My name is Cassius, Cass, Cassy whatever you like and welcome to my ranch! We encourage pondering, yearning, and loving ‘round these parts. I don't write things a minor shouldn't see so minors can interact and read my works!11! Inbox is always open unless I say otherwise. I’m open to chat, laugh, and talk. Taking reqs rn so send them innn!1!!1
Everything abt my gender, labels, etc can be found here ⬇️
DNI: Radfems, Ableists, Trump supporters, Racists, Conservatives, Pro-life, Neo-Nazis, transphobes, neutral/pro-AI, any other kind of Bigots and POSs
@S0URK1TT13S goes by Cass and uses He/him, They/them, Xe/Xim pronouns.
More about meee
Im a black, queer, neurodivergent person. Im genderfluid but primarily remain around a masculine presenting gender on the spectrum. I enjoy science, literature, anime, etc. I would love to answer asks about any OCs or AUs my lovely brain creates.
My fav cod characters are Price, Gaz, and Alejandro. I mainly write for 141 though. I might branch out in the future once my skills on the ranch(writting) get better. I do this for fun and myself. Meaning, I don’t post every day or when YOU would like me to. If I have nothing to write, I don’t.
Ranch Rules
Yeighs(things that are okay)
Asks(as long as they are not intrusive or rude)
Oc rants and yumeships like PLEASEE PLEASE PLEASE do this
Drawing or getting inspo from my ocs and such
x Reader
Character x character
Oc x character
Neighs(things that wont slide)
Rude asks
Being rude to anons
Non-constructive criticism
Dark content(dub-con, incest, noncon)
Mis gendering
Racism
Conservatism
Homophobia
Sexism
Ableism of any kind on this blog!!
ANY use of AI, like c.ai, ChatGPT, etc
Reposting my work anywhere or “finishing” MY works
I want my works on Tumblr and Tumblr only
Tag Guide
#Cass’s kitchen talks- asks or rants
#Cass’s children- ocs I’ve made or ocs sent into me
#Cass’s vlog- daily stuff I want to rant abt in my personal life
#Cass’s creations- works done by mee
#Cass the reseller- my reblogs
#Cass’s scenes- short posts that describe interactions with OCs or canon characters
#Cass’s quick notes- quick ideas that will be formed into full fic works later depending if people fw it or not
You'd been on his team for some years now, integrated so much so that you hardly remember a time you weren't part of his team.
You followed him faithfully, and Laswell had commented that you followed him almost blindly. You were a good solider, and Price doted on you. Sometimes more than professional courtesy allowed.
Until Graves arrived.
The Commander came on a blistering Las Almas afternoon, a man wrapped up in confidence and American exceptionallism. He flashed a grin as he shook Price's outstretched hand, eyes quickly taking in the Task Force, and zeroing in on you.
"My, if your Captian told me you'd be here I would'a got here much sooner." He crowed, and your face burned at the sudden attention from Graves and the Task Force, gazes burned into your skull. "What's your name, Sugar?"
Before your lips could even part, Price stepped in front of you, previously welcoming demeanor turning icy.
"Don't even think about it." Price warned, voice close to a growl. "That's one of my own."
His defense warmed your body. He was your Captian, your protector. You would give anything for him.
Graves held his hands up placatingly, raising his brows. "No harm intended, Captian. Didn't know they were already taken."
You furrowed your brows. "Taken? We're not together." You defended, and the cold look Price gave you over his shoulder made you hold your tounge.
"You gotta let the bird out of the cage, can't keep 'em cooped up forever, Cap." Graves said, newfound vigor in his expression "Someone may want to let them out of their cage. I'll see ya'll around."
The gazes of your brothers in arms followed Graves as he departed, but the blonde gave no indication that he was concerned or disheartened.
"What a wanker." Gaz said, scrunching his nose up. "Barely stepped of the plane before putting eyes on you."
Soap chorteled something next to him in agreement, but your focus was on Price. His jaw was tight, chest rising and falling as if he had just finished a run. And his eyes, usually warm and brown, were dark.
"10 minutes. My office." Price commanded, fixing that stormy gaze on you, and the underlying fury in his tone made you tremble.
"Yes, Captian." You replied quietly.
Price gave a curt nod, then walked off with a shake of his head.
"You've don it now bonnie." Soap said, patting your shoulder comfortingly. "Told the old man we should've locked ye up, just too damn pretty."
"Lock it up, Sergeant." Ghost said, quick to check him. "Take Gaz and inventory the gear."
Soap gives a groan, but the two Sergeant's step away, leaving you alone with your Lieutenant.
Ghost towers over you as he puts a large hand on your shoulder, the same spot Soap had his.
"Price isn't mad at you, luv. Just that wanker. He's always had a soft spot for you."
You nod, comforted by his words. "Thanks, Lt."
Ghost shakes his head, retreating to the door. "Be careful.", He said, before leaving you to mull your thoughts in silence.
Price had been so defensive over Graves, and you had never seen that side of him before. Perhaps you weren't the only devoted member of the team.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “There she is.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
It’s the morning that Johnny leaves for deployment. It’s a bit sad but also routine. It was early in the day that the sun hadn’t broken the dark night sky. He gently kissed the side of the head before heading out. Johnny thought that hopefully this would’ve been the last time he had to do this as he held the ring box in his hand. He planned to give it to you when he came back.
The sun gently shines through the curtains and onto your face. It’s a quiet morning as if the birds knew what was going on and wanted to give you time to process everything. Bed sheets wrinkled and wrapped around you tightly to mimic Johnny’s embrace.
You just waved goodbye to the love of your life for god knows how long. But Johnny promised, “I’ll always come back to you love. No matter what happens.” And he did come back to you every single time. Either dirty and grimy or freshly tidied up to see you.
Except this time, he came home looking the very best you’ve seen him it felt foreign. His suit looked nice along with the flowers he came with. The wood of his casket complimented his skin perfectly.
Johnny is your best friend in the whole world. You’ve known him forever and he’s known you forever. So why do you feel such jealousy toward him.
You don’t even know what you’re jealous of exactly. Every time you’re with him, your chest burns with a desire for something about him. You just have an underlying feeling of wanting. It’s something that you feel awfully guilty about.
You’re not as slick as you think you are though. Johnny picked up on it a long time ago. The longing stares at his facial hair, the flex of his muscles, the deepness of his voice. He’s honestly shocked you haven’t realized it yet yourself. Guess it’s about time he helps you figure it out.
It’s sparring matches and today just isn’t your day. You’re distracted and everyone can tell. It’s the fourth time you’ve been thrown on your back by one of your comrades and Price is obviously pissed. Just as your captain begins to walk over and tear you a new one, Johnny places a hand on his chest to stop him. “Let me handle ‘er, Cap.” He gives Price that cheeky grin that can lighten up anyone’s mood.
Just as you’re about to call it quits and hide out in the medbay, Johnny steps up to the mat and gets ready to spar. Begrudgingly, you also mimic his stance. You’re circling each other anticipating who’s gonna do what, when, and how. You really don’t want to fight but you know damn well Johnny isn’t gonna let a half-assed effort come out of you. Right before he pounces on you, he says something that catches you so off guard. “There is no way out of this. So c’mon boy, show me you’re a real man under there.”
The fight is wild and breathtaking. With every blow dealt Johnny’s words echo right behind them. You feel invigorated right now. There’s no way out but through. And you’ll grit your teeth through it all.
Me when I want a relationship but also don’t want one. But I don’t want to be alone. But mistake platonic love for romantic. And romantic for platonic. But continuously ask myself if I loved my past partners platonically since they were my friends at first, or was that my love language.
But I also go through periods of time where nobody looks attractive to me and the concept of interacting with others is so unbearable. But then for other periods of time I’m filled with so much hope and love for others that I want to express through my lips.
I am unfortunately losing interest in COD. My life is getting hectic and unbearable. Maybe I will return when the fixation hits me again. I love all my fellow ranchers so much and wish the best for my moots. I don’t think I’ll quit per se. I think I’ll just take a break.
Thank you for all the likes, reblogs, comments, and interactions that kept me going. I love you all very much. Goodbye
It’s the morning after. The curtains let in a bit of sunlight. All you can hear is your breathing and the clock ticking. Just you and four white walls.
It’s the morning after. Everything feels so still despite the activity happening downstairs. You can hear Price on the phone with Laswell. You can hear the heavy footsteps of Simon as he returns from wherever. You can hear Kyle coming to your greet him back.
It’s the morning after. You still can hear it. You can still hear the gunshot.
It’s the morning after. Yet, you can’t hear Johnny.
