so still can’t stop thinking about (and slowly writing) that western au with sesskagu, but also it’s turning way darker in my head the further i get in the plot lmao. i mean it’s a given i guess because it was inspired by Shawn James’ Guardian. BUT ALSO, it’s darker but more leaning at the Papamaru & Rin topic cuz they possessed me in the moment. and ofc complicated familial relationships my beloved.
(In which Garrus learns exactly where he belongs.)
Rating: Explicit
Warning: Graphic descriptions of violence
Relationship: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Characters: Garrus Vakarian, Female Shepard, Castis Vakarian, Solana Vakarian, Donovan Hock, Normandy Crew, Original Human Character
Tags: Alternate Universe - Western, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, POV Garrus Vakarian, POV Third Person Limited, Undercover, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Late 19th Century Misogyny and Racism, Character Death, gunfights, Hunting, Horseback Riding, Lots of Horse-Stuff, it's the wild wild west—what did you expect???, no beta—i said "yeehaw" and hoped for the best
Summary:
Hired to infiltrate an outlaw gang, bounty hunter Garrus Vakarian soon discovers that some jobs are more complicated than they seem.
Ten thousand dollars is a hard offer to refuse.
And loyalty is a dangerous thing to gamble with.
Sunlight hit Garrus’ eyes through the cracks in the tent, dragging him from slumber. It didn’t hurt anymore—not like it had for two days straight. A scent drifted in from the camp grounds, hitting him hard and fast: coffee. Could he also smell bacon? His stomach didn’t churn. It rumbled loudly, making him sit up in his cot.
His body gave a violent jolt. He pulled the blanket up to his throat to cover his bare chest.
“Goddammit. The hell are you doing?” he demanded.
Shepard took an unhurried sip from the mug in her hand, her brown eyes ever assessing. She stood leaning her shoulder against one of the posts supporting the canvas.
“Checking if you’re dead,” she said.
“Do you usually watch people sleep?”
She hummed. “Only the pretty ones.”
Garrus’ grip tightened on the blanket.
Her eyes rolled. “Relax, Vakarian. I’ve seen plenty of chests before.”
“Congratulations.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “Yours ain’t especially memorable.”
Tagged by the amazing @vhen-harel thanks for the tag!! I've been working on some silly stuff because I've been working on serious writings and needed to shake things up a bit. So straight from 20th Century Nug Studios: a dragon age 2 western, starring Terrance Hill as Bethany Hawke and Bud Spencer as Garrett Hawke.
Once they were outside, Bethany scowled at Garrett, and said, “You are such a stick in the mud. Did you see how Carver looked at that pretty girl?”
“And it’s none of our business.” he gruffly answered, “He made his bed when he decided to go straight.” Bethany harumphed and pulled her hat down over her forehead. They had only walked a few paces before their path was blocked by a group of four men and two women.
“Afternoon, marshals,” said the tall, pale, and blonde woman at the lead. “I’m Ms. Stannard, I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”
“Of course,” chirped Bethany, flashing a grin. The four men she had shaken down earlier glared at her from behind the women.
“Then allow me to present to you the possibility of a profitable partnership.” Ms. Stannard unfolded her wallet, counted a few bills, and held them out. “I think we can come to some understanding of how Kirkwall functions and will continue to function. What do you say?”
Bethany took the bills and counted them.
“A thousand dollars will close one eye, but what about the other? The chief has two eyes.” Bethany gestured at Garrett, who gave her a stony look for pushing her luck.
“Very well, two thousand.” Ms. Stannard pulled out more banknotes and handed them to Bethany.
“And two times two is four. What about my own eyes?”
“You drive a hard bargain, deputy marshal.” Ms. Stannard snapped her fingers and the young woman, also blonde, beside her jumped and unfolded a second wallet. “Thank you, Elsa. Four thousand dollars. Do we have an understanding, marshals?”
I'll leave the tag open to anyone who wants to show what they're working on and I beg you to go watch "They Call Me Trinity" and "Trinity Is Still My Name"
Marinette rides alongside an outlaw and discovers some things
Marinette nudged the door open, signaling that she was ready, but it swung shut again as the wind caught the old wood. Jason grabbed the edge and sauntered back into the cabin to help with the final preparations now that Marinette was done changing. Marinette had been shocked when he'd produced and offered her men's (boy's really) clothes for the heist. Something along the lines of "How long have you been planning on including me in this?!" had been all but shouted before she accepted the costume. His trip to town had been as thorough as possible so he could avoid venturing away from the cabin for as long as possible, and he'd done his best to plan for every possibility.
This was a standard job for Jason. He'd tried hijacking a stagecoach once a month ever since he'd learned of the problem, and he couldn't miss the next one. The Company had changed the date of the last run, and he'd been forced to abort—to the detriment of every family in Brentwood. Too many families depended on his brand of lawlessness. He had no problem including Marinette in his plan, but she couldn't look like a woman—she would be too memorable.
He stopped, stock still the moment he saw her. The door banged shut behind him, nearly causing him to jump. He took Marinette in with a sweeping gaze. That would not do at all.
She dropped the old Stetson he'd given her on her head and looked up at him. "Well, do I look like a boy?"
Marinette was dressed in an overlarge shirt tucked into the boy's trousers he'd picked up for her—just in case she'd rather commit robbery than be left in the cabin again—and Jason nearly swallowed his tongue. The pants fit a little too well, and the billowing shirt emphasized her slender waist. Even with her hair pinned up high and hidden under her hat, she looked every inch a beautiful woman. When had she gotten so grown up? Not that he hadn't noticed… but somehow it hadn't sunk in. Why had he waited so long to seek her out again?
He cleared his throat, glancing away. "No. We're going to need to muck you up a bit."
She took a step backwards, glanced down, and frowned. "What does that mean?"
He tossed an older duster in her direction. The long coat was shapeless and big. "Put that on."
She caught it with a grimace. "Alright…"
Jason glanced around the cabin. There had to be somethi— there! He crossed the room to grab a handful of old ash from the outer edges of the fireplace and turned back to Marinette. The coat helped a little. But only enough to disguise her shape; it did nothing to hide her beauty.
He reached for her face, but she twitched back again.
"What are you doing?"
He frowned, stalking closer. "It's just ash; it'll wash."
This time, she stood her ground, hands on her hips and 100% defiance. "But why? You're clean."
"'Cause, yer too pretty." Jason declared without thinking.
Summary The story of a boy and his horse.
CWs Mentions of grief, kidnapping, death of a loved one and prostitution. Animal death. Minor character death. Prequel to Blackbird, but can be read on its own (if you just want some silly horse fun).
3.2k words
AN Thanks to @aseafullofstars for sharing your horse knowledge with me and catching a bunch of stuff that didn't make sense. 😄 Thank you @kblognar for convincing me that a fic from the POV of a horse could be fun. ❤️
On April 21, 1855, 35 thoroughbreds of the finest stock were led off a ship at the Port of New York.
There was a big ceremony, speeches. The governor even showed up. Three days later, another horse arrived at that same port. No one gave two craps about her. But they should have, because this mare would produce the most important horse – no, the most important animal – in pretty much the whole universe.
She was first owned by Sal Moriarty, an alcoholic with two ex-wives and three blocked arteries. On weekends, he'd ride around giving Bibles to the poor, "gettin' folks right for Judgment Day." That's what he said. Sam and Dean don't know any of this, but if they did, I bet they'd smile.
After Sal died, she ended up at Rainbow Farm in Lawrence, where a former soldier bought her on impulse. He paid extra to have the mare covered by a stud on the same farm, then took her back to his sons. I guess that's where this story begins.
And this is where it ends.
She crawls into life, shaking and bloody.
The night is cold, and breath, human and horse alike, makes the air puff white. There’s noise and voices, voices of men, and she’s never heard such a thing before. Her mother lies on her side, exhausted and skin foaming with sweat. She licks her little one’s nose, and she skitters, flinches, before recognizing the smell of her, the one who made her. Her father is snorting in some far away cage.
“She looks good, Dean,” she hears a deep voice she will become familiar with. “Leave her in there a bit. Don’t touch her tonight.” She moves her head, tries to whinny but falls short. She turns her head, sees them standing there by the gate. Four of them, one big one and three smaller ones, although two of them are coming up on the big one’s size.
“She’s a beaut, Dean,” she hears one say, a big boy who smells like heat and swamp.
“What’s her name, Dean?” the other, smaller one says. “Can I name her? We could name her Mallory, or Francine, or Isabella–”
“She’s gonna be the most well-trained horse in the entire world,” she hears him, and his voice is young and cracked and given to whistling right now, but it won’t be for long. She doesn’t know who he’ll be just yet, what they’ll go through together.
For now, she pushes her face between her mother’s legs, and drinks and drinks and drinks.
The foal, of course, can do all the things other horses can... and a few things they don't. But none of that stuff's important. This is the stuff that's important: The half piece of carrot that little Sammy once accidentally crammed into her nose. The bullet that grazed her ear and hit Dean in the chest – to this day, that ear flutters when there’s wind, and she’s sure she can hear rattling. These are the things that make the horse theirs – really theirs. Even when she was shot and hurt and limping, and folks were telling Dean to put her out of her misery, he made sure to nurse her back to health. It's the blemishes, he thinks, that make her beautiful.
“C’mere!”
She throws her head up, her nose held high, and trots off. If she could grin, she would. The boy, Dean, sighs, leans forward with his hands on his knees. He’s had another growth spurt, but so has she. His hair is turning darker. He slaps the outside of his leg, and she does a little dance. He shakes his head.
“You are the most damn fool horse I’ve ever met,” he mutters. “C’mere, girl. C’mere, Baby.”
That’s the name he gave her. Or rather, he forgot to give her one, and when his brother and the other boy, who is also a kind of brother, teased him about it, he came up with it on the spot, just to prove them wrong. He scratched her ear after, whispered to her that he’d come up with a better one. He hasn’t so far.
“Can you just - jeez!”
He stomps his foot, takes his hat off his head and throws it on the dusty ground, pushes his fists into his hips. He tries to look mad, domineering, but he ends up just looking silly. She throws her head back, runs another circle around him.
“Dean!”
It’s the big one, the one who was there on the night she was born too. His voice is deep and carries easily, even out here. She whinnies, steps in place, like she wasn’t just running circles around his foal. The boy turns, and she sees his ears going red.
“How’s it going?” the older one asks, and Dean bends, picks up his hat, puts it on, wrong way around, takes it off again and puts in on the right way, some dust flying off it in the breeze.
“Going well, sir,” he says. The man leans against the fence, watches, eyes squinting in the sun and against the sand on the wind, and it makes his eyes look black. She snorts a little, and then Dean approaches her, one hand stretched out, and she can’t help but run another circle around him. It’s just in her nature.
Dean hisses at her, his cheeks now flaming red too, and he clicks his tongue, and says, “c’mere,” a few more times, but she feels like she’s got lightning in her, and she needs to keep running. He throws the older one a desperate look, becoming hectic now, nervous.
His father jumps the fence then. Smooth, like a big cat. He walks over, slowly, to his son, does a low whistle that leads from his lips right to Baby’s heart. She stops where she is, looks at him. Her ear twitches.
“You gon’ behave, girl?” he asks, tilting his head to the side a little. She whinnies and he raises his eyebrows. “Do I need to get my whip?”
She stops. The man steps closer, extends his hand, thumb and index finger rubbing together in a little sound that is too tempting. She steps forward. He scratches at her neck, over at her head, then down to her chin. He’s very good at it.
She feels more inclined to follow their training after. John, the older one, stays for a bit, then leaves, and when he’s gone, Dean acts more like him - calmer, clearer, he even pitches his voice to be deeper.
She listens to him, does what he says. She stands close to him, her tail swishing to get away the flies while he runs his hand over her side. He drags the back of his other hand over his face, sniffles.
Baby doesn’t know it, but this is the moment he understands his father has more patience for his animals than he does for his sons.
In between jobs, Sam and Dean would sometimes get a day – sometimes a week, if they were lucky. They'd pass the time lining their pockets. Sam used to insist on honest work, but now he hustles cards, like his brother. They could go anywhere and do anything. They rode 200 miles to see Wild Bill Hickock, two days for a Cincinnati Red Stockings game. And when it was clear, they'd take her out in the middle of nowhere, start a fire, and watch the stars... for hours... without saying a word.
It never occurred to them that, sure, maybe they never really had a roof and four walls... but they were never, in fact, homeless.
That's a good line.
The front door of the little house flies shut, and Dean stalks towards her in long strides. He’s furious, she can tell, but she’s also learned his fury often covers for something else.
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” he’s muttering under his breath, while inside the house, the shouting continues.
He walks just past her, and then he gives a violent kick to the bucket that holds her water. Baby snorts, takes a step back, and the other two horses, John’s American Quarter and Sam’s Morgan, snort and complain as well. Dean grabs the side of the little stable, the walls of which are rotting away, and Baby can see, even in the dim light of evening, that his knuckles are turning white.
She exhales, exasperated with the young man, but then she steps closer, presses her head against his shoulder. She feels the tension in him, feels it race through him like a storm, but then his shoulders drop and he heaves a big sigh.
“He’s leavin’,” he whispers, like he’s afraid to hear the words spoken out loud. “He’s leavin’, and I can’t– I can’t–”
He turns then, wraps her head up in his arms. She smells as familiar to him as he does to her, and his palm runs over her nose, that point where her skin is so soft, as soft as he thinks he remembers his mother’s being when he pressed his nose against her chest when she told him a bedtime story, and he’s ashamed to be thinking of that, ashamed to be finding his mother’s tit in a horse, but he strokes that part anyway because he thinks that’s the last time he ever had anything soft in his life.
He sniffs and swallows and pulls his head back, looks into her big, black eyes. The right side of his mouth quirks up.
“Fucked up your water bucket, didn’t I?” he says, his voice softer, and she gives no answer because she has already forgiven. She knows he will right it, fill it with fresh water, will labor at the little well behind the house for her. He’ll sneak her some carrots too, sugar cubes if he has them, and he’ll pet her and scratch her exactly the way she likes.
He hugs her again, turns his head. She knows what he’s looking at. Dean reacts one way to his father giving him grief, but another way when he gets mad at his little brother. The two grow hot like coals thrown into a fire, but cool off as quickly as if thrown into water right after. She doesn’t have siblings, or none that she knows, but she thinks she understands the specific type of love that takes.
She knows that Dean is looking at her saddle now, hung over the side of the little makeshift stable. At the caramel leather, worn down. There’s a patch of it, and when this saddle starts being too used to keep it, he’ll cut that part out and sew it into the next one. And the next one. And the next one.
He reaches his hand out, still holding her with the other, and his fingers trace the letters etched into the leather. He breathes slowly.
“He’s leavin’,” he says again. “How can he do that? How can he just leave us, leave the mission, leave–”
Me.
Baby can’t answer him, and she can’t take his pain from him. What she can do is press her head harder against him, show him he’s not alone, make him warm, in that little tiny moment.
Watch him, as his fingertips run over the etchings of SW and DW. At least on leather, they won’t ever be apart.
Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a pen can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible. You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can. The readers are always gonna complain. There's always gonna be holes. And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something. I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass.
It’s many years later, and Dean is nearly killing her.
There she was, spending a lazy night in a stable that had fresh hay and a bright moon, a stallion that smelled like grass and freedom in the box across from her, and she knew Dean was enjoying himself inside, the air even out here tinged with perfumes and liquor, and she stood in the cooling dark, content and calm. She watched as Sam and one of the others, the one who used to shoot at Dean, walked over to the stable, saddled their own horses. Sam ran one hand down her side in greeting, because she wasn’t his horse, but he’d known her all her life, and she knew him nearly as long. He and the man spoke in quiet, calm voices. Rode off, and Baby went back to dozing.
The next day broke, and when Dean came striding out of the house, she knew something was wrong. Some of the others were with him.
“What do you mean, they ain’t checked in?” Dean asked, voice tense. He comes close, doesn’t greet her, is too focused on what the others are saying. His breath smells of whiskey from last night and there’s also a sweeter odor she has heard him call pussy. She’s not quite sure what it is, but the gang seems to enjoy it often.
Dean mounts her, and the others saddle up as well, ride out. Not unusual, but there is a tension there that makes her throw her head back and forth. In his hurry, Dean hasn’t fastened the saddle tight enough, and it chafes her. The SW and the DW bouncing up and down.
They find the man Sam left with earlier dead on the road. He’s staring up at the sky, his horse, a proud Arabian, lying dead over his legs, shot in the side of the head. Baby snorts, grieves.
A stone’s throw away, Sam’s horse lies. Dying, but not dead. Baby and the other horses whinny, step back and forth, ravished by pain and anger and sorrow, while the gang looks on. Baby can hear the leather of her reins scratch against the leather of Dean’s gloves. He is shaking with terror as they listen to the crying horse, its thrashing.
It’s him who dismounts, eventually. Goes and shoots Sam’s dying horse in the head. Baby watches him walk back, his head lowered so the rim of his hat hides his eyes. The others take off their hats, hold them to their chests, and she knows it’s for the dead man but it’s also for the dead horses. The man with the blue eyes mumbles a prayer, asks God to welcome them all in his garden. She loves them fiercely, these humans, right then.
There’s a trail, so they follow. Heat, beating down. Fast, so fast. After a day, the short one who hasn’t been with them long dares to suggest they turn back, regroup. Dean throws him a look so murderous, Baby feels it vibrating off herself.
They keep going. We follow the trail, we find Sammy. It’s an easy task. Then rain, late on the second day. The trail is gone.
They beg him to turn back. Dean refuses. A few of them agree to split up, go back and try a different way. The almost-brother and the man with the blue eyes stay. Sometimes, they shout Sam’s name. He doesn’t answer.
They beg Dean to turn around. He finally agrees, or that’s what he says to them. They sit, drink the last of their water. Dean stares off into the distance, the looks on his friends’ faces worried but relieved, and she knows, in that moment, that she knows him better than all of them combined.
Here’s what he does: the man with the blue eyes walks up to him, hand on his shoulder as if to sooth him. Dean nods along, then rears his head back and whips it forward, and there is a crunch as he breaks the other man’s nose. He flies back, blood spurting from it, making the air metallic. The almost-brother puts up a fight, gets a hold on Dean and shouts at him that it’s madness if they keep going, that he’s no good to Sam dead, and Dean can’t free himself from the man’s grip except to get his hand on his revolver. He shoots at the other two horses, so close between their legs that even they, with all their practice and experience, go running. Baby would take offense, but she knows if he wanted to hit them, he would have. With no way for the other men to follow him, Dean rushes over, climbs back onto her, yeehaws and rides off.
They ride for a day and a night. Any trail that might have been there is lost. It’s a wild, insane chase that won’t lead anywhere. But Baby understands. She foams at the mouth and she doesn’t get mad when Dean gives her the spurs again and she rides like she has never ridden before.
It’s on the second day alone that Dean finally collapses. No water, sun beating down. He tries to hold himself up. He leans down, his forehead pressed against her, and he cries bitter tears. She stops walking, stands perfectly still. His hands claw into her mane. He begs and threatens and cries. When he is done, she turns around, and she carries him to safety.
So, what's it all add up to? It's hard to say. But me, I'd say this was a test... for Sam and Dean. And I think they did all right. Up against good, evil, angels, devils, destiny, and God himself, they made their own choice. They chose family. And, well... isn't that kinda the whole point?
She’ll live a few years yet, but there is one more big adventure. And it’s not being ridden by Dean. It’s being ridden by his little brother.
It’s a compliment, really. She’s the best, fastest horse they have, and they have some good horses. Well trained and strong and fast and beautiful. But none of them are like her.
While the gang is drinking and having pussy again one night, Sam comes outside, and sits to write a letter. She likes the little one’s presence, how calm he is, how he searches out the horses and enjoys their company. She swats her tail, just as Sam looks up. She follows his gaze, but there is nothing her horse eyes can see.
He drops to the ground, and seizes. Twitches, grunts, a horrible display of humanity. Baby whinnies, snorts. He’s soon found. A naked Dean joins them, and they argue. Dean walks back inside, having forbidden Sam to do what he wants - to have the gang ride out, follow whatever he saw on the inside of his skull.
He doesn’t, though, and if Baby could smile at that, she would. He stays, and then, when no one is watching him anymore, he looks around, and his eyes fall on her. That’s how she knows she has an important job to do.
He saddles her, talking to her quietly. She’s the fastest. The strongest. And she will make sure Dean’s brother stays safe. Sam pats her side.
Don’t worry, Baby thinks, as the dark road opens up before her. Sam is heavier on her back than Dean is, but he is a calmer rider, and she finds she enjoys carrying him. She snorts once, and he pats her neck again, and then they are off.
I will take good care of him, she thinks, as they make for Blackbird.
No doubt – endings are hard. But then again... nothing ever really ends, does it?
Thank you for reading! ♡
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I'm so nervous about the next chapter of the western au, because It's the one about Lina's escape, and I think it needs to be simple and rushed, because she won't be able to write something better
