#Mama Shepherd

[funzige-gedachten]

Trading secrets with mama🤫🤫

[sodasletterrs]

popsoda whiteboard dump!!!!

also little kid popsoda ..,,

[knowthatiloveyou]

Hannah out here looking like a Christmas snack

[dumpsterwizardposting]

another mandatory comp-het post from ambrose,, because im totally (not) normal about characters that andy plays.....

[letolimarseehisfamily]

All my art for Piktober 2023!

There's some mistakes and some I'm not proud of but I'll still make the collection.

First here's the list. I'll be posting them all in order.

To be continued in reblog

[bopsickles]

I don’t care what anyone says about Miranda Bailey, when one of her babies is in trouble she is THERE

[newton8]

I remember in 19x15 when Owen told Amelia to talk to Teddy to see if she could give Kai a research lab so that they stay in Seattle. Like he actually cares about Amelia and wants her to be happy 🥺

[strawberrylemongrass]

this is actually what it looks like when me and my dad hang out :)

[echidna-enquiries]

Guardian Family Gift Exchange Pt 4.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✺✳ ┅ ⑅ ┅ ✳✺ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

While Chase was struck with laughter, Morgan had finished her second glass of wine and walked to the table, grabbing one of the small boxes and then turned and crouched down next to her nephew. "Thought you could REALLY use these, Chase", Morgan smirked, getting up and sitting back up in her chair. After catching his breath, Chase tore open the box, he looked a bit unsure at what he got. They were wireless earbuds for music, these looked expensive, but he's had some experience with small easily lost earbuds that need to be charged way too much for his liking. "Now before you make any judgements!", Morgan raised a hand, picking up a biscuit from the table, "Try them on and try and shake them out". "Pft-okay, sure Auntie". As he was instructed, Chase got the small earbuds out, they were a bright orange, already a plus in his book, and there was a small cable that split into two in there, could he attach that? Promising. Once he put them into his earholes, he began to shake his head wildly. Almost as if he was Rhett at a metal concert. When he stopped, his hair a mess and trying to hide a laugh, he realised they were still in, tucked tightly Chase couldn't help but give an excited laugh, "Damn. Okay that's cool". "And! They have a super long battery life, the little holder there can give them a booster charge if you plug it in for long enough. And yes, I got them made to that colour AND got that bonus band for you... I know what you're like and I'm making sure you aren't losing these!". The family chuckled as Chase made a face, "Damn you really coming for me, Morgan".

"My turn!", Johnathan cheered as he got up, brushing remaining crumbs from many a snack off his shirt as he got a wrapped box. When he stopped in front of Salem, he mimicked the bow he did before, "For you, sir", he said in a cheesy fancy tone. Salem couldn't help but giggle, "Why thank you, good sir". He took off the wrapping, adding it to the growing pile of wrapping paper that was being scooped up and put into a giant bag in the corner of the room.

"Awwwr...", a wide smile came to his face at the reveal of the present. It was one of those displays of a miniature scene that goes on a bookshelf. This one was fantasy themed and even had a dragon in it, he'd have to build it up later "Oh, this is great. I'm surprised I didn't have one like this yet, didn't even know they had one in this style". "Oh good! I was so worried about buying you a repeat!", Johnathan sighed in relief, "I would've been kicking myself!". "Thank you, grandfather. This will look great next to my fantasy collection", Salem smiled as he received a hug from his short spotty, grandfather.

Realising it was now his turn, Coal looked nervous, "Oh shit, okay uh-". he grabbed a tightly wrapped box and plastic container that was on the food table that had a bow on top and label that said 'DO NOT TOUCH UNTIL OPENED', and looked to Shepherd.

"Two gifts?", Shepherd asked, raising a brow, "The rules were for you to stick to one main gift or multiple small ones, mister". "I know, I know but food doesn't really count as a gift usually and this one is important", Coal handed him the present first, "This is your main gift".

Shepherd promptly opened it, the reveal of the gift leaving a small smile and nod of approval on his face. It was a documentary series surrounding prehistoric creatures. Coal had remembered his smaller interest in dinosaurs and the creatures before their time it seems. "Ahhh. I've been wanting to watch this series. But I didn't want to pay for a whole new streaming subscription for it...".

"God i know right? It's bullshit. It's why i either just buy it physically or just... find other means to watch it", Coal smirked, looking away, everyone knew what he meant. "I'm more surprised you didn't get me anything horror related, but I am still fairly happy with this".

"I mean I could've...but I know damn well enough you probably already got anything that I'd know and anything I don't' know you STILL might have... or it might be total garbage... that you also have". Shepherd fought a chuckle, clearing his throat to cover it up, "A collection is a collection. Now what is this 'not-gift' you have there?".

Coal said nothing but smiled softly putting the box on his lap, Shepherd titled his head at it, he wondered what would make this 'food gift' so special? He opened the box and was hit with a familiar smell, rows of cookies were inside. Coal was not much of a baker so this was already a surprise... but the smell and look of these. They were familiar... it almost took him back to so long ago, when he raising a young Marcello and had his wife, Eleanor to come home too... After picking one up, Shepherd took a bit and he had seemingly froze on the spot. Everyone looked on concerned at his sudden reaction, Marcello even putting a hand on his fathers shoulder, "Dad?". "...Marcello...try one...", is all he said, still looking forward as he slowly chewed the cookie. Confused, but Marcello complied, taking one and eating it... a similar expression came onto his face. "Oh my gosh...", he could feel tears coming up into his eyes, "They're...they're just like mum's...". "They're exactly hers...", Shepherd spoke quietly, already finishing the whole of the first cookie. Coal soflty laughed at the two of them, he could feel his heart warming at the very sight of their happiness, "It took me quite a few attempts, I'm not much of a baker but I wanted to try it... I saw in the book you gave me some time ago, she had a little note that said 'Sheppy's favourite'...". "...Oh god-", Shepherd put the box down and put a hand over his face, his other one following as he hid his face. "Awr no, dont' get like that!", Coal put a hand on his grandfathers shoulder. "I'm doing this so I don't start crying. I don't like crying and I'm too tired to do it!", Shepherd spoke, his voice muffled through his hands. The family around him had a mix of happy but concerned reactions, glad to see their eldest was happy but also hoping he wasn't going to cry... it wasn't a common sight and it was always weird. Shepherd took a breath, composing himself as he looked back up at Coal who remain stood, "Thank you very much, Coal... this was... this was very thoughtful. I appreciate you going out of your comfort zone for this. I'm sure Eleanor would've loved to cook with you if she could've". "Ah jeez, don't get me started...", Coal chuckled softly, wiping his own eyes to make sure no tears came out, "Hope you and Marcello enjoy them". The nervousness that Coal had immediately melted, he was far too worried that his presents wouldn't get the approval he desired. But thankfully that wasn't close to what wound up happening... Especially seeing Marcello and Shepherd quietly getting a handful of the biscuits each and munching them down.

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[elisaphoenix13]

This Family Is Forever

There was always this pleasant feeling of in between that Stephen enjoyed. Not quite asleep but definitely not awake. He was aware of Tony's warm body that he was curled up against, his spouse's soft snores and the rise and fall of his chest where he laid his head. Anything beyond that bubble was non-existent. The weight of Athena and Apollo never processed, no noises outside of their room…just their breathing. Just the warmth they shared. It was a pleasant limbo that Stephen had been enjoying for…however long he had swam into consciousness. If he was conscious. Sometimes the little bubble ended up being a very vivid dream that was eventually unceremoniously popped and he would find himself alone in bed. Alone with his ever loyal wolf still at his feet of course. Tony and Apollo would be long gone if the coldness of the sheets beside him were any indication.

This was real though, Stephen could tell. With just the slightest bit of adjustment, he threw one of his legs over Tony's, and the man instinctively responded by tightening his arm around him and rubbing his thumb along his shoulder. The motion died down after a few seconds and Tony would lie still. Stephen selfishly enjoyed every moment of the peace–

"Mom!" Stephen's eyes snap open when the door flies open, the sound of the rest of the penthouse–namely their children's daily noise–breaks that wonderful bubble and forces the sorcerer out of his stupor. Tony grumbles beside him because he was unceremoniously woken up from his own bubble.

"Nobody lives here by that name," Tony says for him.

"There is when William is being bullied at school!" America retorts.

Of course that immediately got their attention and Stephen was already sitting up. Tony took a few seconds longer, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"How did you find out about this?" Stephen asks as he slips out of bed to follow his newly adopted daughter out of the room. As she led the way to the youngest twin's room, the man mentally kicked himself for ignoring the signs. The boy had been more withdrawn than usual, staying in his room and declining to spend time with the sorcerer like he usually did, whether to read together, practice his magic, or to simply put together a puzzle.

He even openly avoided Harley and Valerie, making them very put out and hurt. If Stephen really thought about it, he could recall that William very gingerly ate his dinner the night before. The conclusion he came to caused him to see red but he stamped the anger down as he and America approached the room. The door was closed and Stephen at least knocked twice before letting himself in, fully expecting the boy to teleport away to escape the situation, but instead he found the boy sitting on his bed looking defeated.

He was clearly tired of hiding the truth or was aware Stephen would follow him to the ends of the earth to make sure he was okay.

The bruise on his cheek was a clear sign that he wasn't and Stephen's rage boiled in his chest.

"I caught him trying to cover it up," America explains before Stephen can ask. "He's been covering it up for days."

Considering the bruise was still rather dark and large, whatever caused it had to have happened at the beginning of the week. Even more concerning was the fact that Cassie hadn't caught on. She was, unofficially, their eyes on the twins while they were at school because they knew how the boys hid things. It had gotten better, but bullying was something they felt wasn't worth bothering their parents about. Stephen could understand to an extent. Schools had a no bullying policy but never really enforced it, or if they did, suspended both parties and washed their hands of it.

It was Peter all over again. Stephen would have to talk to Tony about the usual funding threat to get the bullying to stop like they had done for Peter. It seemed the only effective solution.

"William," Stephen says softly as he crouches in front of the teen. "What's going on?"

For a moment, William didn't make any indication that he would respond, but finally he said, "they said it's because my parents are both guys."

The words sunk in slowly before finally clicking. William was being bullied because he was gay? And on top of that, because they thought he was gay because of his parents? The notion was laughable considering Cassie had gay parents and she was very happily in a straight relationship with Peter and vice versa. Bullies really reach for a reason to ridicule someone.

"Let me see," Stephen says, reaching up to gently tilt William's head to examine the bruise around his cheekbone. The boy winced at the slightest touch, making the sorcerer frown as he sent some healing magic into it. The color lightened but his body would have to finish the healing itself. "America, will you go run and get some ice please?"

"Yup!" The girl rushes out in an instant.

"I want the names of whoever did this to you and your father and I will take care of this," Stephen tells William, smiling when the boy's eyes widen. "Quietly, I promise. This isn't our first rodeo. What I am curious about is how you managed to hide it from Cassie and Thomas."

"They were home sick the day it happened and you were out doing sorcerer stuff, so when I got home I was able to cover it with some of Cass's make-up," William says quickly, or as Thomas would call it, word-vomiting. "I didn't want to say anything because if you or dad or Harley freak out, then I freak out, and I didn't want you to worry about something so stupid–"

"This isn't stupid," Stephen interrupts sharply as he moves to sit next to William on the bed. "Nothing that hurts you is ever stupid. Even something as small as a paper cut isn't stupid…do you know why?"

William swallows thickly, only looking up when Tony walks in with some ice instead of America, and winces when the older man gently applies it to his face. Tony only let go when William held the ice under his own power and moved his hand to place on top of the boy's dark hair.

"Because you deserve better," Tony answers, having obviously heard what Stephen had said and been updated on the situation by their daughter. "All of you do. Every kid does, really. You and your brother had to take care of each other for a long time because no one else would, but you have this whole new family that would take a bullet for you. Hell, there's even a god downstairs that would blow up the school if you asked him to."

Stephen snorts. "Quill's not going to blow up a school."

"The point," Tony rolls his eyes fondly, continuing. "Is that he would. And if we had you when the snap happened, I would have worked that much harder to get my boys back. Losing Stephen, Harley, and Peter like that…I still have nightmares. And you know what? I have nightmares that it happens to all of my kids. You and Thomas, America, Cassie, the girls…" Tony sighs quietly. "Something that may seem stupid to you, won't be stupid to us. You are our kid and we love you. We want you to be safe, happy, and validated. We want you to feel comfortable calling us if you decide to go out partying without telling us and you end up in some kind of trouble."

William's shoulder slump. "I'm sorry. I just…even after all this time…a part of me is still worried that one little thing will ruin everything."

Tony lifts his head up by his chin and smirks at him. "I told you before and I'll tell you again kid. We're in this for the long haul. There are plenty of actual stupid things Peter and Harley have done that made us want to tear out our hair but they're still here. We still love them. Making mistakes is all a part of growing up. Or, in this case, telling your parents when something not so great is happening at school. Capire?"

William nods. "Yeah."

"Is there anything else you need to talk about or tell us?" Stephen asks.

"No," the teen shakes his head this time. "It's just that, I swear."

"Alright. Do you think you can handle pancakes with some strawberries and whipped cream?" A nod from William sends Stephen out the door to make breakfast, but a near collision with Valerie makes him stop.

"Liam better?" She asks quietly and Stephen smiles and brushes her hair back.

"I think so. Maybe if you ask nicely, he'll play with you until breakfast is ready."

It was enough to make the little girl perk up with a smile before hurrying into William's room, almost running into Tony while doing so. The man was fortunately able to move out of the way and snorted in amusement.

"I'm pretty sure if we did try to get rid of him, your daughter would have something to say about it," Tony jokes and Stephen huffs as he turns and descends the stairs to the kitchen.

"My daughter? Just like Lucy is my daughter when she gets into trouble you put her in?" Stephen challenges.

Tony laughs. "In my defense, Lulu climbs those shelves by herself. She doesn't need any help from me."

"After you taught her to do that, you mean."

"I plead the fifth."

Stephen snorts again and sets about making breakfast while Tony goes in search of their youngest. She was found in the living room watching TV with Diana and America, but was eager to be held by Tony, who returned to the kitchen with her in hand. Lucy was happily rubbing her hands along Tony's goatee with her typical gleeful babbling or an actual English word, and the rest of the kids were slowly leaving their rooms. Probably enticed by the smell of pancakes.

"Quill would blow up the school if it were Cassie," Tony suddenly says.

"Quill would find a way to disintegrate someone with lasers from his eyeballs if someone so much as sneezes in her's or Scott's general direction," Stephen responds flatly.

"Don't give him any ideas," Peter yawns, and plops into a seat at the breakfast counter. "He already gave some guy at her school the side eye when he had to go pick her up when she was sick. Like you said, the poor guy just sneezed."

"Was he sitting next to her?" Tony asks.

"I think so. They were both in the office."

"Then he probably silently accused him of making Miss Sass sick," Tony says. "Quill's planning his demise as we speak."

Stephen rolls his eyes and tunes the two of them out as he finishes breakfast, but keeps an ear out when he hears Harley talking to William. He couldn't hear much of what his oldest was saying, but it was clear that he was fussing over his boyfriend and irritated at whoever hurt him. He was surprised to hear Valerie reprimand Harley for upsetting William because of the fussing.

"If you think Quill's bad, I wouldn't want to get on Valerie's bad side when it comes to William," Stephen says to Tony and Peter. "I'm sure she's ready to push Harley out of the room."

"Val?" Peter gawks and gasps dramatically when Stephen smirks. "What is this world coming to?!"

"I saw a stare down between her and Sam when he tried to talk to Will about something that was obviously upsetting him," Thomas adds nonchalantly as he joins them. "She didn't even glare or anything. Just stared. Sam left."

"Seriously. What's this world coming to?" Peter mumbles and Stephen chuckles.

The twins weren't the only ones learning and growing up it seemed.

[bonafidehero]

Photos I took of my pets as a child in the 90s

[wizardnuke]

confusing my coworkers who know me as the resident spider catcher by recognizing a wolf spider at a glance and saying no someone else has to handle that. "are you specifically afraid of wolf spiders" Yes and i'm afraid of blue jays and german shepherds, but not other birds or dogs. yes i know that's weird. next

[jelicaalynn]

bandit says good morning to everyone 🤠

and he hopes all of you have a great friday and weekend

stay safe & hydrate or die

(also gib pets pls)

[the-thistle-missile]

Tub of puppies

[beloveds-embrace]

(pure self-indulgence of john price x soldier reader who wants him to wife her up)

John Price was a patient man. He had to be. Patience kept a team alive, kept a mission from going sideways, kept him from losing his head when the lads were being their usual insufferable selves. But you- well, you tested that patience in ways he hadn’t quite prepared for and now found himself in uncharted territory.

Not because you were difficult. Quite the opposite, really. You were a damn good soldier, disciplined and capable, but it was the way you looked at him. That gaze of yours, soft and knowing, like you already had him figured out before he even had the chance to deny it. It was dangerous.

And then there was the not-so-secret weapon- your cooking.

You weren’t supposed to be good at that. No one in the 141 was. Every meal they had was either military rations, some god-awful attempt by Soap to make something “edible,” by recreating his mama’s recipes, or takeout from whatever half-decent place they could find near base.

But you? You had magic in your hands.

You always took the chance to cook for them when things were slow, when downtime stretched long enough for you to raid the kitchen. And the men adored you for it, unsurprisingly. Gaz practically worshiped you after the first time you made homemade shepherd’s pie. Soap had sworn his loyalty over a plate of stew, would’ve gone on his knees to beg for more if Ghost hadn’t grabbed him by the back of his neck and hauled him up, and speaking of Ghost, usually so unreadable and distant, he was a bit softer when you handed him a warm meal without expecting anything in return.

And John?

Well, he wasn’t a fool. He saw the way you lingered when you handed him his plate, fingers brushing- and the way you leaned against the counter and watched him eat with that same soft look in your eyes. And God help him, but it did things to him.

You had a way of making him want things he’d long put aside- comfort, warmth, a home. Distant thoughts of a cozy house, the pitter-patter of children running about.

So when you sighed one evening, all absent-like as you stirred a pot of chicken soup to battle the cold weather outside, and said, “Y’know, I always wanted to be a housewife.”

It damn near broke him.

John had been watching you, as he often did when you got like this, domestic and content. He knew you hadn’t joined the military out of passion. You were good at it, yes, but you never had that same unwavering devotion to the life like the others did. You fought like hell, but there was always something wistful in the way you looked at the world outside the battlefield.

And now he knew why.

You wanted a home. A real one. Not just barracks and safe houses and temporary quarters, but a place that was yours. A kitchen where you could cook for the sake of it, not just to keep the team from poisoning themselves. A space where you could just be, without the weight of duty pressing down on you.

John wasn’t an idiot. He knew what you were doing, the way you peeked at him from beneath your lashes, the way you said it so simply, like it was just a passing thought and not something you wanted him to hear.

Like you wanted him to do something about it.

And fuck if he didn’t want to.

The rest of the team was too busy inhaling their food to notice the way he set his spoon down at last, watching you with that keen, thoughtful look that had sent men running before- and yet you merely preened silently.

“Think you’d make a good housewife, then?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

You turned to face him, your own spoon pausing, and tilted your head, feigning innocence. “You tell me, Captain.”

John exhaled slowly, glancing around the room. The others weren’t paying attention, too preoccupied with second helpings and quiet conversation. His gaze flicked back to you, and you gave him that look- the one that could make any man fold.

And God help him, but he folded.

“Finish up here,” he murmured, voice just for you. “Then come see me.”

You didn’t say anything, just turned back to your plate with a small, knowing smile.

John Price was a patient man. But even patience had its limits.

[yeyinde]

(sighs dreamily) i loooove the way you write fucked up and gross simon. the size kink and somno drabbles have been living rent free in my mind for almost two weeks now. the recent stalker piece was also so deliciously terrifying, i actually had a dream/nightmare today that was a mixture of stalker!ghost and not-dog!soap 😭

are you planning on writing any more for either of those?

ahhh thank you!!!! this had me wondering how i could maybe blend the two and this happened.

stalking. HEAVILY implied noncon somno. size difference.

Simon decides your dog, your baby, needs a man in the house. and since you like to call yourself his 'mama,’ then it’s only right that he becomes the daddy both of you need.

Your dog does not like strangers.

He's a rescue and the sort of life he lived until now, until you, is mostly a mystery. You found him on a rainy day, panting under your awning - a gnarled mess of matted fur glued to bone. Too skinny to survive another winter. You took him in right away and gained his trust. His love. But whatever he had left to spare (lots, it seems) is strictly reserved for you. Everyone else is a threat, a worry. Even the vets he's known since you found him all those years ago still get the same wary glances, the same growls then they lean in too close to whisper something in your ear.

He's just—special. The sweetest thing ever when it's just you. Your baby. People joke—slightly nervous—that he treats you like his mother. Following you closely with his big, glossy eyes tilted up to stare at you. Loving. Cuddly. Rests his big head on your lap at night with a great, big sigh. Tired from a long, hard day of protecting his house from squirrels and the stray delivery driver.

But when it comes to others—anyone, really—he’s aggressive. Territorial. All the vets and trainers say that it's his breed. That he just needs to be trained. Exposure therapy. Behavioural. And it works for all of two weeks before he's back to his stubborn self. Snapping at anyone who gets too close to you.

You post warnings on your fence. Your front door. Take precautions when you walk him. Warn anyone who gets close that he doesn't like anyone. Full stop. No exceptions. And it works. Helps ease the stress. He still goes to therapy. To training lessons. But he's smart enough to trick them into thinking he's learning.

And it's fine. People can't get too close to you. To his house. His territory.

Or so you thought.

But he's been acting strange lately.

You caught him barking at something through the fence a few months ago; spittle flying from his muzzle as his lips peeled back, snarling and vicious. If the fence wasn't reinforced, you think he would have broken it down to get at whatever was behind it.

It continued like this for a few days. Each time you went to check and see what was there, all you find is littered cigarettes. The teenage son of your neighbour, you think. He likes to hide in the dense woods so his parents can't find him. You'll talk to him about it later. Ask if he can do it a little further away from the fence so he isn’t disturbing Baby. 

As the days grow, his growls and snarls diminish before stopping outright. In the interim, your unease grows.

It's small—at first. 

He wants to be outside more. Always whining at the back door, scratching at it with his paw. When you let him out, he runs right to that spot by the fence. Sits down, and just stares. When you go out to look, there's nothing there. Just a dark, sprawling coppice. Cigarettes on the ground. But something catches his attention. Keeps it. Holds it.

He leads you to that spot sometimes, too. Nudges you with his big, furry head to your thighs. Shepherding you to the fence, and then sits back, clearly preening. Proud.

"You're mama’s silly boy, aren't you?" you coo, scratching his ears. It must be the neighbour. Maybe a stray deer wandered by. You catch a flash through the tree line. Twin puddles of black peering through the tangled weeds. Your dog perks up, looking towards it. A deer, you think. A stray buck. You huff, patting his head. "Made a new friend, huh?"

But you can't shake the feeling that something else is out there. That something is staring at you.

Nothing, you tell yourself, fighting off a shiver. It's fine. Fine. He sneaks off at night sometimes. You hear him playing in the hallway. Wandering around the house. The tack-tack-tack of his nails against the hardwood as he walks back to your bedroom lulls you back to sleep. You feel the bed dip. Something warm against your back. You sigh, melting into the sheets—

There's nothing to worry about.

He'll protect you.

But the next morning, you find him locked outside. The patio door shut. The deck is dried from the sun, but his fur is wet. It rained last night. You drifted in and out to the patter of it on your window. The soothing weight of his body curling around you—

He must have gotten out in the morning. Rolled around in the grass. But when you put him in the tub later to scrub the rainwater off of his cost, his belly is dry.

It's nothing. He was in bed with you last night. It's fine. Fine. Everything is easy to explain away as coincidence. Nothing usual. The feeling of being watched. The missing food from your fridge. The creaks of the old house at night. Things shifting around—keys missing only to turn up somewhere else. Rodents chewing through your landline. 

The panties you shed, tossing into a corner before getting into the shower going missing—

They’re just—lost in the wash. You must have thrown the leftover food away when you cleaned earlier and forgot. The lingering scent of cigarettes. Smoke in your bed. The cloying scent of loam, humus. Fresh dirt. The stains on your bed. The strange smear in the gusset of your panties when you peel them apart.

Something thick, firm between your thighs—

Fine. You tell yourself. Everything is fine. At best, it's a gas leak. At worst—well.

Baby will protect you. 

Always. 

But the next day, he brings his favourite toy to the back door, asking to be let out, and this isn't—

It's not normal.

He's possessive over his toys. Keeps them on his daybed and refuses to let anyone touch them. Only you. He doesn't bring the. Outside, either.

But when you peer outside a few minutes later, the toy is lying by that spot near the fence. He's sitting down, tail wagging. Happy. Excited. It continues like this for the next few days. He brings his toys to the fence, coming in later, licking his lips. When you brush his teeth at night, you smell something gamey on his breath. Meaty.��

Getting out of bed a few hours later and playing in the hallway. Going to sleep with you at night, but somehow getting out in the early hours of the morning, waiting for you on the patio when you remember the huff of his breath over your neck less than an hour ago—

No. You're just—

Getting the time wrong. It's fine. He'll protect you. He doesn't like anyone but you.

You hear footsteps in the hallway at night next to the click-clack of his nails. When you jump out of bed to check, it's just him. Sitting by the back door, head craned over his shoulder when he heard you coming. His favourite toy is sitting on the ground in front of him. You fight a shiver. The feeling of eyes burning into you churns your stomach.

"I'm going crazy, sweetheart," you coo, but feel the threads of your sanity begin to snap one by one. "But you'll keep me safe, right?"

His tail wags. You pretend not to notice the gap in the patio door. Opened just a crack. You shut it, forcibly telling yourself to remember to close it next time and fight the memories of locking it before settling on the couch to watch old re-runs. You drag him back to bed, burrowing your head into his fur, listening to the thud-thud-thud of his heart in your ear. 

When you dream that night, it's of a big, scarred hand making its way between your thighs. A rasping, masculine voice in your ear commanding you to be good—

You wake up with your thighs sticky, wet. Your cunt pulsing. There's an ache there; a sting. It twinges when you move, tapering into a sore throb as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, woken up by the strange dream—fingers between your thighs, a head resting on your belly, calling you a good girl—and a noise.

A low murmur comes from the living room. You wince with the first several steps, forcing yourself to ignore the uncomfortable feeling between your thighs. The wetness that drips down your leg, some of it already dried, sticking to your skin. It’s fine. You just had a—

A wet dream.

—everything is fine. Fine. Your heart lurches. Lodges in your throat. Each beat feels like a fist against your tissue trying to break down the prison of your flesh to flee. 

You slowly inch toward the hallway, the sound, making excuses for the fear that curdles in your belly. The itch in the back of your head that calls you stupid. Demands you go back to bed. To sleep. You’ll wake up in the morning to Baby slobbering over your chest, drooling as the time ticks away in a slow crawl towards his usual breakfast. 

It’s tempting. The sleep congealing in the corners of your eyes, weighing heavy—molasses-thick—over your sense of awareness: cobwebbed in that strange, uncanny realm of sleep and wakefulness; hypnagogia turning shadows on the walls into human shapes. The whisper of wind into the brassy drawl of a voice. 

Through it all, the prickle rears. Says something isn't right. Hasn't been right for a while now. It's fine. Everything is—

It doesn't make sense at first. Your brain tries to wrap around the images your eyes feed it. Untangling the dizzying sense of confusion that runs along your hindbrain like a jagged knife; grazing tissue, scraping over nerves. The picture comes together quickly. There's no misinterpreting the shapes.

A man is lounging on your couch. Legs kicked up on the coffee table, ankles crossed. The remote is held in one hand as he lazily flicks through the channels on your television screen. The picture of ease. So relaxed, so comfortable in your space, that you begin to feel a little bit like an intruder. A voyeur peering between the curtains.

This feeling is reinforced when you peel your eyes away from the horrifying mask on the man's face—a black balaclava—and find your dog lounging beside him. Resting with his head over this stranger's thick thighs. His head perks up when you approach, tail wagging, but he doesn't get up from his spot. Content to bask in the half-hearted attention the man doles, a hand buried in his fur. Dragging over his ears. Down his back. Monotonous flicks of his thick wrist, nearly the same width as the barrel of a baseball bat.

And that just trembles down your spine in the worst way.

He's the same height as you are sitting down. Takes up two cushions on the couch with his absurd bulk. Massive, you think. And then it all rushes through you. The knife slips into your cognisance.

There's a man in your house. Petting your dog,

your dog who tries to bite the same vet he's had for years. Who trusts, who likes, no one but you—

You make a noise. Something strangled in the back of your throat. Muffed, unable to escape through the clot of your heart getting there first. It tangles around your pericardium and is too late to take back. To swallow down. 

It doesn’t matter, though. 

The man has been watching from the beginning. 

Dark eyes (a dark, black flash between the leaves—) drill into you. Staring. That familiar, unease feeling is back again, creeping up your spine. It's been him the whole time, you know. The thing behind the fence. Must be. The same brand of cigarettes you found on the opposite side is sitting on your coffee table, right beside his feet.

His chest expands with his inhale. You smell stale smoke. Something wild. The scent of the forest after a summer's rain shower.

"Finally up, are you? Thought you were gonna sleep all day." His voice is deep. Brassy. The growling roll of an approaching thundercloud. You shiver. Jerk back, but—

Baby growls.

He's never done that before. Never barked. Never snarled. Never nipped.

But right now, his teeth peel back, muzzle wrinkling as he lifts his lips. And you know it's playful. Seen this look on his face when you throw the ball across the yard. It's just him being his silly self. He won't attack you. Won't maul you. 

The man lifts his hand and your dog limbers up. Shakes. He jumps off the couch and trots toward you. Nothing is threatening in the way he moves. It's the same lumbering gait, the same happy wag to his tail, but he moves himself around you. Stands between you and the only escape.

"Baby—?"

"Taught 'im a few tricks," the man drawls conversationally—like he wasn't a stranger in your house. "Got a good boy on your 'ands. Jus' needed a bit o'trainin'—”

He snaps his fingers and Baby moves. Bumps his head into the back of your thighs. Pushing you. Nudging you toward the man. It’s so horrifying familiar that you find yourself moving without a thought. Following along. 

"He jus' needed a man in the house, didn't he? A father figure—" 

You're going to be sick. Think you would have been already if your heart wasn't lodged tight in your throat, keeping everything down. 

The man lifts his hand. Curls his fingers. 

"C'mon, mommy," he taunts, voice a derisive roll. "Come sit on Daddy's lap. It's movie night tonight."

Baby pushes you forward happily, tail wagging, wagging—

Happier than you’ve ever seen him as this stranger reaches out, grabbing your waist and hauling you onto his lap. You think about fighting immediately, struggling to get out of his hold, but he moves back and the unmistakable, blunt press of a gun sends shivers rolling down your spine. You still instantly. Back drawing tight. Fear is a wet, hot pulse behind your ribs. 

“Don’t fight it, birdie—” You feel the warm, damp press of his mask against the shell of your ear. The ridges of his lips move beneath the fabric as he speaks. 

You hear him inhale, drawing in the scent of your shampoo—your fear: an oily thick miasma pooling behind your ears, against your nape—and feel tears pool against your lashline when a surge of familiarity wells up at the solid, firm weight of his chest against your spine. His thigh slips between yours, spreading them wide over the arch of his muscle. Limp, dizzy, you fall back into his chest when he pulls you in, slotting a burly arm over your ribcage. Locked in tight. A shackle. 

“Ain’t go’ nothin’ t’worry about,” he continues, hips shifting. Moving. And—

It’s a not gun. You know it isn’t. When you whimper, it throbs—

There’s the echo of a groan in his voice when he huffs, lips pursing into a kiss. “Nothin’ at all. C’mon, Baby—” 

And Baby obeys eagerly, jumping up on the couch beside him. His snout is warm, wet, when he presses it to your arm, sniffing. Please, you think, staring into his eyes as tears swell, pooling down your cheeks. Please—

But the man lifts his arm, and Baby circles the cushion before falling against his side with a deep, content sigh. Hope is snuffed out of your chest in an instant. The man’s hand falls to his head, rubbing his skull affectionately. 

“Good boy.” Baby perks. His happiness is a palpable thing that swells around you as he melts, eyes slipping closed. “Gonna be a good boy while mum an’ dad spend some time together, ain't you, boy?”

His arm tightens around your waist. Chin notches over your shoulder as he shifts back, legs kicking out to spread your thighs further apart.

"Now," he drawls, hand sliding down to the mess between your thighs. You shiver against him, toying with the idea of running, fleeing—but he must know. Senses it, maybe. He lifts his hips, pressing the gun into your spine. A threat. A warning. But with the way he swallows you up—broad chest closing in on you, trapping you on all sides—you know it's futile.

He has you.

Your submission makes him purr.

"Baby's sleepin', so now let daddy take care'o mommy—"