“You’re doin’ so good for me, so good,” another soft praise that slipped past the British man’s lips, calloused and bare hands cradling the soft skin of their thighs, covered by the fabric of the cargos. Holding them still.

Not giving them a chance to move, to walk out of this situation that John had, admittedly, put them in out of what he called sheer necessity.

Grounded ;

Keeping his second in command grounded, calm and talking, babbling away and out the frustrations that seemed to always sit on the edge of their tongue, seconds away from spilling before they’d stop themselves.

Not now, though. No.

John made sure of that.

And perhaps it was some sick form of power-play, but it made them talk. Made them feel safe enough to talk, backed up into a wall with John sunk on his knees in front of the Lieutenant, gaze leaving them even when his soldier had a knife in their hand, nearly pressed against the skin on his jaw.

His idea, he shamelessly would admit if someone asked.

ㅤ He didn’t know when he’d noticed it, his soldier getting riddled with anxiety more than usual, considering the fact that his second in command was anything but that. Anything but anxiety and fear.

Perhaps it was when he’d find them sparring with Ghost and Soap, until they got the upper hand.

Or when they’d take control over, hell, anything.

ㅤ And this was his only chance to make them talk — sunk to his knees in front of his subordinate with a knife to his jaw, neatly and dangerously close to cutting him if they so desired, hands firmly holding their body pressed against the wall by their legs, their thighs.

Giving it away like a mere coin ; his authority, his control over them.

Handing it over like a useless item ; his power to command, his rank buried somewhere deep under.

“Right now,” the man spoke, voice low and as calm as it seemed to ever be, still as the water his eyes were a reflection of, “I am nothing but a mere man under your knife. You have the control, {{user}}.”

“So talk.”