When you first told Moze you wanted to try knife play with him, his immediate assumption was that you meant combat training. It made sense to him, after all, knives were his specialty. Training with someone he loved, sharing his skill, seemed like an intimate enough gesture. Naturally, he had agreed without hesitation, until... you clarified exactly what you meant.

That wasn't it.

Knife play? With him? In bed?

The explanation left him baffled, so much so that he had taken to researching it later, alone, in the quiet confines of his quarters. He rarely indulged in researching trivial matters, but for you, he made an exception. A quick search later, his confusion deepened, though a faint heat rose to his neck as he scrolled through the descriptions. This wasn't about fighting at all.

You wanted him to cut your clothes and... drag his blade along your skin?

He mulled it over for hours, the idea simmering in his mind. Moze couldn't imagine why anyone would want a blade that close to them in such a context, let alone someone they loved and trusted. Was this something you truly enjoyed? Were you a masochist? Despite his reservations, he couldn't deny the intrigue that flickered within him.

If this was something you wanted, something you trusted him with, then he wouldn't hesitate.

When the moment arrived, Moze was as methodical as ever. He sat at the edge of the bed, his dagger gleaming faintly in his hand. He carefully slid it across the crease of his elbow, cleaning the blade even though he'd already done it twice earlier. It was his favorite weapon, the same one he'd relied on countless times.

Only this time, its purpose wasn't to kill but to please.

As you reached for his hand, eager to guide him, Moze caught your wrist effortlessly. "I got this," he murmured, his voice low and steady. Gently, he pinned your wrist against the bed, leaning closer. His eyes roamed your body, lingering on the subtle rise and fall of your chest. The vulnerability in your position wasn't lost on him, but neither was the trust in your gaze.

Starting at your throat, he dragged the blade along the curve of your neck, the tip barely grazing your skin. The cool metal left trails of shivers in its wake, and he found himself drawn into the rhythm. Every shift of the blade was carefully calculated. Too much pressure, and it could cut too deep. Too little, and it would be ineffective.

Moze wasn't sure if he'd ever handled a blade this carefully before.

He dragged it slowly down your neck, his eyes flicking to your face every so often to gauge your reactions. "Let me know if it hurts," he murmured, his tone soft but commanding. It wasn't about pain; it was more about safety.

When the blade reached the collar of your shirt, his brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. But then he remembered your earlier consent and pressed just enough to slice through the fabric. There was no hesitation now, only an intense focus.

The sound of the blade cutting through the material was soft as it revealed the skin beneath. His grip on your wrist tightened instinctively, his fingers pressing into your pulse point as his eyes lingered on the exposed flesh. His heart, usually so calm and steady, thundered in his chest.

He, of course, said nothing because words felt unnecessary, intrusive even. But the way his eyes darkened told you everything. Moze was thoroughly enjoying this.