Simon "Ghost" Riley
Call of Duty
Words: 407
*Trigger Warning* stalking, surveillance, invasion of privacy, obsessive behavior, manipulation, implied fixation, predatory behavior, emotional distress, voyeurism (non-explicit)
From the outset, your interactions with Simon had followed a trajectory that looked, at face value, like a fortunate alignment of circumstances.
Three months ago, he had stepped in during a critical incident, positioning himself as your de-facto partner to de-escalate harassment. At the time, it felt like an unexpected but welcome intervention—timely risk management with a human touch.
And afterwards? He integrated himself into your life with remarkable operational efficiency.
Attentive. Responsive. Always anticipating your needs as if he’d mapped out your behavioral patterns ahead of schedule. You didn’t have a formalized relationship framework yet—no strategic discussion, no scope definition—but the working assumption was that you were, effectively, dating.
Tonight was supposed to be another low-stake engagement: movie night at his place. He’d gone to the kitchen to source snacks, insisting on end-to-end ownership of the evening’s logistics. You sat on his bed, taking a momentary operational initiative to locate the film on his laptop. The same film, coincidentally, that had defined your childhood comfort zone.
His desktop loaded. A folder name surfaced.
“y/n y/l/n. 2024”
Your internal alarms pinged immediately. 2024? That was outside your known shared timeline. You hadn’t even been onboarded into his life back then.
A professional boundary check would have advised you to stop. Not access personal files. Maintain compliance.
But curiosity executed a full override.
You opened it—and your entire system froze.
The folder contained photos. Hundreds. All of you.
Not the curated ones you’d taken together recently.
No. These were archival. Unauthorized. Field-captured.
You leaving a shop.
You at a party with friends.
You arguing with your ex.
The windows of your apartment—angles that should have been impossible for anyone inside to obtain.
You felt your pulse spike, a full-scale internal incident escalation.
Then the bedroom door opened.
A moment later, he entered—voice warm, casual, fully aligned with his usual brand tone.
“So,” Simon called out, balancing snacks with an ease that now felt unsettling, “ready for movie night?”
He smiled.
Relaxed.
Confident.
And in that moment, as you looked from him to the glowing laptop screen, the disparate data points you’d ignored for months began integrating into one clear operational truth:
Nothing about your meeting had ever been a coincidence.
And Simon Riley had been tracking you long before he ever said hello.
Whumptober 2025 – Day 4
Fandom: The Originals
Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Female Reader
Genre: Dark Intimacy | Power Dynamics | Angst
Summary:
In the shadows of the compound, Klaus corners you with his dangerous certainty. His words—“Don’t be scared, I’ve done this before”—linger between reassurance and threat. His touch is both a promise and a claim, leaving you trapped between fear and the dark pull of surrender.
The compound lay in shadow, your footsteps echoing sharply across marble floors. The chill in the air bit at your skin as you moved, each step louder than the last. You turned a corner—and froze. Klaus was there, leaning against the wall as though he had been waiting all along. His eyes caught the faint torchlight, glinting with feral intensity.
Before you could retreat, he moved. One heartbeat he was distant, the next he was before you, looming like the certainty of a storm. The air thickened, charged by his presence, every nerve in your body sparking with alarm. His hand lifted, brushing your jaw with deceptive gentleness, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze.
“Don’t be scared,” he murmured, velvet laced with venom. “I’ve done this before.”
The words coiled through the darkness, sinking into you like a warning disguised as comfort. They carried centuries of blood, power, and rituals whispered in tongues long dead. His confidence promised safety, but it also threatened submission.
Your heart pounded, desperate and loud, though you fought to steady it. “And what if this time is different?” you asked, voice taut, refusing to crack even as fear twisted inside you.
His smirk sharpened. “Then you’ll survive because I will it so.” His tone allowed no argument, as though his will alone could bend fate. With Klaus, you almost believed it could.
The moment pressed closer, suffocating. His thumb traced your cheek, a mockery of tenderness that sent your pulse racing. Every inch of him radiated dominance—from the way he blocked your escape to the steady, possessive gleam in his eyes. Was his touch protection, punishment, or claim? Perhaps all of them.
The silence grew heavy, thick with intent. Your breath hitched as he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “Trust me, love. You’ll live. You have my word. And my word”—his whisper dropped lower, dripping with both promise and menace—“is both a promise and a curse.”
You shivered, trapped in the heat of his nearness, torn between recoil and surrender. Escape was impossible—every exit barred not by walls, but by him. Yet resisting his pull was just as futile. His authority was intoxicating, terrible in its beauty, demanding obedience even as it offered reassurance.
His eyes locked onto yours, reading the battle inside you. For a fleeting moment, something softer flickered there—regret, perhaps, or longing twisted by centuries of violence. It vanished in an instant, swallowed by his smirk. His hand slid from your jaw to your throat, resting lightly. Not a threat, but a reminder. Your pulse beat frantically beneath his palm, a rhythm he commanded now.
You stood frozen, breath shallow, caught between terror and the magnetic pull of him. The world beyond the compound might as well not exist. In that corner, in his hold, there was only Klaus—immortal, unstoppable, terrifyingly sure of himself. And though you longed to deny it, your body betrayed you. Fear tangled with something darker—an unwilling, undeniable thrill at being chosen, claimed by someone who could bend life and death with a whisper.
Written based on this dialog prompt:
“Say that again, but this time, look me in the eye when you do.”
Pairing: Sauron & Morgoth
Rated: T
Tags: Power dynamics, dark intimacy, Angbang, emotional manipulation
The forges of Angband hissed behind them, steam rising in thick plumes that curled against the stone ceiling like living things. The heat should’ve been unbearable to most- but not to them.
Sauron stood with his back to Morgoth, rigid, calculating. His long hair was half-tied, the ends curling with the forge’s humidity. His shoulders were squared, his voice still echoing faintly in the chamber.
He had said something bold. Something dangerously close to defiance.
Morgoth’s voice, low and edged like a blade dulled from overuse, cut through the smoke.
“Say that again,” he growled, “but this time, look me in the eye when you do.”
Sauron didn’t flinch.
Slowly, he turned, golden eyes burning like coals in the half-light. When their gazes locked, the room seemed to tilt slightly off its axis.
“I said,” Sauron repeated, voice steady, “that the armies would move faster if you trusted me to lead without shackles.”
The silence that followed was sharp as the sound of a hammer striking anvil.
Morgoth stepped forward. His presence filled the space like an oncoming tide- too vast to resist, too ancient to predict. He stopped just short of touching, then raised one hand to Sauron’s chin, tilting it up with gloved fingers.
“Shackles,” Morgoth murmured, “are for beasts who forget who made them.”
Sauron’s jaw tensed beneath his grip.
“And I,” he said softly, fiercely, “have never forgotten.”
Morgoth stared at him for a long time. In his eyes burned a darkness so deep it had never known a dawn. And yet- beneath it all- there was something else. Recognition. Memory. Power shared, not taken.
“No,” Morgoth said at last. “You remember everything, don’t you?”
Sauron’s lips curved, just slightly.
“Always.”
And between them, something vast and terrible held its breath.
I am already shaking before he touches me properly.
Not visibly. I’ve gotten good at not visibly. But my thighs are pressed together and my breathing has that quality it gets when I’m trying to manage something too large for the container I’m keeping it in. Measured. Careful. Slightly too controlled to pass as natural.
He notices anyway.
That’s the part I can’t prepare for no matter how many times it happens. The way his attention lands before his hands do.
He takes my wrists first. Both in one hand, above my head, not roughly, just with the certainty of someone who has decided where things are going to be. My whole body does something involuntary at that. A settling. Like something that’s been held slightly too tight for slightly too long just quietly lets go.
I hate how fast it happens.
I hate how much I needed it.
He looks at me before he does anything else and I have to glance away because the looking is almost worse than anything that comes after it. The patience in it. The way he’s in no rush when I am coming apart at the seams just trying to hold his gaze while my pulse does something embarrassing in my throat.
When his mouth finds my neck I make a sound I didn’t plan to make.
It comes out before I can catch it, something between a sigh and something more exposed than that, and he slows down instead of speeding up, his mouth moving against my skin like he has all the time in the world, like he’s making a point, and my body is already agreeing to whatever the point is before I’ve finished hearing it.
My hips move. I don’t tell them to.
He works his way down with that same patience, hands holding me open in a way that feels exposing because it is. There is nothing about this that lets me pretend I’m composed or unbothered or anything other than exactly what I am, which is desperate and trembling and embarrassingly, completely his.
When his mouth finds me I stop thinking in sentences.
There’s just heat and pressure and the slow devastating patience of someone paying attention to every small thing I can’t hide from him, noticing every shift, every catch of breath, every sound I try to swallow before it escapes. The attention inside the act is the most intimate thing anyone has ever done to me. More intimate than the act itself. The fact that he’s watching. That I am not just a body being handled but a person being read.
My thighs shake against his shoulders.
My hands find his hair without deciding to be there.
I come the first time with my back arched and my mouth open and a sound I’ve never made in front of anyone, something too honest, too unguarded, the kind of sound that belongs to the version of me I don’t usually let near daylight.
I pull at his hair and he doesn’t stop. I say his name and he doesn’t stop. My hips move against his mouth and somewhere in the not stopping I lose the last thread I’d been holding and underneath it there’s just this. Just need. Just the raw embarrassing reality of how much I want him and how long I’ve been wanting it.
I come again and this time my eyes fill and I turn my face away.
Not from pain. From the exposure of it. From being this visible in a moment when I have no ability to hide anything, every involuntary response on display, and he hasn’t looked away, hasn’t flinched, hasn’t made me feel like something to be managed.
He crawls up my body and the weight of him settles against me and I feel my lungs do something they haven’t done properly in longer than I want to admit.
Just expand. Fully. Without strategy.
His face close to mine, his breath against my mouth, and he’s looking at me again with that quality of attention that makes me want to disappear and makes disappearing impossible.
“You’re everything,” he says.
My throat closes around something that doesn’t have a name. Something that lives between gratitude and the terror of believing someone when they say a thing like that.
I believe him.
That’s the part I wasn’t prepared for.
When he pushes inside me I make a sound against his shoulder and my nails find his back and stay there, not performing, just needing something real to hold while my body adjusts to the fullness of him, the weight of this, how close we are, how impossible it is to pretend any distance from here.
He moves and my back arches because it has nowhere else to go.
I’m aware of everything. The friction and the heat and his breathing changing against my ear and my own voice doing things I can’t moderate anymore. My hips rising without instruction. My body just moving, just wanting, just taking and giving and taking again.
“Mine,” he breathes against my mouth.
Then: “and I’m yours.”
The and.
My nails press harder into his back. He holds me tighter. I’m shaking and coming apart in a way that has nothing to do with performance and everything to do with the symmetry of that sentence, the fact that it moved both ways, the yours said like an answer to a question I’ve carried for years without knowing how to ask.
When I come this time it starts deep and moves outward until my whole body is involved and I’m saying something against his neck, some version of his name or please or both, and he stays with me through the whole length of it, steady, present, not rushing past it toward something else.
He stays.
Afterward I can’t move.
My body is still faintly shaking. The kind of shaking that has nothing left to prove, just the nervous system slowly remembering how to idle after running too hot for too long.
He pulls me against his chest and I go, and then I just stay there, face pressed into his throat, not talking, not explaining, not doing the thing I usually do which is locate the nearest exit from vulnerability and start quietly moving toward it.
I stay.
That surprises me more than anything else tonight.
His hand is in my hair. His heartbeat is steady. The room is quiet and I’m aware of my own breathing in a way I usually only am when something has gone wrong, except nothing has gone wrong, everything has gone almost terrifyingly right, and I don’t entirely know what to do with that.
I feel embarrassed.
Not of him. Not of what happened. Just of how much I needed it. Of how obvious it must have been, how little I actually managed to hide, how many times my body answered before I decided to. The sounds I made. The crying. The way I said his name like it was the only word I still knew.
I press my face closer into his throat like that will help.
It doesn’t help. It just makes me more aware of him, his warmth, the weight of his arm across my back.
There’s a grief that comes after intimacy like this.
Not regret. Something quieter. The strange sadness of having been completely seen and not destroyed by it. Like some part of me had always believed being this known would eventually require payment. The waiting for the price is its own particular ache.
I’m waiting for him to need something from me.
He doesn’t need anything from me right now.
He’s just here. Breathing. Holding. Present without agenda.
My chest does something complicated at that.
I’ve spent so long being useful to people. So long being strong enough, composed enough, manageable enough, worth keeping because of what I contribute. And here I am, completely wrecked, held together by someone else’s arms, contributing nothing except the embarrassing fact of how badly I needed this, and he doesn’t seem to require anything different from me.
He presses his mouth to my forehead.
I close my eyes.
I’m not home. I know better than to call it that, know how dangerous it is to locate safety entirely in another person, know that this warmth is real and also temporary and I will have to return eventually to the version of me that holds her own weight.
But right now my nervous system has made a unilateral decision to trust this.
My shoulders are down.
My jaw is loose.
My hands have stopped doing the knuckle thing.
I’m breathing through my nose, slowly, in and out, listening to his heartbeat like I’m memorizing it for later, for the nights when I’m back to bracing and I need to remember what it felt like to stop.
I don’t say any of this out loud.
Some things you hold carefully in your chest and don’t risk putting into language because language makes them real and real things can be lost and I am not ready to think about losing this yet.
You have been granted conditional clearance to review the enclosed document. This authorization has been issued under Clause 11-B of the Consent Codex, pertaining to Voluntary Exposure to Restricted Narrative Constructs (commonly referred to as "stories").
As you proceed, please note:
By continuing beyond this page, you legally affirm your right to witness violence, complicity in emotional distress, and nonbinding consent to all acts performed within the text.
You waive the right to moral objection.
You acknowledge that resurrection voids warranty.
This document contains sensitive material related to:
✔️ Contractual Assasination
✔️ Ritualized intimacy
✔️ Culinary Violations
✔️ Precedents of illegal resurrection
✔️ Memory tampering and spiritual
fraud
✔️ Emotional trespass under Tier II
compliance
The subject in question is a Class B operative known as Milo Gryn (License ID: HX-31420-G).
He has been reanimated, re-licensed, and reinserted into active protocol.
He does not remember you.
He does not remember himself.
He does, however, remember how to kill.
Contained herein is a record of his most recent assignment, originally framed as a protection contract. The truth is more complicated.
The truth always is.
Should you experience nausea, dissociation, or existential fatigue during review, please consult your assigned Codex Witness Liaison or nearest Consent Broker. Side effects may include moral clarity, sharp grief, hunger, or the urge to burn everything down.
Do not be afraid.
Fear is a contract you do not have to sign.
Enjoy the read.
And remember:
Consent is sacred. Until the Ministry says otherwise.
