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billthedrake · 10 months ago

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HALL PASS

Story idea from @aestheticsupremacy

It was still summer warm as the two lacrosse jocks walked across campus after practice. Brian was going on about the chick he had a date with late that evening and was teasing Jake.

"Dude... if you ever wanted pussy, you'd be so set. Girls fucking love gay guys."

Jake laughed, his blond hair still on the lighter side from summer beach time. He and the star attacker got along great because they never BS-ed each other. "Bro, I don't think it works that way," he said, flashing his dimples. "Besides, I think all those sorority girls want a gay pal they can go to the clubs with. I can't dance worth shit."

"You can't," Brian grinned. "You got the moves on the field but, fuck..."

Both guys laughed as they entered the residence hall, one of the nicer ones where a lot of the athletes lived.

"Hey Jake!" the student worker at the front desk said when he saw the two jocks. "Some mail came for you."

"Mail?" he asked as the walked up to the desk. Normally, mail got delivered to their mailboxes, which Jake didn't check regularly. Who the fuck sends mail these days anyway, other than advertisers?

The desk guy nodded. "Yeah, certified or something. Looks important." He reached over and pulled out a document sized cardboard envelope.

"Hey, I'll catch ya later, Hoss," Brian said as he bumped fists with his teammate buddy.

"Yah," Jake said, then looked back down at the envelope. There was a familiar return address. It was his dad's work. Jake's father was a high-powered executive - not Fortune 500 but CFO for a top financial firm. Leave it to Dad to send paperwork in hard copy. Jake tried to rack his brain to guess what document was so urgent, but maybe it was some school form he needed to sign. Maybe Jake should take more responsibility for those things, but his dad tended to look after the details.

"Thanks, Mitch," he told the desk guy, then went to the elevators to go up to his room.

It was quiet in his room, since his roommate had taken off Thursday afternoon to go home for a long weekend. He got along well with Ed, a varsity baseball player, but they weren't real tight. And Jake liked having the alone time and privacy sometimes.

The lacrosse jock set down his phone and keys and shook his head with a chuckle as he opened the envelope. "You're so fucking old school, Dad," he said aloud. "I love it."

It wasn't a form inside, but instead there was a linen-white stationary with his Dad's company logo and his father's name and title embossed. "From the Desk of Steven J. Weir."

It was what was printed below that made Jake's heart stop.

"Dear Mr. Wier:

This letter serves as official notice that Jacob Peter Weir has his father's permission to have sex as often as he likes and with whomever he likes, from the date of August 20, 2023 to May 14, 2024. This arrangement will be extended in subsequent years unless the two parties renegotiate their terms.

sincerely,

Steve Weir"

There was his father's recognizable wide, cursive signature, undoubtedly written with one of his favorite blue-ink fountain pens that his family had given him for Christmas.

Jake was rock hard. "Fuck," he hissed.

Only then did he realize there was something else in the envelope. He reached in and pulled out three photographs, each 8x10 glossy portraits of this father. They were different poses of his dad in business attire, like professional headshots for a company website or something.

"Got your package," the jock texted his father.

It took a second but then a message came up from Dad: "You able to Facetime?"

Jake got a big grin as he hit the dial button to video call his father. His heart jumped a little as the image filled his phone screen. His dad was in his C-suite office and looking handsome as fuck in his tailored suit as his own horny grin matched his son's.

"Hey Sport," he said. "Looking good." He leaned back in his swivel chair and angled the phone to give Jake a better view of his suited upper body. He had a good knowledge by now of what pushed his boy's buttons.

"You too Dad," the jock hissed, reaching down to paw his crotch again. "I can't believe it's only been 24 hours since I've seen your face... fuck."

His father laughed. Because Steve felt the same way. He knew it would be hard when Jake went off to college, but he was going through sexual withdrawal in addition to the normal empty nest syndrome.

Only now his bright smile got a hint of nervousness. "What did you think of what I sent you, son?"

Jake felt that constriction in his throat. Sorta like the first time he knew he was gonna fuck his dad... that combination of sheer horniness and disbelief it was gonna happen.

"You know, Dad," the 19-year-old smirked, "A hall pass isn't an actual piece of paper."

Steve's brown eyes seemed bright. Happy. Excited. "I wanted to make it official. For you. For us." The exec was definitely getting that bedroom voice, and Jake could tell by the movement in his dad's upper body that the man was reaching down to unzip and haul out his cock.

For his part Jake tugged down his shorts with one hand to free his junk, which was firming up real fucking fast. His father had given him the encouragement to freeball it, and it was now Jake's preferred way of casual dress. It made him feel free and sexual.

Jake prided himself on the sexual confidence he'd learned to project with his dad, but times like this he still felt unsure, deep down. "I told you, Dad. I don't need to have sex with other guys."

"You're 18, Sport," his dad said resolutely. "A college kid should be spreading his wings."

Jake got a playful grin. His right hand was working up and down his bone while his left hand held the phone. "You really want me to fuck other guys?" he asked. Pointed. Challenging.

Steve shook his head no. "Honestly, no. I don't. But I want you to lead the life that's going to make you happy." His own fist was working up and down in his lap. "I want you to become your own man, Jakey."

Something about that nickname drove the jock wild. He felt a spurt of precum in his palm. "You think sending me 8x10 glossies is gonna make me happy," he hissed. Jake's tone was halfway between a statement and a question.

Steve loved watching his son get in horndog mode. He'd like to think he passed that on to Jake genetically, but something about the kid's sex drive seemed innate. And all Jake.

The exec's voice got low and gravely. "You tell me, son. Did they make you happy?"

Jake just let go of his prick and angled his phone down to capture the hard teen bone that stood up long and rigid. "This is the reaction those pics got." He pulled the phone back up to see the amused and pleased look on his father's face.

"I'm glad," Steve said. Then with a pause, he angled the phone to show Jake his own fatherly prick, standing out from his unzipped suit.

"I wish I could suck that, Dad," Jake said, enjoying the freedom to talk aloud like this. "I wish I was there right now."

"You primed for some office sex, Sport?"

"Fuuuckk, Dad." Jake's fist was now steadily pumping his jock bone. "I'm still pissed off you won't let me fuck you there."

That got a laugh out of his father. The 49-year-old was even more handsome when he smiled. "You're a spoiled brat, you know that?"

"Fuck yeah I am," Jake shot back, getting into the zone with the teasing sex talk with his father. It came to them so fucking easily. "Something about nailing your dad regularly will make you that way."

That got a soft growl from the executive, and Jake watched as his father reached up to flip his tie over the shoulder of his suit coat, getting it out of the way.

"Damn, you gonna cum on your shirt today, Dad?"

Steve shook his head. "Hopefully not... but just in case. You get me so worked up, Sport." Off screen Jake knew his father had gone back to stroking his hard dick.

"So, Dad... if I take you up on that hall pass... what are you gonna do?"

"Whaddya mean, Jakey?"

"I mean..." the teen's own fist was working up and down his cock. "Does that mean you get a hall pass, too?"

"That's not part of the deal," Steve said, his brown eyes now wide with excitement. "But Buddy... I honestly don't know how I'm gonna get through this year. I guess I'll be doing a lot more of what I'm doing right now."

That got a matching growl from his son, whose hand moved faster and faster on his prick. "A fucking waste of dad cum."

That got a grin from Steve. "You like my sperm, huh, Jakey?"

"Can't get enough, Dad," came the immediate response. For a confident top when it came to fucking, Jake loved to taste his dad's prick and to eat his father's semen. When he wasn't sucking his dad off, he'd be licking the cum off the man's well-fucked body.

The jock felt another spurt of precum when his Dad brought the phone down close to his crotch, that solid, thick seven incher sticking out from the unzipped suit trousers.

"That's my dad," Jake growled. He'd have to find a way to have phone sex more often.

"Wanna cum for me, Jakey?" Steve asked, his voice signaling he was already on the edge.

"Nah," the jock said. "Hold off one second," he urged. He set down the phone and stripped off his T-shirt and kicked away his lax shorts. He then angled the phone just right on his desk and stepped back. Even from the distant view, he could see his dad's face will up the phone screen.

"Damn..." Steve growled. "That's my boy."

Jake felt fully alive, head to toe, as he stroked his cock and showed off for his father. He knew he was a good looking stud, with a great toned, athletic body. But his father's approval made him feel that much studlier.

"So Dad..." the teen asked. "If I used that hall pass, you wanna hear about the guys?"

"I don't know, Sport," Steve said with visible mixed feelings. "I'll let that be your call, OK?" He watched his son intently, as if it was the last chance he'd see Jake naked and hard. "I almost didn't send it," he confessed.

That made his son grin and Jake removed his fist from his dick, showing off the erection by swinging it side to side. "Yeah? It was so fucking hot to read it, Dad. You know, that you'd even send it."

"I'm glad, Jake," came Steve's reply.

"We're you hard writing it?" the son asked.

Steve's voice got soft and low. "I was, son."

"You want me spreading my wings in college, huh?" Jake's hand resumed its stroke. He really wanted his dad to cum first today but he didn't know if he'd be able to hold off.

Fortunately, Steve was getting into the zone now. Jake could only see his face, not his cock or masturbating fist, but he recognized that horny tone in his father's voice. "God, Jakey, you're such a fucking stud... seems wrong if you can't enjoy college a little, you know?"

Jake grinned, getting into a slow stroke that seemed to keep things on the boil without erupting over. "Maybe I'll line up some hot coach to fuck... but you know if I do, I'll be thinking of you the whole time, Dad."

That got an audible groan from Steve. Which only encouraged Jake to go further.

"Yeah, I'll be balls deep in some daddy ass and have to shut my eyes so I can think of my father... of fucking you..."

"Yes," Steve hissed. He was getting closer to cumming.

"of bending my dad over his office desk and pulling down those suit pants of yours..."

"You're not gonna stop pestering till you get that will ya, Jakey?"

"No, sir. I wanna get my way. Nail you hard to that expensive desk of yours... in your expensive suit... to thank you for all that expensive tuition you paid over the years."

This was new territory for the Weirs. They'd never talked about money, other than some of Steve's jokes about how much Jake's private school cost and some practical dad-son talks about personal finance. But Jake was bringing it into the sex talk and both men were surprisingly turned on by it.

"FUCCK!" Steve cried a half second before choking his reaction to be quieter in his office.

"Go for it, Dad!" the lacrosse jock said more openly. He stepped up closer so he could see his dad's face as he rode out an intense orgasm. "Nice!"

Steve's face was flush red as he caught his breath. "Goddamn, I needed that," he said. Then playfully he tilted his phone down. Huge splotches of his pearly white seed dotted his dress shirt after all.

"Cumming!" Jake cried, unable to hold by his ejaculation now. Steve had to look, had to watch his Jakey in full nut. It was just a beautiful sight. The only thing more beautiful was watching Jake orgasm as he was buried deep inside his father.

"Attaboy, Sport," he encouraged. "Goddamn, that's a huge nut."

Jake grinned as he felt the aftershocks. Playfully, he squeezed out dribbles from his long piece of jock meat and brought it up to his lips to taste. Not his dad's but a second best. Jake just loved the flavor of cum.

He could now tell his father was wiping off the cum from his shirt and his cock before pulling the phone back.

"That was incredible," Steve said.

"I'll say. I'll have to thank Rich for giving me the free time," Jake laughed.

"Is he away?"

Jake nodded. "All weekend. Maybe we can go long and deep this weekend, you know, edge a little."

Steve grinned. "I'll try, Sport.... awful hard to last with you, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Jake agreed.

His Dad seemed happy and yet sad at the same time. "Listen, I should go."

"Yeah," Jake said. "I need some dinner."

"I miss ya, Sport," Steve said. "So much."

"Miss ya too, Dad."

****

Steve felt nervous all Saturday. Jake had suggested they wait till later in the day for phone sex. The father tried to kill time with household chores and a super long session at the gym.

"You're a fucking mess, Steve," he said to himself as he drove home from the fitness center where he'd been spending a lot more time since the divorce and especially since he and Jake started fooling around. It felt wrong to be so attached to his own son, and yet he was.

There was a package on his front porch. FedEx Saturday delivery. Steve picked it up.

"What the fuck?" Steve laughed as he saw his son's dorm as the return address. "That little bugger."

As he opened the door and stepped in, the man squished the sides of the plastic package-envelope. It was soft inside. Steve opened the end with the pull tab.

As he pulled out the fabric, Steve Weir recognized the shorts immediately. They were a well-worn pair of Jake's high school lacrosse shorts. Wadded inside was a worn jock strap.

"Jesus," Steve hissed with excitement. Maybe Jake wanted him to have these for their session today. Or maybe this was just for the times it was Steve, alone in his bedroom, imagining a grown son who wasn't there with him.

Either way, Steve knew both the shorts and the jock were gonna be crusted with his own cum before long.

It was only after a second that he noticed scraps of paper on the floor. They'd fallen out, hand torn.

Steve immediately sensed what they were, and a quick look confirmed it. It was the hall pass he'd sent Jake.

"Man, buddy," he said aloud in the quiet room as he pulled out his phone. He had to call his son.

"Hey Dad"

"Oh, Jakey..." Steve said.

"You got it."

"Yeah, I got it," his dad replied. "You're not doing this just to make me happy are you?"

"Maybe," Jake said. "But not really. I don't know, Dad. I just realized I'd rather have blue balls than fuck a substitute you, you know?"

"Sport, that's the most fucking romantic thing anyone's ever said to me," Steve beamed.

That made his son laugh. "Yeah, that's me, one romantic fucker... just promise me one thing, Dad."

"Anything," Steve said.

"We gotta find away to see each other through the semester. Yeah, I know you want me to go off and be my own man. But I can't wait till Thanksgiving. For real, Dad."

"Yeah, we'll make it happen. I'll come down next week. And fly you up whenever you want. Promise." This was a backpedal from the promises Steve made himself when Jake went off, but he realized he was happy changing his stance.

"Cool. God, Dad, I love you."

"Love you too, Jakey," Steve said. He looked down at the scraps of paper and everything they represented. "And son... next time you're here, I'll let you fuck me on my desk."

#drakestories

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angie-the-spider · 5 months ago

Note

(We cut to Angel dust in a sleezy bar, trying to relax after a hard day at the Studio. As he’s trying to relax He hears somebody walk on stage, it’s the owner of the bar, he says)

“Howdy Everyone hope yall are having a good time, we got some Live music Tonight! Now presenting Lenard! And the Sleezeballs!

(Angel then sees a Handsome man walk on stage with a Small little Band and with the Voice of a menacing Elvis Presley he shouts)

“HEY BOYS Y’ALL READY TO HAVE A FUCKIN GOOD TIME?!? WELL LETS START THIS SHOW THEN! UH… 1 2 3 4!”

(The Sleezy band starts playing rowdy Country music for a few hours, and at the End, they end off the show with Mojo Nixon’s “Redneck Rampage”. The whole bar goes nuts! People are throwing shit around the bar and Fighting! After the Show the Lead singer of the band sits down at the bar, He’s wearing a Purple and Green striped button-up shirt and ratty blues-jeans with Muddy and Bloodied Boots. He orders a whole bottle of high-shelf whiskey and proceeds to drink half the bottle in one “sip” he then looked over to Angel and asked in a characteristic manner)

“Hey hoss Want some? It’s the good shit.”

(angel grins before shrugging) “ah why not! Aint got nothin better in this shit joint. Thanks babe~”

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talesfrommedinastation · 1 year ago

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My redneck neighbor Doug on Tech's Looks

(Me: "Doug, so you know, a lot of people are unhappy that the Bad Batch was made to be lighter then the regs. It's a hot topic."

Doug: "Well, here's my theory on the matter. I hope the kids on the Internet (his words for Tumblr) don't get too spicy over this. It's all in good fun. I hope it makes 'em smile and think a bit.")

After having a firm, peer-reviewed discussion (and by that, I mean endless texts with Doug) it has been concluded that Tech has lighter skin and hair, and a slimmer build, due to the Kaminoans leaning harder into the hillbilly part of Jango Fett’s genes, whereas the regs got the nicer, prettier, more amenable genes.

In short, Tech looks the way he does…because he is a blue-collar white guy from the American South.

A Florida redneck, specifically.

And let me (by way of Doug) tell you: rednecks do not have beautiful tans, flawless fades, snatched waists, muscular thighs, diamond-sharp cheekbones, the ability to follow directions, or perfect matching armor, all of which a reg has.

(Sorry, Howser, go back to guarding Ryloth or posing for GQ or whatever it is you do.)

Back to Tech. Look at that man and tell me the shit he gets up to would not be constantly at the top of r/floridaman

A lot of people might clutch their pearls, and be shocked at this revelation.

“He has a fancy accent! He’s persnickety about certain things! He’s my fancy pretty boi and I’m going to dress him up in a gold thong in my fan art!”

You do you, kid. But let Doug and his neighbor here, Dr. Meat Muffin, defend this deranged argument, here. Using anthropological research applying autoethnographic methodologies that they conducted independently at one point.

(By that, we mean that Doug is from the bayous of Louisiana and has lived in the Florida Panhandle before moving Up North. Dr. MM attended graduate school in a redneck hot zone, lived in said redneck hot zone for a while, and married a Texan as well. Hook 'em gig 'em and wreck 'em)

After all, if you want an army to win over the galaxy and work with the Jedi, you want well-mannered, shiny, handsome men with melanin and agreeable personalities.

You do not want a pale-assed weirdo in jeans and a receding hairline who can’t get off his phone to work closely with orphaned space wizards.

Tech’s an anarchic Floridian piece of tornado bait and that’s why he look the way he do, says Doug.

Here's why Doug says Tech is a Redneck:

Mandalorians are Space Rednecks: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Trx7fDdlIo0. I do not own the rights to the video, but my God, it is perfection. A masterpiece. Mandalorians are rednecks in space, who end up colonizing Space Florida, no questions asked. Our theory is Tech is merely the concentrated, Waffle House-fistfighting, chew-dipping, Mountain Dew chugging, part of that. The Kaminoans just leaned into the trailer park part of Jango Fett hard when designing Tech, because no one can fix cars while shooting a gun and yelling at his crazy brothers like a redneck (more on that below).

Hell, all of the Bad Batch are different brands of Florida Man:

Grizzled long haired tan guy with skull tattoo, obsessed with tracking, knife fighting, and hiding from normal society? Hunter.

Bald tanned dude with weird scars who loves blowing shit up and screaming for no reason? Wrecker

Pale, freaked out man who was kept in a cult’s closet for years? Echo

Creepy, old, Second Amendment loving white guy with a gun themed tattoo who can’t seem to die? Crosshair

Maladjusted orphan left behind at a bar by her inexperienced caretakers and almost drowns in the ocean? Omega

His love of vehicles: We never see Tech whip out a manual to fix anything. The man says it’s because he has an exceptional mind, but that’s edging dangerously close to “Ah don’t need no schoolin’, hoss, I can fix any Ford!”. Doug thinks it’s just because Tech loves playing with car parts, which is some grade A, hillbilly tomfoolery. And what is more redneck than some white guy ripping apart a vehicle in the dirt while the rest of his family bitches at each other in the heat? It happened right here in Season 2 (this exact scenario has played out many-a-time in Pensacola, trust me). All they need is some Lynyrd Skynyrd blasting in the background to make the picture complete.

His clothing color scheme: “Oh, no!” you wail. “He just changed his colors to reflect Mandalorian heritage!”

WRONG.

Tech’s redneckery is blatant here, because his colors switch from

Hot Topic goth to…UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA.

“We’re loyal to each other,” says Hunter. And by that, he means the Gators, beloved of many an NCAA following redneck in the Sunshine State and beyond. Orange and Blue, indeed.

Notice how we first see him in these colors, is while he’s parked his stolen work vehicle on a beach while his brothers are busy being chased by huge-ass crabs as their sister is quietly fishing?!

This is PEAK FLORIDA MAN.

Tech was probably trying to get ESPN+ to work on the Marauder, because the Devil works hard, but the SEC works harder during football season. I wonder if he has a tattoo of Tim Tebow on his buttcheek.

His home is his car: Tech, as well as his unemployed brothers and underaged sister who the cops are looking for (how trashy is THAT sentence), live in the Havoc Marauder now that their home was destroyed in a fire fight with the government.

("Jesus Christ, this argument just writes itself now, don’t it," -Doug)

This attack shuttle, for all intents and purposes, is a stolen work truck that they live in. It’s filled with posters of guns, as well as other weapons and explosives, and has all the comfort of a Jacksonville gas station at 2 AM. All you need is some cigarette burns on the fender and some empty take out bags from Bojangles and it might as well be parked down by the river in Suwannee County. Just Florida redneckery. Speaking of which….

He loves guns and explosions: Won’t go into detail, but the man knows how to use multiple pistols, rifles, and different tactile maneuvers with glee. Tech’s only notable complaint regarding explosions is making sure Wrecker’s new fancy boom-booms aren’t parked next to his bunk. And the look of calm joy when his sister tells his brother ‘Do some damage, Wrecker!’ as Tech pulls a Bo Duke and flings his vehicle across a locked up work site, while his deranged brother giggles and fires some guns at a government-owned power plant from the back seat. PURE. UNADULTERATED. REDNECK.

He’s a racer: It is a fact (with peer reviewed research) that rednecks really, really love them some racing. NASCAR, motocross, BMX, you name it. And if you’ve seen ‘Faster’, well, that’s all you need to know about the man.

He has no fear of large animals: We’ve never seen him hunt, but Tech knows how to distract massive amounts of nasty animals using light, and the first response to seeing a terrifying monster isn't running away screaming, but whispering ‘FASCINATING’., before, ya know, firing a gun at it. It’s one step away from ‘IT’S COMING RIGHT FOR US’. You KNOW that man would be sponsoring gator wrasslin' contests if he could.

His actions towards His family: This is where Tech truly differentiates himself from the typical ‘geek’ character and leans hard into King of the Hill territory. Whereas a normal nerd character might nag and panic when his sister falls down a hole while drilling for explosives in a cave (dear God Doug, how much more redneck examples can you keep pointing out, I’m exhausted), Tech merely YEETS HIMSELF down into the abyss. Or when his brother picks a fight in the mess hall? Does Tech run away, or just start punching people like it's past closing time in the Applebee's parking lot in Daytona and the Dolphins lost? And let's not discuss the season finale :(. Rednecks are some loyal folks, family first, and that’s our man’s right there.

There you have it, says Doug. Tech isn’t lighter because he’s better than the regs. The opposite.

You can not be a deranged, adrenaline filled, sassy, goggled weirdo flying throughout space and blowing shit up and not be pale AF with twiggy legs and a receding hairline that’s edging towards Hunter S. Thompson level, born out of America's Sunshine state while a hurricane chases you out.

::turns up ZZ Top::

#tbb #the bad batch #tech the bad batch #my neighbor doug #star wars theories #cajun doug #doug does star wars #thebadbatch #clone force 99 #redneck doug #rednecks in space #mandalorians #white washing #florida man #tech is florida man #guys i don't believe any of this #please don't hurt me #doug why #doug if the internet comes for me i know where you live

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gunslinginnhogtyin · 3 months ago

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CONTINUED. // @save-slot-a

The scar doesn’t go unnoticed by Butch; it really compliments his big gruff exterior and the smaller cowboy happens to find it quite handsome, especially when he smiles. An amused chuff leaves him at the man’s words.

“I should, but I’ve always been one t’take what I want. What can I say~?” He quips right back, looking awfully smug even as the larger fella practically boxes him in where he’s now seated. Oh wow, was it getting hotter in here or was it just him?

Now, the demon blooded cowboy expects the man to take his cigar back but what he doesn’t anticipate is for it to be popped right back into his mouth. A little surprised by the action, his fingers come up to pluck the cigar from his lips after taking another drag, smoke escaping his mouth as he speaks. “Y’might be a lil’ surprised t’hear I ain’t no stranger t’trouble,” He comments with a teasing tone, eyeing the man up and down unabashedly. “Big, strong, an’ hairy trouble though, that’s my favorite kind.” He purrs.

“Name’s Butch! But hell, y’can call me whatever y’want. What ‘bout you? Or should I jus’ call ya Hoss?”

#save slot a #monsterhouseparty #(AHHHHH he’s gettin a lil too SAUCY)#(I’m glad you also found that hilarious xD )

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yuco-the-alien116 · 1 year ago

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Such a handsome young robot!

#cam speaks #poll #name the character #oc

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palehorntea · 2 months ago

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A pair of handsome lads strolling though autumn!

Surprise-me Sketch for SmokeyGrayBear featuring Hoss!

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germ-t-ripper · 2 years ago

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26NOV22 Fresh out of the shower. Shaved my head and trimmed my beard

#gay bear #handsome bear #punk rock #punk #daddy bear #muscle bear #daddy #dad bod #tattoos #butch #hoss #bubba

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thatsprettylane · 9 months ago

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Tired of Bonanza pretending Hoss is ugly. Like yeah, he’s not pretty like Joe or handsome like Adam, but he’s a good looking man!

#dan blocker #bonanza #hoss cartwright #they do this constantly in westerns and it’s grrrr

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basingstokemercury · 7 months ago

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Hey Bonanza writers if you're going to make the one character who isn't conventionally attractive insecure about his looks maybe uh have others push back on that more often?

I got some examples together so you don't have to do the work of coming up with them :)

Ben: You're my son, Hoss. That makes you one of the three most handsome men in the world - and that's the opinion of the people who love you, which means it's the only one that matters. Adam: Of course you're not ugly. You look great, especially in that outfit! Joe: Hey! Don't you dare talk about my brother like that!

#hoping this gets addressed more at some point but given what body standards are often still like now I'm not hoping too high #well at least I can love them all #pondering the ponderosa

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 2 months ago

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Needles + Nightmares

Mac needs to get out of here. If only the room would stop spinning.

(A reboot retelling of MacGyver (1985) S1E11 Nightmares)

---

Jack is hungry. It's not a particularly new thing for him, but he isn't expecting it at three in the afternoon. Absently, he worries that he’s finally achieved true seniorhood and now requires dinner before four o’clock.

Then he realizes that he forgot to eat lunch, laughs, and rests well in the reassurance that he still has some youth left in him.

Jack calls Mac and is rewarded with a grumpy voice after one ring.

“What do you want?”

“Easy there, Cujo. What's with all the hostility?”

“Jack, you have called me nine times in the last seven hours.”

“Tenth call’s free, right?”

Mac ignores his hilarious joke. “Can I please have a real day off? Me resetting the password on your Netflix account isn't exactly a vacation.”

“We’re family, hoss. You don't get a break from that.”

“You know what I mean. I’d like to get through one book chapter without you interrupting.”

“Well, okay, here’s an idea,” Jack offers. “Howsabout I order a pizza to your place, and we can separately appreciate it while being in the same room? I promise I won't interrupt your book.”

“First, we both know that's a lie, and second, you can't because I’m not home. And who said anything about pizza?”

“I did. Just now. I’m hungry, and I didn't want to leave you out.”

“Please leave me out,” Mac gripes. “Dear god, please leave me o-” There’s rustling over the line. “Hey, what are you-?”

There’s yelling. Grunting.

“Mac?”

And then nothing.

“Mac??”

The line goes dead.

“Oh, you damn-” Jack has to physically restrain himself from chucking his phone into the wall. He only just replaced it from when Mac decided to duct tape his phone to the underbelly of a government drone. How and why that happened is beyond Jack. But he can't afford to buy another phone right now.

So instead, he uses the phone to call Mac again.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he chants, praying for a response.

By the time the third ring comes around, Jack hangs up and calls Riley.

“What do you want?”

“God, what is it with people today?” Jack might be panicked, but he still has other feelings. Disrespected being one of them. “Why can’t one person answer the phone with a, ‘Hey, Jack, how you doin’? You sound so handsome today! What can I do for you?’”

“Because you don’t live in a fantasy world, Jack. Because literally no one would say that. And because you’re constantly calling me for text-worthy problems. Unless someone is dead or dying, you don’t need to call.”

“Oh! Oh, well, guess what? Someone probably is dying!” And then the panic hits him all over again. “I, uh, I think someone attacked Mac, and now he won’t answer his phone. I need his location.”

“Looking now,” Riley replies, her voice lowered and all business. “I��ll call him too.”

“I already tried that.”

“Yeah, but maybe he’s just ignoring you.”

“He’s not-” Jack stops himself. He’s been a bit on the annoying side today, he will admit. And if it’s true that Mac is simply ignoring his calls, then that means everyone is safe and okay. Jack will take an angry but safe MacGyver over a potentially dead MacGyver any day of the week.

“His phone last connected to wi-fi one minute ago. Some coffee place in Silver Lake.”

“Mugsy’s?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. But, um, the signal went out. So either Mac broke his phone or-”

“Or someone else broke Mac’s phone. Got it.” Jack is already outside and climbing in his truck. “I’m on my way now.”

“I’ll call Matty.”

Jack almost stops her. Matty is bossy and overbearing and not just because she’s his boss. If this really is Mac ignoring him - which he doubts, but it’s possible - she’ll never let Jack hear the end of it.

But Jack knows Mac isn’t faking a kidnapping to avoid him. He wouldn’t.

“Okay. I’ll call you once I’ve checked out the coffee shop.”

“Cool.” There’s a long pause, during which Riley should hang up. But she doesn’t. “Be careful, Jack.”

“Sure thing, Riles. You too.”

---

It’s dark when Mac opens his eyes. He can barely make out the grimy windows and nondescript desk. Though, to be fair, Mac isn’t sure if it’s truly dark or if his vision is just blurry. The guys standing around him seem to see just fine.

“Nothing? Check his jacket too.”

Mac’s shoulders ache. Like someone got him right on the suprascapular nerves. He’s willing to bet someone did. He can’t remember much from the coffee shop, but that explanation sounds plausible enough.

A man shuffles around the room, digging through Mac’s jacket. He turns it inside-out and upside-down, checking every pocket and feeling the hems for lumps. Finally, he sighs. “List’s not on him.”

Another man, sitting at the desk across from Mac and clearly the evil mastermind of the group, steeples his fingers. “Care to tell me where it’s hidden, MacGyver?”

Mac isn’t sure how they got his name. He doesn’t even know who they are. But he does have a vague idea of what they’re looking for. Uber-secret spy stuff and all that. It’s just too bad that Mac’s really not allowed to say anything about it.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” He shrugs in a what can you do? gesture.

The evil guy stays still in an I’m not buying your story and I’m probably going to kill you gesture. “You see, Barrett,” he says to the man beside him, “Mr. MacGyver thinks he's a tough guy.” He hands Barrett a long blue strip of rubber. Mac has an idea about what that might be. He doesn’t like it.

“But,” Evil Guy continues, “even tough guys can be… ah, persuaded to speak.”

A man appears at Mac’s left side, strapping his arms to the chair. Barrett walks to his right side and rips his shirt sleeve up to his bicep.

“There are many methods I could use to get the information,” Evil Guy promises. “But this is my favorite.” He pulls a needle from the desk drawer.

Barrett ties the blue strip just above Mac’s elbow. His vein sticks out, and it’s then that he realizes just how much trouble he’s in.

“Hey, look, guys,” Mac hedges, wondering if he’s truly buying time for a rescue or if he’s just making this more painful than it needs to be. “I have this thing about needles.” The worst part is that he’s not completely lying. Sure, he can handle needles, but this is… It’s way too much.

“Here’s an idea,” Mac tries. “Why don’t you just try dripping water on my forehead?”

No one seems interested in this alternative.

“The old ‘rubber hose and bright light’ trick?”

Slowly, Evil Guy pulls a vial from the drawer and holds it up for Mac to see. But the joke is on him - Mac’s vision is still too blurry. He couldn’t see what was in the vial if he wanted to.

“Hypnotism!” Mac suggests hurriedly. “It’s been known to work!”

Evil Guy is unflinching. He stands and approaches Mac, stabbing the vial and drawing up the mystery drug. He pauses a moment, glancing at Mac’s arm. “You have good veins.”

Mac’s mouth goes dry. “Thank you.”

Evil Guy flicks the syringe a few times and brings the needle to Mac’s arm.

Mac can’t help it. It’s instinct. He shifts forward and tries to stand. “Aw, c’mon-”

A man grabs Mac from behind, his forearm digging into Mac’s throat.

The irony of it all is that Mac barely feels it. The needle is in and out in a few seconds. He swallows hard, trying not to think about what his heart is now pumping around his body.

“That burning sensation will disappear shortly,” Evil Guy promises, and Mac isn’t sure if the sudden stinging in his arm is real or made up by this new information.

Satisfied with his work, Evil Guy returns to his desk, sitting back in the chair. “This serum was handpicked for you, MacGyver. I’m sure you’re wondering about its effects.”

Which is very true. Mac is wondering very hard about that.

“At first, the serum causes disorientation, double vision, hallucinations,” Evil Guy explains. “When your mind clears in-” he hums in uncertainty “-roughly three hours, the pain will become excruciating. And if that doesn’t convince you to cooperate, well, there’s one more thing I particularly like about this drug.”

Mac thought the disorientation and pain were enough. What more is this guy referring to?

“It will kill you.”

Oh. Of course. Why hadn’t Mac guessed that?

“Of course, it can all be stopped,” Evil Guy assures him, “with this antidote.” He holds up a pill canister. “But if you don’t take the antidote in six hours, the serum is irreversible. Six hours, and you begin to die.”

Evil Guy looks at Barrett. “Begin countdown.”

Barrett nods, secures a watch to Mac’s wrist, and presses a button with a cheerful beep.

Mac glances down, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what the watch reads:

5 hours, 59 minutes.

And counting.

Evil Guy takes the pill from the canister and holds it out. “It’s your choice, MacGyver. To live, or to die?”

---

The coffee shop is almost completely vacant when Jack gets there. A couple patrons sit by the windows. Another sips his drink in a booth by the bathroom. A barista is behind the counter, both elbows on the register and face hidden in his hands. He looks like he could use a cup of coffee himself.

“‘scuse me,” Jack says, stepping in front of the register. The boy snaps awake, immediately straightening and plastering a customer service smile to his face.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah. You seen a blond guy? 5’10”, probably talking about science or something?”

The barista frowns. “Uh… no? No science people.”

“I said ‘probably,’” Jack presses. “He might not’ve been.”

“Okay, so have I seen any 5’10” blond guys? That’s the question?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah. A lot.”

That’s fair. It’s a pretty vague description.

“Okay, okay, lemme just-” Jack digs out his phone and scrolls through his camera roll. “Here.” He taps a selfie of him and Mac, clearly snapped before Mac could realize there was a camera in his face, and passes his phone to the barista. “Have you seen that guy today?”

“Hm. Um, yeah. He was here twenty minutes ago.”

“Do you know where he went?”

The boy shrugs. “I dunno. Some guys knocked him out and dragged him out to their car.”

Jack needs a second to process that information. “Why didn't you-?” He needs to calm down before he reacts. He might lose it on this kid, and that's not an effective way to get information from a relatively cooperative witness. “Why didn't you call the cops?”

The barista shrugs. “I mean, it happened really fast. And then they left the shop, so it wasn't really my problem anymore.”

The boy’s lack of concern for justice or the wellbeing of others distresses Jack, but there's very little time to worry about the past. “Did you get a car make and model? A color?”

“I dunno. Look, are you gonna buy something?”

Jack slaps a five dollar bill on the counter. “I’ll take a coffee. Answer the question.”

The barista raises an eyebrow. “Coffee is seven dollars.”

“Seven dollars?? What is it made of, gold or something?”

“A struggling economy,” the kid corrects.

Jack digs around for two extra dollars. Finding nothing, he drops his five dollars in the tip jar. “Okay, a tip for a tip, then.”

“Black car. Toyota Corolla, maybe. They dumped your friend in the trunk and turned onto Blaine Street.”

“What’d the guys look like?”

“Dunno. Average height? White dudes, mid-thirties? I dunno.”

That’s not much to go off of. Jack’s done more with less, but that doesn’t mean the task ahead of him is easy. “Where was my friend sitting?” Jack asks. “Where in the shop was he attacked?”

The kid points to a window booth near the entrance. “Second table from the door.”

Jack doesn’t waste any time. He hurries over to the booth. A cup of coffee (Still warm, Jack notes) and a dog-eared copy of a Stephen Hawking text lay abandoned on the table. The condiments are organized in a caddy by the window. And-

Jack clenches his jaw and snatches the one object on the table that he didn’t expect:

A wristwatch that reads, 5:52. But it isn't 5:52. It's barely 4 o’clock.

And then the watch changes. 5:51. And then Jack gets it.

It's not a watch. It's a countdown.

---

There is no way, Mac thinks as he’s shoved into the dirty room, they’re this stupid.

It’s a little room, sure. There’s a shoddy bed straight out of World War II in the corner. There’s a… bucket in the other corner. (Mac tries not to think too hard about the purpose of that.) The door is made of a questionable quality of metal and slams shut behind him.

There’s so much to work with, he wonders if these guys even know who he is. Sure, they claim to know about his most recent job (a handoff of a list of the names of some pretty important guys who are probably almost certainly going to be of interest to the CIA) and they say that they designed this serum just for him. But if they didn’t know not to leave Mac with so much raw material, then they clearly didn’t do their homework.

The lock is old-school - just a metal latch and a padlock - but definitely not outside of Mac’s wheelhouse. In fact, this is basically a fun night out for Mac. Like an escape room but with dirtier floors and also a higher risk of death. The Coney Island of kidnapping scenarios.

The first thing Mac does is shake out his arm. He’s definitely feeling the burning now.

Next, he throws the thin mattress on the floor and flips the bed frame onto its side. He easily threads the springs from the frame and (much less easily) twists the metal wires together to form four short chains. Two conveniently located pipes, each on one side of the door, make perfect anchors as he connects each corner of the bed frame to the wall.

A bead of sweat drips down Mac’s forehead. It’s hot in here, but it seems excessive. He… He definitely should not be sweating this much. His vision wavers, and suddenly there are two, three, four doors swaying past his eyes.

“Not now, Mac,” he mutters to himself, closing his eyes and trying to remember how to breathe. Distantly, he can hear his grandfather talking, and Mac has to take an active effort to ignore it. “Just neurons misfiring in deeply personal and unnerving ways.”

Mac takes a moment to steady himself before shouting at the top of his lungs. “HELP! OH MY GOD, HELP! FIRE! THERE’S A FIRE!”

After a few moments, there’s a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the door. “You’re not on fire, idiot. You’re delirious. God, I get the worst jobs-”

And he is certainly right about that. Mac pulls the bed frame as far as the spring chains will allow, building up tension before releasing the bed. Like a slingshot, the springs shorten and the frame flies away, busting through the door and, consequently, the man behind the door.

Then Mac runs. With a spectacular crash like that, every bad guy in the building is headed his way. Mac sprints out of the room, leaping over the downed man. He flies down the stairs, runs across the warehouse floor, and hurries out the door.

And then his vision gets shaky, his knees go weak, and he faceplants in the middle of the road.

There’s honking. Shouting. Something rushes past in Mac’s peripherals.

Gotta get away. Gotta get away, he thinks feverishly, though he’s quickly forgetting why that is. He starts running.

“Dude, you are so messed up.”

Mac is on the ground again. He’s not sure where he is. All he knows is that the sky above him is blue and the ground below him is rough. Shakily, he climbs to his feet. He goes back to running.

“What’s wrong, kiddo? Are you feeling okay?”

“Grandpa?”

“Do I look like your grandpa? Screw you, man.”

Mac is staring at the grill of an eighteen-wheeler. Another honk. Cursing. Mac stumbles out of the road and takes a quick nap on the sidewalk.

“You can’t sleep here.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m going to kill you, MacGyver.” Murdoc? “But first, I’m going after that little family of yours. So sad, to think that your coworkers are all you have left. And soon you won’t have that either.”

Clicking. Pain. Heat. Spinning.

“What’s your name?”

…

“I said, ‘What’s your name?’”

The blinding sunlight is now grim, nasty, fading fluorescents.

“You don’t have to fake it anymore, man. They’re not gonna take you to the hospital.”

“Mac, you gotta help me! Please, please, please help!!”

Blink.

And then, nothing.

---

They call it a search party. Jack isn’t sure why. There’s plenty of searching, sure, but it sure as hell ain’t a party. It feels more like the night before a big game or a final exam. Everyone is up worrying and prepping for the inevitable, and these few hours before the disaster dictate just how disastrous it will be. And with Mac missing and a digital watch counting down in his last known location, every second counts.

“What was his last mission?”

“Intel retrieval,” Matty snaps, clearly not interested in rehashing an old discussion. “Highly sensitive information that could compromise national security in the wrong hands. But anyone could want that information. Even if that’s why he was taken, it doesn’t narrow our search.”

Matty turns away from Bozer and, in her next breath, is shouting at the Phoenix agents running about. “Okay, people! We’ve got five hours! Keep it moving!”

“There are tens of thousands of black Toyota Corollas in the city,” Riley sighs. “We need a new angle, and his last mission might be our best bet.”

“What about the watch? There’s got to be some reason for it,” Jack reasons. “Why put pressure on us without leaving a list of demands?”

Matty scowls. “That’s… surprisingly insightful, Dalton.”

“Well, I’m surprisingly flattered,” Jack replies, though he flubs the delivery. His mouth turns bitter. Theoretically, a ransom note is bound to show up eventually, but if it doesn’t-

“I’ve got a hit,” Riley announces, failing to conceal her excitement. “LAPD arrested Mac ten minutes ago.”

Bozer frowns, leaning over Riley’s shoulder and squinting at the screen. “Arrested? For what?”

“‘Public intoxication,’” Riley reads.

Jack doesn’t waste time wondering. He’s already headed out the door and towards his truck. “If y’all wanna come with, y’better hurry up,” he warns. He’s not going to sit and wait for the other shoe to drop.

---

He’s back in the cell when he opens his eyes again. The walls are spinning, and his head throbs with every beat of his heart.

“-ac. Mac. You there?”

It takes Mac a moment to realize that the man is talking to him. “Wh- What?” His voice is so shaky and distant that he doesn’t even recognize it.

“What happened, hoss?”

Mac tries to stand, but vertigo keeps him on the floor. “I don’t…” He tries to look closer at the man crouched in front of him. He’s familiar… He’s…

“Mac, you’re scaring me, dude. Don’t make me call Medical.”

Wait. That’s…

“Jack?” he mumbles, reaching out.

Jack instantly takes Mac’s hand and settles his free hand on Mac’s shoulder. “In the flesh, brother.” He goes quiet for a moment (or maybe Mac just zoned out), but when he speaks again, he sounds angry. “They drugged you?”

Mac shakes his head and instantly regrets it. He needs a moment to stop the room from spinning. “Um… I dunno. Who’s… Who’re we talking about?”

But Jack just looks sad. “It’s okay, Mac. Relax, okay? We’ll… I’m gonna get you outta this.”

Mac trusts him.

---

The tox screens come back clean. Head scans are normal. Aside from a few nasty bruises, Mac is healthy. Jack can’t believe it. He’s so clearly not healthy. Not even a little.

Forensics are still running tests on the dirt on Mac’s clothing. On the fingerprints on the watches. On anything and everything they can get their hands on.

But so far? Nada.

“J-Jack?”

Jack practically sprints across the room to Mac, placing a hand on his shoulder to ground him. “I’m here, hoss. I’m here.”

Mac blinks frantically, eyes glossy and hurting. “Jack, where’s- where's Charlie?”

Jack’s stomach sinks. “He’s not here, buddy. Just you ‘n’ me ‘n’ Riley.”

“But…” Mac frowns. It's such a tiny pout that it'd be cute if Mac wasn't scaring the everloving shit out of Jack. “Charlie’s-”

“Fine,” Jack insists, though nothing could be further from the truth. “He’s okay. We’re all okay.”

“Who's Charlie?” Riley asks it slowly, carefully, watching the pair from behind her computer. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, typing stalled to ask the question.

Jack knows the answer, but he looks to Mac first. And Mac is frozen, eyes wide and watching Riley with a paranoid sort of horror. There's not a drop of recognition in his gaze.

They're in deeper trouble than Jack realized.

“Mac, where are we right now? What do you remember?”

Mac blinks again. He hugs his stomach tighter and shifts closer to Jack. Jack closes the distance between the two and wraps his arm around Mac’s shoulders.

“Mac,” he repeats. “Bud. What do you remember?”

“Dunno,” Mac mumbles. “It… It hurts, Jack.”

“I know, buddy. I know. Talk to me, okay? Where are we?”

Mac takes a slow second to look around the room, hesitating as his eyes pass over Riley. “Barracks,” he finally decides. “Afghanistan.”

“Not exactly,” Jack sighs. “Do you remember what happened? Did you see who took you?”

“... ‘s really hot in here, Jack.”

“SoCal boy like you shouldn't have any problems with that,” Jack replies, but his words lack the brevity that the joke requires.

Mac just whines and leans heavily against Jack’s side.

“Jack,” Riley calls, expression beyond terrified. “What's going on?”

“Keep searching the street cams, Riles,” Jack says instead. “We don't have a lot of time.”

---

Mac isn't sure when or how it happens. One minute, he’s a shivering mess in the army barracks, and the next, he's in the Phoenix and feeling… surprisingly normal.

“Jack?” His voice cracks, but Mac can't be bothered to feel embarrassed.

“Still here, Mac,” Jack promises, walking into Mac’s line of sight. “How’re you doing?”

Mac sits up carefully. His vision is no longer spinning. His shirt is damp, but sweat isn't trickling down his back or temples anymore. “I’m… okay.”

There’s a heavy pause. Jack is waiting for more, but Mac doesn't have more to report. He feels okay. Period.

“Where are we?” Jack asks. Obviously, he hasn't gotten a satisfactory answer to this question yet.

“Looks like Phoenix Med.”

Jack frowns. “And you feel…?”

“Totally fine.”

Jack chews on his lip and glances at his watch.

… wait.

Mac reaches out. “Lemme see that.”

Hesitantly, Jack shows him his wrist.

1 hours, 49 minutes.

“So you found an antidote, then?”

Jack’s eyes widen, horror tugging on his lips. “No. No, we weren't even sure… You were poisoned? But you feel okay?”

“Yeah, I feel fine. A little tired, but-”

And then his vision goes white, dagger-sharp agony arcing through his body. He curls in on himself, trying to dull the all-encompassing, undistractible hurt.

“-deep breaths, hoss-”

Jack is talking, but in all fairness, Mac doesn’t understand much of it. He can’t ignore the knife in his stomach, twisting and ripping and biting.

It takes ages - years, decades, centuries - for the pain to abate. It doesn’t go away completely, but the freshly-sharpened ax softens to a rusty band saw. Mac can open his eyes again. He can feel the wetness under his eyes. He can see the blurry face hovering over him.

“-listen to me, okay? You’re gonna be fine. Just keep breathing.”

Mac reaches up to grip Jack’s hand. “Still here,” he rasps.

“What the hell was that, Mac?”

“Think it’s the drug,” he pants, trying to clear the black spots in his vision. “They… They said this would happen.”

“‘They?’”

Mac lets Jack help him sit up again. “Yeah. Yeah, there was… Ugh, it’s starting to come back. I, uh, I was drugged. They wanted the list from my last assignment. They said this drug would convince me to cooperate.”

“What drug? And who did this?”

“Don’t know who.” Mac rubs his eyes and hugs his legs to his chest. “They didn’t say what drug either. Just that it’d kill me in six hours.”

In less than a second, Jack goes from mildly angry and relatively concerned to fuming and out of his mind with worry. “It’d do what?”

“Well, it would make me hallucinate for the first three hours. And then-” He gasps, another wave of pain taking him by surprise. When he’s able to think again, he finds himself flat on his back.

“Is pain a side effect?”

Mac, breathless, nods. “And… and there’s an antidote, but I… I’m not sure where it is.”

There’s a buzzing, and Jack almost ignores it before flashing Mac an apologetic grimace. “Please tell me you have something, Riles.”

…

“Yeah, that might be important.”

…

“Address.”

…

Jack doesn’t say anything before hanging up. It strikes Mac as odd, but then his world lights on fire, and he doesn’t care if Jack is acting odd.

“Be back soon.”

“Wait.” Mac holds out a shaking hand. “Take me with you.”

“Dude, we don’t have time to argue this.”

“Think-” Mac grunts. “Think about it. I need to take that antidote as soon as we find it.”

Jack folds his arms, clearly pissed that Mac is right. “Can you walk? I don’t need you slowing me down.”

“I’ll stay in the - ugh - car.”

But Jack was right the first time. They don’t have time to argue. He reaches down, helps Mac up, and they break out of Phoenix Med.

---

“Mac? How you feeling, buddy?”

Mac swallows vomit, gripping his ribs with fingers desperate for relief. “Peachy,” he hisses.

“I know,” Jack soothes. “I know, I know, I know. Just hang on a little longer. We’re nearly there.”

“Looks…” Mac takes a deep breath, likely riding out another episode of intense pain. (Whoever did this, they will pay. Jack will see to it personally.) “Looks familiar. I think… think I walked through this area.”

“Makes sense,” Jack agrees. “And then you tried to take a nap on the sidewalk and got arrested.”

“Oh.” Mac coughs, shifting awkwardly in the passenger seat. “Is that what happened?”

Jack tries not to be bothered by how little Mac remembers about the last five hours. And then he tries not to be bothered by how Mac only has one hour left.

“Wait!” Mac shouts, pointing left. “There! That’s the one!”

Jack looks away from the road long enough to size up the building. “Uh. You sure about that one, hoss? That’s an IKEA.”

But Mac just nods, sucking in a breath. Pain carves lines into the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, that’s the-” He winces. “That’s the one.”

Ordinarily, Jack would question Mac more. (A bunch of bad guys working out of an IKEA? Really?) But they don’t have the time today. If Mac says he got shot up in an IKEA, he got shot up in an IKEA.

Jack cuts a sedan off as he yanks the car to the left and crosses three lanes of traffic into the parking lot. He parks far from the storefront and looks at Mac.

“This place is massive. Any idea where they hid the antidote?”

Mac looks green again, eyes shut, palm to his forehead, and taking deep breaths. “I… um… There was a cell. Or something.”

“A cell. In IKEA.”

“I don’t know,” Mac grumbles. “I just-” He’s cut off with a hiss, hugging his stomach tightly. “That’s what I remember,” he grits out.

“Okay,” Jack says, hands out in surrender. “Okay. I’ll look for a cell. In IKEA.”

“You don’t need to say it like that,” Mac groans.

But Jack ignores him. “Hey, do us both a favor? Stay outta sight. I keep a gun in the glove compartment if you need it.”

They both know Mac won’t use it. But Jack feels obligated to remind him of it. Just so he doesn’t feel like he’s abandoning Mac with zero forms of defense.

“No, thanks.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jack says. They don’t have time to argue. “I’ll be back soon. Watch your phone, okay?”

“You got it.” Mac gives a thumbs-up, but it’s greatly undermined by the grimace on his face.

Jack sighs. Slams the car door shut. Hurries to the storefront. And then things start to make sense.

It’s not an IKEA. It used to be an IKEA. Now it’s just a giant, empty warehouse with an ugly blue-and-yellow sign out front.

Jack considers being stealthy about this, but his nerves tug at him. Does he have time to fret over being noisy?

Well. Jack has always preferred the loud entrance over silently creeping around. He kicks the door open, guns blazing.

---

Mac wakes up on the floor of Jack’s truck. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. And he definitely doesn’t remember picking up a gun. He sets it on the floor like it’s a grenade and pulls himself up into the passenger seat.

And then he hears the gunshots. Mac’s vision is fuzzy, but if he squints, he can make out a standoff between a few men and one lone soldier.

Jack.

The odds aren’t great - aren’t terrible, really - but they still aren’t great. So with very little thought behind his actions, Mac slides over to the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition. His head throbs as the engine kicks on, and he feels vaguely nauseous. Mac doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t linger on it for long. He just puts the truck in gear and drives.

The truck shrieks as it tears through the parking lot and stops dead between Jack and the other men. Mac ducks just in time for bullets to shatter the windows.

“Good to see you, brother,” Jack calls, though when Mac sneaks a look, Jack isn’t even looking back, too focused on the men on the other side of the truck. “Stay in the truck.”

BANG. BANG, BANG, BANG.

“Got h-!” But the cheer dies in Jack’s throat.

Coast clear, Mac sits up and pushes himself out of the truck. He collapses almost immediately, legs turning to jelly.

“Shit,” Jack mutters, catching Mac under the arm. But he’s not talking about Mac. He’s staring at the downed criminals.

“What… What is it?” Mac grunts, trying to ignore the hot fire in his lungs.

“He… I shot him, and he dropped the antidote.”

Mac coughs. “We’ll find it.”

“He dropped it down a sewer grate,” Jack elaborates. “So unless you got the tools to rip a sewer grate out of the ground in…” He checks his watch. “... ten minutes, we’re not gonna get it.”

Mac stills for a moment. And then he’s moving at hyper-speed, trying to ignore the ache in his muscles and the stabbing pain in his gut. He grabs an ancient piece of rebar off the sidewalk and runs up to a fire hydrant.

Jack is a breath behind him. “What are you doing??”

Mac uses everything he has to slam the rod into the fire hydrant. Again. Again. Again.

“The impact causes temporary molecular structure alignment in iron. All the ions run to the other end.”

“I don’t… Mac, you know I don’t speak geek.”

Mac grunts, hitting the rod one last time. “Just made myself a magnet.” He returns to the sewer grate, lowering the rebar between the gaps and struggling to draw the metal canister containing the antidote to the end of the rod. His hands shake, and he nearly drops the rod when Jack takes over.

“I think I get it, hoss.” Jack tries the same maneuver with significantly more success. The canister snaps to the rod, and slowly, slowly, slowly, Jack pulls the rebar up and out of the grate. Once free, Jack grabs the canister tightly and moves away from the grate. Then he dumps the pill into Mac’s hand.

There’s no time to talk. Mac crams the pill in his mouth like a bird is going to swoop down and steal it from him.

Mac sags back, pain still wracking his body. Jack is there to make sure he doesn’t smack his head on the pavement.

“What’s the watch say?”

Mac frowns. Lifts his arm and reads the watch.

00:04

Four minutes.

“Damn,” Jack mutters. “Next time, we’re ordering in, hear me?”

Mac doesn’t have the energy to argue.

#whumptober2024 #no.1 #race against the clock #search party #macgyver 2016 #fic #needles #non con drugging #torture #kidnapping #mac and jack #cross posted on ao3

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