Whaddup, I'm Meat. I post Call of Duty fanfiction. Where'd the callsign come from? I asked my brother what he thought I'd be good for in the post-apocalypse, and he replied, "Meat."
I also post non-CoD, military-centric practice works, research sources, and the occasional CoD reblog.
callsignmeat on Archive of Our Own | callsignmeat on Ko-Fi | callsign-meat on bsky
Publication Schedule
09:30 ET every Sat, Sun
6 June - Laid Bare
09:30 ET every Mon, Tues, Wed, Thurs, Fri
Jun 1-Jun 9: His Heaven His Hell
Jun 10-Jul 6: Muscle Memory
Constructive criticism is always welcome. Requests are always welcome. Fanfic comms are not accepted (they're illegal).
List of Works:
Series
Finished
Dude, Seriously? (Comedy: Soap really likes mean women. 20 parts.)
Is This Love? (Comedy: Soap and Weisz are two idiots in love. 26 parts.)
In-Progress
The Trouble with Tems (Fluff: The 141 find a cat.)
Ritual (18+ Angst: Soap would rather bathe with a toaster than be seen as a civilian. Unfortunately, toasters are waterproof. 11 chapters published.)
Yoga Instructor AU Masterlist (18+ OC x canon fluffy smut: Based on this post by l3ibnest. 4 fics.)
Caught (18+ OC x canon smut: Soap catches his teammate masturbating at work. And she catches him making audio porn as a side hustle. Four chapters plus bonus.)
His Heaven was Hell (Angst: Heaven is supposed to be everything he ever wanted. ...so why isn't it?)
One-Shots
I Hate You, No Really (Mild angst: Reader gives a eulogy at Soap's funeral.)
Death In His Infinite Wisdom (Mild angst: "Rarely does death do you the favor of allowing you to say goodbye.")
Bullshit Bulldozer (Angst: Updated version of Death In His Infinite Wisdom.)
Leave for Simon (Mild angst: Simon's comes home after a mission. Based on this TikTok.)
How to Be A Pretty Boy (Fluff: Soap takes the 141 through his skincare routine.)
Would You...? (Angst: Soap and FMC confront their feelings for one another.)
Adjust Your Grip (Angst: Gaz asks Price for comfort. Price can't provide it.)
Blanched Palms, White Knuckles, The Blood Rushing Back (Angst: Twenty-seven was Ghost's unlucky number.)
Screen-Shot Through The Heart (Comedy: Price's laptop is broken. That isn't Ghost's primary focus.)
Can't Believe I'm The Woman (Smut: Ghost and Soap have always wondered what fucking a man in the arse feels like. Problem is, one of them has to be the bottom.)
He'd Do Anything for Love (Even That) (Smut: Soap finally agrees to let his girlfriend do him in the bum.)
It's All To See You Smile (Fluff: Eve and Ghost enjoy a day on leave. Turns out, Eve had something up her sleeve.)
Sketches
The Base (Non-CoD. A servicemember and her shadow.)
Soap and Panic Attacks (Mild angst: So long as nobody knows, they aren't a problem...)
Beach Episode (Fluff: Gaz and Soap prank Price and Ghost. It ends, predictably, rather poorly. Based on this pic.)
A Dangerous Dance (Soap figures battle is as close as he'll ever get to a rave.)
Ghost and Soap Get a Divorce (Drabble. What it says on the tin.)
Nipples and Belly (Smut practice. Ghost is pierced. Guess where.)
Count (CoD poem: The beads on a dog tag and beads of a rosary are rather similar, don't you think?)
Waxing (Inspired by having to wax my legs recently.)
Tea Time (Mild Fluff and Angst: Ghost makes his teammates tea.)
Thistle and Bone (Mild angst: Ghost writes a letter after Soap's death)
Abandoned Ideas Listed Here, Feel Free to Use (Tag me if you do so I can read it!)
The makeshift calendar he had painted was allowed to stay on his wall. By his metric, at least in number of sleeps, he had been dead for nearly three years. In that time, he had not yet broken. Each morning, he woke with a renewed vigor for afterlife. His chest would expand and warmth would suffuse his body from toes to scalp, and he would smile at himself as he brushed his teeth.
When he would catch the eye of his cheerful reflection, his fingertips would tingle and his grip would tighten on his toothbrush. By the time he was done readying for the day, he would find his reflection did not appear to share in his dawning dread. He would shave mechanically, suddenly filled with an indescribable sense of wrongness, and then turn.
And by the time he stepped across the threshold to the kitchen, his muscles would have loosened and that warmth would have returned.
The sun warmed his face as he lay once more in what he now considered "his" patch of greenery. Just a quick hop over the bridge and a ten-minute walk had the sounds of the city muted to a manageable hum. Arms and legs splayed haphazardly, he stared dully up at the sky.
He had tried for days to recall how it was that he'd come to find himself in heaven. He had to have died in the line of duty - for he remembered that the tattoo on his forearm was the crest of the Special Air Services - but what duty had he been performing?
The cruelest things he'd done couldn't be conjured to the forefront no matter how he strained nor how he allowed his mind to drift. He was floating on a sea of happy memories of tea in the mess hall and inside jokes, hands on shoulders and knees and chests and necks as he was patted and jostled and assured and led. He recalled feeling much like a dog in some cases, but the memory would twist into that happy-go-lucky, tongue-lolling image of a retriever chasing after a tennis ball more than what he was sure was the hangdog plodding that had been his reality.
It brushed the edges of his consciousness, fleeting and just out of reach and it was torture so effective he was amazed he hadn't yet broken.
Soap smudged the last bit of color over his sketchbook and stared at the resultant art. Almost impossible to remember, he'd only just managed to get the shapes of his old teammates to appear on the page. Big, bigger, biggest; that much he remembered. One of them cloaked all in black with deathly pale skin, one of them so hairy he had taken to calling him Captain Coo, and the third, a good study in contrast in a light blue shirt with dark skin and sparkling white teeth.
But their faces were wrong. He couldn't explain how he knew they were wrong, but they were. Their expressions were happy in a way he was certain they hadn't been when he'd known them, and something about the way that they stood - arms wrapped around one another in easy camaraderie - that felt as if it were more fiction than fact. More Heaven-o-Vision, no doubt, papering over the reality of how they had looked after missions. Beaming, surely, but tired and worn and arms wrapped around one another to keep themselves from collapsing as adrenaline faded into bone-deep assuredness that their souls were so blackened by the deeds they'd done that they'd never see the Pearly Gates.
The air always suited his mood, and his clothes always suited the air, and it was beginning to drive him a bit mad. At first, the fact that his shirts fit him perfectly and his jumpers had no snags had been a delight, but after a week of grey days when he wanted to sit inside and draw and sunny days when he wanted to walk by the water, Soap had to admit that perfection was... boring.
God had given him everything - a Glasgow he'd grown up in and yet idealized, with no men pissing on buildings outside the pub unless he was drunk and thought it a particularly funny sight. No homeless folks begging for change, which had always made something in his chest twist uncomfortably. The austerity measures that had plagued his country seemed lifted, giving Scotland a bright, cheerful wash that was utterly and completely wrong.
But he wasn't meant to live in Glasgow forever.
The train system had insisted he could go to Edinburgh, or Aberdeen, or fuck off to Cumbernauld of all places, but what was the good in that? It was still just... Scotland. The borders of which seemed to be solid and immutable - he'd checked. Taken the time (since hunger, thirst, and fatigue were all cared for by The Big Man Himself) to plod about in one direction and make it to the edge of the country (it had taken both longer and shorter than he'd imagined it would). The sea was grey and choppy and a deep, dense fog obscured all outside his sightline in whatever direction he chose. Each point of the compass had been checked and each time it came up the same: absolutely nothing existed in Soap's heaven except for Scotland.
One of the best things about being a writer is thinking of something small you can add to your work that’s just. Devastating. Like you’re sitting there going. Oh. That would be diabolical. People would get really riled up about that. Exquisite. Let’s do it.
The sun was poorly plated brass - meant to be silver but too much gold showed through. Sewn into the grey sky with a deft hand, it stayed fast in its place just to Soap's left.
He had stared at the diffused spot of light for what had to be at least an hour and yet it hadn't moved. It hadn't moved at all since he'd woken up.
The green hills that flanked the city were unnaturally colorful - dotted with bluebells and blanketed in heather that tickled his calves even through his trousers. Shrubbery and thistle would have made good grazing for the Highland cows he had never really had any fondness for, given that they required a bit of a trip to see. He lay, head cushioned in his arms, and understood instinctively two things:
I know you are resting but... Soap being obsessed with you wearing glasses.
Boy, I hope you meant smut. Anyway, I wrote this at 10:00 the day I got it (14 May) at work. My heart has never beat faster (least of all because I'm a glasses wearer).
Enjoy!
~*~*~*~
Soap had always said he loved you in glasses, and you’d always figured he was taking the piss - teasing you over the government issue frames you’d never bothered to replace after phase one. But you’d come home just hours earlier with new frames, more ecstatic about seeing the leaves on trees in detail than the plastic that allowed it to happen; and one look had Soap dragging you giggling and protesting into your bedroom.
“God, look at you,” Soap breathed, one hand fisted in your hair, “looking up at me with those pretty eyes.”
Your only response was a soft choking noise as he rocked into your mouth, the tip of him sliding up and back. His other hand stroked your cheek, his thumb grazing the stem of your glasses. His eyes were locked on to yours - or, more accurately, on your glasses.
He’d insisted you keep them on, his forehead creasing as his face collapsed into abject adoration when you sank to your knees by the edge of the bed.
“Fuck,” he gasped, heavy lids betraying how badly he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, “they look perfect on you. Make me feel like I’m fuckin’ my English professor.”
You pulled back with a wet slurp, quirking an eyebrow at the comparison. Soap’s other hand dropped from the crown of your head to frame the other side of your face. He guided you to once more swallow him, pressing you far enough down that your glasses pressed crookedly against his belly. All the while, you never took your eyes off of him. His hips thrust, careful and rhythmic. His breathing became more labored. You could feel him twitching and pulsing against your tongue.
“God,” he breathed, “I’m gonna cum too fuckin’ quick with you looking at me like that.”
You swallowed around his cock, urging him on. As you drew back to resume your rhythm, he abruptly pulled out, fisting himself viciously.
“Don’t move,” he gasped, “don’t fuckin’ move.” You sat, tongue lolling obscenely over your lower lip as you waited patiently. You’d expected him to cum in your mouth as he usually did.
But when he tensed and groaned, the first streak of jizz landed squarely over your left lens. And then another. His cock drooled out a few more fat dollops over the bridge of your frames as he languidly stroked himself, chest heaving.
“Stay just like that,” he whispered one last time, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. With a grin, he rested his cock just so, snapping a picture. “Good girl,” he purred.
It's finally finished ❤️ I had so much fun working on it. It started as a birthday gift/kind of a joke, but one thing led to another and..... There we go 😌 Tac gear, red lights and hidden faces make me go a little feral, so I guess it's a win win
If you're interested, you can find the nsfw and alt (bloody) versions here ❤️
Summary: A pristine white box, tied up in a black satin bow, set carefully on their bed. Soap didn't dare get his hopes up. Could it be...?
Soap stared down at the white box tied in a satiny black bow.
It stared back.
He looked over his shoulder, certain Thea was punking him. But no. The flat was silent.
Going to get the messages. She had texted just thirty minutes prior. He had smiled at her use of Scottish Slang. His little American was certainly learning the lingo. Be back in a bit.
Cryptically, she had sent another message not long after. Don't worry about enjoying yourself while I'm gone.
He hadn't understood what she'd meant, then, but the box sat there, the ribbon begging him to slowly unwind its knot and let it fall open.
His heart pattered behind his ribs, his world narrowing to the fact that the crazy bitch had actually done it. She'd actually taken him seriously and bought him-
"You're takin' the piss." He murmured to himself, reaching with a trembling hand toward the box. "You've gotta be." He was hardly able to tug the ribbon. And indeed the bow fell apart with hardly a touch, opening itself to him with just the whisper of fabric on fabric. He carefully gripped the box and swept the ribbon on to the duvet.
He swallowed heavily as the plain, white, unassuming box stared back at him. He could have sworn there was sweat gathering above his eyebrows and upper lip as he wondered what she’d bought him.
Satin? Lace? He felt his stomach tighten.
“Well, but-” He stepped back, turning on heel. “Maybe she wants me to wait.” He pulled out his phone. Her last message stared back at him. “C’mon, hen, gimme an out, here.” He croaked. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
But a part of him was absolutely ready. He tugged at his jeans, shifting his rapidly hardening cock to a more comfortable position. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, c’mon Johnny boy.”
He turned back to the box, gripping the top and wrenching it upwards. He paused, blinking rapidly as his brain caught up with his vision. Crisp white tissue paper, with a careful gold sticker holding it together.
“Goddammit.” He carefully laid the lid beside the box. Swallowed again as he tried to delicately peel the sticker off before giving in and hooking his finger underneath, tearing the tissue paper with a satisfying rip.
Each half unfolded beautifully, revealing a charcoal black, lace pair of panties laid out in a nest of more tissue paper.
Soap’s mouth went dry.
“…I love her.” He croaked. “I do, I love her.” He carefully scooped the panties into his grasp, marveling at the delicate lacework as it pooled over his palms. He swept his thumbs over the waistband - not elastic, but yet more stretchy lace. “…fuck.” He murmured.
Pinching the waistband between his forefingers and thumbs, he held the panties up in front of him. He bit back a groan, taking another deep, unsteady breath.
“Fuck it.” He dropped them back to the duvet, reaching for his belt and fumbling to shuck down both trousers and pants, hardly able to kick off his shoes before struggling to get them off. His shirt was next, thrown haphazardly behind him.
His breathing was unusually shallow as he once more picked up the panties. His abs clenched and he had to stop himself from simply fisting the delicate thing over his cock.
He took two steps to their floor length mirror, studying himself for half a moment. “Am I really going to do this?” He whispered. But the insistent twitch and drip of his already painfully hard cock told him he didn’t have a choice any longer.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. And he was stepping into those panties, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness. As the lace settled with a soft caress against the lines of his hipbones, the swell of his ass, the rigid length of his cock he let out a groan, one hand caressing his abs as he threw his head back.
“Oh shit, that’s good.” He let out an overwhelmed chuckle, gathering himself just enough to look at himself in the mirror. The hand whispering over his abs sent a jolt through him, and he realized with embarrassing clarity that he was very, very close.
He once more dragged a hand over his abs, muscles leaping as he turned. He’d always been proud of his arse, but held like this it looked…
“Fuck-” His other hand came up to grip the base of his cock through his panties, trying to stave off the inevitable. But his eyes were snagged on the contrast of black against skin in the mirror. That was all it took.
He let out a shuddering gasp and one last moan as he came, practically untouched. He lowered himself gently to the ground, knees spread, and leaned back on his haunches, his hand moving of its own accord. He could feel the pearlescent liquid seeping through the fabric and on to his hands, ruining his brand new gift just minutes after donning it.
“Fucking… Jesus…” He gasped, leaning heavily against one hand as he sat, the last aftershocks of what had to be the fastest, hardest orgasm of his life wracking him.
He once more dared to look at the mirror, squeezing his too-sensitive cock just to watch another dribble of white bubble through and over the lace. “Jesus…” he repeated, blue eyes all the brighter. “I can’t take these off.”
“You shouldn’t.” Thea piped up. Soap whipped his head around, eyes wide. “Didn’t even make it to the bra, eh?” She chuckled, admiring the view from where she stood curled around the doorframe.
“The what?” Soap croaked.
“The bra.” She unwrapped herself from the wooden jamb and sauntered toward the bed, sitting primly on the edge and rifling through the box. She hooked her fingers around the bra straps, holding it out for him to admire. “Oh, lookie there.” Thea giggled, staring pointedly at his messy crotch. “Looks like you’re already hard again.”
She stood, cool hands guiding him to once more face the mirror. His skin was on fire, every careful caress sending sparks down his spine.
“Arms forward.” Her voice had dropped to a smoky purr as she guided the bra over his well-muscled arms and over his broad shoulders. The thin straps cut into his skin ever so slightly before she adjusted them. Her hands brushed his pecs as she settled the matching bra over them, nails running over his suddenly sensitive nipples as they passed.
“Now,” Thea fastened the hooks behind him. “arms down, handsome.”
Soap did so mechanically, throat working as he tried to find something to say. But all he managed was, “I’m so fucking hard right now.”
“Yeah?” Thea’s hands glided down his sides. He shuddered, licking his lips as he watched her pale skin play over the lace waistband of his panties. Her lips brushed over the skin between his shoulder blades, nails dragging downward over his thighs.
His hand shot out, bracing him against the mirror as he desperately fought the urge to once more sink to his knees.
“That good, huh?” Thea teased, her nails dragging up toward his once more desperately hard cock. Soft finger pads grazed his balls before she pulled away completely. He watched her reflection retreat toward the bed.
“On your back, darling.” She swept the box to the floor, patting the plush duvet. She stood at the foot of the bed expectantly as he processed what she was saying. He scrambled on to the bed, shuffling upward toward the headboard. Thea chuckled, eyes sparkling as she took him in, thighs already spread.
“Go on,” she sat primly on the edge of the mattress. Her next words sent an unreasonable amount of blood rushing southward as her eyes raked over his body, “touch yourself.”
His teeth grazed his lower lip as he reached up to roll his nipple between his fingers. His eyes were trained on her. His chest heaved as each touch dragged lace featherlight against him. He tugged at the bra, leaving his nipple rock hard underneath. The fabric snapped back against his skin when he didn’t release it right away.
“Good?” Thea breathed, lips parted as she watched him repeat the action on the other side. He couldn’t speak, only let out a muffled moan in the affirmative. Brown skin darkened and puckered as he continued. He fought the urge to cant his hips upwards, instead dragging his thighs together, pressing them tight. He sighed, finally allowing his eyes to flutter shut as they rolled back.
His hand once more tickled its way over his abs, fingers leaping over taut skin as his head lolled to the side.
“Go on.” Thea urged, and he felt the mattress shift as she moved closer. He groaned deep in his chest as he reached under his waistband. The caress of lace over his knuckles made his hand spasm over his overheated length.
“Not gonna last long?” She teased as his hand moved too quickly over himself.
“Nngh-” He replied intelligently, face heating as his eyes screwed shut, his balls tightening. He wrenched his eyes open, once more sucking in a surprised gasp as he found Thea watching, cheeks flushed and eyes trained on his hand. “Fuck, don’t look at me like that.” He whimpered.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re gonna lick if off of me after.” His hand tightened, unfair as it avoided his sensitive head.
“I’m going to.” She replied.
That did it. He only lasted a few more pumps, vicious and tight. His stomached caved as he came, just three milky stripes escaping to paint upward toward his bellybutton.
Thea didn’t wait for him to relax, or withdraw his hand. Her tongue was on him, eyes wide and watching him as she cleaned his sweat-beaded skin.
No sound escaped him, though he was certain his mouth once more formed the necessary components for one last blasphemous oath.
With a Cheshire grin, Thea crawled over him. Her lips descended on his, soft and plush, and she murmured against his mouth, “Good boy.”
FIN
Initially I wasn't going to post this to Tumblr but I just... thought you all would enjoy it. I'm horrifically embarrassed.
