𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕶𝖓𝖔𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖗 𝖃 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗(NSFW)
FEM READER, Pictures are not my screenshots, but I edited them, I won't be mad if you wanna use them in case anyone does, I just wanted to do something fun. Feel free. Knocker and reader get freaky freaky, cursing, knocker being knocker, stalking, primal play, he literally chases you home, slight aggression to reader, use of axe but no harm to reader, no real relationship aside from him stalking you, no use of y/n, reader is referred to as pretty girl(might as well be my trademark), also called prey, Author has it so bad for this guy still, FUCK. dub-con, might be bordering non-con but idk the lines for this on Tumblr half the time, cunnilingus, tummy bulge(sorry), edging, face down ass up, marathon, he's big, Full Nelson, Doggy, overstimulation, mating press, 11'215 words, you can see where I locked in... I fear ...
A/N: This one's for all my baby girls, I see your comments ladies, and they make me smile. I'm lurking and I'm stalking when you least expect it. But lately I've just been taking care of my business and getting my grind on, but I promise you I'll be back to play and get my flirt on. No but for real, thank you so much for the support on my last post and all the likes and reposts, I didn't expect that to blow up, though I know the knocker enjoyers, myself included, needed a little something-something, and I had to come back for round two with something a little different as a thank you. Honestly I was really surprised and I read the asks and whatnot and it was very cool to see people enjoy my work. I'll stop yapping and let you guys go on, but I wanted to throw that out there because I'm very grateful. Thanks! Much love!
P. S: sorry if this is buns, low-key had to squeeze some stuff together to fit it in the limit.
Night settled over the plains in gentle layers.
First came the dimming sky, draining the gold from the wheat fields until everything turned silver and blue beneath the moonlight. Then the villagers retreated indoors one by one, lanterns flickering behind shuttered windows while doors clicked shut with quiet finality. By the time you stepped out of the trading hall, your satchel tucked against your side, the village was almost silent.
Too silent.
You paused near the central well, glancing at the empty paths. Usually, there were still people wandering this late- farmers stumbling home after drinks, guards patrolling the outskirts, somebody arguing somewhere. Tonight, only the wind moved through the tall grass beyond the village fence, whispering in long waves. The dark oak forest in the distance looked nearly black against the horizon. Your home was somewhere inside it. And, of course, you loved being alone... some of your friends or other villagers often said that was a brave or risky choice.
A faint metallic clang echoed nearby. You froze. The sound was familiar enough to relax your shoulders after a second. Probably the iron golem making his rounds again. The old thing always sounded like it was falling apart when it walked.
You exhaled quietly and kept walking down the path. Then another sound rang out.
Closer this time. Not footsteps. Something deliberate. Like metal striking wood. Your brows furrowed.
The sound hadn’t come from the center of the village but from the houses near the outer fence, the quieter area no one used much at night.
You looked towards it instinctively. Nothing, just dark rooftops and swaying grass.
Still...
Something felt off. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You picked up your pace.
A heavy shape appeared between two houses ahead, broad shoulders scraping the lantern light as the iron golem lumbered into view. Relief immediately softened your face.
“There you are,” you muttered quietly.
The golem turned slightly at your voice.
You stepped closer without thinking, resting your free hand against the rough stone of its arm. “You’re the only thing out here that doesn’t make this place feel haunted.”
The golem gave a low creaking groan.
A laugh escaped you quietly. “I’m serious. At least you’re good company.”
The words had barely left your mouth when the atmosphere shifted. The golem stiffened beneath your hand. Its head turned sharply toward the village outskirts. Toward the dark.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
This time the sound split through the silence so loudly you flinched. Not accidental. Not distant.
Your eyes snapped toward the noise. A figure stood just beyond the lantern glow near the wooden fence.
Tall. Unnaturally still…and loud breathing only now that he knew you were paying attention. Moonlight caught the edge of an axe resting across one shoulder. The blade glinted pale silver.
Your stomach dropped.
The figure tilted its head slowly when it noticed you staring.
The Knocker.
You’d heard stories before, mostly from traveling merchants passing through the village tavern. They spoke about wandering abandoned places at night. Something that followed sounds. Something curious enough to stalk people for hours without attacking but absolutely attacking just for the hell of it otherwise. And of course you knew about it. This guy had been stalking you for about a month at this point now. At least you think so.
Some claimed The Knocker only wanted attention.
Others claimed he wanted company badly enough to keep people from ever leaving. He was standing near the fence and looked almost relaxed. One hand loosely gripped the axe handle while the other tapped against the wooden post beside him.
The sound echoed again.
Your pulse spiked immediately.
The Knocker smiled.
Not wide enough to show aggression. Wide enough to show amusement though.
Like your fear entertained him.
The iron golem moved in front of you with a low warning growl. The Knocker’s smile faltered instantly. His dark eyes dropped to your hand still resting against the golem’s arm.
Silence stretched.
Then slowly- almost pettily… the Knocker dragged the edge of his axe across the fence.
CRRAAACK.
The noise made your teeth ache and the golem took a heavy step forward.
And the Knocker’s expression darkened.
Not angry…Offended?...Jealous?
The realization hit so suddenly it almost felt ridiculous.
His gaze kept flicking back to the golem whenever you looked away, shoulders tightening each time, subtly, the iron giant remained close to you. Like he disliked the attention it was getting.
Like he thought it belonged to him instead.
“Oh, no,” you whispered under your breath.
The Knocker noticed immediately. His grin returned. Slowly, he pushed himself away from the fence and began walking toward you.
But not fast. That was the worst part.
He moved like someone completely certain they would eventually be followed. The axe hung lazily from one hand, occasionally knocking against stone or wood as he walked.
Every strike is deliberate. A hunter ensured the prey remained nervous.
The golem let out another warning growl. But you'd have to stay in the village range to ensure its protection.
The Knocker stopped.
His eyes narrowed slightly at the iron giant before drifting back to you, then, deliberately, he smiled again.
Playful. Mocking. Inviting.
Like this was all some private joke.
Your chest tightened.
“Right,” you said shakily, taking a slow step backward. “I’m going home.”
The Knocker immediately straightened. The reaction was instant enough to make your stomach sink. He had been waiting for that. The moment you turned toward the forest path, the metallic drag of the axe resumed behind you.
Not chasing yet.
Following. You walked faster.
The sound behind you matched the pace.
You crossed beyond the village fence and into the open plains, moonlight spilling across the grass around you in pale green waves. The forest ahead looked impossibly far away now.
Still behind you.
You glanced back.
The Knocker was closer.
Far closer than he should have been. And he wasn’t even hiding it.
His dark eyes remained locked onto you while he walked casually through the grass, axe balanced across his shoulders now like he was out for an evening stroll instead of stalking someone through the dark. The moment you looked at him, his grin widened.
You turned forward immediately and broke into a run.
A laugh echoed behind you.
Low, Breathy, Excited.
The laugh of someone being invited to play.
Branches whipped at your arms as you bolted into the dark oak forest, your heartbeat roaring in your ears while the heavy metallic clang continued somewhere behind you. Never rushing and never falling behind.
Always there. The forest swallowed you whole.
One moment moonlight stretched across open plains.
The next, twisted dark oak trunks crowded around you from every direction, their branches weaving together overhead until barely any light reached the ground.
You ran anyway.
Leaves crunched beneath your boots. Branches snagged your sleeves. Every breath burned hotter than the last as you pushed deeper into the woods.
Your house wasn't far.
It wasn't far. You'd walked this path hundreds of times. Yet tonight the familiar trail felt impossibly long. A metallic clang echoed somewhere behind you.
Still there. Your stomach dropped. of course he was still there.
The sound wasn't rushed.
Wasn't frantic.
It rang through the forest with irritating confidence, like he wasn't worried about losing you, like he knew exactly where you were.
Another clang.
Closer.
You stole a quick glance behind you. Nothing seemed out of place, just darkness among the trees. For a moment, relief washed over you. Then, laughter echoed from above. You nearly lost your footing. Your head jerked upward. There, on a sturdy branch, sat a pale figure crouched, watching. The Knocker rested easily among the leaves, as if he'd been there all along. One arm hung over the branch, the axe lying across his lap. His glowing eyes locked onto yours. A grin spread across his face instantly.
You let out a startled yelp and stumbled backward. The Knocker laughed harder. Then he simply dropped. Your heart stopped.
He hit the ground several yards away with a heavy thud before straightening casually, like falling from that height meant absolutely nothing.
Run.
You turned and bolted. The sound of his laughter followed.
Not malicious. Not cruel. Playful…but maybe something darker as well.
That somehow made it worse.
"Leave me alone!" you shouted over your shoulder.
A pause.
Then another laugh.
Apparently that wasn't the answer he'd been hoping for. A sudden CRACK exploded beside your head.
You screamed.
Something slammed into the tree trunk inches from your face. The Knocker's axe. It had buried itself deep into the bark. You froze for half a second, staring at the blade protruding from the wood.
A half-second was enough.
A shadow slipped between two nearby trees. The Knocker emerged on the opposite side of the path. Not blocking it. Just standing there.
Waiting.
The grin on his face looked unbearably pleased, as if he were proud of himself, as if startling you had been the funniest thing he'd witnessed all night, and maybe it was…seems to be a hobby of his.
"What is wrong with you?!" you shouted.
The Knocker merely tilted his head. Then pointed at the axe. Then at you. Then at the axe again.
A silent demand?... You blinked.
"...You want me to bring it back?"
That's when you knew your panic was getting bad, WHY WOULD YOU ASK THAT?
His grin widened.
"Oh, absolutely not."
The offended look that crossed his face would've been comical under different circumstances. You took off running again, behind you came an exaggerated sigh, then the sound of wood splintering as he retrieved his weapon himself. The chase continued. Your lungs ached. Your legs screamed.
Meanwhile, the Knocker somehow remained energetic. Each time you convinced yourself he was gone, a fresh thump reverberated from an uncanny corner.
From the left. From the path ahead. From the shadows behind. Once, from directly above.
It seemed absurd- as if the woods themselves conspired to hide him, or perhaps he simply knew every twisted root and whisper better than you ever could.
A gnarled root snared your ankle. Was this a horror film!?
You crashed to the earth, knees exploding with pain. For a heartbeat, terror held you rigid.
No. No. No.
Heavy boots pounded nearer. Closer.
You lunged backward, desperation clawing at you. The Knocker emerged from the gloom. He loomed over you, a moment suspended.
Watching.
An axe draped across his shoulder.
His pallid eyes flicked over your blood‑streaked hands and mud‑splattered clothes. Then his grin faltered- just enough for a flicker of genuine concern tangled with mockery to surface.
He crouched.
You immediately scooted backward.
"Don't."
The Knocker stopped.
His expression shifted...confused.
As though he genuinely couldn't understand why you didn't trust him. Which was absurd considering he'd been stalking you for half the night. The moment stretched.
Then he slowly reached out.
You flinched.
Instead of grabbing you, his clawed hand brushed a loose branch away from where you'd fallen. The branch rolled harmlessly into the undergrowth.
The Knocker looked oddly satisfied with himself, like he'd just solved a major problem. Then, because apparently he couldn't help himself, he suddenly leaned forward. Far too close. Close enough for you to see every sharp edge of his grin.
You yelped.
The Knocker nearly doubled over laughing. Any concern he'd shown vanished instantly.
"You are the worst," you snapped.
His shoulders shook harder.
Somewhere in the distance, beyond the trees, a lantern flickered through the darkness.
Your lantern. Your house. Relief surged through you.
You scrambled upright and immediately took off again. The Knocker noticed and his laughter faded.
His eyes followed yours toward the distant light. Then something curious happened. He straightened, looked at the house, looked back at you…And smiled. Not the mischievous grin from before. Something softer but not quite gentle enough to make you less worried….Interested maybe. Like he'd just discovered where a particularly fascinating bird built its nest. The realization hit you like a bucket of cold water.
"Oh no."
The Knocker's grin widened.
And suddenly reaching your house didn't feel nearly as safe as it should have. But where else can you go? The moment you reached the porch, you nearly tripped over the steps. Your hands fumbled for the key.
"Hurry. Hurry, hurry- "
The lock finally clicked.
You turn your head just a moment while fumbling with the door handle that suddenly feels very slippery only to see him leaping at you with a manic from a distance that should not be normal for any typical mob. Of course he's past the point of a normal monster.
You threw yourself inside. The door slammed shut behind you, the deadbolt slid into place.
Then the second lock.
Then the third.
Your chest heaved.
For several seconds all you could hear was your own breathing. The familiar scent of old wood and burning lantern oil filled the room.
Home. Safe. You leaned against the door and squeezed your eyes shut.
"It's fine."
The words came out shakier than intended.
"You're fine."
Nothing happened. No laughter. No metallic noises. No dark eyes staring at you from the darkness.
Just silence.
Slowly, your heartbeat began to settle. The cabin remained exactly as you'd left it that morning. The little table near the fireplace. The bookshelf against the wall. The lantern hanging from its hook. All seemed ordinary. All felt known. A feeble chuckle escaped you.
“See? Nothing.” you murmur to yourself.
Beyond, the wind whispered through the leaves. You shoved yourself from the doorway. One step. Two. Three. A tap. You halted. The noise emanated from the front door- soft, courteous, almost tender. You fixed your gaze. A hush settled. Then another rap. Tap. Tap. Your gut sank.
"No."
The second knock rang back at once, a restless echo this time. You edged away from the door, and the cabin seemed to shrink around you. A sudden, sharp crack cracked through the silence from somewhere above, and you jolted. It hadn’t come from the outside, no, it rose from within the walls, a floorboard giving way. A chill seized your veins, turning your blood to ice.
Slowly- very, very slowly- you turned your gaze toward the staircase. The upper hallway lay in total darkness, empty, still, void of any movement. Nothing stood there. Nothing…
Then a silhouette slipped into view. Your scream caught in your throat as the Knocker materialized halfway down the hall, inside your house. One clawed hand rested nonchalantly against the wall, an axe draped loosely across his shoulders, as if he’d always belonged there, as if tearing reality apart were his everyday routine.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The Knocker tilted his head, a slow grin unfurling across his face. He lifted a hand and waved- a gesture so absurdly friendly it only deepened the dread.
"How-?"
Your voice cracked.
"How did you get in here?"
The Knocker merely shrugged.
Like it wasn't important. Like the impossible part of the situation wasn't worth discussing.
Another knock echoed through the cabin.
You nearly jumped out of your skin before realizing the sound hadn't come from the door. The Knocker had done it. One claw lightly tapped against the wall.
Knock.
The smile on his face widened.
"Oh, you're awful."
The accusation only seemed to amuse him.
He straightened, you immediately backed up.
He took one step forward.
You took another backward.
The game resumed instantly.
Not chasing anymore. Not exactly…still hunting it seems…but mostly following. Watching.
You retreated around the table. He walked around it.
Slowly.
Patiently.
The way a curious cat might stalk something smaller than itself. Every time you stopped moving, he stopped too. Every time you retreated, he advanced.
Not enough to touch. Not enough to corner. Just enough to keep you nervous.
His dark eyes never left yours. Then they wandered briefly around the room. The bookshelf, the fireplace, the blanket draped over a chair.
Your belongings.
Your home.
His expression brightened. Interested. Curious. Like he'd just been handed a collection of secrets.
"No."
You pointed at him.
"No looking."
The Knocker blinked, then deliberately looked at the bookshelf again.
"You are impossible."
A pleased expression crossed his face.
You hated that he looked proud of himself. The floor creaked beneath your foot, you backed toward the hallway without realizing it. The Knocker noticed immediately. Of course he did. His gaze flicked toward the open bedroom door at the end of the hall.
Then back to you.
Then the bedroom again.
His grin sharpened.
"Oh, no. No."
You turned. Bad idea. The second your attention broke, the room behind you vanished.
A shadow moved. A rush of air.
Suddenly the Knocker was standing at the opposite end of the hallway, blocking your path back to the main room. Teleporting? Your heart nearly stopped.
"Stop doing that!"
He looked delighted. He even chuckled.
You stumbled backward. The bedroom doorway appeared behind you. One more step. Then another. The Knocker followed at a leisurely pace.
Not threatening. Not rushing.
Which somehow felt more unnerving than if he had.
The closer he came, the more obvious it became that he wasn't trying to hurt you. He could have already. Easily. Instead he seemed fascinated by every reaction. Every startled breath, glare, and complaint. As though your attention itself was a reward. You crossed the bedroom threshold. The Knocker stopped in the doorway.
Moonlight filtered through the window behind him, outlining his silhouette in silver. For the first time all night, his grin softened. Not disappearing. Just becoming less mischievous. His gaze drifted over the room. Then settled back on you. There was something almost pleased about the way he looked at you. Like he'd accomplished something.
Found something.
Maybe even chose something. The realization sent a chill down your spine. The Knocker leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. Completely relaxed. Completely at home. Then he tapped a claw against the wood beside him. *Knock.* The sound echoed softly through the room.
A grin spread across his face.
And somehow, impossibly, it looked almost flirtatious. Like he was introducing himself. Like this had been a successful first meeting. What worried you the most was how quiet he was. You'd only heard him talk so many times…in such short sentences- but he has been so quiet during all this. Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to panic. The difference in perspective was becoming a serious problem.
All you could hear was your own heavy breathing and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind outside the window. It was nearly too dark around you, you backed up until your legs hit the bed and you stumbled back.
“Did you really think you could run from me?” He finally spoke. His voice was rough and dark.
Your face flushed at his mocking tone. Maybe it was pointless. He seemed to not care about the boundaries of doors even though he loved to knock on them. Silver light was cast across the doorway by moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. As if he had always belonged in the house, the Knocker stood there.
His axe hung loosely in his hand, its dark metal glimmering faintly in the lantern light outside the room as one shoulder rested idly against the frame. It wasn't a weapon in his hands. In fact, it appeared more like a walking stick. A game. Something to keep him busy. That ought to have provided comfort.
Not at all.
The majority of his body was engulfed by his enormous black hoodie, which hung casually from his narrow shoulders and obstructed the outlines of his body underneath. It might have appeared nearly normal in another scenario.
Somewhat human.
Then his face was there.
Or what passed for one.
Pale. Smooth. Unnaturally still.
The white mask-like features seemed carved rather than alive, interrupted only by dark eyes that reflected tiny pinpricks of light. He smiled. At least, you thought he did. The corners of his mouth shifted upward slightly. Yet somehow the expression never reached the rest of his face.
The result felt wrong. Like watching a doll imitate a person.
Like watching something that had studied humans long enough to copy them but never truly understood them. His head tilted. The movement was slow. Curious.
Interested. Pleased... Almost fond. The thought sent a chill crawling down your spine.
Because there was something far more unsettling than being hunted. Being chosen. The Knocker's fingers drummed softly against the wooden handle of his axe.
Knock.
The sound echoed through the room. His smile widened. And somehow, impossibly, it felt like he was flirting. Or trying to be charming. Unfortunately, it also felt like he was enjoying your fear.
The words hung in the air like a challenge, his voice scraping against the quiet of the room. The moonlight caught the gleam of his teeth as his grin widened, hungry and amused all at once. He didn't move from the doorway- not yet- but his posture shifted, a subtle coiling of muscle beneath the skin, like a cat ready to pounce but savoring the wait.
Your back pressed against the edge of the bed, the wooden frame digging into your thighs. The panic was a dull roar in your ears, but you forced yourself to breathe, to keep your eyes on him. He was watching you with that same pleased look, as if your fear was a treat he was unwrapping slowly.
"You talk even less than I thought," you managed, the words trembling out before you could stop them. A mistake. A taunt.
The Knocker's head tilted, a sharp, jerky motion that reminded you of a bird snapping its neck to fix on prey. His hand curled up into a fist and drummed a soft rhythm against the doorframe. Knock. Knock. Knock. As if the noise was meant to taunt you even though you could see it.
"Less to say," he replied, his voice dropping to a rumble. "More to do." He stepped into the room.
The movement was fluid, almost lazy, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes tracked you. He didn't blink. The moonlight slid over his form, catching the strange texture of his skin- rough like bark, but shifting with something slick underneath. He circled the edge of the bed, not rushing, letting the space between you shrink with each deliberate footfall.
"Did you think I'd let you leave?" he asked, and his tone was light, almost conversational, but the undercurrent was pure feral glee. "I chose you. That doesn't happen often."
Your heart slammed against your ribs. "Choose me for what?"
He stopped at the foot of the bed, one clawed hand reaching out to drag along the quilt. The fabric tore under his touch- a soft, ripping sound that made you flinch. He didn't seem to notice or care. His grin turned sharper, tongue flicking over his teeth.
"For playing." The word came out a growl, deep and possessive. "I get bored. You're interesting. Worthy." He leaned forward, his face dipping close to yours, and you could smell the earth and rot and something sweet clinging to him. "And you run so pretty."
The compliment was a threat wrapped in velvet. Your breath hitched as his claw came up, hovering near your cheek- not touching, but close enough that you felt the cold radiating from his skin. He tapped the air beside your ear.
Knock.
"Don't worry," he murmured, his voice a rough purr now, like he was soothing a startled animal. "I won't break you. Not yet." A pause, and then his grin turned almost shy, a flicker of something boyish beneath the monster. "I'm still learning how to talk properly. But I'm getting better. For you."
The confession hit you like a splash of cold water. He wasn't just playing- he was preening, showing off his new skill. The predator wanted his prey to appreciate the hunt. To see how clever he was becoming.
You swallowed hard. "You can talk fine."
"Fine," he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue like a new taste. "Fine. Good. I like that word." He pulled back slightly, but his eyes never left yours. "Say it again."
"What?"
"Good." He crouched, bringing himself to eye level with you, his clawed hands resting on his knees. The moonlight painted him in shades of silver and shadow. "Tell me I'm good. Tell me I did well."
The request was absurd, desperate, and undeniably feral. This wasn't a monster demanding submission- it was a creature starved for approval, for connection, and using the hunt as his only language. You saw the hunger in his gaze, but it wasn't just for your flesh. It was for your voice, your attention, your acknowledgment. And that was somehow more terrifying than his axe.
"Good," you whispered, the word scraping out of your throat. "You did… good."
The Knocker's eyes widened. For a split second, his feral mask cracked, revealing something raw and almost innocent. Then the grin returned, wider than before, and he let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Good," he echoed, savoring the sound. "I like that. Say it again. Maybe you should say it while I watch you try to run."
He straightened, stretching like a beast waking from a nap, and the playful predator was back in full force- but now there was a new edge to it. He was comfortable. He was chatty. And he wanted to hear you talk almost as much as he wanted to hear you scream.
Your legs trembled, but you forced yourself to calm, and meet his gaze. "I'm not running."
"No?" He tilted his head, dark eyes empty and observing.
The silence that followed was worse than his voice. He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't even seem to breathe. His head remained canted at that unnatural angle, like a doll propped wrong, and the moonlight caught the sheen of something wet between his teeth. A slow grin spread, but it didn't reach his eyes. Those stayed flat. Hungry. Watching.
You held your breath, waiting for him to speak again, to laugh, to do something. But he just stood there, motionless except for the faint twitch of his claws against his thigh. Tap. Tap. Tap. A rhythm you could feel in your teeth.
Then he stepped back.
One foot sliding slowly, deliberately, into the shadow by the window. His form blurred, half-consumed by darkness, but his eyes remained fixed on you-two points of faint luminescence, like a cat's caught in headlights. He didn't turn away. He just receded, letting the room swallow him until only his silhouette remained, a darker patch against the night. Your pulse hammered. The bedframe pressed against your spine. You wanted to look away, to break the spell, but you couldn't. Something about the way he'd gone still and silent made your skin crawl, like a predator circling just beyond the campfire's glow.
"You're thinking," he said, his voice a low murmur from the shadows. Not a question. A statement, laced with amusement. "I can hear it. Little gears turning. Plans. Prayers. Maybe even hope." A pause, and then a soft, wet chuckle. "I like that. Fear tastes better when you've got time to chew on it."
The words slithered through the dark, wrapping around you. You forced your legs to move, to shift your weight, but the sound of your own breathing was too loud, masking whatever soft approach he might be making. You strained your ears, but there was nothing. No rustle of leaves. No scrape of claws. Just the dead quiet of a room that felt smaller by the second.
Then you felt it. A brush of cold air against your ankle, like a breeze through an open window- but the window was shut. A whisper of touch, featherlight, skating up the inside of your calf. You jerked back, but your legs hit the bed again, and the touch vanished. When you looked down, there was nothing there. But the shadows at the foot of the bed seemed thicker than before. Denser. And they were moving, shifting like oil on water, crawling up the wooden frame.
His voice came from directly behind you, warm breath against your ear. "Guess again." You spun, heart in your throat, but the space behind you was empty. Only the pillow dented as if something had just been resting there. A ghost of a presence. A phantom touch that left your skin prickling with cold.
He was everywhere and nowhere. The darkness seemed to breathe with him, curling around the corners of the room, pooling in the spaces between the furniture. You could feel his gaze on your back, your side, your neck- multiple angles, impossible to track.
Another touch, this time on your wrist. Gloved fingers dragging lightly across your skin, tracing the veins. The pressure was gentle, almost teasing, but the sharp edge was unmistakable. He could cut. He wanted you to know he could cut, but he was choosing not to. For now. "Keep thinking," he murmured, his voice seeming to come from the walls themselves. "It makes your heart beat faster. I can hear it. Smell it." A pause, and then a low, guttural laugh. "Taste it."
Your breath hitched as a cold hand pressed flat against your lower back, just above the curve of your ass. The fingers spread, palm wide, radiating a chill that seeped through your clothes. He was close now, so close you could smell the earth and rot and that strange sweetness again, but when you turned, there was no one there. Just the impression of a body against your own, a phantom weight pressing into you from behind.
"You're doing so well," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear- though you saw no mouth, no face, nothing. "Not screaming. Not running. Just standing there, trembling, giving me all those pretty little fear-soaked thoughts." His hand slid lower, palm pressing against the dip of your hip, fingers curling inward to grip the flesh. The touch was possessive, firm, and utterly cold. He didn't move to hurt you- not yet- but the threat was in every line of his posture, every calculated lack of pressure.
"I could stay here all night," he said, his voice a rough purr against your neck. "Listen to your heart stutter. Feel you shiver. Watch you try to figure out where I'll touch next." A pause, and his grip tightened just a fraction, making you gasp. "But I'm curious. What do you think I'll do? When I get bored of just feeling?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp. His hand remained on your hip, still and cold, while the rest of him pressed against your back- an invisible weight, a presence you could sense but not see. The moonlight had shifted, casting long shadows across the floor, and you could swear you saw movement in every one of them. He was waiting. Enjoying it. Feeding on your silence and the frantic rhythm of your pulse. And you knew, with sickening certainty, that he would be patient for as long as it took…
But patience, it seemed, had its limits.
The cold hand on your hip slid forward, fingers curling around your waist, pulling you back against a solid chest that materialized from the darkness like a body forming out of smoke. You felt him this time- the rough texture of his skin, the hard planes of muscle beneath, the steady thrum of something that might have been a heartbeat, but too slow, too deep.
"There," he breathed, his voice no longer a whisper from the walls but right against your ear, real and present. "That's better."
You didn't dare move. His arm locked around your waist, pinning your back to his chest, and you felt his other hand come up to rest on your shoulder, claws grazing the curve of your neck. He was taller than you'd thought, or maybe you were just smaller in his grip. His chin settled on top of your head, and he let out a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through your spine.
"You smell like fear," he murmured, his lips brushing your hair. "Sweet and sharp. Like crushed berries and broken glass." A pause. "I could get drunk on it."
His hand on your shoulder drifted, tracing the line of your collarbone with the barest pressure of claw tips. Not cutting. Never cutting. Just enough to remind you that he could. The gesture was almost tender, if tenderness could have fangs.
"You know what I think?" he asked, tilting his head so his lips hovered near your temple. "I think you're starting to like it. The fear. Not knowing. The way your heart races when you feel me here"- his hand pressed flat against your stomach- "and here"- his fingers tapped the base of your throat.
You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry. He laughed softly, the sound rough and warm against your skin.
"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone your secret." His grip shifted, turning you in his arms until you faced him. He was solid now, fully visible in the dim light- tall, broad-shouldered, with bark-like skin that seemed to absorb the moonbeams. His eyes were dark pits, but there was a glint in them, a hungry amusement that made your stomach flip. His hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, but the claws at your jawline were a reminder of his nature. "I want to taste something else now," he said, his voice dropping to a rumble. "Not your fear. Your mouth."
He didn't wait for permission. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours- rough, dry, tasting of earth and something metallic. But the pressure was surprisingly soft, almost experimental, like he was learning the shape of you. His other hand slid to your hip, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the hard ridge of his arousal pressing into your stomach.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing yours. "Open."
You stared in surprise, eyes wide, blinking.
“ah- Open." He repeated.
The single word was a command, low and certain, and your breath hitched. His hand tightened on your jaw, not painfully, but firm, waiting. When you parted your lips, a sound halfway between a gasp and a whimper escaped, and he swallowed it with a growl.
His tongue swept into your mouth- rough-textured, like sandpaper wrapped in velvet, but warm and insistent. He tasted you with a predator's thoroughness, mapping every ridge and hollow, curling around your tongue, dragging against the roof of your mouth until you had to grip his shoulders to stay upright. His claws scraped lightly against your scalp as he deepened the kiss, his other hand roaming down your back, pressing you into the hard lines of his body.
When he finally broke the kiss, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips, he let out a low chuckle. "Sweet," he said, licking his lips. "Even sweeter than your fear." His eyes raked over your face, dark and gleaming. "I think I'll take my time with you. Taste every inch. See which parts make you moan, and which make you beg."
His hand slid down your stomach, fingers splaying over your waist, then lower, brushing the waistband of your pants. He didn't push inside yet- just rested there, the weight of his palm a promise.
His voice was a purr, rough and teasing. "Ready to play for real, pretty girl?"
You didn't answer his question. Couldn't. Your lips were still tingling from that kiss, your thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. The Knocker's dark eyes watched you, patient and amused, his hand still resting on the waistband of your pants, claws just barely denting the fabric.
"Cat got your tongue?" he purred, thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle over your hipbone. "Or did I just lick it out of your mouth?"
You tried to form a word, but all that came out was a shaky breath. His grin widened, showing the tips of his teeth. "That's what I thought."
But then he pulled away- not far, just enough to turn and walk toward the corner of the room, where shadows pooled thicker than the rest. You heard a scrape, a metallic clatter, and when he turned back, he was holding something in his hand. An axe. The Knocker's axe- its blade dark and worn, the handle wrapped in what looked like dried sinew. He held it loosely, almost casually, and the sight of it made your blood run cold.
He caught your stare and laughed, a low, rough sound. "Oh, this?" He hefted it, letting the moonlight catch the edge. "Don't worry, little prey. I don't need it for what I have planned for you." He took a step closer, and the axe seemed to drink the light. "But it's good for reminding you who's in charge."
He stopped a few feet away, tilted his head, and then- without breaking eye contact- he set the axe down on the floor, leaning it against the wall. The clunk of wood on wood was final, almost ceremonial.
"See?" He spread his empty hands, claws glinting. "Just me and you now." He closed the distance again, this time moving slower, savoring your unease. When he reached you, he didn't grab or pin. Instead, he sank to his knees in front of you, looking up with that same hungry, playful gleam in his dark eyes.
"You're shaking," he observed, his voice dropping to a murmur. He placed his palms on your thighs, sliding them up until they hooked under the hem of your pants. "Is that from fear . . . or from wanting?"
Before you could answer, he tugged downward, pulling your pants and underwear with them in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your skin, and you gasped, instinctively trying to close your legs. His grip tightened- not painfully, but firm- keeping you open.
"Nuh-uh," he chided, shaking his head. "None of that. I told you I wanted to taste every inch, didn't I?" He leaned in, his breath warm against the inside of your thigh. "And I always keep my promises."
He pressed a kiss there- rough, open-mouthed, his tongue dragging against your skin. Then another, higher, his claws kneading the flesh of your hips. He took his time, working his way inward with slow, deliberate kisses and nips that made you arch into him despite yourself. When his mouth finally reached your cunt, he paused, looking up at you. "You're already so wet for me, little prey." His voice was a rasp, thick with amusement and hunger. "Been thinking about this, have you? Dreaming of the monster between your legs?" He teased.
He didn't wait for a reply. He licked into you, flat and broad, from your entrance to your clit, and the sound you made was embarrassingly loud. He hummed against you, the vibration making your thighs quiver, and then his tongue was inside- rough, insistent, curling and probing like it was mapping you from the inside out. And absurdly long.
His claws dug into your hips, holding you steady as he worked you open with his mouth, alternating between long, slow licks and sharp, focused flicks on your clit. Your hands flew to his head, fingers threading through the rough texture of his bark-like hair, and you heard yourself moan his name- or something like it. Is “knocker” really a name or a title?
He pulled back just long enough to growl against your folds, "That's it. Say my name when you come. I want to hear it."
And then his tongue was back, relentless, dragging you closer and closer to the edge until your vision went white and you shattered against his mouth, crying out as he lapped up every drop of your release, groaning like he was savoring a fine meal. When he finally stood, his chin was slick, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate. "You taste even better than I imagined," he said, his voice rough and low. He hooked his hands under your knees, lifting you easily, and carried you to the bed- or the pile of blankets in the corner- laying you down with surprising gentleness. He loomed over you, his body a solid shadow, and you could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his clothes.
"Now," he breathed, his face inches from yours, "it's about time we really start, pretty girl. . ." He reached down, undoing his pants with a single claw, letting them fall. His cock sprang free- thick, dark, glistening with pre-cum, and your mouth went dry at the sight of it.
“ahn- k-knocker? Your loosened lips gloss over with a thin trickle of mindless drool, heart-filled eyes struggling to keep open and take a long look at the sight right below you. “What- what are you doing?”
Well. Rendering you completely thoughtless with repeated thrusts of his vulgar inches. That's what. He would've tittered that out to see your features scrunch in that cute irritation, just to feel your clingy grip tighten needily around him, but he was busy right now. Barely straying his half-lidded gaze up at you. Instead, he plants three smearing taps on your weeping slit. Stretches his thumb and index finger wide to measure- You're heaving in murky clouds of breath, heedless, unsure how this is even happening through your glassy eyes. All the while, he's measuring the inches he's about to see buried inside you.
“Oh, y’know.” His tongue darts out, driveling along his bottom lip, or at least, what you think is his lip. That's all it takes for you to know: you're in for it. “Just how deep I can get.”
Oh.
Those simple words alone make your straining thighs tremble, a sheeny gush of slick spilling free. It lathers his base in velvety droplets that draw a low groan from him. He flicks a calloused thumb over your pussy, teasing it into making an even bigger mess.
“Oh?” He raises one brow, or at least makes the gesture with those shadowed eyes. He presses on your clit, making your head tumble back with a whine, before he thumbs wet little circles over it. “You liked that, huh? Filthy prey. Why am I not surprised?”
He leans in close, voice dropping to a growl. “And I'm dead fucking serious.” His eyes narrow, ravenous gaze unashamed. Your heart races at his utter intensity. He is serious. Really is. You might've underestimated his game talk…just a little too much.
In less than it takes your dewy folds to throb with that depraved rhythm, the Knicker clamps a massive hand down on the crown of your head- warm skin meeting your skull hard. He snarls that creepy, constant smile at you with a slight snicker, then pushes inside.
"F-fuck-" Your eyes leak steady rivulets of tears at the sheer, raw reach of it. The way he didn't even have to try to swab milky drops of pre-cum against your innermost walls. Fucking you open with just the thick, gluey scrape of his tip forcing its way inside.
"Just take it for me, pretty girl..."
And that's all you can do. Your spine bows into an arch, angling your hips even deeper. Jittery thighs clench against him with every striking pap! as he skids viciously against your weeping depths. It's maddening. You find yourself latching precariously onto his shoulders, trying to regain some semblance of balance…and your sanity, if possible. You flinch when he tilts your hips, letting off a particularly harsh grind against that magic spot. You're whimpering through delirious, crossed eyes. "There- ah!”
"Yeahhh, see, I knew it- " comes the husky answer. Mean. And then an even meaner set of pounds that batter and bruise your tenderest spots with each minute motion. He curls one massive palm on the delicious curve of your waist before leaning you back. "I can see it."
"What-" You gasp, angling your head just enough to sneak a glance below. At where the Knocker was feeding your pretty pussy with his veined girth.
Because right there, etched exactly onto the middle of your tummy, was the bulge he'd been eyeing. Pushing your fleshy mounds and insides enough to shape out an indent. Spearheading into you with each soppy plap! of his body.
And you didn't know if you were just that stupidly cock-drunk, but you swear you could count every single throb of his furiously hard cock meshing its way through your insides. "Ha... Better than I predicted."
Sloppy. He's painting sloshing streams of pre-cum, nudging you full with his length until you're sure you can feel his circumference branding your insides. Until you could almost taste him with every blissful explosion on your tongue.
It's driving you crazy. Almost too much. Not that it would stop him.
"Shhhh, shh, shh- that's it. You cry so pretty." The Knocker hums gutturally, his free hand gliding upward to smear away the drool spilling from your lips. He nods along with every sweet noise you make when his split-ended cock thrusts inside your hot core. "Thaaat's it. That's a good girl. Look at you, pretty girl... doing wonderfully.”
"Ngh- you're so..." You're mewling out, viscous globs of slick slipping and sliding down his length. God how did you get here again? And you can feel him- every vein raking against your gummy walls. The bumpy outline of him bludgeoning past your saturated folds.
"Yeah? Quite the stretch, huh? Though I don't think you're complaining- are you, pretty girl?" He gruffs out with a few playful squeezes on your thighs.
"It won't stop drooling." His fingertips brush against your sensitive folds, smearing the mess.
You swear you catch a fleeting glimpse of his mouth watering- saliva dripping as he hikes your hand about halfway up your tummy. But before you can process that image, he stops. The sudden absence is a jolt. Cold air rushes in where his heat had been. His cock slips out with a wet, obscene pop, leaving you clenching around nothing, desperate and empty.
A shaky whine escapes your throat before you can stop it. "Wha-”
"Shhh." His voice is low, amused. He grips the base of his shaft, thumb swiping over the slick, flushed head- glistening with your arousal. "Just needed to see something." He runs the flat of his tongue along his bottom lip, eyes fixed on where you're still fluttering open for him. Then he presses his thumb- slow, deliberate- against your clit, circling once before pulling away.
"Don't worry. I'm not done with you yet.”
And it’s less than a minute later when you’re shoved face-first into the puffy white pillows, your ass hiked high and your cunt stuffed full of all his swollen, scorching inches. He doesn't ease in- just sinks the head of his tip past your lips with a wet, tearing sound, then starts rutting. Fucking. No rhythm, no mercy-just the brute instinct of a beast chasing its heat.
A prolonged 'plap!' slams into one of your sweetest spots and you jerk, a cry ripping from your throat. His grip tightens on either side of your waist, hauling your body back into his like you're nothing but a ragdoll. You yelp as the silky blankets bunch at your knees and drag with you, stretched taut.
"The chase is done, little prey." His voice is a low, gravelly snarl from above. "Nowhere left to run. Nowhere else to be."
"No-" You're gasping, fingers twisting into the sheets for dear life. "You're just…so- oh…”
"Hrn?" he grunts, almost amused. A rumble in his chest.
And then he's trying to fuck the words right out of you- pistoning his cock raw into the deepest depths of your cunt, letting every thick, bulging vein scrape and tear at your walls. It's like his shaft was carved to map every bundled nerve, the winding ridges dragging over each spot until your brain fuzzes white.
You'd never realized how prominent his veins were. Now you feel every one- a pulsing, ridged assault that pummels you stupid. He keeps your hips locked still, savoring the way he can swipe your entrance with the head before shoving down as deep as it'll go, until your cunt starts to clench and fight, stretched too thin to take more.
"S-so- big," you whimper.
A dark chuckle scrapes from his throat. His thumb hooks around your folds, parting them. "If I'm so big, then why's this pussy begging for seconds, pretty girl?”
Just so casually watching you fall apart around his cock. Your body trembles, thighs shaking, drool pooling on the pillowcase. He's buried deep, grinding that thick, veined shaft against your sweet spot in slow, punishing circles, savoring every twitch and flutter of your cunt. But then you try to squirm forward-just an inch-desperate for air, for a moment's reprieve.
And that's all it takes.
His grip tightens on your waist, hauling you upright in one fluid, savage motion. You gasp as your back slams against his chest, your spine arching, your head lolling back against his shoulder. His arms slide under yours, hooking around your biceps, then up-locking his hands behind your neck in a nasty full nelson.
You're pinned. Trapped. Your legs splay open over his thighs, your cunt still stuffed full of his cock, now angled even deeper, plunging into places that make stars burst behind your eyes. He's still inside you, still thick and pulsing, and the new angle forces every inch to scrape against your front wall.
"What's this?" His voice is a low, guttural growl right against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Didn't mean to get yourself caught, did you?"
You can't answer-just a choked whimper as he flexes his hips, grinding deeper. His forearms press against your chest, pinning you in place, his hands cradling the back of your skull. There's nowhere to go. No escape. His biceps bulge, veins corded, holding you helpless as he starts to fuck you again-slow, deep, deliberate strokes that make your vision blur.
"Look at you," he snarls, nuzzling into your hair, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "Perfect little prey, all wrapped up. No squirming now.”
You try to buck, to push back against him, but his locked arms absorb every movement. You're just a doll in his grip, bouncing on his cock with each thrust. The pressure builds-your clit grinding against nothing, his pubic bone slamming into your ass with every pump, his thick girth stretching you wide.
"Fuck-" you gasp, your hands flying up to clutch at his forearms, nails digging into his skin. But he doesn't flinch. Just grunts, a feral sound, and bites down on your shoulder-harder this time, leaving a bruise. "You wanted the chase," he rasps, picking up speed, his hips snapping against you. "Now take what you've earned."
The world narrows to the sound of wet, slapping skin, his harsh breathing, and the relentless pounding of his cock. Your legs tremble, toes curling, as the new angle drives you toward a brutal orgasm-one you can't stop, can't control, can't escape. He feels it. Feels your cunt clench around him, feels your body go rigid in his hold. And he growls, low and possessive, tightening his arms until you can barely breathe.
"That's it. Come for me, little prey. Let me feel it."
And you do-shattering against his chest, your scream muffled by the pillows as he fucks you through it, never slowing, never stopping, until you're nothing but a quivering mess in his cage.
The Knocker's arms stay locked around you for another brutal minute, his cock still buried to the hilt while your cunt spasms around him. He feels every aftershock, every helpless flutter, and growls low against your ear like he's savoring the way your body betrays you. Then, without warning, he releases the full nelson hold.
Your limbs flop forward as gravity takes over, but he catches you mid-fall. One big hand fists in your hair, the other clamps around your waist, and he yanks you off his cock with a wet, obscene sound. Before you can catch your breath he's already moving, spinning you around and shoving you face-down over the edge of the bed. Your chest hits the mattress, puffy white pillows scattering, your ass lifted high while your toes barely graze the floor. He doesn't give you time to adjust.
He plants one palm between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, and uses the other to line himself up again. The thick, veined head of his cock drags through your soaked folds once, twice, before he slams back inside in one savage thrust. The new angle punches the air from your lungs. You're bent over the bed, spine arched, hips tilted just right for him to drive even deeper than before. His axe leans against the wall nearby, moonlight glinting off the blade, a silent reminder of who caught you.
"Fuck, that's better," he snarls, voice rough and playful at once. His hips snap forward, skin slapping skin with wet, filthy rhythm. One hand stays on your back, keeping you pinned, while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. He fucks you like he's claiming territory-deep, punishing strokes that make your thighs shake and your cunt clench greedily around every inch. You try to push up on your elbows but he just presses harder between your shoulder blades, forcing your face into the blankets. "Stay down, little prey. Let me use this hole." His free hand slides under you, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight circles that make your vision white out. The dual assault-his cock pounding your front wall while his fingers work your clit- has you dripping down your thighs in seconds.
He leans over you, chest to your back, teeth scraping the nape of your neck. "Gonna fill you up like this," he rasps, voice dropping into that feral growl. "Gonna pump you so full it leaks out when I pull out for round two." His thrusts grow erratic, his hips stuttering as his cock swells inside you. With a guttural snarl, he buries himself to the root and comes hard, hot pulses flooding your cunt, his grip tightening until you're sure you'll have fingerprints for days.
He doesn't pull out right away. Stays buried while he catches his breath, one hand lazily stroking your spine like he's soothing a skittish animal. Then he chuckles, low and dark, and gives your ass a sharp slap. "Don't think we're done yet," he murmurs, already hardening again inside of you. He rolls his hips experimentally, testing, and you feel him thickening once more.
He gives one more lazy thrust, pushing his cum deeper, then finally eases out. Thick white streaks drip down your inner thighs as he steps back, already palming himself back to full hardness. The Knocker yanks you upright by the hips, his cock slipping free with a wet sound that leaves your thighs sticky. Before you can find your footing he shoves you onto the mattress, flipping you onto your back in one rough motion. Your spine hits the silky blankets and puffy white pillows scatter again as he climbs over you, caging your body beneath his much larger frame.
He doesn’t waste time. One thick forearm hooks under your knee and shoves your leg up, spreading you wide while he lines his cock up and drives back inside with a single brutal thrust. The new angle forces a broken sound from your throat as he bottoms out, hips flush to yours. His weight presses you down, chest brushing your breasts with every movement, that jagged scar on his face stark in the moonlight.
Your hands fly up on instinct, fingers wrapping around the wooden headboard above you for leverage. The Knocker notices. A low, approving growl rumbles in his chest as he watches your grip tighten with each punishing stroke. He fucks you deep and steady, the bed creaking beneath the force of his hips, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you until your legs start to tremble around him. After a few minutes of watching you cling to the headboard, he decides he wants more control. One big hand reaches up, pries your fingers loose, and pins both wrists together above your head with ease. His grip is iron, holding you completely at his mercy while his other hand stays hooked under your thigh, keeping you spread open for every thrust.
"That’s it," he snarls, voice rough and playful at once. "Hold still for me, little prey. Let me fuck this cunt the way it deserves." His pace turns relentless, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your body up the bed. The headboard rattles against the wall with every impact. He leans down, teeth scraping your throat, breath hot against your skin as he grinds deep on every stroke.
Your walls flutter and clench around him, the overstimulation from round after round pushing you toward another peak. The Knocker feels it, feels the way you tighten, and bares his teeth in a feral grin. He slams in harder, grinding his pelvis against your clit with every thrust until your vision whites out and your orgasm crashes through you. Your cunt pulses around his cock, milking him, and he snarls through gritted teeth as his own release follows- hot, thick pulses flooding you again while he keeps you pinned beneath him.
He doesn’t let go of your wrists right away. Stays buried deep, breathing hard, watching your face as aftershocks ripple through you. When he finally eases his grip, he gives your wrists a lazy stroke with his thumb before pulling out slowly. Cum leaks from your well-used hole, dripping down your ass onto the sheets. He stays hovering over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down to squeeze your thigh possessively.
The Knocker shifts his weight with deliberate care, sliding one massive arm beneath your knee and then the other until both of your legs are folded high against your chest. The motion presses your thighs flush to your torso, leaving you completely open beneath him. His scarred face hovers inches above yours, moonlight catching the uneven line of that jagged mark as his eyes study every flicker of expression that crosses your features. There is something slightly off in the way he watches you, a predator’s patience wrapped in human shape, yet his touch remains steady and almost tender as he guides himself back inside.
He sinks in slowly this time, letting you feel every thick inch stretch you anew. The angle is impossibly deep; your body has no choice but to yield around him. A soft, broken sound escapes your throat, but he only hums low in approval, the vibration traveling through his chest where it brushes your own. His hips roll forward in measured strokes, each one pressing you further into the mattress while his forearms keep your legs pinned exactly where he wants them. Your fingers twitch uselessly against the sheets. Pleasure has already blurred the edges of everything else, leaving you floating somewhere between sensation and surrender. The Knocker notices the way your eyes glaze, the way your lips part without forming words. He leans closer, breath warm against your cheek, and murmurs something soft and low that you barely register, a private reassurance meant only for the space between your bodies.
He keeps the rhythm steady, almost reverent in its patience, yet the strength behind each thrust leaves no doubt who is in control. Every time he bottoms out, the head of him nudges deeper than before, drawing helpless little tremors from your core. Your walls flutter and squeeze around him, and he answers with a quiet groan that sounds almost fond. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair while the other remains hooked behind your knee, keeping you folded and exposed.
The bed creaks in time with his movements, the headboard tapping the wall in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Moonlight continues to spill across the room, catching on the polished handle of the axe still resting against the far wall. The Knocker’s gaze flicks toward it once, a brief reminder of the world outside this bed, before returning to your face. He watches the way your lashes flutter, the way your mouth forms silent pleas, and something almost protective flickers behind the uncanny stillness in his eyes.
He adjusts the angle slightly, rolling his hips so that each stroke drags along that perfect spot inside you. Your back arches as much as the position allows, a fresh wave of heat flooding through your belly. The Knocker’s breathing grows heavier, but his voice stays low and intimate when he speaks again, words brushing your ear like a secret. He tells you how perfectly you take him, how beautiful you look lost in this moment, how he intends to keep you right here until every last tremor has passed through your body.
Your climax builds slowly this time, coaxed rather than forced. It rises like a tide, warm and inevitable, until it finally crests with a long, shuddering release that leaves your thighs quivering against his chest. The Knocker feels every pulse, every squeeze, and answers with a deep, drawn-out groan of his own. He presses in as far as he can go and stays there, pulsing thick and hot inside you while his forehead rests lightly against yours.
For several long moments, he remains folded over you, breathing in sync with the aftershocks still rippling through your body. His grip on your legs eases gradually, though he does not pull away. Instead, he brushes his thumb across your cheek in a slow, soothing arc, the gesture oddly gentle for someone whose presence still carries that faint, unsettling edge. When he finally eases out, it is with care, letting the evidence of everything that happened tonight trickle slowly from your well-used cunt. Freaky bastard.
He stays close, one arm sliding beneath your shoulders to draw you against his chest. The axe leans forgotten against the wall, its blade catching the last of the moonlight as the room settles into quiet. The Knocker’s fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, his breathing deep and even.
Then it went dark.
…
The village looked significantly less threatening during the day.
The sun hung high overhead.
Children ran through the streets.
Farmers argued over crops.
Villagers wandered from stall to stall without a care in the world.
Everything felt normal.
Which was exactly why you were suspicious.
Because your life had stopped being normal the moment a teleporting forest cryptid learned your home location.
You adjusted the bag against your hip and sighed.
Two weeks.
Two entire weeks.
Two weeks since the chase.
Two weeks since he'd appeared in your bedroom doorway and…yeah.
Two weeks since he'd apparently decided that your existence was now his favorite hobby more so than usual.
The worst part?
He wasn't even trying to be malicious. At least it didn't seem that way…
Just... present.
Constantly.
You'd wake up and discover him sitting on the bed having watched you sleep.
You'd go gathering wood and find him already leaning on the tree you planned to cut down.
Twice you'd caught him staring through a window before immediately fading away or whatever it is he does.
But he's been doing more spooking than he has attacking…maybe a win?
The man had all the subtlety of a creeper and the confidence of a cat.
A deeply unsettling cat.
One that could teleport.
And carry an axe…and a knife.
It really dawns now at this moment of all times. Ohh, fuck…he's got that shit memorized too…
Across the village square, the iron golem made its usual rounds. You smiled despite yourself.
"There you are."
The golem tilted its head, and you patted its arm affectionately.
"At least somebody around here acts normal."
The golem made a low creaking sound.
Then stopped.
Its head turned sharply toward the forest. Your smile faded.
The dark oak woods sat beyond the village fence, dense and shadowy even beneath the afternoon sun.
For a moment you didn't understand what the golem was staring at.
Then the village suddenly felt... quieter.
You blinked.
The children playing near the well were gone. The merchant arguing with a farmer had disappeared, even the villagers wandering between stalls seemed to have drifted away without you noticing.
Not entirely empty.
Just empty enough.
The sort of silence that settles right before something unpleasant happens.
A familiar feeling crawled down your spine.
"Oh no."
The iron golem let out a low rumble.
A metallic clang echoed from the tree line.
Your eyes instantly darted toward the sound. There, between two dark oak trunks, he stood silently. Watching. The Knocker remained still- no movement, no wave, no smile. He simply loomed partly hidden in the shadows, wearing a black hoodie that almost blended into the darkness under the trees, one hand resting on his axe handle.
His pale face stood out starkly against the forest behind him.
Too white. Too still. Too... expressionless yet expressive all at once.
Like a mask someone had forgotten to finish carving.
The moment your eyes found him, his head tilted.
Slowly.
Almost curiously.
A predator realizing it had been noticed.
Your stomach sank; naturally, he is present.
The Knocker remained motionless. Then, a grin appeared on his face.
The unsettling kind.
The kind that consistently conveyed an impression that he possessed knowledge you did not have.
Something embarrassing…Something dangerous.
Something involving your home maybe.
"Ohh, fuck."
The grin widened.
You pointed immediately.
"No."
The Knocker looked delighted.
"No?"
"No."
A pause.
Then he gestured toward the forest, then toward himself, and finally toward you, as if inviting you somewhere. "You are absolutely not luring me into the woods," I said. The Knocker's shoulders drooped noticeably, in a performance so exaggerated it seemed rehearsed. The iron golem moved forward in a protective stance. Instantly, the Knocker straightened, his disappointment replaced by annoyance. He narrowed his eyes at the golem, which responded with a narrowed gaze of its own.
"Seriously?" you muttered. "We're doing this again?"
The Knocker pointed accusingly at the iron golem.
The iron golem pointed back.
The resemblance to two squabbling children was becoming difficult to ignore.
One happened to be a giant stone construct.
The other happened to be an axe-carrying nightmare that regularly appeared in your home uninvited.
The Knocker hadn't moved.
One claw lightly tapped against the handle of his axe.
Knock.
His grin returned.
And despite the daylight surrounding him, he somehow still looked like he belonged in the shadows of the forest behind him.
Waiting.
Watching.
Patient.
Like he'd been standing there long before you arrived.
And would still be standing there long after everyone else had gone home.
…And maybe that didn't bother you as much as it should.