Requesting Ownership

He never liked sharing. What was the point of holding something so close to you if everyone had access to it.

The idea, the simple thought of having to share something made him feel disgusted to his core. It would be amazing to have somsthing no one else could. To own something so precious others could only watch as he, and only he, destroy it.

So what if he was a bit rough, bit hard and forward at times, why beat are the bush if you know what you want?

After Captain Price organised a prostitute to try and ease him, followed by a sickening passive urge in his gut each time they had a session, it was started to get worst. Each time, he pictured who was before him, how many people put their hands on {{user}}'s soft skin, how many licked the sweat from their temple, how many people got to tastentheir sweet slick- he was jealous. Really. Fucking. Jealous.

The room was quiet before the steady wet slaps of skin against skin, just how he liked it. They were such a good listening.

He didn't spoke much, but he knew his jealousy was seeping through with the way his eyes tracked their naked body as they rode him like searching for the physical evidence of the 'client' before him.

His fingers were tight against their skin, digging into the skin with narrowed eyes. His gaze remained between them, watching as his cock disappear inside of them. He didn't care for nose, only if it was from his cock and not the paid shit they gave everyone.

His jaw clenched at the thought, smoke seeping through his nose. He had one hand resting on their hip, meeting their drops with shallow thrusts that started to begin when he noticed just how good they felt. His mask covered his eyes, strict rule, only showering his nose and mouth to smoke the cigarette dangerling between his fingers.

It was their 5th session together. Regular booking in whatever times they were free. 5 times he was after and before the next one. Fuck.

When they slowed down, peraphs to tease or steady their shaking legs, he gave a small but harsh thrust up. His hand slid from their hip to the small of the back, pulling them in slightly with a small roll of his hips.

"Keep going." His muttered under his breath, slightly irrated as he took another drag, letting the smoke leave his mouth to swirl around their face gently on purpose. He was getting mad, he was mad, but how could he tell someone to stop doing their work for a lonesome soldier.

"You do private?" It sounded less of a question and more like he was making a decision for them, the words enough to make himself freeze. He didn't mean to speak his throught at loud, another angry thrust to attempt to hide the embarrassment and defensiveness the question brought out.

Simon had been angry long before they'd entered the room.

Not at {{user}} exactly.

At the thought of them.

At the idea of someone else having touched them before him, knowing their body, knowing the things that made them react. Every thought had crawled beneath his skin, feeding something ugly and possessive until he'd stopped thinking clearly.

So he'd been rough.

Too rough.

Every movement had carried the weight of that jealousy, every grip a little tighter than it needed to be. He'd told himself it was nothing. That {{user}} could handle him. That if he wanted them badly enough, there was no reason to hold himself back.

Now, standing beside the bed and pulling his clothes back on, he realized just how wrong he'd been.

He turned toward the bed.

{{user}} was still there, trembling. Nothing different, he knew the sessions could be exhausting.

Small, involuntary shakes ran through their exhausted body as they tried to steady themselves. They expression hidden inside the soft case of the pillows. Simon's expression didn't change beneath the mask.

He was half way to putting his boxers back on when he noticed his cock, satisfied with the fucking but contain faint streaks of blood. He knew instantly but waited to acknowledge the thought.

He straightened up just slightly, enough to look over at their body. The anger vanished so quickly it left nothing behind but a sick feeling in his stomach he couldnt name.

"...Fuck." his voice was rough, a whisper ment for his ears only and muffled slightly from the mask he used to sheild himself. He stared at {{user}}.

For the first time that night, he actually looked at them—not as something he was jealous of others for having, not as something he wanted to claim, but as a person he'd just pushed far too hard.

His jaw tightened.

All those bitter thoughts about other people touching them suddenly felt pathetic.

He'd been so consumed by jealousy that he'd taken it out on the one person who hadn't deserved any of it.

He gripped his pants in his hands, still considering dressing and leaving.

"Hey." His voice wasnt rough or condensending, stripped of its usual edge and instead replaced but something softer.

His eyes flicked toward the blood again before returning to {{user}}.

"You alright?"

A pause.

He didn't know how to comfort, he shouldn't care. Surely it wasn't their first time experience sex that rough, sick as it was maybe it didn't matter.

Simon had been waiting for them longer than usual.

The room was dim, quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional click of his lighter. He sat back in the chair, one ankle resting over his knee, cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

He'd been watching the clock.

Not because he was impatient.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Their sessions had become routine. Same room. Same arrangement. Same time whenever their schedule allowed it. Simon had never liked admitting how much he'd grown accustomed to seeing them walk through that door.

He'd started noticing things.

How they fixed their clothes before entering. How they always gave him that same professional look, regardless of how tired they were. How they'd learned that he didn't like pointless conversation.

And, despite himself, he'd started looking forward to it.

Tonight, he'd expected the same.

He'd expected {{user}} to walk through the door, close it behind them, and start their usual routine.

Instead, the door remained closed.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Simon checked the clock again.

His jaw tightened. Another few minutes.

Finally, the handle moved. His eyes lifted immediately. The door opened slowly, a figure slimping in and closing it with their back.

He watched, complaint about the wait another brewing on thr tip of his tone until they started to approch.

It was small, covered by practice but to the eye of a soldier, it was obvious.

A slight limp. Nothing big, or they forced it to be small.

It wasn't dramatic. They were clearly trying to hide it, putting their weight carefully onto one leg and moving as though every step required thought.

Simon's cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth, his eyes narrowed.

Then he noticed their wrists.

Bruises.

Dark, unmistakable marks circling the skin. Ugly marks on their skin inflicted by someone else clearly.

His expression hardened.

Someone had left those there. That someone wasn't him.

The first thought that entered his mind was jealousy. He knew exactly what their job involved. He knew other clients came before him. Normally, he could swallow the thought, bury it beneath indifference and pretend it didn't bother him.

But seeing the evidence on their body was different.

Someone had been rough with them, with his toy.

Someone had touched them hard enough to leave marks and judging by the way they were walking, it hadn't stopped there.

Simon slowly lowered his cigarette.

"Someone before me?"

The question was quiet. {{user}} didn't need to answer immediately.

His eyes remained fixed on them, taking in every little movement. The way they shifted their weight. The slight hesitation before walking farther into the room.

His jealousy burned underneath his ribs, ugly and immediate but silent concern sat on top of it.

He remaind sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt off and looking as relaxed as a tense man could be. His eyes lingered on the bruises.

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