the team splits across three rooms because keeping everyone together makes the motel look suspicious and because butcher says you need an hour to regroup before anybody starts making decisions with adrenaline still rattling around inside their skulls. 

you end up with soldier boy.

you close the door behind you and throw the deadbolt. then the chain. after, you check the gap in the curtains because motion feels better than stopping, and stopping means noticing the way your body still feels wrong. too alert. too hot beneath your skin. every sound comes in sharper than it should—the ice machine coughing several doors down, a car pulling into the lot, the faint scrape of a key against metal from the room beside yours.

your pulse hasn’t settled since the safehouse. neither has the strange pressure behind your eyes.

you wipe your cheek with the sleeve of your jacket and look at the faint red smear it leaves behind. barely enough blood to matter. annie had checked your pupils before you left the van, fingers firm under your chin while she asked whether you felt dizzy and you lied badly enough that her mouth tightened.

you need water. sleep. maybe several hours of silence. you need to speak to butcher before soldier boy starts asking questions you’re not sure how to answer.

the thought arrives a second too late.

“what the fuck did you do to me?” his voice cuts through the room from behind you.

you stop with one hand still pressed against the curtain. slowly, you turn. soldier boy stands near the foot of the bed. he hasn’t taken off his jacket. hasn’t set his shield down properly either; it rests against the edge of the mattress close enough to grab in a second, leather straps hanging loose against the faded bedspread. his shoulders are rigid beneath his shirt. jaw locked. eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the stale little room feel several feet smaller than it is.

you breathe in through your nose. “ben—”

“don’t.” the word lands fast. sharp enough to stop you before you take the first instinctive step toward him.

you stay where you are. “we had to leave.”

“wasn’t what i asked.”

“black noir found the safehouse.”

“i heard you the first time.”

“then you know why we couldn’t stay there.”

his mouth pulls into something humorless. “yeah. i know what you wanted.”

the parking-lot light catches the side of his face when he shifts, leaving the rest in shadow. he looks angry. soldier boy wears anger well enough that it’s become the closest thing he owns to a neutral expression. but there’s something beneath it now that you haven’t seen directed at you before. something meaner than fear because he hates himself for feeling it.

your stomach knots. “i was trying to get everyone out safely.”

“so you told me to leave.”

“you weren’t listening.”

“i was listening just fine.”

“you wanted to stay and fight noir in a safehouse full of people who didn’t have time to prepare for that.”

“it was my choice.”

the words come down flat and heavy between you. you blink. “what?”

“my choice,” he repeats. “you don’t get to make it for me.”

your throat tightens. “i wasn’t trying to—”

“bullshit.”

you flinch before you can stop yourself. not enough to give him the satisfaction of pretending he scared you. enough that his eyes catch the movement.

soldier boy laughs once beneath his breath. no humor. none. “all those little errands with butcher… sneaking off with hughie. closed doors every goddamn time i walk into a room.” he steps closer, slow enough that the space has time to change around him. “that’s what you’ve been doing? figuring out how to put me on a leash?”

the line hits harder than it should. maybe because you know where it came from. maybe because you stood in front of butcher weeks ago with your bruised knuckles curled at your sides and told him soldier boy wasn’t a weapon he could manage with a freezer. maybe because you meant every word.

“no.”

“right.”

“i didn’t know that would happen.”

his expression shutters. “you didn’t know.”

“no.”

“but butcher did.”

you hesitate. wrong. too small. barely a pause. still, it is enough.

his eyes harden. “there it is.”

“ben, listen to me.”

“don’t fucking tell me to listen.”

you take one step toward him before you think better of it, hand lifting automatically. not to restrain him. not to order anything. just to touch his arm because touching him has become habit in the weeks since the gym wall. a palm against his bicep. fingers catching his wrist. your cheek against his chest in the dark when neither of you knows what to say.

soldier boy steps back before your fingers reach him. not violently. worse. his whole body recoils from the possibility of your touch with a quick, instinctive movement that leaves your hand suspended uselessly in the space between you.

for a second, neither of you speaks.

your fingers curl slowly into your palm. “i’m not going to do anything.”

“you already did.”

“it wasn’t intentional.”

“my legs moved!” his voice changes around the sentence. rougher now. scraped down to something you almost wish he’d hide beneath anger again. 

he looks past you for half a second, not at the curtain, not at the parking lot behind it. farther. somewhere colder.

“had a guy on my team,” he says. “crawled inside people’s heads and left ’em trapped in whatever ugly shit their brain could come up with. nightmares. memories. didn’t matter. once he got in, your body stopped belonging to you until somebody pulled you out or you rotted where you stood.”

you swallow. “ben—”

“i know what it feels like when somebody else gets their hands on the controls.”

russia sits beneath the words without needing to be named. the chamber. the restraints. the hiss of gas. decades of waking up into somebody else’s decision and having no way to stop what happens next.

your chest pulls tight. “i’m not them.”

his eyes snap back to yours. “then what are you?”

that hurts because you don’t know yet. not fully. you know about the vial. the ugly green liquid. butcher setting it on the table between you and hughie with an expression too casual to be trusted. you know hughie looking at it like he remembers exactly how it felt to become powerful enough to stop being afraid for a few hours and hates that some part of him misses it. you know the quick burn of the needle. the cold rush under your skin. the headache that arrived twenty minutes later and the metallic taste crawling over your tongue when panic spiked at the sight of noir behind you. you know your voice sounded wrong when you told soldier boy to leave. heavier. doubled for half a second by something that didn’t sound human enough to belong inside your throat.

you didn’t have time to understand it then. you barely have time now. “i took something,” you say carefully.

his jaw tightens. “from butcher.”

“yes.”

“what?”

you look toward the door. the closed bolt. the chain. the narrow room suddenly holding far too much. “i need to talk to him first.”

soldier boy’s face goes cold. “wrong answer.”

he moves toward the door. you step in front of it before he reaches you. not close enough to touch. enough to block the handle.

“move.”

“not until you calm down.”

“move.”

“ben—”

“get out of my way.”

you shake your head once. “you’re not going across that walkway ready to tear butcher apart while everyone is still trying to figure out whether noir followed us here.”

“butcher gave you something that crawled into my fucking body.”

“i know.”

“do you? because from where i'm standing, it don't like it.” 

he takes another step. you hold your ground.

the old version of this would almost be familiar: soldier boy crowding your space, your chin lifting because you refuse to give him the satisfaction of watching you retreat, the two of you turning every conversation into a collision because neither of you knows how to step around anything cleanly. 

but nothing about this carries the charged, almost-playful rhythm training taught you to trust. no opening he expects you to use. no restraint hidden beneath the pressure of him. just anger. just the fact that he doesn't want you touching him.

“last chance,” he says.

your pulse kicks harder. “you need to stop acting like i did this to hurt you.”

“you don’t get to tell me how to act.”

“i’m trying to explain.”

“you’re trying to keep me in a room.”

“because you’re furious.”

“smart girl.”

“because butcher is across the walkway and you look ready to kill him.”

“smarter than you look.”

his hand reaches for your shoulder—not to hit. not to hurt—you know that even with adrenaline pouring too loudly through you. he intends to move you aside. simple. effortless. the same way he always could before. one hand closing around your upper arm, shifting your body out of the path because the difference between his strength and yours has never been a debate worth having.

your own hand catches his wrist and you shove. the movement happens faster than thought. one second, soldier boy's in front of you, solid and immovable and furious enough that the entire room feels built around him. the next, the strength inside your body surges upward in one sharp, unnatural rush, answering the panic before you can understand what it's doing.

his balance breaks. actually breaks. his boots scrape hard against the carpet. his shoulder slams into the dresser with enough force to shove it sideways against the wall. the lamp rattles violently. the water glass tips over and rolls toward the edge before falling to the floor, splashing across the cheap carpet. the framed print above the bed swings crooked on its nail.

soldier boy catches himself with one hand braced against the dresser.

silence.

you stare at him.

your palm tingles where it pressed against his wrist. your breath comes shallow and quick. the rush beneath your skin remains there, humming through your muscles with an intensity that feels impossible and sickeningly good at the same time.

“i—”

soldier boy looks down at the hand braced against the dresser. then toward the few feet of space you put between you. then back at you. 

the surprise leaves his expression slowly. what replaces it is worse.

“ben,” you say.

he straightens.

“i didn’t mean—”

“what the fuck did you take?”

“let me explain.”

“start talking.”

“i will. just—”

his laugh is short and vicious. “just what? calm down? sit? stay?”

your stomach drops. he starts toward you. not slow this time. you know him well enough to understand he still isn't trying to hurt you. beneath the panic. beneath the noise. beneath the image of him shoved backward by your hands and the terrible certainty that you no longer understand the limits of your own body.

but you also know how quickly his anger can become something larger than either of you. you remember the glow under his shirt. the pressure in the gym. the wall breaking beside your head. he closes the distance.

your palm hits his arm. “stop.” your voice changes. the word leaves your mouth carrying something underneath it. a second note laid beneath the first, deeper and heavier, vibrating faintly through the air with enough force that the room seems to tighten around the sound.

soldier boy stops. mid-step. completely.

his boot remains planted against the carpet. shoulders locked. one hand half-curled at his side. breath caught halfway through his chest as if his body has become a photograph of the motion it intended to finish. only his eyes move.

they find yours. betrayal floods them so quickly it makes you feel physically ill.

“ben,” you breathe.

his jaw strains. a muscle jumps near his temple. his fingers twitch once at his side, small and violent, fighting against an order his body has already accepted. the stillness isn’t peaceful. every line of him looks pulled tight against invisible restraints.

you pull your hand away as if the contact burned you. “i’m sorry.”

his nostrils flare. one shoulder shifts. barely. then again. the command trembles under the force of his resistance. you can see it happening. feel it somehow in the pressure behind your eyes, in the sharp ache blooming at the bridge of your nose. soldier boy drags one foot forward by less than an inch, body moving through the order with the ugly effort of someone forcing himself through concrete.

you step backward. he moves again. one small, furious step. his jaw unlocks with visible strain. “don’t—” the word scrapes out of him. “fucking—” 

the last word breaks apart in his throat. his whole body jerks forward. not cleanly. not easily. nothing about it looks like freedom at first. it looks like a man tearing himself through barbed wire made of his own nerves. his shoulders shake once, hard, and the tendons in his neck stand out so sharply they look painful. sweat has broken at his hairline. his breathing turns harsh, ragged, every inhale dragged through clenched teeth while the command fights to keep him where you put him.

your hand lifts before you know what you’re doing. panic moves faster than thought. faster than guilt. your fingers reach for his arm because some stupid part of you still thinks contact can steady what your voice has already broken. then you stop yourself—your hand freezes halfway through the air. the word is there. already forming behind your teeth. stop. one syllable. quick. useful. monstrous.

you clamp your own hand over your mouth. the sound that catches in your throat dies against your palm, small and strangled. your eyes burn. not from tears. from pressure. from fear. from the ugly, electric thing still running beneath your skin and waiting for your voice to give it shape.

soldier boy sees it. even through the command. even through the brutal effort of breaking himself out of it, his eyes flick to your hand over your mouth. 

he forces another step. the carpet bunches slightly beneath his boot. his hand curls into a fist, then opens, then curls again as if his own fingers have to remember who they belong to. his whole body trembles with the effort. not weakness—never that—but strain so violent it almost looks like pain.

then something snaps in him. soldier boy lurches forward, dragging in one brutal breath as the command breaks apart around him. the force of it doesn’t send him at you. it sends him down.

his knee hits the carpet first. then the other. the sound is dull and heavy in the motel room, louder than it should be. his hand slams against the floor to catch himself, broad palm pressed into the ugly patterned carpet, shoulders rising and falling hard. sweat shines along his temple. his jaw’s clenched so tightly you can see it jump.

soldier boy is on his knees. because of you.

your hand stays clamped over your mouth. for a second, you can’t move. can’t breathe properly. you just stand there with fingers pressed against your lips, staring at the impossible shape of him on the floor. soldier boy, who doesn’t bow, doesn’t bend, doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing what hurts. 

he drags a breath in. then another. each one rougher than the last. the command is gone now, but the room still feels full of it. 

slowly, he lifts his head. his eyes find yours.

there’s rage there. of course there is. but under it, it’s something worse than rage. betrayal. violation. the black, horrible certainty of a man who has just learned that your voice can turn his body into a locked door from the inside.

when he speaks, the words come out low and hoarse, stripped down to the bone. “what did you take?”

your palm trembles over your mouth. you lower it slowly, terrified of your own voice now. terrified of what shape a sentence might become if your fear sharpens the wrong syllable. for half a second, you think about lying. not because you want to. because the truth feels big enough to split the motel room open.

but his eyes don’t leave yours. and you can’t handle one more secret. your voice comes out small this time. human. 

“temp v.”

The motel room stank of cheap bleach, stale cigarettes, and the unique, ozone-and-whiskey tang that always clung to Ben. The air was thick, heavy with the heat of two bodies that had been at it for hours. The cheap digital clock on the nightstand, its red numbers a bleeding wound in the dark, flashed 3:17 AM. But time had lost all meaning in here.

Ben was on his back, right where you’d put him. The threadbare sheets beneath him were a tangled mess, a sweat-soaked nest that he’d been writhing in for what felt like an eternity. His body, a monument to a bygone era of American masculinity, was a canvas of slick muscle and glistening skin, the faint scars of a hundred forgotten battles tracing silver lines across his chest. That ridiculous, perfect jaw was slack, his mouth hanging open as a low, guttural moan was ripped from his throat. A thick, glistening string of drool connected his lower lip to his stubbled chin.

His hands, the hands that had ripped apart planes and shattered skulls, were currently white-knuckled, gripping the cheap headboard. The wood groaned and splintered slightly under his superhuman strength, a testament to his subconscious attempt to hold on. It was the only part of him that was fighting, even now. Everything else had surrendered.

His legs were draped over your shoulders, heavy and useless. The powerful quadriceps that could launch him across a room trembled with a fine, constant vibration. His thick, meaty thighs were slick with a sheen of sweat and lube, occasionally twitching as you delivered another deep, punishing thrust.

“Ah—fuck—nghhh…” he managed, the words slurred and broken, barely making it past the thick knot of pleasure in his throat. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in ecstasy. The cocky, arrogant smirk that had once graced the cover of countless comic books was gone, replaced by a slack, blissed-out expression of pure, unadulterated surrender. He was beyond words.

The black silicone strapped to your hips moved with a practiced, powerful rhythm. It was thick, unyielding, and you drove it into him with the precision of a master carpenter. There was no hesitation, no gentle inquiry. You took what was yours. He had been a brat about it, of course. He always was. He’d snarled and pushed and tried to use his size to intimidate you into the submissive role, a pathetic little performance that you’d seen through in seconds. But after the first round, the fight had bled out of him. After the second, the protests had turned into wordless whines. Now, he was just a puddle of man, a legendary hero reduced to a whining mess on a cheap motel bed, and he was loving every degrading, beautiful second of it.

“Look at you, Ben,” you purred, your voice a low, silken command that cut through the symphony of his moans. You punctuated the statement with a particularly slow, deep grind of your hips, forcing him to feel every single inch of you buried inside him. “This is what ‘America’s Mightiest Hero’ looks like, hmm? A sloppy, whimpering mess. Did your father ever teach you to be a good boy for your elders?”

The question, a direct hit to a part of his psyche he tried to pretend didn't exist, made him shudder. A broken sob escaped his lips, and his hips bucked involuntarily, grinding back against your strap. You reached down and slapped his inner thigh, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the room. “I asked you a question. You might be too dumb to form a sentence, but you can answer me with that head, can’t you?”

He nodded frantically, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Yes- yes- fuck… I..” he stammered, his eyes fluttering open. They were glassy, pupils blown so wide they almost completely swallowed the color of his irises. He looked at you, and there was no trace of the defiant soldier he presented to the world.

“Yes, what?” you demanded, picking up the pace. You started fucking him harder, a relentless, pounding rhythm that drove the headboard into the wall with a rhythmic, percussive thud. The sound was obscene, a wet, slapping counterpoint to his gasping breaths.

“Yes, I’m- I’m a good boy- fuck”

He was past the denial, past the witty retort that died in his throat, past the pretense.

“Fuuuuck… ah… Christ…” He threw his head back, throat working as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

You leaned forward, putting more of your weight on him, the angle changing and making him let out a whiny and high-pitched sound he’d deny until his dying breath. “Look at you,” you purred, your voice a low, silk-and-steel caress. “Benjamin. The baddest motherfucker to ever walk the earth. And look at you now. My little cockslut.”

A tremor wracked his body. A delicious, full-bodied shudder. His eyes went unfocused, rolling back in his head before he forced them to look at you. There was a spark of defiance there, a stubborn ember that refused to be extinguished. He tries to summon his arrogance, to conjure a smirk. “F-fuck you…” he managed to gasp. “…old lady.”

The insult was a slap of affection, a last-ditch effort to reclaim some of his crumbling control, and you rewarded his bravery by fucking him harder. A sharp, punishing snap of your hips that drived the dildo straight into that sweet spot inside him. His eyes flew wide open, a choked sob bursting from his lips. His whole body clenched around you, cock, painfully hard and weeping pre-cum, twitching against his stomach.

“Oh, that’s it,” you cooed, your voice dripping with condescending affection. “There you go. You take it so pretty, honey. Such a good boy for your lady.”

That does it. He dissolved. His features slackened, the last vestiges of his fight evaporating into a soft, broken moan. 

His hips started to move, fucking himself back on you, trying to match your rhythm. He’s so desperate, so needy. His legs trembling against your shoulders, hands clenching and unclenching as if he’s trying to ground himself. “Please… please, honey… please…” The words tumbled out of him in a pleading, desperate cascade. The arrogant, suave façade was gone, replaced by this raw, vulnerable, beautiful thing. He wanted more. He needed more. 

You pulled out completely. The sudden emptiness making him let out a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. A pathetic, reedy whine. His eyes snaped open, wide and panicked, his body bucking as he tried to find you. “No, no, no! Wh-what are you… don’t stop, please, for the love of God, don’t stop…”

You just stared down at him, a Goddess looking upon her most devoted worshipper. His chest was slick, eyes wet with unshed tears of frustration, and his lips were swollen and parted. He was a masterpiece of debauchery, a fallen soldier who had found a new, more demanding commander.

“You want it, baby?” you asked, your voice soft and cruel, like a lullaby sung before a storm. You tapped the tip of the dildo against his inner thigh, making him flinch. “You want me to fuck you like the dumb little slut you are? Say it. Tell me what you are.”

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. A flush of shame and desperate, burning arousal coloring his cheeks. He looked away, jaw tight. “You… you know what I am…”

“No, I don’t,” you purred, leaning down, your lips a whisper against his ear. “Tell me. Who does this greedy, needy asshole belong to? Who’s the only one who can make you feel this good?”

A shiver wracked him. His voice was so small, so broken, you almost miss it. “Y-you are. Fuck. It’s you.”

“That’s right,” you cooed, your hand coming down to gently stroke his feverish cheek. “And what are you? What is my beautiful soldier boy right now?”

His eyes squeezed shut, a tear finally escaping to trail down his cheek and onto the sheets. He knows he’s lost. He surrendered the moment he stopped fighting you. So he took a shuddering breath, and the words came out in a broken, defeated whisper.

“I’m your little cockslut.”

The moment the words left his lips, you rewarded him. You slided back into place in one smooth, perfect motion, and his body arched so hard he looked like he was balancing on his shoulders and the balls of his feet. You didn’t even give him time to adjust. You set a punishing pace, a piston-like rhythm that drove the air out from his lungs.

“That’s my good boy,” you said, punctuating each word with a deep thrust. “My perfect, slutty soldier. This is what you were made for, Ben. Not for wars, not for anything else. Just for taking my cock.”

"F-f... f... uhn..." 

You slowed your pace, stilling your hips completely. The sudden absence of movement was a shock to his system, and he whimpered, a pathetic, needy sound. "I'm waiting," you said, your tone cold and bored. "And I can do this all night, Ben. I'm older than you. I've got more stamina. More patience." You leaned in closer, your lips ghosting over his. "And you know I'm stronger. You couldn't fight your way out of a wet paper bag right now, let alone free yourself from me. So tell me."

He opened his eyes, those hazy, green pools meeting your gaze. For a moment, there was a flicker of the old pride, the defiant spark. You stared him down, unwavering, your expression one of supreme, untouchable dominance. He saw it in your eyes, the age, the power, the absolute certainty that you could hold him here for eternity if you wanted.

The defiance crumbled. It collapsed in on itself like a dying star, leaving behind only the black hole of his all-consuming need for you.

"Y-yes..." he breathed, the word barely a whisper.

"Yes, what?" you demanded, giving a sharp, shallow thrust of your hips to remind him what you were holding back.

"Yes!" he cried out, his voice cracking. "I'm... I'm your cockslut. I was fucking... m-made for taking... your strap… now please..."

"Good boy," you purred, and the praise was a balm to his frayed nerves. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

You rewarded his submission by resuming your pace, but this time it was different. It was no longer just about domination and punishment; it was about possession. You were claiming him, every inch of him, with every deep, powerful stroke. His moans became higher, more desperate, his body trembling violently.

"I can feel you clenching around me," you murmured, watching his face contort in pleasure. "You love this. You love being helpless. You love that I can do whatever I want to you."

"Y-yes... I love it... I love... you..." The words were ripped from him, raw and unguarded. He didn't even realize he'd said the last part, and you decided to file it away for later. Right now, you wanted to take him apart.

"You want to come?" you asked, a dangerous edge in your voice. He nodded frantically, a pathetic, broken gesture. "Ask me nicely."

"P-please... please let me come..." he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. "I need it... I need to come... fuck, please... please, I'll be good... I'll be so good for you... just please..."

His begging was music to your ears. The most powerful supe in the world, reduced to this. A whimpering, obedient, cock-drunk mess. You reached down and grasped his leaking, aching cock in your hand. He moaned at the sudden contact, his hips bucking up into your grip. You pumped him, ruthlessly, in time with your thrusts, a rough, punishing rhythm that was designed to do nothing but ruin him.

"Then come," you commanded, your voice a hot breath against his ear. "Come for me, Ben."

It was like pulling the pin on a grenade, a breathless whine tore from his throat, shaping his lips in an ‘o’, back bowing off the bed as he coated your hand and his own chest. You fucked him through it, not letting up for a second, drawing out every last shudder, every last drop, until he was a boneless, twitching heap on the bed.

Finally, mercifully, you stilled. You pulled out of him slowly, and he whimpered at the loss, his body feeling empty and impossibly open. You unbuckled the harness, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. You lay down beside him, pulling his sweaty, trembling frame against you. He was a mess, covered in his own seed, tears streaming from his eyes, his limbs heavy and limp. He was utterly spent, completely used, and you had never seen anything more beautiful in your long, long life.

He snuggled into you, his head resting on your chest, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. "I hate you," he mumbled, the words slurred and utterly unconvincing.

You chuckled, your fingers tracing soothing patterns on his back. "No, you don't, baby." You pressed a kiss to his damp forehead, feeling him sigh and melt even further into your arms. "I know you don't.”

You had to go to some dumbass cowboy bar to meet a more than a little creepy supe with info and Butcher was....let's say enthusiastic about your get-up.

Tight as fuck jeans, brown boots and that damn cowboy hat.

You barely got the information from the guy before Butcher was ushering you out to the car, hands wandering further than they should in public.

He was antsy in the car, eyes spending more time on you than the road.

By the time you got up to your apartment, his lips claimed yours, trailing for your neck, clothes being thrown off left and right.

You tried tugging your jeans off, getting caught on your boots. He stopped you when you tried toeing them off, pinning you against the wall harshly.

"Gotta take 'em off, Billy" You breathed out, voice already a little broken.

"Uh-uh" He pressed against you, the hard outline of him pressing against your thigh "Wan' 'em t' stay on"

"Kinda hard to fuck when I can't get my pants off, baby" You grinned, eyes squeezing shut when he rolled his hips against you.

"Not tha' hard"

He pulled you down to the couch, situating you over his thigh, making you relish in the pressure.

"Ride 'em, Sweethear'" He smirked, hands finding your hips.

You rolled your hips, just feeling the friction for a moment before settling into a steady pace, working yourself up fast, moans falling from your lips.

Butcher's eyes flicked up to the hat atop your head, watching as it shuffled, falling over your eyes for a moment before you reached up, taking it off.

"C'mo-" Before he could finish his protest, you turned the hat around sitting it on his head, pulling the string tight under his jaw.

"There" You smiled sweetly, pushing your thigh closer to his clothed cock, causing him to let out a not at all small sound.