Scratch Marks
For the anon that asked for 141 + Alejandro, and the team reacting to scratch marks on their back made by reader...I made Soap the main instigator. Enjoy!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 + Alejandro Vargas x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): suggestive themes, nudity, swearing, referencing past sexual acts, teasing
Word Count: 1k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
It’s rare, but it happens. Missions don’t always progress the way you want, the outcomes diverting from the plans, leaving Price and his team stranded. Humans are unpredictable. They’re funny that way.
Which is why they’re laying low, taking refuge in an abandoned farmhouse in the English countryside. There are no roads, not paved, anyway. No one will come looking for them here.
“Water still works,” comes Kyle’s voice. “Surprising with no power. Think they’d cut this place off.”
Price removes his shirt, groaning. It’s filthy. Covered in blood. Not his but the fabric’s stiff. He doesn’t want to sleep in it.
“Steaming Jesus, Captain. What happened to your back?” chortles Johnny. Price starts to form a reply but the man keeps going. “You shag that lass at the pub?”
“Johnny,” warns Simon.
“Gaz!” Johnny shouts. “Come here and see Captain’s back!”
“Sergeant,” sighs Price, turning to glare at Johnny, only to discover his back as he chats away at Kyle.
“You remember? That bonnie thing Price kept eyeing?” From the corner, Simon snorts, head resting on his pack, eyes closed behind the mask as he stretches out on his sleeping bag.
“Scratch marks,” guffaws Johnny. “Fucking bright pink.”
“Sergeant!”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Kyle hisses between his teeth, back stinging as he inspects himself in the mirror. He’s alone in the communal showers—as alone as he can be. Ghost and Soap are in here, too, but they’re behind their own respective curtains.
He lightly probes the tender marks. None are bleeding, but they’re only scratches. They’re just raw and haven’t scabbed over properly. Your nails didn’t cut all that deep, leaving behind thin raised lines that are slightly darker than his skin.
There are a fuck ton though. When he was balls deep, Kyle didn’t think much of it at the time. The pain from your nails was distant. All he knew was how tight and wet your pussy was.
“Kyle!” Johnny’s voice startles. Kyle pivots quickly, finding his teammate half-in, half-out of the shower. “Can you—what is that?”
Kyle blinks, confused. “What?”
Johnny’s surprise becomes wicked glee. “On your back.” He laughs. “You fucker.” He steps out, completely naked, yanking back Simon’s curtain. “Ghost!”
“Fucking hell, Johnny!” snarls Simon.
“Did you know Kyle had a shag last night?”
Simon’s hand connects with Johnny’s face, pushing him backward. “Fuck off,” he growls, yanking the shower curtain shut. “And good for him.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“Let us see, Johnny.”
“Yeah. You’re always having a go at us.”
Johnny won’t turn. He won’t. Any other time he might show off, flaunt the scratch marks, boast about his dick and how good he fucks, but they’ve caught him unawares. Snuck right up and cornered him. They’ll get nothing from him.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” shrugs Johnny. Leaning in, he wiggles his eyebrows at Simon. “If you want me to drop my towel, all you have to do is ask.”
Simon’s mouth quirks but otherwise sustains his stoic nature. “Cute, Johnny.”
“What’s the matter?” asks Kyle. “Embarrassed?”
“No—” Kyle reaches forward and lightly slaps Johnny’s left shoulder, making contact with the fresh scratch marks. “Fuck!” Johnny swats at Kyle’s hand. “That fucking hurt.”
“Still fresh,” laughs Kyle, observing his fingers. “Still bleeding.”
“Are you hiding her, Johnny?” teases Simon. “Not interested in sharing?”
Fuck.
This might be their private showers and workout space, but Johnny doesn’t really want to share you, even though Simon is right. You are here, hiding.
Simon’s gaze drops to Johnny’s dick and then flicks back up. “That’s pussy slick.” He points at Johnny’s crotch. “Hair’s wet, too.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
As Simon removes his shirt, smothered laughter erupts behind him. The wheeze is Johnny, face likely going red as he attempts to breathe. The cough-snort is Kyle. No question. Simon takes a steadying breath before depositing the sweat-soaked shirt onto the bench.
He turns, finding the two men desperate for air. “What?” he growls. Johnny’s face grows redder and Kyle hides his face in his hands. “Spit it out.”
“Your back,” Johnny manages between clenched teeth. He chokes on his next breath and it all falls apart. They can’t hold it in, falling into hysterical laughter. “Have it off with a cat?”
The image of you under him, legs spread, pussy stretched and perfectly taking his cock instantly rises, enveloping Simon in a lecherous embrace.
“Something like that,” answers Simon.
Johnny crouches, arms up, hands curled like a pretend monster. He makes a strangled meow while scratching the air.
“Soap,” laughs Kyle. “Christ, mate.”
Simon simply stares at them, outwardly unamused, but not on the inside. “Knock it off.”
Johnny switches to an imitation of a feminine voice, volume rising. “Oh, Simon,” he sing-songs. “Harder. HARDER!”
Kyle and Johnny devolve into fits, attempting to moan dramatically but only sounding strangled.
Alejandro Vargas
“Shouldn’t let the others see.”
Alejandro turns his head, finding Rudy leaning against the locker next to his. He’s already dressed and ready, but Rudy is always punctual, which means early.
“Let the others see what?” asks Alejandro.
Rudy’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. He tilts his head to the side, gaze pointedly on Alejandro back, to the accumulation of scratch marks. Lingering a moment, Rudy slowly shifts his gaze back to Alejandro.
“Those,” he indicated with a nod of his head. “It’s all they’ll talk about for weeks.”
Alejandro snorts, rolling his eyes, putting on a fresh shirt before adding the rest of his uniform. “They won’t.”
“They will,” insists Rudy. “Give you hell about it, too.”
“Like you are? Right now?”
Rudy doesn’t take the bait. “Which one was it?”
Alejandro sighs. “Does it matter?”
Rudy shrugs. “Marked you up good. A few look deep.”
Not surprising. Alejandro goes home with prostitutes because there aren’t any strings, and you, his favorite of the bunch, always go with him. For the money, yes, but also for his large cock and how he uses it. The scratch marks are evidence.
“You know which one,” answers Alejandro.
Rudy’s smile widens.
