Call of Duty Blog

Larger than life, the sheer size of him only more exaggerated by the fact you've always been on the short size. You hear almost everyday how difficult it will be, your supposedly giant baby. Honestly, you're worried too, though you suspect konig is the most stressed.

"I broke the record in my hospital, schatzi. Fifteen pounds. Schatzi, Do you hear me." Which. As one would predict, only served to make you more nervous.

Then the day comes and....they're...small.

Tiny, little babies. Twins, how the hell it was missed it beyond you. Your husband is well over six feet, weighs a solid three hundred and some pounds, and his two new babies can easily be held in one hand each.

As the shock of everything settles in, you both learn that your babies will absolutely scream and wail if konig attempts to hold them normally, only settling properly when curled up in his hands. He's practically crying all the time from how fragile they are compared to him.

Seeing the tiny pairs of socks he sews for them has you crying, too. He loves them so so much.

Your favorite memory is watching the little ones, now a bit older but still so small, snuggling together on konigs back while he naps, enough space they can't easily roll off.

"You broke a lot of rules, Price."

"No more rules."

---

I need Sheriff John Price saving his new bride from The Deep Ones awakening in the silver mines near town.

I need Outlaw and Bounty Hunter Kyle Garrick hunting cannibalistic vampires across the desert.

I need Miner Johnny MacTavish stumbling across a creature he believes is an angel but is something far more sinister.

Being the handsome guy that he is, he’s always used his good looks to his advantage, but now, ironically, he’s with a partner who can’t see his good looks.

So, this guy loves to bring your hands to his face so you can feel his beautiful features. It doesn’t matter if you stroke his cheeks or playfully pinch the tip of his nose — you can do whatever you want, seriously.

He’s sure he doesn’t even know the feeling. Especially not with you. Even through the years, growing up with you he never had to be.

Not when you clung to his side everyday, the annoying younger kid on the block that followed him around. You always chose him, over anyone else.

So he’s not sure why now seeing you sat with his lieutenant makes an ugly feeling claw it’s way up his throat. Why watching you accept the drink he’s bought you with a soft dimpled smile you reserve for him makes the tension in his temples tight.

It’s not the first time you’ve met the 141, but it is the first time you’re not wrapped around his arm drunkenly giggling into his side. You’re just friends, childhood friends, that’s what he tells you at least. And it was never a problem.

His jaws set, teeth clenched together so tight it hurts when Ghost brushes your elbow and you bloody lean in to him. He stomps over with red in his vision and mission to strangle his lieutenant or bend you over the table right then and there.

You smile so sweetly up at him when he stops at your side.

“Hi Kyl—“

His hand grips your jaw, digging a little harshly for something he usually protects, and stamps a wet, claiming kiss to your lips. You make a surprised noise, lips parting just enough for his tongue to slide into the corners of your mouth.

You struggle to catch up to him, lips falling just behind his possessive movements, little room to breathe as he forces you to take it. It goes on a little longer than it probably should, but the anger’s still pumping under his skin, making his reasoning unstable.

When he pulls away, there’s a wet glob of spit connecting the both of you, your eyes wide and chest heaving.

Soap with dogs!

Gaz with dogs!

Price with dogs!

He’s heard it in twelve languages. Heard it gargled through blood and whispered through teeth and screamed into dirt. He knows the sounds a human body makes when it’s done pretending to be anything but an animal.

So he should know better.

He should… but you’re laughing, and it’s not the kind of laugh that belongs in a body that small. It’s unhinged. Gutted open. The sound of a woman who has been pushed past the last clean line inside herself and found something feral on the other side, something with teeth, and it’s…

Christ.

It’s the most deranged thing he’s heard in years.

“Say it again.” You’re not yelling. That’s the part that gets him. You’re smiling, and there’s a nine inch blade in your hand- his knife, actually, swiped right off the counter- and you’re pointing it at is femoral artery. “Go on, Riley. One more fucking time. I dare you.”

He’d called you dead weight.

Twice.

The first time you’d gone quiet. Swallowed it. Walked out of the briefing room with your shoulders tight and your chin up and he’d thought good, she’ll be easier to manage now because that’s what Simon does. He finds the seam. Pushes. Watches people fold along the lines he chose for them.

The second time- ten minutes ago, in front of Soap and Gaz, loud enough to carry- you hadn’t folded.

You’d cracked.

And now you’re standing in the narrow kitchen of the safehouse with his blade in your fist and that laugh still caught between your teeth like you can’t stop it, like it’s leaking, and the overhead fluorescent is buzzing and you’re advancing on him one slow step at a time and he-

He doesn’t move.

Not because he can’t. He could disarm you in two seconds. Wrist, twist, pin. Muscle memory. He’s done it a hundred times to people twice your size.

He doesn’t move because something low in his gut just dropped straight through the floor.

“You think I won’t?” you say, and the knife dips, aimed right at his belt line, the sharp tip hovering dangerously close his crotch. “You think I’m scared of you?”

Youre not.

That’s the thing. That’s the whole goddamn thing. You’re not scared of him. You’re standing five-foot-nothing in front of a man who has killed people in rooms smaller than this one and you are not afraid. Your hand isn’t shaking. Your pupils are blown but your breathing’s steady and you’re looking at him- not at the mask, not at the space above his shoulder, at him.

And Simon’s brain does something it has never done before

It stutters.

Because the laugh is still ringing in his skull and your eyes are bright and terrible and you smell like gunoil and the coffee you spilled when you grabbed the knife and there is…

There is…

Absolutely no reason for his cock to be rock hard right now.

None.

He is a grown man. A special forces operator. He has looked down the barrel of a gun and felt less throbbing in his pulse than he currently feels south of his waistband, and that is.. that’s a problem. That’s a clinical, operational, catastrophic problem, because you are holding a blade at dick height and your eyes just flicked down and-

You stop laughing.

“Riley,” you say, and your voice is different now. Low. Velvet. “Are you fucking serious right now.”

It’s not a question.

His cock twitches under the fabric, straining, the thick outline unmistakable now. He can feel the wet bead of pre cum already soaking through.

He should say something. He should disarm you. He should leave the room and never speak of this moment for the rest of his natural life, which at this rate is going to be about thirty more seconds.

“Yeah,” he says instead, because apparently the last thread of self preservation in his body just snapped clean through. His voice comes out like gravel. Wrecked. “Yeah, I think I am.”

You stare at him.

He watches the knife.

He watches your hand, the tendons shifting under skin, the white knuckle grip going loose, not dropping it, just… recalibration. You’re recalibrating. Reading the room the same way he would, the same way an operator does, and some sick, broken part of him catalogs that too. Files it. Wants it.

“You’re insane,” you whisper.

“Probably.”

“I was going to stab you.”

“Probably,” he says again, and his hand are trembling at his sides. Because that fractured laugh is still ringing in his skull, and he’s never wanted to hear a sound again more than the way he wants to hear you make it while he’s buried inside you.

You laugh again, step closer. The knife lowers another inch until the flat of the cold blade rests lightly against the throbbing heat of his bulge and makes his hips jerk forward involuntarily, pressing himself against the steel like a desperate animal.

“You’re a bastard,” you say. “You know that?”

“Yeah.”

“And if you ever call me dead weight again I will finish what I started.”

“Yeah,” he says, seemingly only able to say the one word, because his vocabulary has apparently been reduced to a single syllable by a woman with a stolen knife and a laugh like a house fire. “I know.”

His hands finally move, big, rough palms sliding to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling your body flush against his so you can feel every thick, aching inch of what you’ve done to him.

“I might just let you cut me,” he murmurs, voice low, “if you let me fuck that pretty rage out of you right here against the counter.”

He watches your pupils blow for an entirely different reason now.