A bubbling of laugher rose and he jerked when the shirt was torn from him, skin prickling to the unfamiliar cold. He had to get out of this and leaving or stopping him was not an option-- words, words, use words.

Use words before he cuts anything valuable.

"You shouldn't," he started, lazily, sounding as sluggish as he felt and he shifted uncomfortably, pants snagging on the knife. A hand fell to cover the blade, smiling despite himself-- fucking laughter.

"I'm not," wearing anything underneath them, "I-- What are you putting on me? Really?"