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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 · 5 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 · 4 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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thatsprettylane · 11 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 · 9 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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germ-t-ripper · 7 months ago

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30JUN24 I’m a Tim Strange supporter.

#Tim Strange #gay bear #handsome bear #daddy bear #wrestling fan #indie wrestling #pro wrestling #muscle bear #rise underground #hoss

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a-sin-to-be-rin · 4 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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reylatek · 5 months ago

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"I'm beautiful. So is he. We're two handsome boys."

DDTrash vs War Hoss (ACW Underground Assault S2E10 - Mar. 19, 2022)

#bruce grey #ron mathis #ddtrash #crosshairs kelly #pat the bruiser #appalachian championship wrestling

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extrahorribledynne · 4 years ago

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not to neopets in 2021 but they added a premium feature awhile ago. this allows, among other benefits, for users to change the species of their neopet.

this has the added caveat of, if your neopet’s species doesn’t share color with what species you want to turn it into, this allows you to change your pets COLOR as well

dimensional moehog morphing potion+ 8 dollars out of my bank account= royalboy uni hours

#ppl use this hax bc its basically an 8 dollar rainbow pool...#only downside is you can use it just once a year #BUT im pleased w him #plus im saving for a darigan pb rn and i just didnt wanna be saving for BOTH royal and darigan...#he was a white uni but someone pointed out royal worked better bc its warm white instead of cool white....#handsome hoss #srsly this allows you to pick literally any color #even the exclusive ones

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unusual-raccoon · 3 years ago

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Honeybee, Horse Thief: Chapter 2

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/F!Reader, Arthur Morgan/You

Additional Tags: Chapter 3: Clemens Point (Red Dead Redemption 2), Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Deputy Arthur Morgan, Bandits & Outlaws, Blackmail, Power Imbalance, Oral Fixation, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, My First Work in This Fandom, Vaginal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Multiple Orgasms, Cross-Posted on Ao3

Word Count: 6.5k

Link

Chapter 1

Summary: You run into some trouble in Rhodes and end up seeking out a certain Deputy for help.

A/N: Still don’t own any of the characters, just the idea. Hope you guys enjoy the second chapter ;). This ended up being longer than it was supposed to be, and that was after omitting certain scenes. So…maybe there’s a part three in the future? Lmk what you guys think.

Tagging: @enemiesandlovers @bimrsadler

“I need to speak to the Deputy!” You panted, cheeks warm as you came to a screeching stop, the door still ajar with your hand on the knob of the Sheriff's Station in Rhodes.

You never imagined yourself willingly walking into the Sheriff's Station.

Leigh Gray looked about as pickled as a man could be, with glassy eyes and big handlebar mustache that was damp from the big jug of ‘shine he had sitting on his desk.

The only other deputy in the station, a skinny-necked man by the name of Archibald MacGregor, whose chest looked a little small for his badge, looked up at you. His gunbelt made him walk a little lopsided.

“Not you, the big feller,” You hissed, he’d been big alright, “Callahan,” you added as you snapped your fingers while recalling his name.

“Try the saloon,” the other, beady eyed Deputy MacGregor suggested.

Giving a frantic nod and a swear muttered under your breath, you threw the Sheriff’s door as far open as you could in one swing before thundering down the front steps.

You stopped at the hitching post outside the station, running a hand over the dark face of handsome looking nokota.

Of all the reasons to get in a bind, stealin’ a horse wasn’t one of the ways you planned on today.

Funny now that ya had, he was the feller you went running to.

Horse robbin’ was Friday business, it was an ugly, hot Lemoyne Monday and you had certainly not accounted for this.

Been on three days since you saw the feller, and well, you hoped he was still as curious as you recalled - with some really flexible morals for a Sheriff’s Deputy.

Saddling up the compact little racehorse, you set back across town at breakneck speeds. Rhodes wasn’t big, and that horse could move. You left ‘em hitched up outside the saloon with some water to cool off.

You knew you’d struck gold when you spotted Hoss’ big silhouette hitched ‘round back. Where that big horse went, you knew his rider wasn’t far off.

Stepping into the saloon, you cast a few looks around.

You lingered by the bar, putting down an extra quarter for a beer, catching the bartender’s hand when he passed the drink to ya.

“Seen the Deputy, big feller,” you asked, rattling off a similar description to the one you’d given down at the Sheriff’s station, “Blonde hair, blue eyes?”

You could describe in detail the big piece o’ horse meat he had between his thighs, but you’d doubted that would get you any closer to finding the man in question.

The bartender gave a nod as you took a long drink of your warm beer, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Upstairs with Susanna.” He offered, taking the extra quarter dollar you’d given with a small nod. You took your beer with you, polished half of the bottle by the time you made it up the stairs.

You tipped the brim of your hat at the man, he gave you a wave before he returned to polishing glasses.

“Y’all seen Susanna?” You asked as you walked around.

A few of the working girls seemed to know what you were after, you traded the last of your beer for directions.

“He’s right down the hall, sweet thing,” one cooed, unfolding the ruffled lace edge of her handheld fan to bat some cool air at the sheen of sweat sitting in the hollow of your collarbones, “You’ll know you’re there when you hear Susanna squealing like a stuck pig.”

Sure enough as you wandered down the hall in your trousers and worn leather boots, you arrived at the door, it muffled the most feral sounding fucking you’d ever heard.

You stood there, transfixed by it, before remembering the predicament you’d gone and landed yourself in. You blinked once, testing the doorknob and bull rushing your way in when you found no resistance.

The frantic rocking of the bed stopped railing against the wall, leaving just the harsh wheeze of heavy breathing in the soupy, sex-scented air. You stared at the broad back of the man you sought, wet muscle and flexing sinew glistening with every breath. You studied the little copper sunspots on his shoulders, the kinds of freckles you wanted to dig your teeth into.

“Howdy,” You greeted, a big smug smile on your face as you watched his head loll back in stuttering recognition, hat sitting on the table beside him. He let out a sigh toward the headboard before rolling off of dear motionless Susanna. The girl was still moaning, a creamy mess pumped between her lush thighs. The sight made your core flex.

You watched that big Deputy Callahan fumble for his satchel on the side table, only to find his hat instead. A quick glance showed you the satchel was conveniently sitting on the bureau by the door, by the same door you had just walked through.

You plucked up the satchel and rummaged around for what you figured he was looking after he’d gone and emptied his chamber; just like last time. You found a carton of real nice cigarettes, good quality, warm, sweet smelling tobacco.

Lighting one for yourself, you took a long inhale, letting that rich, sweet smoke cloud your lungs as you tossed the bag his way.

His lips quirked in something near a smile, blue eyes ablaze as he watched you.

“Good to see you too, Honeybee.” He grunted, his voice sounded rough and vaguely aroused though you had a feeling dear Susanna was to blame for that.

You exhaled the smoke in one ragged breath between puckered lips.

He shook a cigarette out of the carton, lazing on the bed as naked as the day he was born. He didn’t bother wasting a match, just used the small flame of an oil lamp to light the hand-rolled cigarette.

You watched the sheen of sweat matted into the fine smattering of blonde hair down his broad chest, entranced by his every breath.

“Whatchu want?” He asked, blowing smoke out of his nose, it had a little bump on the bridge that made you wonder who’d broken it. It was a pretty nose.

“Unless you came to watch?” He asked with a big, devilish smile.

You scowled at him for all of two seconds before letting out a snort and taking another puff of your cigarette.

“Need your help.” You explained, short and sweet and to the point, time was awastin’ and you had spent far too much of yours staring at this beguiling man.

“Uh huh,” He grunted knowingly, “what’d you do?”

“Nothing,” you shrugged, tossing your cigarette into the little ash tray on the bureau, “just played a game of cards with some old feller. Now he’s saying I robbed him.”

“Didja?” Callahan asked, looking unsurprised.

“Well,” you huffed, lifting your shoulders in a shrug, “not today,” you heard him groan audibly, “besides he weren’t even using that watch.”

“Christ alive,” The large Deputy muttered as he climbed off of the bed, the springs and rusted wrought iron frame squeaking at the lack of his weight. He stopped by a wash basin in the corner of the room, passed a wet rag over his delicates, taking a considerate moment to clean himself. You ogled his snug, round buttocks as he stalked back to the pile of his clothes, stepping into a pair of trousers, big, soft cock stuck to his thigh with sweat and some water from the basin.

“Used the money from the watch to buy a proper gunbelt,” you explained, cocking your hip to the side to flash a neat leather belt filled with shiny brass revolver cartridges. Flipping back the tail of your old duster coat to reveal what was sitting in the holster on your hip. The iron navy revolver glowed softly in the light given off by the oil lamp, still shining from the polishing you’d given it three days prior.

His eyes flicked over you, lingering by your hips. His hand paused, motionless holding the clasp of his trousers; like he weren’t sure if wanted to put ‘em on or take ‘em off.

“Huh,” He grunted, “looks good.”

“Should, damn thing cost me as much as the watch was worth.” You said with a wry chuckle. You took a moment to admire him, the breadth of his chest and width of his shoulders, the subtle flutter of sinew in his forearm as he buttoned the fly of his pants.

“So, what’s he sayin’ ya stole?” The Deputy asked as he shrugged on an overshirt, doing up the buttons with practiced fingers.

You chewed your lower lip, your mouth tasted of warm beer and warmer tobacco.

“A horse…” you muttered, a flush in your cheeks.

“Of fucking course,” He sighed, stepping into his boots next before tucking the hem of his trousers into his boots. No spurs today, his steps didn’t jingle and you mourned the missing sound.

“I didn’t steal his horse,” You asserted.

“Oh, ya mean like you didn’t steal my horse?” He asked with a knife-sharp smirk. Your cheeks throbbed hot with an embarrassed blush. He’d left a few buttons of his shirt undone right at the top, enough for you to peek at some of that downy blonde chest hair and the stern muscle beneath. He grabbed his gunbelt next, the length of leather weighed down by a pair of weighty brass framed revolvers. The shiny belt buckle faced you as he pulled the belt tight around his waist. It sat low with the weight of the weapons sitting on either of his hips.

“I didn’t steal it, Mister,” you pressed a hand to your checkered shirt, right over your heart, “honest.” You added sweetly.

He snorted with a shake of his head, grabbing his hat off of the side table and placing it on his head last. It was the same hat he’d worn three days prior, broken-in leather gambler hat, scuffed in all of the right places.

“Girlie, you wouldn’t know honesty if it bent you over,” He said, his voice was a husky growl, blue eyes briefly flashing to a darker, hungrier color. You shrugged, maybe he was right.

“I won it - the horse,” you elaborated finally, “in a game o’ cards.”

The Deputy gave you a long scrutinizing look, “You cheat?”

Your lips pressed into a firm line and Callahan was already letting out a sigh, “Well, not until after he started cheatin’. Don’t matter ‘cause the hand I won with was genuine, from the dealer.”

“He was fool enough to throw the deed in as collateral,” you said, fishing the folded square of paper out of your vest pocket. The Deputy stepped closer, you smelled sweat and sex on his skin and a hint of overpriced whiskey and premium tabacco on his breath. Menfolk shouldn’t smell that good, you thought.

A large hand came up, gripping the creased corner of the bill of sale. The horse was brand new, expensive and now yours.

“A’right,” He grumbled, “Where’s the horse?”

“Downstairs,” You answered, a flicker of hope taking root in your belly. His stubble from the last time you had seen him had grown bristly and dark on his cheeks, a hint darker than the hair on his head. Made the scar on his chin more obvious where hair refused to grow.

“Where‘s the feller?” He asked gruffly, adjusting his shirt so the light of the oil lamp caught the star pinned to his chest.

“Halfway to Sheriff’s station I suppose, had to walk though,” you said with a devilish little smile, toting the horse’s papers.

He slung his satchel across his broad chest, motioning to the door, before pausing halfway like he’d left a fire burning. You watched him go back to the bed, kneel down on the mattress as he thumbed through a fat wad of bills.

Susanna stirred briefly, eyes fluttering with a dreamy smile on her face.

“Here y’are, Darlin’,” he murmured in a low, gentle voice, bills crinkling in his hand as he offered them.

Susanna licked her lips and gave him a dazed smile, still a mess between the legs, thoroughly fucked into a boneless happy heap, “It’s on the house, Mister,” she purred. Something cold twisted violently in your stomach at the sight.

The Deputy smiled a small bashful smile, “mighty fine of you, Miss.”

He tucked the fold of bills back into a money clip and tossed it back into his satchel, as the pair of you left the room.

“Y’know, you could try and look less smug,” You suggested, a little ruefully.

You felt his eyes on you, “What for?” He called back, his smirk somehow even sharper knowing something about that exchange had gotten under your skin.

The pair of you made it outside, the tails of your worn duster whisked behind you on a balmy breeze.

“Meet me at the station, need a minute to clear Ol’ Gray and his lackey out. Wait for me ‘round back.”

Callahan instructed after he saddled Hoss up. You nodded, licking your lips to stave off the dryness. Climbing onto the horse you had just recently inherited, you waited for him to set off before tamely following behind.

You had done as you were told, waiting antsy behind the station, straining to hear the muffled conversation inside of the walls.

You borrowed the boar bristle brush from Hoss’ saddlebag, partially to clean off your unnamed steed, just as much as to distract yourself. The feller you had won the deed from hadn’t bothered putting a name down on the paperwork.

“You’re a pretty thing, aintcha?” You hummed as you stroked the thin chocolate brown mane of your horse. You brushed the silvery dapple of its curious coat.

Tucking the brush back into Hoss’ saddlebag, you found a tin of oatcakes, slitting a crumbly biscuit between your hands, tossing a half to each horse.

You were dusting your palms on the thighs of your trousers when the back door of the Sheriff’s Station swung open. Standing in the entryway was Deputy Callahan. His broad silhouette filled up the doorway.

“C’mon you,” The Deputy beckoned, you held your breath, ducking your head under his arm as he held open the door, nearly knocking off your hat in the process.

You nervously wrung your hands together, pacing around the empty Sheriff’s station. You glanced at the empty holding cell.

“Ain’t never been on this side of the bars,” you admitted with a disbelieving giggle, the kind that you breathed through your nose. He made a fond noise low in his throat, like a knowing humm from behind you as he closed the back door.

A glance over your shoulder proved that Callahan didn’t have eyes for nothin’ but you in the closed walls of the Sheriff’s Station. He looked at ya like you were good enough to eat, and a part of you preened at the thought - you hadn’t seen him look at Susanna like that.

You watched his gaze shift towards the cell for a moment of consideration.

“You ever been arrested?” You asked the large Deputy, your lips lifting at the faint twinkle residing like a jewel in the blue of his eyes.

“Me?” He guffawed all big chested and feigning offense before his expression melted into something jaded behind the eyes, “whatchu think?” His thumb rasped over his chin, calloused finger making the scratchiest hiss where it scraped over the short, bristly hair there.

You shrugged. He was a paradoxical creature, made your head spin no matter which way ya looked at ‘em. Ya thought you could read ‘em, really read ‘em, you could see his propensity for violence, but then, that six-pointed star on his chest never ceased to throw you for a loop.

He didn’t walk like a lawman, talk like one neither. But then again, you’d spent plenty a’ time running from fellers with a badge, a consequence of your line of work, weren’t like you got plenty of opportunities to get close too any of ‘em. Not as close as you had gotten with him, with dear Deputy Callahan.

He paused by the Sheriff’s desk, leaning his long silhouette against it. You watched the fabric of his overshirt pull taut around his shoulders when he folded his arms over his broad chest. You’d seen plenty a’ fellers in your day, never one who looked quite like him.

You stared at one another a moment - you wanted to comment on the color of his eyes, that pretty mix of blue and green, you wanted to tell him you liked that bump on the bridge of his nose and the scar on his chin, and that you wanted to blow a hole in his chest wide as the state of Lemoyne when you’d seen him with Susanna, and a million other silly thoughts that ripped through your head like a herd of wild horses. You didn’t think that meant you were sweet on ‘im, but you were something alright, something you didn’t have a word for. His mouth twisted up beneath the scruff of his facial hair, scar on his chin contorting to fit his expression. He looked like wanted to say somethin’ too.

“Sheriff!” You heard a voice call, muffled from outside, “Sheriff Gray!”

You crept towards the window, wincing at the creak and croak of every floorboard on your way. Peeking through the curtains, you chewed your lip at the sight of your accuser. An upstanding gentleman who frequently rode in from Saint Denis to do his whoring and gambling in the rough redneck territory of Rhodes; probably didn’t want his missus knowing.

Callahan’s breath beat warm against the back of your neck, he hushed your panicked gasp, a hand on the hip just above your gunbelt steadied you. The warmth of his body stung right through your clothes, the heat might’ve been oppressive in the current climate, but it didn’t bother you none, warmed you to your core; it chased off the chill of something cold twisting in your stomach.

“That him?” You felt each word vibrate right through his chest.

“Uh huh,” you answered, a little breathless. A large hand lingered on your shoulder, searing hot like a fresh burn from the sun.

“Stay here,” He ordered and you nodded, briefly catching his wrist, skin on skin was nearly too much, you could almost taste the tang of his spend in your mouth like something out of a dream. Your mouth and cunt simultaneously grew a tad damp.

“What’re you gonna do?” You asked, watching his gaze linger on your hand around his wrist, before lifting to stare at your face.

“Talk to ‘em, man to man.” He assured before pushing open the front door and walking down the steps.

“Sheriff Gr- Who are you? I need to speak to the Sheriff.”

You watched the Deputy’s broad back through the crack in the curtains.

“Sheriff’s gone home - personal matter,” he explained, you figured that was a fancy way a’ saying the man was drunk off his rear, “Deputy

Callahan,” he said, tapping his badge in greeting, “how can I assist you?”

“You new ‘round here, son?” That card-cheatin’ son of a bitch asked.

“Somethin’ like that.” The Deputy responded smoothly.

“Well, I gotta report a crime - property a’mine’s been stolen!”

You watched the hat on the Deputy’s head tip back and forth as he nodded.

“What’s been stolen, sir?” Callahan drawled, voice all grim and gruff, very serious.

“A goddamn horse! Fine stock too.”

The Deputy let out a low whistle, “c’mon back, tell me about it proper,” motioning towards the alley behind the station. You watched with growing dread as the two men slowly vanished from your field of view, where you peeked between the curtains.

You sucked in a breath, leaning back from the windows, trying to make out the muffled conversation through the walls. Your curiosity had gotten the better of you after a total of three seconds of misery. You took a few steps left to the door, gritting your teeth when the door groaned obnoxiously loud. Slipping out soundlessly onto the front porch, never letting the heels of your leather boots hit the ground, you descended the front steps.

Pressing your back to the front face of the building, you could hear better, peeking past the edge to get a better look.

You could make out both men walking towards the spot where both you and the Deputy had hitched your horses.

“And who did you stay stole from ya?”

“That vile little bitch, quick as a fox that one. Made of with my hor - Hey, now, that’s my horse!”

“That so?”

“What kinda game you playin’ at, Mister?”

“No game, sir. That ‘vile little bitch’, ‘bout yay big?” The Deputy asked motioning a vague approximation of your height with his hand, “could talk the ear off a deaf feller?”

The man nodded frantically and you felt a blush stain your cheeks.

“So, you know her?”

“Intimately, I’m afraid,” The Deputy said, a curl of fondness creeping into his tone, though you had a feeling you were the only one who heard it.

“Girl tried robbing me goin’ on three days ago,” your blush darkened fiercely. You’d never been ashamed of robbing folk, it was a necessary evil in your life. You wouldn’t settle for marryin’ or getting paid dirt working as a seamstress or serving girl. Still, something about hearing your transgressions from the mouth of that Deputy made a little guilt writhe in your belly.

“Criminal like that ought to be hanged,”

“Maybe so,” The Deputy hummed thoughtfully and your heart sank as you listened in. The brutal honesty chafed a part of you raw. You wanted to run from the feeling, you wanted to shoot at the feeling. Kill it dead.

“Here’s what's gonna happen,” Mr. Callahan said amidst a sigh, shoulders broadening and posture stretching to something that fit his shape. It was swaggering and threatening and a sight to behold.

Swiftly your accuser was thrown against the side of the building, his body hitting the bricks with a shout. Oozing a natural and brutal grace, the Deputy bore the weight of one forearm down on the man’s neck, caging him in. His struggling was for naught, Callahan held him firm as he thrashed through wheezing, frantic breaths.

“You’re gonna leave the girl alone.” The Deputy threatened in a low snarl. He didn’t wait for an answer before leaning his weight down on the man’s throat once more. His eyes bulged and his face went blotchy and red.

Witnessing the sight stirred something violently carnal in you.

“You say ‘yes’ when you wanna breathe.” The Deputy said, alarmingly calm, poised and perfectly controlled. A man that was accustomed to using violence to meet his ends.

The man’s breathing was ragged and frantic, crackling and gasping wildly.

Your accuser, a soft, weak-chinned man clawed vainly at the Deputy’s brawny forearm where his overshirt was rolled up.

“She’s…trouble-“

The man croaked out, and the Deputy growled, like a wolf with a hare between its teeth.

“What the hell do you think I am?” He asked, head cocked and jaw tense.

The man sagged against the wall, feet kicking against the ground as he struggled for air. The Deputy leaned more of his considerable mass against the writhing man.

“She - robbed -“

“She didn’t rob nothin’ you fool, you made a wager and you lost.”

“Now,” Callahan drawled, “You really wanna die over your own damn pride?”

The man’s eyes managed to widen larger. You found yourself similarly gobsmacked. Weak at the knees leaned against the front of the building.

“You go after the girl and I’ll be happy to oblige ya. Get me?”

The man finally acquiesced, nodding weakly. The Deputy leaned his weight off just enough for the man to wheeze out a series of hoarse choked out coughs and teary breaths.

There was a purpling mark in the shape of Callahan’s broad forearm darkening on your accuser’s neck.

He worried a hand over his abused throat, doubled over with another racking, sputtering cough.

“Glad we understand each other,” Mr. Callahan said wryly with a tip of his hat before straightening the man’s worsted coat and dusting off the lapels. It weren’t long after that, that you saw your accuser’s pear-shaped silhouette bumbling towards the mouth of the alley. Scrambling back up the steps and into the Sheriff’s Station, you held your breath as you eased the door shut.

Sliding into a chair, your pulse throbbed low between your legs.

You flinched at the sound of the back door swinging open, the floorboards groaning as the Deputy sauntered back in. He still had that swaggering way about him, weren’t walkin’ like a lawman at all.

Your gaze flicked up to his, lingering on the intensity of his stare, sort of frenzied and wild behind those pretty blue-green eyes.

You leaned forward expectantly, hands pressed together in your lap like you hadn’t watched the event play out before your very eyes. You were trying very valiantly to look clueless.

“So?” You began, tongue venturing out to wet your lower lip, the skin fraying from your nervous chewing.

“It’s dealt with.” He replied flatly.

“Just like that?” You asked, in truth you had witnessed how dear Deputy Callahan had dealt with things. Roughly - how it appeared he did just about everything.

“Just like that.” He echoed, moving to lean his weight against the Sheriff’s solid cedar desk.

“Why, you looking for a parade, Honeybee?” He asked, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Well, just - ya don’t want me to apologize?” You asked, cheeks warm, sort of dizzy as you stared at his growing wolfish smile. A twinkle gleamed cavernous and hungry in the endless blue of his eyes.

“Ain’t a bad idea, Girlie.” He beckoned you close with a curl of his fingers

“You feelin’ sorry?” He asked as you drew closer, “that it, Darlin’?”

He didn’t seem a feller to speak in riddles, but you understood his meaning. The pressure between your thighs grew more insistent.

A broad palm caught the crease between your thighs, heat sweltered beneath the fabric of your trousers. His fingers hitched higher, and your breath stuttered in your chest.

“Unless you’d rather hear Susanna apologize,” You breathed softly, albeit petulant as his fingers paused just shy of your trouser’s inseam.

“Oh,” He hummed with a rolling chuckle, shifting his weight so he was towering well above you, you could detect the motion of his shadow beneath your closed eyes. You were certain if you opened your eyes, you’d see nothing but blue, the endless, hungry blue of his gaze on you.

“That’s what got y’all twisted up?” He grunted, you could hear the smug smile in his voice.

“You ain’t lookin’ to apologize - yer lookin’ for an apology.” He clarified and your eyes fluttered open, spying his wily smirk.

“You want me to say ‘sorry’, Girlie?”

Your breathing came out wispy and gentle, slowing to something vaguely drowsy as you felt his fingers inch ever so slightly higher, that pressure in your core compounding like you’d explode if he didn’t touch you. You nodded a delirious nod.

“Well,” he drawled out, long and deliberate, “I ain’t sorry.”

Your eyes sprang open fully and you scowled venomously at him. You were stubbornly itching to pull away from him, from his heady masculine musk and fiery touch that left your skin tingling and all the parts of him that brought you bliss, if it foolishly meant you could be free of his snarling cruelty too. You angled your body away from him, the first sign of your rebellion.

“But,” he hummed mournfully, “Be wrong a’me to leave ya with some fire in your belly,” his head tilted thoughtfully, his thumbs stroking at the button of your trousers, slowly inching back down toward your inseam. The motion was reeling you back in like a fish on a line.

“You ain’t done any wrong today neither - called on me when you was in need, but you ain’t the first woman to do so. Ya probably won’t be the last.”

A part of you squirmed, even in your duster coat and trousers, a vest and boots and a hat meant for a boy’s head on your crown, with a gun on your hip, he still managed to make you feel like a lady. You exhaled a shaking breath, oh how you craved to be the last. His last. You were very nearly panting, open-mouthed and like a dog. His fingers crept higher to the clasp of your gunbelt and your breath clung to your throat as you watched the faint concentrated crease of his brow as he undid the notched leather with practiced fingers.

Gently laying your gunbelt and holster along the Sheriff’s desk, you watched the Deputy pause, pulling your revolver out to inspect it. His smile started out small and coy before growing wider and turning fond, rasping his thumb over etching along the barrel and cylinder.

“Thought you spent most a’your cash on the belt?” He asked with a teasing grin, and something tangible and warm snagged in your chest at the realization that he’d been listening to what you had been saying in that swampy, sex-scented rented room. A nude woman he just laid with in bed with ‘em and he’d listened when you’d been yammering about a gunbelt. You’d never met a person that could fill you with such disdain and such potent longing.

“You caught that, didja?” You asked with a lazy smile.

“Hmm,” He hummed, fingers trailing over the elaborate engravings you had laid into the metal of the weapon, prettying it up a little.

“I…embellished a bit.” You said with a coy lift of your lips.

“Ain’t much surprise there,” He said with a husky curl of amusement in his voice, you couldn’t help but giggle, feeling the tender ache between your thighs throb at the silly smile on his face, “Changed the grip too.”

“Wood on the old one was rotting,” you explained.

“Cherry wood, huh?” He asked with that same affectionate twinkle in eyes. Your blush throbbed hot on your cheeks as you leaned to tug at his gunbelt with a single finger, jostling his twin brass framed revolvers on each hip.

“Musta been feelin’…inspired.” You admitted, watching as his hungry eyes turned particularly ravenous.

“Whatchu say we put that fire out, Girlie?” He rumbled, voice electric in your ear. Weren’t long after you gave a single nod that Callahan was tugging at your trousers like they was a snake that bit ya.

You were hauled over the Sheriff’s desk, duster off and belly down, top layers rucked up on the solid varnished cedar wood. Your skin felt hot when it came in contact with the cool wood.

Your drawers went next bunched down around your knees with your trousers. Hot air stung your bare skin and the tension felt like it would surely be your undoing. Course he didn’t make you suffer long, a single, bold finger slipped into your heat, making your hips jerk in surprise. A moan swelled in your throat and your body started to buck like the mounting pressure instigated by the addition of the Deputy’s trigger finger, would shatter you.

A firm hand between the shoulder blades held you down flush with the desk.

A second finger joined the first and you thrashed on the table, squirming and panting wildly. You’d never felt a sensation that could so sweetly and viscerally all at once. His hand held you still and you whined between clenched teeth.

“I know, Darlin’, I know,” He soothed, working his fingers into you in a steady rhythm as a cry bubbled up in your throat, “my Honeybee went and made all this honey for me…”

You could feel the slick sticking between your thighs as his fingers pumped into you.

You exhaled a breathy sound, humid and wet against the desk as you felt his fingers twist in a way that had your hips bucking like an unbroken filly.

“Ain’t yours,” You breathed stubbornly, back arching as his fingers curled within ya.

“Oh, now ya ain’t mine?” Callahan asked, you could feel the curve of his smile against the back of your neck. Your hat hit the floor, where you were squirming on the Sheriff’s desk. He twitched his trigger finger like he was killing folk, you certainly felt like he was killing you.

“Pussy feels like it’s mine.” He remarked, thrusting his fingers in a shallow rhythm that left your hole fluttering around him.

You felt his fingers begin to retreat, soaked from your sex, stirring all manner of spiraling pleasure within you.

You very nearly sobbed, still hot in your belly.

Your hips wiggled from side to side, core flexing with all your might, trying to hold his fingers in deep.

Tears gathered in your eyes, clawing at the varnish on the desk, as you chased the agonizing bliss afforded by those thick, callused fingers.

“Please,” you gasped.

“Now you wanna beg? Think you just want that fool mouth a’yours stuffed up again.”

You bucked your hips in agitation, mouth growing wet at the threat alone.

“Makin’ a mess, Girlie,” He grunted, you could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice as he fingers plunged back into your weepy cunt.

He arched them fast and messy, curling frequently. He held you still, an unforgiving hand pinning you to the table as his fingers worked in a sloppy way, in and out.

His curled fingers urged at a spot inside of you that made you want to scream.

Each thrust of his fingers was followed by a tear-inducing curl. Your thighs trembled, a sob was lodged like a bullet in your chest.

Those clever, callused fingers scraped over that spot again and again. Pressure writhed and swelled in your belly. Sweat matted hair down to your temples and made your clothes cling to your skin. You stamped your feet like you were crushing a bug, squirming as he fucked you silly with his fingers.

“That’s it, Honeybee. There’s my girl. Don’t fight it, Darlin’.” His voice was a low whisper, a gentle, rolling sound that spilled into your skull. His, you mouthed against the wood grain with a small greedy smile.

You tried to obey, thrashing through a wave of white-hot pressure, trembling like you’d come down with a fever.

Clawing at the desk, hips following the motion of his fingers, your knees drawn together as your release crested within you. You fell to the cool wood varnish, damp and heaving out wet breaths, tongue lolled out of your mouth. You felt firm hands seize your hips, fingers wet with your mess curled around you, drawing you back against him.

You’d seen him fuck Susanna like this. You envisioned the creamy mess he’d left between her thighs. You felt his body grind against yours, coarse denim grating against your plump, flushed cunt. Cold metal of his belt buckle nipping at your rear.

You lazed against the desk, body spent with a whine dripping from your mouth, anticipating the harsh grind of fabric to be replaced by the searing heat of his skin on yours. It never was.

It weren’t long after that, pulled back against the strain of his large cock that you were shivering through another orgasm.

“Goddamn, Honeybee,” He huffed, balmy breath against the back of your neck. His voice was thick with arousal as the hand that had been holding you still began to pull you to your feet.

Your drawers and trousers were tugged up, gunbelt slung around your waist. The additional weight of your weapon on one hip felt like an anchor.

You lifted your arms, one sleeve at a time, shrugging on your duster. Despite not wearing spurs, his steps still held weight, an impact that even your scrambled brain could detect.

You listened as he stepped around the Sheriff’s desk, vision swimming with the sight of him. You blinked up at him, drowsy and boneless and stupidly drunk on the feeling he’d wrung out of you. His eyes gleamed blue as gemstones beneath the brim of his gambler hat; coarse uncut stones that you’d always found prettier than the polished ones, pale sapphires with all of the most perfect imperfections.

“Hi there,” He rumbled, mouth curled in fondness and deviance, like you were simply two strangers passing one another in the street. He gently placed your hat atop your sweat-dampened head. You struggled to reconcile this man with the one who had threatened to kill your accuser. You thumbed at the star pinned to his chest. Such a curious man.

“Howdy, Mister.” You called back, a small aware smile on your lips.

He let out a hungry noise, letting it boil in his broad chest.

“C’mon, you.” Deputy Callahan beckoned, leading you out of the same door he had led you into the station through.

Standing in the same muggy alley, staring at your horse and Hoss’ towering silhouette, the previous events of the day seemed distant.

“You thought of a name yet?” The Deputy asked, passing a fond hand over the dark face of your horse.

“Ace,” you answered quickly, catching his surprised stare before you clarified, “the card I won with.”

“Ace, huh?” He hummed.

“Fine name for such a handsome feller,” you replied.

“Sure…if she was a feller.”

You smothered your sigh into the cup of your palm.

“Hell, Ace is a fine name for a lady then.” You called back, stubborn as ever. Stepping into a stirrup with weak limbs, feeling broad hands catching your waist, slinging the rest of the way over your saddle.

Sitting atop the saddle, you winced, still feeling the ache of overstimulation.

You watched as Callahan took Ace’s reins, leading her and you out of the alley. You stared briefly at the hand-painted Sheriff’s sign atop the station.

Your hat blocked the glare of the sun as you stared down as your favorite Deputy - you never thought you’d have a favorite a’those.

“Think I’ll see ya again?” You asked with a small smile.

Callahan passed the reins back, and you flexed your hands around them.

“Lord, I hope not,” He called with a wry chuckle, unbothered by your poor attempt at a glare.

“Why’s that?”

He started climbing the stairs back to the station, pausing to glance back at you.

“You’re too much trouble for me, Honeybee.”

You snorted through your nose.

“Maybe so, old man.”

You tipped your hat at him before you tapped at your horse’s sides, sending your mare into a trot. You trusted Ace not to lead you into storefronts long enough for you to loosen your grip on the reins. Your grip relaxed as you watched his broad back disappearing into the Sheriff’s station.

Your lips lifted in a smile; You had a feeling you knew just how much trouble that Deputy Callahan could handle.

#my writing #my fic #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you

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