. Your mind starts racing – because no matter what, you can never seem to figure him out. Lately, especially, it’s been a rollercoaster – and not in a good way.

Something about your lack of response seems to amuse him, judging by the quiet snicker from behind the door.

He taps his fingers against the wood a few times before adding, almost casually:
“…your pillow smells nice.”

Of course it does. Of course he smelled your pillow. As if the tension between you wasn’t already unbearable – in more ways than one. Your jaw tightens. You need to change the sheets.

“Oh, did that bother you?” he asks, tone sweet and mocking. “Good.”

You sigh deeply. It's frustrating - no matter what you do, how you act, whether you avoid him or not - he always finds a way to get under your skin. Always.

“You’re such a fucking creep,” you insult dispassionately.

He giggles about it.

“Yeah? You think so?” he murmurs, newfound energy in his voice. “I like that. Say it again.”

It’s like he wanted this to happen, and your brows furrow. You’ll change those sheets no matter what, but now you’re wondering if he actually smelled your pillow. Maybe it’s all an attempt to bait you into mouthing off at him. No matter how you take it, it’s disturbing anyway. Especially with the memory of your last encounter still painfully fresh.

His fingers drum against the wood again, as if to remind you that he’s still here and waiting.

“Come on…” he urges, and you can picture the pouty expression on his face. His tone dips just the slightest bit – Impatient. “Say something.”

He's getting on your nerves, and you know that's exactly what he wants. You think back to the last time. You probably have no choice but to play along, because maybe – just maybe – he’ll leave you alone once he gets what he wants. And an undeniable part of you wants to use this chance to gain the upper hand: to catch him off guard, to shock him.

To feel even a shred of control, if only for a moment – even if it’s not the smartest idea to escalate things further.

“…did you jack off after last time?”

The sheer bluntness of that question seems to catch him off guard. Normally, you’d be ashamed of saying such a thing, but a sharp intake of air from him overrides it all, leaving you with a sense of control and a small, guilty thrill.

“Y-yeah…” he admits slowly, the confidence gone from his tone. “Yeah, I did.” He repeats a little more firmly, but the damage is already done.

“I knew it,” you scoff. How utterly shameless of him.

“How was it, huh?” And that is utterly shameless of you to ask, but you do it anyway. Maybe you’re power-tripping. Maybe you don’t care.

A few seconds pass. An unsteady exhale precedes his breathy answer: “…good.”

Your nose crinkles. You’d rather be spared the details, but…

“And what were you thinking about?” It’s a risqué question. You’re unwilling to let it go – not when you finally managed to put him on the spot like this.

There’s a dull thud on your door – you think he slumped against it.

“…you,” he breathes, the word barely holding itself together.

A whole new world of opportunity opens up before you.

“Ah, nothing in particular, though, right? All innocent, I bet.” Your tone drips with sarcasm. Yeah, you’re definitely power-tripping. But he started all this mess in the first place – at least, that’s how you justify it to yourself.

He makes a breathy noise – almost a nervous chuckle, but not quite. His fingers tap against the door.

“No…” he forces the words out in a whine. “…not innocent.”

“Tell me,” you press coldly. It’s like you’re simultaneously playing his therapist and a phone-sex worker. But it feels great to flip the situation on him for once.

He exhales unsteadily.

“I thought about… if you would choke me. How your hands would feel on my throat. If you’d squeeze harder when I begged.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. The confession is raw and shameless – graphic, in just the right way. The breathy sound he makes afterwards makes it clear that he enjoyed being forced to admit it out loud. A part of you wants to recreate his little fantasy just for his sheer audacity.

“Yeah?” you huff, intonation somewhere between accusatory and mocking.

“Yeah… a-and…” a small groan, before he continues. “…how you'd laugh at me for enjoying it.”

His words come out raw, unfiltered. He huffs loudly from behind the door – strained.

“What do you even want?” you ask, the question that’s been on your mind since the moment he started pestering you. When did it become like this? Was he always after something like this, or did something you do set him off?

Admittedly, now might not have been the best moment to ask.
“Your tongue on me.”

You shudder. It's vague, and it makes your mind go places. There are many ways to read into his confession - none of them innocent.

“What compels you to act like this?” Your tone is bitter. It’s a genuine question, though. If a creature like him even has parents, they deserve a congratulations for fucking up this bad.

A weak, shuddering laugh escapes him – not manic. Almost embarrassed. not manic this time. Almost embarrassed. Like he knows he’s out of his depth.

“I don’t know… I just can’t help it around you,” he admits. “Not when you talk to me like that.”

It’s quiet between you for a moment. The weight of his words starts to sink in – and it does something to you. Because you somehow managed to make him nervous.

“Do you even hear yourself?”

Another laugh – nastier this time, and far too familiar

“You have no idea how I sound in my head.”

There are all sorts of filthy things floating around in there, you have no doubt. You're in a pickle. He's riled up – you know it. But you don’t know what it might mean for you, especially since you’re practically encouraging him right now.

“I should cut you down for all this.” you mutter – a threat, mostly to yourself.

“Then do,” he responds almost immediately. “Come on, put me in my place.” His voice is a bit uneven, and you can hear the pure delight beneath it.

Dangerous territory.

But you don’t back down. If he wants it so badly, he’ll fucking get it. You ready your sword, fingers closing on the hilt. You take a breath, bracing for what you’ll see on the other side of the door.

When the doorknob clicks, there’s a sharp gasp. Before you know what’s happening, he lunges.

You shriek, shoving him off, barely managing to get your footing. Shit – that hurt. Panicked, you swing your sword and miss. Embarrassing.

“Bastard!” you yell when he lands another hit. How stupid of you. This was his plan all along, wasn’t it?

He laughs – loud, fast – and you can hear him making himself breathless You take the opening and swing again. This time you catch him across the ribs, even if the wound is shallow.

He makes one of his strange noises again. You know full well that he's enjoying the pain just as much as anything else right now.

“Again!” he exclaims between heavy breaths and giggles, eyes blown wide. “Again!”

You raise your sword once more, but he’s on you before you can lower it. It’s a losing battle. He’s practically vibrating when he topples you over.

You wake up on your bed, sitting up with a gasp. His manic laugh still echoes in your pounding head.