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Ghost who feels that dark cold rage start to simmer in the pit of his stomach the moment his boots are down on solid ground. The satisfaction of another enemy shot dead turning into sharp frustration when two more take their place, blood drenching through his clothes to turn the material into a second skin he can't shed, adrenaline making his heart bang against his ribs with the attempt to break free. The rage creeps up his spine like a slow death, claiming one vertebra after the other for every second he spends under a hail of bullets, driving him with a single minded focus until he's the only thing standing amongst the dead, unsure if he's still breathing with how loudly the silence rings in his ears, maggots crawling along the tunnels of his lungs.
Cold focus pulls on his strings, making sure his hands don't shake, don't grip your wrist too hard as he pulls you into some semi-protected room inside a crumbling house. He doesn't say a word, a low grunt and his deep breaths telling you everything you need to know; to follow the unspoken order — let him knock you to the ground and pin you, bend you in half with your knees to your chest until your back muscles scream and he has all the control.
You don't offer any resistance beyond a small hiss when sharp rocks dig into your back, watching his blood slicked gloves undo your pants and give your cock three short, forceful jerks with his scratchy glove to make you hard enough for him to sink down on. "Stay still." He orders, wrapping a hand around your throat, pushing up on your jaw until your mouth is all but sewed shut. He doesn't want you to make a sound, not now — not when he feels like he's seconds away from falling into the abyss he'd been peering into for so long — just wants you to stay down and be a good toy for him, let him get all of his frustrations out by riding you like he wants to kill you.
The blood he'd used as lube only keeps him from tearing himself up, it doesn't protect him from the raw pain of his unprepared hole being stretched, of his body being used in a way it wasn't intended; in the way his sick mind craves to be abused. He chases after the sensation — needs it more than air — bouncing on your dick in short but powerful bunny hops that nail your cock into his prostate like those nails hammered into his coffin. Your hips are bruised black and blue from his hips smacking into yours, a new bruise formed every time he gets you balls deep. Ghost can feel your cock twitching inside him against his irritated walls. He doesn't care when he cums too quickly across your tactical gear, nor how the pleasure steadily turns so sharp it's agonizing, his cock soft against his thigh when he still continues to ride you with the hope the pain will drive out the numb fog inside his imperceptibly decayed skull. . .
This isn't about reaching some animalistic bliss.
It's about reminding himself he's still alive. Still human.
Lieutenant Riley who is just about ready to bury this batch of recruits alive with how many mindless fuck ups they've had in the morning alone. You were little better, egging them on, laughing with them, sticking your tongue out at him when he's got his back turned as you aren't aware he sees it. By noon you decide to show him 'mercy' — only your mercy is the same as the immortal life God gifted Cain.
You tease him; bend over just enough to draw his eyes to the tightness of your pants, wandering hands groping his ass or cock under the table and only answering his silent glare with an impassive look, whispering in his ear how you want him on the captain's desk when you pass him. Fucking brat.
It's in the very short time he has between meetings that he decides he needs to remind you the chain of command. He doesn't wait to see if the coast is clear after your latest meeting where you had stroked him to hardness, pulling you from the meeting room to a dusty supply closet with a "Heel." ordered so lowly into your ear that it vibrated your marrow. He's willing to give you a kiss, balaclava raised up to his nose and hungry lips devouring the air in your lungs, if only to distract a simple creature like you so he can knock you to the ground. He doesn't hesitate when he pushes one of your legs up up up until you're practically doing the splits. "Dirty dog." He murmurs so sweetly against your neck when he grips your cock and finds you harder than you've ever been.
Lt. Riley knows how to deal with brats, how to enforce his will: No mercy.
Thick thighs tense to raise him up until your weeping cockhead kisses his rim, only to slam down and take you balls deep with a thunderous clap of his ass against your thigh, rocking his hips to grind you just that extra centimeter deeper before rising up again. He's not gentle about it, holding you tight so you can't squirm away, every single pound making up his massive frame used to bruise your hips. He knows how to set his pace, paying attention to your flushed face and doing minute changes in the way he bounces on your cock, in the way he grinds down, in the way his tight walls clench — receiving maximum pleasure while keeping you deep in the haze of Tantalian desperation. The walls are thin, but he doesn't care, letting moans bounce around the room as a later punishment for you.
Idly he remembers he still has another meeting, pressing a bit harder against you as he redoubles his bouncing until he brings himself to completion, not even trying to spare you from your uniform becoming absolutely filthy. "Good soldier." He lets out a satisfied sigh, sliding off your cock and happily pushing your cock back into your pants. He only gives you a soft-ish kiss on the lips as a reward, before slapping you on the ass and ordering you to return to your duties.
Simon just wants a break; from the battlefield, from the bloodshed, from being Ghost. So he calls for you, knowing you will come crawling to him like a desperate dog.
He pours himself a hard glass of dark rich bourbon he can enjoy after he's settled in your lap, well stretched hole languidly fluttering around your hard arousal as he rests against your chest. He doesn't mind your hands gripping his waist, moments like these are when he's at his most generous, but under no circumstances are you allowed to buck or shift your hips — he expects total submission.
But he doesn't make it easy for you; Maybe he lets you moan freely as a reward for being good, maybe he gags you with his own underwear when he wants silence. Either way he doesn't stray from the confusing pace he sets that you can never grasp — slowly grinding his hips in shallow figure eights while he enjoys the burn of bourbon on his tongue, pairing it with the slight sting of the stretch and the slow relaxing of his muscles as your cock grinds on his prostate. Then he slowly rises up a short distance, just enough for the muscles deep in his thighs to tense and the drag of your cock to pull him from the fog of pleasure. He holds the position long enough for your hands to tense, for your cock to start twitching and throbbing, before languidly sliding back down to take another sip of his drink.
It's a maddening purgatory you're stuck in, rocked in the sea of a sensation on the leaking boat of your quickly evaporating willpower. You watch the muscles in his broad back tense and relax, listening to his soft little sighs and the occasional deep moan he makes between the rocks of his hips. You want to so desperately fuck up into that tightly clenching hole, to draw ragged moans from him, but you grip his hips tight and try to hold on. He knows you'll survive this — trusts you to survive this the same way he trusts you with his naked nape, with his turned back, with his complete lack of attention to his surroundings.
You don't know how long it takes for his orgasm to roll through him as lazily as the sex had been, a deep pleasant heat crawling from the pit of his stomach to slither through his veins, his cock dribbling cum over his loosely clenched fist. Absentmindedly wiping his hand on your thigh he reaches up to pet your head, leaning further back to place a burning coal kiss on the side of your lips. The rim of his glass replaces his lips, shaky hand tilting it up until the thin layer of leftover alcohol nibbles on your lips, breathless gravely voice murmuring in your ear a sweet command, "Go on, drink, an' no pulling faces."
You do as he orders, opening your mouth enough for the bourbon to flow into, swirling it around around inside under his watchful gaze before slowly swallowing. His lips are there on your neck to feel your Adam's apple bob, you can feel him smirk. "Just like that." He purrs, setting the glass down next to the mostly full bottle, whispering what your fraying mind had been desperate to hear. "Cum for me, want to feel you deep inside."
You do as he orders, hips snapping up once, twice, before you spill yourself inside him, hugging him close. You pant like a racehorse, muttering your 'thank you's against his shoulder, eyes closed to fully submerge yourself in the afterbliss. Burying your nose into his neck you can almost taste the cologne and something that is explicitly Simon on your tongue, like the scent of an old childhood favorite books, his pulse racing just a bit beneath your lips when you kiss his scarred throat.
He lets you rest like that, enjoying the fullness your cum adds, patting your head before pouring himself another glass — the night is young, and he's nowhere near satisfied.