TW: knives, mention of sh, blood
“knifeplay oneshot! if this makes you
uncomfortable, avoid reading - I have other
alternatives on my pinned masterlist.”
Hollis Frazier-Herndon was a man of many hobbies.
Some more useful than others; like his musical abilities - that had recently helped him get afloat.
- Some sort of reassuring beacon in an environment where his own family saw his passions and personal goals as over ambitious delusions.
Outside of musical production, he’d dabble in many other mediums of activity - so much so, it had become less and less impressive, and more of a casual addition to his diverse skill set - even if they weren’t able to be applied to any realistic circumstance.
This included fishing - which had been endorsed heavily by his father since he was able grasp a rod, skateboarding, rifle-handling (he’d only ever shot lined-up beer and tinned food cans, but his aim was still relatively good), techdecking,
Hollis had received his first hunting knife as a Christmas present from his dad when he turned twelve - he said it symbolises protection, independence, and connection of sort.
Hollis thought that was a load of bullshit; but he accepted the gift happily - to which he only found it useful when he wanted to carve shapes and symbols into his desk, or to skin the occasional apple when he snacked in his room out of boredom.
It was of decent calibre for a first knife, too - single-edged, slightly curved at the bottom to suggest optimal skinning, but straight at the top for slicing tougher materials; like meat.
Traditional oakwood handle, with steel hardware; high-quality, corrosion-resistant, and easy to sharpen.
His dad said that he’d take Hollis out hunting sometime during summer break - but he never did. Hollis wasn’t bothered, though - forgetting.
Although the knife was never used for its intended purpose, Hollis still found a purpose for it - the main component of a casual habit; like biting your nails or bouncing your knee.
Balisong Flipping. Unintentionally, at first.
The first knife of Hollis’ remained in a drawer of his desk, beneath his PC setup - sometimes, when he was playing Minecraft and waiting for his friends to join his world, he’d absently pull open the drawer, reaching for the blade.
Impatient and unsettled, Hollis began to absentmindedly twirl the sheathed knife in his palm and around his fingers - only snapping out of these fidgety trances when he dropped it, the loud clatter of the hardwood handle against his bedroom floor making him jump.
The next birthday, his thirteenth - he received another knife, another empty promise from his enthusiastic father, another trinket of sorts that landed itself in his desk drawer with the first.
Similar to the first, but the hardware was gold-plated, and the handle was carbon. Obviously more expensive and higher calibre, but the blade composition remained the same.
So, he’d rotate practicing his tricks between the two - it never really made a difference, whichever he blindly got his hands on mid-Minecraft intermission first.
It was the fourteenth birthday, with his third knife, that he took off the sheath and practiced.
Hollis had a routine with his knife-flipping, and he’d gotten rather confident.
He’d retrieve the knife, usually while listening to his friends bickering in the console party about the game difficulty, and do what he’d taught himself for the last two years.
He’d rest the chosen knife flat on the top of his knuckles, sheathed, and flick his wrist sideways - with enough momentum to jolt the knife to rest on the side of his index finger.
Then, he’d spin it - the blade circling erratically around his finger in a hypnotic orbit, until he got distracted by something on the screen.
When he got bored of that, he’d spin the knife off of the back of his hand, to which he’d recently learned to rotate his positioning slightly, making the swiftly-spinning blade appear fanned out as it moved, leathery blur of its sheath in momentum in his peripherals.
This newfound skill was simply out of convenience; of him becoming good at it rather quickly, due to his consistency.
If he’d discarded these knives on a shelf, he probably would’ve reached for them less, if not at all.
Hollis had always had a problem with keeping his body still and regulated - often picking up pens and pencils during school to mess around with when his hands got restless.
Sometimes, when there truly wasn’t anything he could take out his hyperactivity on, he’d unknowingly inflict it upon himself - picking at the skin around his nails, making his thumbs bleed.
He hadn’t paid much mind to it, though - not until the knife-flipping had become a nightly occurrence, and his fingers hadn’t bled or dully ached in weeks.
He’d kept this habit to himself; as much as his dad would probably be amused that these gifts were of use to his teenaged son in the first place, he knew that if his mother were to find out that he were using them without instruction, she’d lose her shit.
He was being sensible, he thought - he’d so far kept each knife strictly at his desk, the most brutality they’d seen being a skinned apple - and when he did practice tricks with them, he kept the actual blade covered.
But his mother was stubborn, and if she’d even got an inkling of the fact her son was twisting and twirling weapons on himself unsupervised regardless of safety precautions, she would beat his ass.
She was under the impression that Hollis had graciously accepted the knives, and hopefully discarded them beneath his bed in disinterest, or something.
And honestly, as Hollis grew older and leaned more into his musical production abilities more than ever before given recent traction, that possibility was looking probable.
He’d spend most evenings now using his nimble fingers on a deck or some sort of soundboard.
.. Until his fourteenth birthday.
He’d been gifted his first Butterfly blade.
At first glance, after unwrapping it, it looked like the others.
Hollis appreciatively nodded at his father, before gently placing it back in its box as he unwrapped his other presents.
It was when he was unpacking the bags of gifts to scatter around his room later that evening, that he’d actually taken a minute to observe the knife.
With the sheath on, it looked.. average. He placed it in the centre of his palm - twisting, lightly tossing it, metal weighing against flesh with a little more heft than the other knives.
This made him intrigued; it looked the same, so what made it heavier? Was the handle of higher, denser quality?
To his surprise, when the sheath was removed, instead of one singular, freshly-sharpened blade catching the light and glistening up at him, there were two.
With a handle that counter-rotated around the tang, he discovered that the blades were easily concealed within the engraved grooves of the handles when closed-up.
One safe handle, one bite handle, when opened, turn into a concise T-shape - made of what the box had described as ‘Aerospace-grade’ aluminium, with both blades being drop-point.
Well, this was new. Hollis’ interest in his unconventional down-low hobby had piqued again like it had when he’d first gotten into knife-handling.
He wasn’t sure what compelled him to want to test out this unfamiliar model of knife unsheathed for the first time; but he hadn’t given it a second thought.
Maybe it was blind, boyish excitement - this knife was beautiful - his father hadn’t made any fuss over it, but looking back it was probably because his mother was getting more and more intolerant of her husband promoting hunting to a fourteen year-old.
Nightly practice with his new knife went smoothly, at first.
It was a little tricky getting used to the additional weight that the other knives of his didn’t have - needing to adjust his angling slightly so it didn’t straight up slope and drop off of his hand, not to mention having to accommodate an extra blade.
But Hollis was determined to acclimatise to this new, more impressive set of blades as soon as possible; with the possibilities seeming limitless with this new model.
He was elated when, after a few close-shaves where he almost had the knife plummeting to the floor and impaling straight into his foot - he’d made it work.
It took a quick YouTube tutorial, but he’d managed to successfully perform a proper trick.
Pirouetting around his fingers with lethal, unsheathed grace, the polished blades catch against the meagre light of his desk lamp - fleeting flashes of light projecting across his focused expression.
A torpedo of reflected shadows, little flash-bangs - dances of danger, blurring blades and delicate flesh rotating in a twisted ballet of unbridled sharp metals and lethality.
The thrill that Hollis had felt was indescribable; the ability to control this potentially lethal weapon meant for flesh-splitting and bone-breaking as each twist sawed unsettlingly-close to his skin.
The allure of the forbidden, the satisfaction that came when he realised he was handling something incredibly sharp and unpredictable.
And unpredictable it was.
For a mere second later, his hand had twitched a centimetre too far in the wrong direction, and the duel-blades had nicked the flesh on his pointer-finger.
Hollis let out a soft yelp of surprise, flinching backwards as the switchblade met its demise with an alarmingly loud crash against the hardwood floor.
A stream of crimson followed from the consequence - an intricate slit from the tip of his finger, that wound to his knuckle - beading around his finger like a string of ruby jewellery, before accumulating into one steady, trickling flow that dribbled down his hand.
The pain was minimal, thanks to the shock - Hollis’ chest heaved, lightheaded, but not entirely due to the sudden injury - he was still euphoric from his masterful display of handling, even if it lasted for a mere fifteen seconds.
He should’ve seen it coming.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes - and this prize meant that he had a bandaged finger for a week and a half, and not only was he unable to use the soundboards properly with his dominant hand because of it - he also had to come up with some bullshit excuse to tell his mother.
She was utterly mortified when she came in to wake Hollis up for school the next morning, only to decipher - upon tearing apart the blackout curtains and turning - a damning trail of blood drops that had followed Hollis into his bed, and soaked through the makeshift tourniquet he’d made out of an In-N-Out napkin and bled into his bedsheets.
He woke up to her screaming bloody murder, thinking her brooding, burrowing teenaged son had slit his wrists - to which Hollis frantically denied, still half-asleep, deeming the injury the result of a nasty paper cut when doing homework.
Thank God that during the entire ordeal last night, he’d unknowingly kicked the unsheathed weapon under his desk and out of view when getting up to bandage it.
But, since that night, Hollis had spent the rest of his teenage years chasing the feeling he’d felt when he’d handled that knife - overtaking his other half-hearted hobbies, yet still second to music.
Music was his hobby that he made not just for himself, but for others - this, however, was his and his only. He took pleasure in that, as it was his way to unwind, as sick as it sounded - he really found solace in twirling around dangerous weapons, knowing he could seriously harm himself?
Hollis was nineteen now, and his knife collection had grown with him - all different models, sizes, colours and patterns - remaining all in the original dedicated drawer.
You’d been casually dating Hollis now for the last two-ish weeks - you’d matched on Hinge, and it hadn’t taken long for you to meet, and the hookups to follow soon after.
Dating was a loose term - he’d just dropped out of college after his music had started to pick up, and you were horny after your gruelling bar shifts to pay off your student loans you were taking out, so you reached a routinely agreement.
But you weren’t seeing anyone else, and supposedly, he wasn’t either.
Hollis had texted you after your shift asking if you’d wanted to come round his and play Minecraft together - a childish gesture that made you giggle at your phone endearingly, but you agreed.
Leading you into his room, fingers loosely hooking around yours as he stringed you through his seemingly-empty house, you noticed - really noticed - his hands.
As he twisted the doorknob to his room, you glanced to the hand you were holding - noticing what you otherwise wouldn’t have seen, given that most of your encounters were in almost complete-darkness, in the sea of your bedsheets.
The expanse of his hands and fingers were woven with healed, or healing, gashes - different thicknesses and lengths, accumulating across the surface of his flesh in rosy brambles of raised skin.
You hadn’t noticed these before, but being as considerate and sensitive as you were, you didn’t want to ask. He didn’t seem affected by by them, and if it wasn’t for the harsh lighting of the landing, you wouldn’t have noticed them anyway.
Opening the door to his bedroom, Hollis dropped your hand; stepping aside, quietly inviting you to inspect his bedroom for the first time.
It was like you expected; grey walls, mussed black tartan bedsheets - blackout curtains drawn and an Ikea lamp in the corner beside a tired-looking desk fitted with a rather expensive PC setup.
Sparsely decorated apart from the odd musician poster and discarded clothing item on the floor - Average teenage boy room.
Hollis sauntered over to his desk, leaning over it, one hand planted on the edge to support him as he craned over the keyboard, opening Minecraft.
You perched stiffly at the edge of his bed, mattress dipping with a humbling croak as you cleared your throat, pretending to look enthralled with your bland, monotone surroundings you’d seen from other flings hundreds of times before.
Hollis pulled out the desk chair, sitting in it now - scrolling all of his servers, hand resting over the mouse - picking the world with the mods he knew you’d like.
When he’d chosen and the world had rendered around the cursor, he called you over.
“Hey, c’mere.” He nodded over his shoulder in beckoning, to which you followed - slowly rising to your feet and approaching.
You shadowed behind him timidly, forearms lifting to rest on the headrest of the desk chair - frame leaning over to spectate.
Feeling the chair tilt back beneath your weight, he let out a small laugh, pivoting round to meet your eyes.
“Come sit.” He spoke as if his intentions were clear the first time he encouraged you over - amused at your distanced approach, he patted his thigh gently.
You, feeling silly now for your modest demeanour, walk around to the side of the chair, carefully swinging one leg over his thigh and settling on his lap.
After shuffling a little, you were finally comfortable - and when you’d stopped moving, Hollis settled his chin in the nook of your shoulder, a gentle open-mouthed kiss to the skin behind your ear.
To steady you, the free hand that wasn’t on the mouse was splayed on the side of your waist, contact growing hot through your clothing.
“You wanna?” He lifted his hand from encapsulating the mouse once he’d directed the player to an area of the map he thought you’d find interesting to explore.
“Uh, sure.” You nod skeptically - you’d obviously heard of Minecraft, but you’d never played it firsthand.
Sure, you’d spectated your friends at sleepovers at their houses, but your parents were strict, and whenever you’d asked to download it, they’d told you to go outside instead - so you hadn’t festered that nostalgic, fond attachment to the game like everyone else seemed to have.
As you gradually worked out all of the controls, Hollis guided you through each tool he’d helped you craft - innocently muttering basic intrusions and suggestions to you, voice low and relaxed beside your ear.
Eventually, your Hollis-led tutorial got interrupted by you walking practically straight-into a creeper, that blew your shit to smithereens immediately, making you yelp at the sudden explosion.
During so, your knee had jumped and hit the drawer beneath the desk, impact pushing it backwards and then outwards so it was now ajar.
“Fuck!” You whined, hands flying to rub at your sore knee, “I fucking hate those fucking exploding green things!”
Hollis, attempting to hide a bemused smile behind your shoulder by nestling his forehead against it, shakes his head.
“- Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone die that many times to a creeper.” He adds, tone combined pity, amusement, and genuine bewilderment - before he realises that you’d genuinely hurt yourself in the process.
“Shit, are you good, baby?” His face is solidified with concern now, attempting to shift your weight onto his other thigh so he can angle you correctly to get a better look at where you’d hurt yourself, “Where’d you hurt?”
You, now utterly embarrassed from both your inability to play a literal kids’ game and managing to actually hurt yourself at the same time, laughed weakly, hand rubbing your pulsating knee.
“Just my knee.” You mumble, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
Regardless, his hand finds the effected area - looped around your waist, he leans into your back to gain better access - to which he scrapes his thumb over it carefully.
“Are you sure?” He concernedly asked, half-muffed by your hair, words tickling the shell of your ear, to which you let out a small sigh.
“Mhhm,” You nod, letting his thumb slowly, gently massage the expanse of traumatised skin and muscle - sensitive tendons jumping beneath his touch, “I think you should play from now on, I’ll watch.”
Hollis agrees, reeling backwards again, removing the pressure off of your back that had weirdly grounded you during this pathetic ordeal - after making sure you were okay and whispering reassurances against your neck for the next two minutes, he’d began to play on the PC again.
Eventuslly, you found watching him mine and successfully evade pixelated monsters repetitive, instead finding your eyes wandering the contents of the desk; settling on the ajar drawer you’d knee’d open.
In the cast of his lit Ikea lamp, you saw something catch the light within the drawer as you tilted your head.
Hollis, on the other hand, was completely distracted - eyes narrowed, brows lightly furrowed - he hadn’t noticed you veering.
Slowly, you leant forwards - under the guise of checking your knee, you carefully used two fingers to pull the drawer open, revealing the contents.
A whole lot of fucking knives.
You don’t quite know how to react, but before your thoughts process, you let out a soft snort - followed by a quiet,
“Are you planning to fucking kill me or something?”
Hollis stills beneath you, and his hand slowly lifts from over the mouse - stopping the character onscreen dead in its tracks, to which it is eliminated shortly after by a cave spider.
“What?” Hollis scoffs, lifting his chin from where it had situated again in the crook of your shoulder - following your gaze down to the desk drawer. Of knives. Wide open.
You’d jolted open his knife drawer. Out of all of them.
This’ll be fun to explain!
“Why do you..,” You gape, eyes digesting the treasury of varied weapons, “Have so many?”
Hollis clears his throat, now withdrawn from you - to which you stand from his lap.
Still sat, Hollis leans back against the desk chair as if to brace himself - you, now with your back facing the PC, back hitting the edge of the desk you’re now perching on the edge on, arms crossed over your chest loosely, blue light from the screen behind you haloing your figure.
“Birthday presents..” Hollis mutters, now incredibly shy, throat bobbing - he pushes the chair backwards a little, creating distance.
“What? One knife every year?,” You joke, although it comes out a little more bitter than you’d intended, “There’s, like, twenty in there.”
“Eight.” Hollis corrects you, yet the instant regret is prevalent after, judging by the way he tears his eyes from yours, “.. There’s eight. Got given my first when I was twelve, by my Dad.”
Some explanation, but it doesn’t ease the initial surprise of your discovery - you’d entangled yourself with a few.. characters.. over the years, but never something like this.
You straighten your spine, eyes shifting between Hollis and the open drawer.
“What do you do with them?”
Hollis sighs, hoodied chest heaving in defeat as he realises that his little hobby wasn’t just his anymore; and that he had to display it - otherwise there would be no other normal explanation for the accumulation of weapons.
And the last thing he wanted was to scare you off.
“What?” You blink at his shift in demeanour - the way he went from a deer caught in headlights; the most flustered you’d ever seen him, to someone who knew the act was up.
He reels back in now, to which you instinctively step aside, allowing him direct access to the drawer - which might not have been the best decision in hindsight.
Whether it was intentional or not, he’d rolled himself back and so closely towards you - basically sandwiching you between himself and the desk - that his loose, silvery platinum hair was millimetres away from brushing your thighs, and you could feel his steady breaths against your midriff.
He leant down, forehead almost resting against your abdomen, into the drawer - pulling out a knife at random.
This is it, you thought - he’s going to stab me, or some twisted bullshit. You knew he was too pretty to be entirely normal, just not like this.
You swallow thickly, breath hitching at the back of your throat - this is why you don’t hook up with random men on Hinge. Straight into an the dangers of online dating documentary.
Instinctively, in the minimal amount of moving room you had, you press yourself against the edge of the desk even firmer - causing your knees to buckle, leading you into some sort of perching position, keyboard digging into your skin through your clothing.
“You still haven’t told me-,” You start, but Hollis unsheathes the knife with a mechanical click, pristine, riveted blades taunting before you.
You close your eyes tight, wincing as if you were truly preparing yourself to be shanked like some fucking character in one of those cheap slasher movies you liked to watch.
The next few seconds, nothing followed. No stabbing.
You open your eyes, utterly confused and having absolutely no idea what to expect - if he wasn’t going to inflict it upon you, then-
As your eyes adjusted once more, they settled on Hollis, still sat before you, unmoving.
Except now, in one hand, he was, rather effortlessly, twirling a switchblade - eyes low beneath dark, heavy lashes, lips parted.
Still speechless at whatever the fuck had just transpired during the span of, like, five minutes, you silently piece everything together.
The scars all over his hands. The knives. The way he’s sat before you now, playing with one of them like it were a fucking yoyo in his palm.
The blur of the blades was mesmerising, yet mildly mortifying - your stomach bubbled with anticipation and concern, what if he cut himself.. again? but also, you were undeniably impressed at this odd skill, and could quite literally watch him do it forever.
Before you can string a sentence together, Hollis abruptly clicks the knife back closed, concealing the blades - tossing the weapon onto the desk beside you with a startling clatter that broke the silence.
He looks up at you like a criminal caught red handed - like a puppy expecting to get reprimanded for misbehaving, hands now in his lap, fidgeting.
“That’s it.” He mutters, if it were any consolation.
“- That was..” You clear your throat, craning your neck downwards to the sheathed switchblade discarded beside you on the desk, “.. Terrifying. But kind of hot.”
Before you could study Hollis’ expression, you pick up the knife, eventually figuring out after turning it a few times in your palm how to expose the blades once more.
“Hey, whoa-,” Hollis reaches forwards, cheekbones now of a noticeably more fuchsia tone than before, even in the minimal light.
You tut, yanking the knife back and out of his seated reach.
“Can’t be that hard, right?” You jest, mimicking as if you were truly about to start attempting to twirl an unsheathed switchblade around your fingers, “Look-,”
You watch Hollis’ eyes quite literally glaciate over with worry, brows pinched in brazen concern as he stands bashfully from his seat, ready to pry this knife out of your hands, even if it meant it piercing through his skin in the process.
“Don’t-,” He warns, tilting his head at you like a stern final warning before preparing to lunge at you, to which you do something you didn’t even know you were capable of doing.
Before he can cage you in and wrestle the knife out of your grasp, you move fast; to where the tip of one of the blades was now pressed against the side of his neck.
Hollis stills entirely - and your hand begins to tremor, yet you don’t lower anything.
“No.” You shake your head at him teasingly, standing to your feet now - stepping into him, ushering him back into the desk chair, “My turn. Sit down.”
You see the muscles in his jaw jump in the lowlight, the way his lashes brush his upper cheek as he lowers his gaze to the protruding blade against his jugular.
It was here, where the gravity of what you’d just done had began to dawn upon you - and you were literally a second away from dropping the knife and mollycoddling the poor boy in a blanket of profuse apologies for your out of character behaviour.
For fucks sake! You’d literally pulled this man’s own knife on him in his own bedroom - in his own home.
Your expression crumples in shame, and your knife-bearing hand falters - like a pin about to drop.
And looks up at you like you’d just given him some life-altering piece of information.
The final piece of a puzzle he’d spent a concerning amount of time dedicated to solving.
For a man previously held at knife-point by his date, he looked like you’d just stripped naked before him and given him full jurisdiction over your body.
His body language was damning; legs slightly parted, hands limp at his sides - arrested breaths, the look upon his face - as if he’d lost any and all peripheral vision.
The way the social veneer was instantly stripped away; the casual charm, the teasing remarks - leaving behind a startled, yet hungry look of realisation that sparkled in his irises, now so dark they looked like sparkling, polished onyx - combining with his pupils.
His cheeks were still pinked with fluster, and with each laboured breath that wracked through his parted lips in this newfound dazed state, were growing pants.
A slight crease remained between his eyebrows - as if the cogs were still turning in his head, but his conscience knew that this was exactly where he wanted to be.
He was trembling, alright - but for an entirely different reason to the why you were.
Hollis, as laid-back and plaint as he was, usually settled as the more dominant one in your dynamic - he switched occasionally depending on you guys’ energy levels, but even during the hottest sex you two had shared; he’d never looked like this.
You may not know how to handle a knife appropriately, apparently, but you do know that the look upon Hollis’ face - the way his body language shifted the second you’d backed him down - was not out of fear.
Fuck, he looked like he was about to cum in his fucking jeans. What the fuck?
You were at a crossroads.
Either you drop the knife, apologise, and very awkwardly leave and potentially wake up to being blocked on everything - or, you pretend like this was deliberate, and not some impulsive inexplicable act.
Do it for the lore, you guess.
You step forward, to where you can feel his ragged breaths erratic against your stomach.
Playing under this new guise that he.. evidently didn’t seem to be entirely against, you go back to pressing the knife dully beneath his jaw. Pressing. Lightly.
As soon as you apply the pressure there, Hollis lets out a soft groan. It almost sounds pained, until he lets his forehead fall into you, hand wearily lifting to hitch up the fabric of your shirt.
Upon your exposed skin, he begins to press slow, reverent open-mouthed kisses along your abdomen.
You, caught in a moment of unexpected bliss at the sensation, lowered the knife.
He stills, nose pressing into your lower abdomen, eyelashes brushing against your skin as he uses his other free hand to raise your hand - the blade, back beneath his jaw, pressing it even firmer there than you had prior.
And then, he resumes as if he hadn’t done that at all.
“Oh fuck..” You gasp, using your non knife-bearing hand to peel back the straying unruly layers of blonde back and out of his face, “Are you-, are you into this?”
In response, Hollis sighs - shakily - as if he were admitting something diabolical, confessing a filthy secret he swore to take to the grave, against your flesh.
Blinded by lecherous sensations, the submissive state you currently have your six-foot-something situationship in before you, and the fact you’re seriously dabbling in knifeplay when you were only intending for a night full of Minecraft and making out at most, you lower the knife again.
You do this in hopes to use your knife-bearing hand to veer him up to kiss you, but he stops again.
He licks one deliberate, slow stripe across the expanse of your abdomen before detaching himself from you.
His fingers drop from beneath the ridden-up fabric of your shirt, and now wrap around your wrist of your hand holding the knife - guiding once more.
He places it back against himself, but this time, beneath his chin, point pressing at the centre of his upper neck beneath.
Meeting your eyes, half-lidded, he whines like a man wrecked,
Unknowingly to you, you’d just given Hollis a taste of the exact euphoric, cathartic feeling he’d been trying to replicate since he was fourteen.
Who knew all it’d take was a knife at his neck, and he was just as lightheaded and rapturous as he was when he was younger - when he’d mastered his knife tricks and nicked his skin - and had yet to decipher these feelings.
You play along - trying to convince yourself that it’s for his benefit, but you can’t deny the fact that you’re also getting pretty fucking riled up.
He’s just so pretty when he’s needy, you justify, but he wasn’t the only one that was spurred on by the prospect of a lethal weapon being planted between you two - drunk off of the adrenaline of not knowing what was going to happen next.
Tugging on the hem of your shirt, all while maintaining eye contact - that, Hollis was extremely good at - he ushers you to straddle him, all while keeping the knife firmly in place at his neck, beneath his chin.
You obey with a mildly-astounded half-gasp half-chuckle, making sure to keep the knife steady, but not applying too much pressure as you shuffled on top of him.
“Take this off,” You mutter, pawing at his shirt - chaste kiss against his cheek.
Hollis chases after your lips as you remove them from his cheek, capturing you in a tongue-dragging, teeth-clashing kiss. He whispers amidst it,
“Cut it-,” a gravelly whine, “Cut it off me.”
You smile like a fool against his lips, disconnecting the kiss accidentally.
“What? But that’s your-,”
He encapsulates your lips again, bottom lip rolling between his teeth,
You don’t say anything, instead craning back into deepening the kiss - trailing the knife down the field of his neck, settling at the neckline of his shirt.
You hesitate, breaking off the kiss again.
“..But what if I accidentally cut you?”
He lowers his head, a strangled whimper muffled by continued wet kisses against the side of your neck - a frustrated sound, given by the eagerness of his hips that you felt tense and raise to roll beneath you.
“Fuck-, I don’t fuckin’ care-,” He gripes between frantic kisses, “Cut-, Cut it off.. or I’m not taking it off, fuck.”
“Jesus,” You sigh, tilting your head sideways slightly to give him more access, “Fine.”
Using one hand, you lift the fabric of his shirt, bunching a handful, using your knife-bearing hand and piercing the tip of one of the knife blades into the raised fabric, as far away from his skin as you could manage.
The rest was easy once you’d made the first incision - after, you used your bare hands to make the gape larger, until there was little shirt at all - only his biceps were covered by the remains of the material, chest and abdomen on full display to you.
You almost impaled him with your hastiness during this, having forgotten you were attempting to rip open cotton while rearing an unsheathed knife - he didn’t flinch once, though.
The shrill, tearing sound of fabric fibres being savagely torn apart and the lewd sounds of Hollis working on your neck and back up to your lips made you dizzy.
So much was happening, so quick.
Imagine if you’d never accidentally opened that drawer.
And suddenly, you were grateful that you’d fucked up your kneecap.
Guess you can add knifeplay to the developing list of kinks.
Beneath the now tattered shirt that fell to his sides, his bare torso was utterly exposed - heaving chest, straining, jumping muscle beneath you.
You revised your now-lazy grip on the switchblade, tightening it in your grasp - before lifting it to settle between his collarbones, and proceeding to drag it down.
Across his sternum, navel, and abdomen - precise, localised pressure and the serrated coolness of the blade as you traced every ridge and valley of his skin where it rippled and dipped that made Hollis’ kisses grow fragmented and sloppier.
You lowered and lowered until you had the handle of the knife tucked beneath the waistband of his boxers - finally freeing your bearing-hand to cup the side of his face and kiss him properly.
Hollis mewled into your mouth at this, followed by another buck of his hips - belt buckle grazing your groin - his own wandering hands trying to peel off your own shirt.
You withdrew, breaking off the kiss once you were satisfied, and you’d began to taste the faint, metallic twinge of blood - Hollis loved to nip at you, entrap your bottom lip and snag at it playfully like some animal during makeout sessions - with your consent, of course.
You were equally as into it.
Makeout sessions with Hollis were always fun, and very, very hot.
Distracted removing your own shirt, Hollis retrieves the switchblade from beneath his waistband - and, with your back momentarily turned while you blindly wrestled the fitted fabric from over your head, he twists it in his palm, attempting to catch his breath.
Now half-naked and resuming your position over his lap, you notice the switchblade you’d left behind was nowhere to be seen.
You figured that during the scuffle it’d fallen and you hadn’t heard; which made sense - your ears were lightly ringing and you and Hollis were almost seeing stars already, so it was a plausible explanation.
Reigniting the kiss and now focusing on getting Hollis’ jeans off next, you forget all about the object that had gotten you here.
During attempting to undo his jeans zipper, you hear Hollis’ desperate gasps and badly-regulated breaths.
- And a high-pitched metallic swishing sound as if it were splitting air like a hot knife to butter.
Confused, you lift your head, temporarily abandoning your mission to locate the source of the sound.
Hollis, with a boyish smile across his face as he watches you pathetically struggle to remove his jeans before him, has one hand on the back of your head, fingertips grazing your scalp.
The other, playing with the switchblade you were just using on him moments before.
It was here where you thought about him using it on you. And judging by the strangled grunt that left your lips and the pooling saliva beneath your tongue at the thought, you weren’t opposed to it.
“So pretty, baby,” Hollis purrs, fingers leaving your scalp, migrating to caress the side of your neck, and then hook beneath your chin, lifting it to meet his face - all while weaving the blade between his fingers like it were string.
Hollis was tender like that; beyond the brooding and stoic exterior that at first, intimidated you - is a man who is huge on soft full-body worship, whose love language appears to be gentle praise.
Ironic that he, velvet of tongue and gentle of nature, would be into such kinks of nature as this.
“Thank you, for helping me learn more about myself..”
He whispers now, followed by an almost drunken-sounding, husky laugh - as if he himself can’t believe what’s gone down, and what is to go down.
He always so thankful for you - peppered words of gratitude that made your soul swell.
If he wasn’t manhandling a switchblade so near to your face, you would’ve been all over him for real by now.
He lifts a thumb to press at your bottom lip, tip of it grazing your teeth as he pulls downwards lightly, exposing your lower teeth.
Using his hold on your chin, he tilts your face to the dancing blades - one whipping, silvery blur of centrifugal force and skin-splitting momentum that can only be achieved through years of practice and recklessness.
Trace the scars; swipe the tip of his thumb with your tongue.
He tilts your face millimetre by millimetre closer to the buzz of blades, eyes dopey, trained on you, making this look like the easiest thing in the world - fingers working in immaculate, repetitive circular motions to keep them spinning.
He coos, removing his hand from your chin to your hair, sweeping away any strands that genuinely came into range of the switchblades to avoid it potentially getting seared off.
Do you trust a beautiful stranger you’ve only been seeing for a couple of weeks, who collects knives, and gets off on them?
“Yes.” You breathe out, eyes fluttering, side of your face fanned by the cool air the blades were splitting and wafting towards you.
Suddenly; a tiny, sharp sensation on your upper cheekbone - following dampness, and then a familiar mechanical click that your body was beginning to interpret as the equivalent of an electrical current, nerves alight.
The blade had nicked you, but barely.
Judging by the pain, the small wet sensation that had began to accumulate there and Hollis’ reaction, it was intentional, but not to cause you any proper pain.
He knew what he was doing - by his hands, clearly.
You exhaled, body shuddering as you watched him lower the knife - thumb pressing over your minuscule cut, probably about a centimetre long, but it was bleeding - given by what felt like a tear rolling down your cheek, but you weren’t crying.
“M’sorry..” he whispered, but his actions betrayed his words; the way he raised his lips to the wound, licking at it between tender kisses, “Got carried away..”
Now it was your turn to usher him onwards.
“I don’t care, Hollis.” You dismiss it, breathless yourself, but an undeniable certainty in your tone - you caught his cheek in your palm, nail scraping across ivory skin, “Take off your jeans, please.”
Hollis hums, before abiding - finishing what you’d started and pulling down his jeans enough to the point where you had enough access, but he didn’t need to remove you off his lap and stand up to take them off fully.
Fingers hooking beneath the waistband of his Calvin boxers, you pout at him.
“Don’t make me cut these, please. I like them.”
Hollis, tickled by your genuine appreciation towards his underwear, laughs at you - muscles contracting beneath your stabilising hands.
He kisses the area between your eyebrow and eyelid, mumbling an “Okay.”
He attempts to wipe away the small residue of blood at the cite of your switchblade encounter that you’d already forgotten about, but you swat his hand away.
At the same time, you press a palm to the front of his boxers, to which his guilty expression is immediately overruled by the pinched look of unbridled pleasure, and Hollis tilting his head back.
By this point, the initial shock had far been snuffed out by your own selfish desires - and seriously, you were fully into whatever the fuck this was now.
It was working for you and it was working for him - and to you, regardless of what other components were involved, that’s all that mattered.
This seemed to be a learning curve for you both that you were intimately and actively navigating, so why not test the waters even further?
While pressing Hollis through his boxers, in his moment of weakness, you reach for the switchblade back out of his unfurled palms splayed across the bare expanse of your back.
Acquiring it while Hollis is mumbling silken pet names and pleads into your chest, you click the blades back out.
Hollis, quite literally ready for anything thrown his direction, had already realised you were planing something - ears burning, piqued like a fucking dog.
You sweetly smile to him, waving the blades mockingly in front of his face, to which he smiles right back at you between the dangling blades. The back of your neck heats up.
You still; switchblades swaying slightly in your hold, barrier between your faces from meeting - and you press a cool, biting metal blade to his lips, metal scraping gently over his teeth.
Watching intently at what he does in response to your sharp, metallic shushing - his tongue appears, pressing into the serrated edge of the knife like it were a prop.
An aroused, faint gasp elicits from you - watching his tongue trace every rivet in the blade, to which you give in, finally; slipping your free hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.
Hollis lifts his hand from your back to the base of your neck, suggestively easing you into an open-mouthed kiss, including the blade as a divider - an obstacle.
Your eyes widen, your noses almost bumping when he pauses; giving you an intermission to think this though in case this was where you drew the line.
He watched you, hazy and half-lidded as you mulled everything over - while still licking around the blade that you still had pressed against his lips humming contently.
You’d initiated this part, why not go all in? Worst case, hopefully, you get a split lip.
You’d endured it once when you fell off your bike when you were ten and practically ate concrete.
I guess you could do it again.
You shake your head in exasperation before committing; pressing your own tongue against his as you chase his lips, both of you working around the blade, metal warming between you - satisfyingly smooth against you, but making you shudder when your teeth scraped against it.
After doing this for a few more seconds - forgetting you were in control of the blades - you tilt the knife so that it lowered from his tongue and over his lips, settling diagonally over his bottom lip.
Hollis, squinting up at you as you handle him beneath his boxers - so very obviously trying his hardest not to go into some sort of fucked-out disassociation when he’s reaching his orgasm - bites out a laugh, head lolling sideways limply, milky skin tenderising with sweat.
You whisper, twisting your hand in every direction possible, seeing which angles make him flinch and twitch - which make him sob out your name, and which make him gargle blasphemy.
He drawls, biting down onto the blade - seraphim canines piercing impenetrable material, instead reflecting them on its mirrored surface.
He continues rutting into your hand, and you notice that each time you apply pressure to the blade into his lip, he actually fucking moans.
Not some shy, strained pitiful whimper. Your stomach constricts.
How desperately you wanted to make him bleed how he did you - pluck a feather from the angel, clip a fragment of a wing for some sentimental keepsake that’ll help you get off at night.
Saw ever so gently into the tender tissue of his lip, but it almost felt blasphemous; vandalising such a face.
As much as you knew he’d love it if you did, you couldn’t bring yourself to.
Maybe next time, you huffed to yourself.
His dampening platinum hair darkened to a pewter shade, spectral strands sticking to the sides of his face.
Gold cross pendant on a thin chain - that you’d never noticed before - how very unobservant of you - thrummed lightly against his chest with each stroke, flesh almost pearlescent with sweat beneath the lowlight, like lacquered marble.
On the teetering edge of orgasm, it was like he regained consciousness for a second - sparkling, syrupy eyes searching you as his hands caressed the sides of your face.
He spoke against the blade, tongue occasionally deliberately swiping across it.
“Wait, let-, let me,” He croons, two fingers already beneath your own waistband before you interrupt him.
“No, no - fuck, don’t-,” You rasp, back arching into him, already agonisingly sensitive, “If you touch me, on top of everything else I’m gonna-, gonna cum in my fucking-,”
Hollis half-sighs half-laughs, before nodding and removing his fingers, instead settling for fondling your chest -
- Which wasn’t as overstimulating as the direct touch to your groin, but still made static circulate like relentless white noise through your brain, backs of your knees going fuzzy.
You could tell Hollis desperately wanted to reciprocate; to make sure you guys were up to speed - but you’d debilitated him by endeavouring this newfound kink with him to the point where he was babbling utter fucking nonsense against your chest.
Now feverishly bucking into your palm, biting down on the blade complacent on his bottom lip whenever he thought he was going to be too loud - he didn’t think anyone was home.
He sobs, pretty crystalline pearls of tears prickle at his waterline, some salty rivulets trickling out of the inner corner of his eyes, beading over his bridge, off the tip of his nose, and landing on the blade.
Instinctively, you lean forward, swiping the caught tears from the surface off a blade as if it were a line of fucking coke; and you were a junkie.
Hollis was seconds away from finishing; and you wanted to swallow him whole, practically.
And since he was far to overstimulated and sensitive for you to swallow his load, you settled for commemorating his final, obscene sound in a febrile kiss - finally lowering the blade and freeing his bottom lip for your own consumption.
“Baby, I-,” He mewled amidst your vulgar exchange, to which you cut him off, consuming his words until they were reduced to low vibrations that died in his throat.
As he rode his orgasm, you rode through yours - pressing the tip of the knife into his lower abdomen - and you quite literally felt his fucking dick jump, followed by more tears -
- And then a growing wet patch in the front of his boxers, a stickying hand that you so desperately wanted to lick clean, but you were already tiring; so you wiped it on your pants instead.
Hollis broke the kiss, an indecent sound of mouths detaching - practically gasping for air, he wiped at his eyes gingerly.
“Shit,” He stutters, “I’ve-, I’ve never cried like that before,” Flustered, he bows, head adhering into your chest as his parting platinum veil hides his face.
You rake a hand through his hair, placing a kiss on his hairline.
“Over knives.” You say aloud, utterly astounded - you and Hollis had both reached a conclusion; except it was more horrifying for you, and more gratifying for him.
You’d still do it all again, though.
“- Knives. Yeah.” Hollis repeats, nodding as if he were finally taking it all in - a full circle moment.
He began nipping tiredly at your collarbone to keep you from slackening onto of him out of exhaustion.
Hollis, without you noticing, somehow - feels around blindly for the knife that you’d dropped in your lap mid-orgasm that thankfully didn’t impale you - clicks it shut, and tucks it into your back-pocket pretending he was slotting his hand there.
- Maybe his useless talents weren’t so useless anymore.
Who knew Minecraft was a gateway to knife-play?
Now you’ve got the most amusing butterfly effect to last you a lifetime of lore drops, and a new riveting activity to share with your pretty little past time.
That evening when you arrive home, you slump onto your bed - there’s going to be plenty of ceiling staring tonight.
Processing. In a good way, because this interaction has given you enough masturbation motivation until you see him again.
You go to pull off your trousers when something clatters out of the back pocket.
Confused, you bend over - picking up the item.
Now less polished and perfect, though - when you clicked open the blade for the last time that night, your thighs automatically clenching in response to the sound like you were fucking clicker-trained,
The blades were now scuffed and smeared with lip prints, tears, saliva - everything. Small scratches from scraping teeth.
This one unsuspecting hunting knife.
You thought about using it on yourself later and sending Hollis the live documentation.
After a shower, a takeaway and some self-reflection, you did - making sure to use the unclean knife to trace the small cut on your upper cheekbone, Captioning it;
NOT EDITED YET. ignore any spelling mistakes.
YAAAAY. Past is finally here to feed you all. I’m sorry for the neglect.
This was suggested to me by one of my readers (u know who you are, appreciate u angel) and I just HAD to act on it as my comeback piece before I update Prophet.
This is for all my knife-play appreciators out there. Because me too.
Anyway, this took me like 5 hours to write so please show it some luv if u like it! And don’t complain about the lack of detailed smut. I don’t like doing it. This is my extent .. hope it works. lol.
Anyway it’s 3:30 AM im gonna sleep ily guys thank u for ur patience!
