#roman roy + dog motif

[grahamswrath]

roman + logan's sweaters (+ logan's advil)

succession → 1.02 sh*t show at the f**k factory, 4.04 honeymoon states, 4.05 kill list

[capyclara]

"no, you liked it. you asked to be put in that cage."

this was originally for romencken week but i got carried away. dog pound haunts me every fucking day. (prints available in bio!)

[shivroygirls]

roman roy + his dog motif.

excerpt from emily wilson's foreword to a translation of homer's odyssey / i wanna be your dog by ajj / the owl and the tanager - sufjan stevens / unknown source / saint bernard - lincoln / the woman that loves you - japanese breakfast / house of wolves - my chemical romance / epitaph to a dog by lord byron / unknown source / heather havrilesky, ask polly: help, i’m the loneliest person in the world! / julius caesar, act IV, scene 3 by william shakespeare.

+

bonus:

[nobodyisevrmissing]

Andrew Kane, "How To Be A Dog"

[z3nitsusgf]

paper bag

roman roy | reader

tw: fem!reader, toxic relations, manipulation, l*gan roy, romann is sick in the head, Roman says a slur (unsurprising), dog motif, teasing, dirty talk, ooc roman bc he's scared of pussy irl, this shit long af I’m sorry, backwards storytelling bc I’m inconsistent

The room is sticky. Sweltering in a post-august heat. The box fan churns and spits out whatever puffs of air it can muster, but the both of you still sweat on the linens of the motel bed.

The walls are stained from years of misuse and neglect, tinged a dirty yellow. You can’t tell if it’s oil or something more debauched that clings to the plaster, probably the latter.

It’s late into the night, too late for anything to be open and too early for it to be acceptable to up and leave. So the two of you are rooted here, stuck till daybreak.

The sounds of people arguing, a car horn blaring, and the buzz of fluorescent whir through your head. There’s a small box TV, it fizzles and pops every time you try to change the channel. Gurgling in a pre-2000s war cry. You could almost laugh at the circumstances.

You wonder how the fuck you’ve managed to snag New York’s brattiest billionaire, even more at how you’ve convinced him to fuck you in a shitty motel just outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Or to even fuck you at all, you only know rumors of his… strange bedroom endeavors.

You stifle an un-humored chuckle, Roman is lying like a royal Persian cat across the bed, shirt long gone and covered only in his boxers. A brand you've never heard of laces his hips, something expensive and out of reach. Just like most of him.

“What?” He asks, head resting on a closed fist. He draws shapes on your leg, neat nails dragging along the soft skin. He likes the smell of your lotion, something girlish and fresh like linen. Almost like something Shiv would wear, or a nanny from his memory. All he knows is that he likes it.

“Nothin’, just thinking.��

He likes your accent. It reveals your upbringing, obviously not the stupidly refined wealth that Roman inhabits but something humbler. It’s a little rough around the edges but not crass. Your words are straightforward and clear, unlike his family's. The bubbling words they offer to air up a conversation, you cut straight through that.

“Thinking about what?”

You give a smile, taking a long drag of your American Spirit and tipping your head back to blow it up to the stained ceiling. The smoke curls and swirls around before dissipating into nothing. He's not used to the smell, it gives the air a hint of pine-tinged outdoorsy aroma. Warm, comforting, familiar, and terrible all at once. Like something Logan would smell like when he came home, on the rare occurrence Roman was around him long enough to get a whiff.

“How I just bagged the Roman Roy, and how it’s gonna look in the papers.”

You joke, obviously. You’d never tell your endeavors to the pressing public or the sneaky little journalists that gripe for your small breadcrumbs about the family. Even if it is technically your job.

Roman hums, “Waystar son indulges in debauched acts with local journalist slut.”

He makes a gesture with his hands, eyes lighting up and going wide. A dopey grin rested on the plane of his cheeks, a row of sparkling whites glimmering under the citrusy glow of the lamp.

“Fuck you.”

You kick him haphazardly in the chest, his laugh rings around the room like a bell. Roman grabs your ankle, curling his fingers around the bone and yanking you down towards him. He’s uncaring of how you slip down the headrest, watching how you squeak and mumble small profanities.

“Prick could’ve dropped the ashes on me.” You mumble, not serious in the slightest.

“What would your father say?”

You snip, reaching down and dragging a hand through his hair, tussling the already licked-up sweaty strands. He practically melts into your touch, eyes closing and lips parting at the contact. He memorizes how your nails feel on his scalp, visualizing the soft pink of your polish running through the strands.

It feels good to have you touch him so effortlessly. As if he was nice to hold and caress, something soft to be sentimental with. Not a bad dog locked in a kennel for once but allowed to curl up on the bed.

But that's exactly what he is, isn't he? He is the dog that sleeps on the floor at the edge of the bed. Curled in on himself, happy to just be close. Nosing at the sheets, contempt with the presence of its owner. Even if he's cold, shivering from the floorboards - you just being there is enough to keep him warm. The few pats on the head allow him to sleep through the night. He is the dog that never leaves your side, sitting off to the right of you and waiting.

He lets out a bitter giggle, a small grimace twitching his lips. It hides the shimmer of despair that is pooled in his head.

“He’d probably be glad I got some pussy for once. Maybe he’ll stop calling me a fag.”

He laughs when he says it, even though a part of you knows he’s dead serious. You've come to learn he always is when it comes to his father.

The sadness cuts through the raunchiness of his words and you fight off the frown that wants to stitch itself across your face. A part of you wants to reach out and mend together the brokenness, another wants to pull out your journal and backlog it for later. A rotten, benign part of you wants to take this man apart and study it to smithereens.

Roman doesn’t say much, surprisingly. He’s reserved in his intimacy, holding back all the love and care that he wants to pour out. He's been starving for decades, yearning for a love that won't come. He's resigned to the fact he is broken. Besides, he’s not here to cuddle up to you for anything more than to get you to not publish your story on the Roy’s. You're both fighting for the same thing, just on different sides.

You respond the only way you knew how, “Fuck, that’s really fucking depressing.”

Roman admires your brutal style, honesty is a rarity that he treasures when it comes. It's why he noticed you in the first place, your articles about the wealthy family in the tabloids caught his eye. Especially the ones about him -it sounds different when you say it, not like you're vying for an undercut but like you're genuine.

He laughs.

You both laugh. Tipping your heads back and howling with laughter. He's got tears in his eyes, and you can't breathe.

///

“Not really your cup of tea, huh?”

You teased, flinging off your shoes and laying on the questionable sheets.

He gives you a snarky grimace and raises a brow, “Careful, you might get scabies or a fucking STD just from breathing in the air.”

It’s not the sort of place you’d expect to see Roman Roy occupy. You can hardly even wrap your head around the fact he’s here now. You imagine the Roy in lavishness, draped in silken white and cashmere. Sipping champagne from a crystal glass brought by room service. Watching the glittering of New York from a floor-to-ceiling window on the billionth floor of a hotel that costs your entire paycheck for just one night.

No, you can’t even pretend that Roman doesn’t look completely out of place here. With his no-tie, popped collar, Tom Ford wannabe pretentious ass. He’s comically out of place. It makes you want to giggle to hell at the way he looks so uncomfortable.

A pretty little rich boy who’s never had to worry about being in anything other than a 5-star. Who now stands in a seedy motel that looks more like a crack house than the Arlo in Midtown. And in place of the champagne, he chugs your shitty beer and water bottle vodka. Cracking open a six-pack of michelob’s and cringing at the taste. It’s painfully cheap, but alcohol is alcohol.

“Come on, don’t act so high and mighty. Relax.”

You pat the empty space next to you, scooting over so he can tentatively sit. You have your thick black journal resting beside you, inside containing all the juicy details and bits about the Roys that would burn down empires and topple over conglomerates.

You’ve hidden most of it well, you’ve had to, or else you get a hit put out on you from the man himself, Logan Roy. Using different names when publishing your work, making interviews anonymous - hell, you feel like Batman with the way you work in the shadows.

Roman inches onto the mattress, eyeing the notebook at your side. He knows, vaguely, what it contains. The secrets, the stories, untamed facts about the company and his family. Usually, he wouldn't give a rat's ass about what a snoopy little journalist had to say about him and his family.

He’ll admit your stuff is good, great even but it's all fluff, a buffer that fills up the sides of newspapers so they have more meat to them. And most of the time it's always the same thing; how horrible his father is, the treatment of Waystar employees, how disconnected the children of the billionaire were. But you- you dug deeper than that.

He never had a reason to look into you until now.

Your stories were revelations for the public. The lies, the coverups, the shady business that their media team works day and night to conceal. You spill it all. And now that you're gaining more traction, more popularity, they're losing revenue quickly. Business deals are turning to dust, stocks are dropping, and employees are quitting on the spot. It's making Waystar crumble from the inside out. And Logan refuses to lose from a puny little journalist, let alone a woman.

When Gerri and Karolina uncovered who was behind the articles, they wilted. If they had told Logan who you were - what you were - he would've squashed you like a bug. Completely ruined your life till you had nothing.

So they took a different approach, a softer more merciful route. They sent Roman after you, and like the loyal dog he is, he went. Mingling with over-eager, latte-sipping, pretentious journalists to get your contact info.

It wasn't as easy as he thought, more work than he wanted to put in. But regardless, he eventually a friend of a friend of a friend gave you up. Not soon after you got a very informal email from the COO, asking to meet up for an "interview" on the pretense of discussing your stories. Or your "allegations" as he liked to call it.

To say you were surprised was an understatement, you nearly passed out in disbelief. It started with meeting him on neutral ground, a coffee shop. Somewhere public and clean, nothing seedy or easily misconstrued.

And when Roman strutted into the small shop, you were very aware of how real this was all becoming. The starkness of his wealth is evident in comparison to the rest of the shop.

"Ah, if it isn't the little paper-pusher I've heard so much about."

Those were his first words to you.

“Mr. Roy, a pleasure to meet you.”

He sat in front of you, pulling off his jacket and haphazardly throwing it over the back of the chair. You're 100% sure it costs more than your yearly salary. At your words, he gives an obnoxious giggle.

“Please, don’t call me that. Makes me think we’re in some sick porno.”

You raise a brow at his crassness, “Ok.. pleasure to meet you, Roman.”

He stifles another giggle but reaches a hand across the table, shaking yours.

Once he’s pulled back he claps his hands together, “Alright, what do you get from this shithole. And don’t tell me you’re one of those hipster-loving morons who gets like matcha or some shit.”

Your eyes widen at how loud he’s being, uncaring that staff or other customers might hear his openness. You know what kind of person he is, you’re just not used to the oozing brattiness in person.

You can only gawk, “Well, um, usually I get a macchiato or just a regular cup of coffee.”

He nods, “Hmm, I see. Ok. I’ll get whatever you get. Throw in a Danish too, I’ll pay.”

You blink vigorously, “Oh no, it’s alright Mr. Roy-”

“Roman.” He corrects, giving a cheeky grin.

“And don’t worry about it, you’re not gonna break the bank with some cheap-ass coffee.”

You wonder if this was a good idea at all, but you quickly come back to reality. You’re here for business, you can’t treat this like a nightmare date from hell. Even if that’s what it feels like. So you do as he says, ordering the coffees and two danishes, even getting an extra muffin to-go.

Time quickly flew by, as much as you hated to admit it. You managed to tug the man back into the conversation you came for - Waystar. Though Roman was more elusive than anything.

Tapping on the table, leaning his chair back, and distracting you with other topics that most certainly were not work-appropriate. Like if you were just making all this fuss because you just wanted to get finger-blasted by the COO. That one made you flush and snap at him like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

But he was so charismatic, in his own twisted way. Like a car crash, you couldn’t look away from, the smoldering flames and heated looks were more than you thought he was capable of.

After hours of talking he drew out your more playful side, the snarky little wit you don’t usually use with the people you’re working with. It was inevitable. And soon, it was late into the evening. With the coffee shop getting ready to close for the night.

“Looks like it’s time to wrap it up for the day.”

You moved to stand, dusting off crumbs from your lap. And Roman is quick to jump up, “Aw, you sure? I mean it’s not that late, wanna maybe head out somewhere?”

He’s vague with his words, you give him a smirk.

“Are you trying to get me alone with you, Roman?”

He chuckles and puts on his jacket, “Of course, I mean, how else am I gonna murder you?”

You both laugh, “Murder me? Sweet little me? What for?”

The two of you walk onto the sidewalk, the crisp night air breezing through your hair.

“We both know you’re not sweet.”

You smile, tucking a lip between your teeth. He’s magnetic, in a venomous and dark way. You know it’s wrong to do this, to get close like this. But sometimes you have to do things in order to get what you want.

“I know somewhere we can go.”

///

That’s how you got here, at least how you remember it. It’s all blurred from the copious amount of alcohol you’ve drank.

Now you have a very not sober Roman Roy on top of you.

He’s flushed, there’s pink smattering across his heated cheeks and he’s got blown pupils the size of the moon. He leers over you, his hand cupping your throat. He’s close, too close.

You can feel the curve of his lip on your cupid's bow, the prickle of his stubble. He smells like Costa Azzurra, citrusy and woodsy. It clouds your drunken brain, making you want to pant and sink your teeth into his neck.

Roman is mumbling, you can’t quite make it out but you feel the warmth of his breath across your cheek. It feels dizzying, like a waking dream.

“I’m gonna kill you. Not gonna let you leave, you’re stuck with me.”

He huffs against the warm apple swell of your cheek. You giggle at that; he feels the warmth of your laugh. The scent of lime and lone star on your breath. There’s a certain giddiness that flutters in your tummy at the words, a sick satisfaction.

One that a dark part of you craves. A feral depravity lies in between your teeth. One that aches to chew on his marrow and swallow him whole. When they trust you to completion, it makes you want to crush them completely.

“Oh yeah?”

You’re hazy. Starry-eyed with droopy lids, face hot from the alcohol and closeness. There are bruises in the shape of his teeth. Ringed purple marks that fade into shimmery blue and greens. Speckled aches across your thighs and neck - all from him. Like rabid animals fighting the very nature of their beings, you claw and tear at one another like beasts deprived.

He buries his face in your chest, trying to hide himself within it - claw his way in and sit inside your heart. Plunging his hands into your back and holding you to him like you were the only ones on earth. He kisses your skin, brushing his lips along your collarbone, down to the center. Straight in your solar plexus, like he could see through it.

As if he could see that beating organ as if he could reach in and take it.

“Yeah. Wanna keep you, like a pet or a girlfriend. What’s the difference?”

You squirm at his hot breath on your neck, the humid air making you needy. You grab his face in your hands, lifting his face up to you and pressing your mouths together in a sloppy kiss. He groans, he doesn’t even wait before he slips his tongue in. Sliding across your lips and flicking on the roof of your mouth. You make a choked sound, the feeling of his tongue invading your mouth.

You can feel the hard bulge of his cock pressing against your stomach, it makes you ache with need.

“Roman,” you pant, “I wanna fuck you.”

He hums, “Wanna fuck you too, wanna fuck your pussy.”

You moan, you want to tear him apart at the seams and eat him whole. Crack that soft apricot heart and bite down into his tissue. You bet he tastes just like it too, sweet and sugary like jam. You want to rip him to shreds, consume each sliver, and savor him like he’s raw slices of strawberries on your plate.

///

He spreads your thighs, gripping your ass in rough hands, practically moaning at the sight of your fucked out pussy. There are silvery webs of slickness that glisten along your cunt. You’re panting into the sheets, fisting them as you shiver from the cold AC.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so wet.”

His thumbs graze along your swollen lips, and you twitch - whining like a puppy that wants a kiss. Hips jerking into the mattress when he grips the fat of your ass and swipes your folds.

“Look at you, so fucked out. And you still want more?”

You nod, humming breathy whimpers each time he gets close to your clit. You let out a sharp yelp when he slaps a hand across your ass, hands flailing and thighs instinctively trying to shut.

He keeps you spread, knee coming up to prevent you from ruining his fun.

“Gotta say it, babe. Can’t read your mind.”

You’re trembling, lips swollen and drooling as you try to push out the words.

“Yes, I want more.” You mumble, face buried halfway into the sheets.

He’s mean with it, pressing the pad of his thumb onto your pulsing clit. Rubbing till he hears the sloppy sound and you’re jerking away with a scampery yip.

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”

You could cry, wet tears pooling on your lash line. Your cunt throbs, empty and flushed and fucking aching.

“Please, please I want more. Want your cock-“

He’s groaning, yanking you back till your ass is in the air. Spine arching and you feel the brush of his cock on your folds.

“Yeah? Want my cock?” You can hear the smile in his voice, hips shaking in his hold.

His tip is kissing along your entrance, and he watches with hearts in his eyes at the way you coat him in slick. Rutting the length between your folds, dipping in to watch you clench on nothing. Wetness clinging to your inner thighs and painting your pussy a shimmery diamond-esque.

“Mmhm, want it. Want you to fuck me, want it so bad.” You moan, half brain-dead with how stupid you sound.

He giggles, high a girlishy. Slipping in fast and quick, hips jerking till he’s flushed with your ass. His pace is like a rabbit, practically humping you into the mattress. You yelp at the feeling, cock splitting you in two.

“Roman-!”

“What was that?”

You can hear the smile in his voice. It makes you whine, gripping the edge of the bed as he slams harder.

“I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you getting fucking pounded.”

You let out a moan when he hits deep. Slotting all the way, flushed against your ass. His tip is kissing something untouched inside you, sticky head brushing along the cushiony pucker of your cervix.

“Fuck you-“

You choke on your words when he bucks his hips. Slamming impossibly farther.

“Huh? Speak up, baby. Can’t hear you, your wet pussy is too loud.”

You bury your face into your arm. Biting at your lip to keep the drool from spilling over your mouth.

“How’s it feel? Feelin’ good? My little paper-pusher like how I fuck her?”

He makes you insane.

You fist at the sheets, nails digging into the soft gray linen. He’s pushing you into a pretty arch, thumbs keeping your ass spread so he can watch himself fuck your cunt.

“God, your pussy is insane.” His hips are smacking against the backs of your thighs. You’re on the verge of tears from how good it feels, you can feel the veins of his cock pulsing in you. Mouth parted and spilling sticky moans.

“Fuck, how are you so wet?” He murmurs, shivering at the feeling of your tight walls gripping along his length. At this point, his thrusts are sloppy and uneven, but the tip of his cock is still able to hit that special spot deep inside of you.

“Oh fuck, Roman, m’gonna cum-”

You absolutely lose your mind when he rolls his hips against you, scratching the sheets.

“Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock?”

You nod, waiting for the pit in your tummy to explode. But it doesn’t come, Roman pulling out in one even jerk.

You cry out, “What the fuck?”

“If you wanna cum you gotta promise not to publish that little article of yours, babe”

You’re hazy and desperate, in the back of your mind you know what he’s doing. And it clips your chest. But the pulsing of your cunt overrides all sanity. And you’re too fucked out to even care at this point, you just want to cum.

“What’ll be, huh? Wanna get pounded till you gush over my cock, or do you want to post a dumb story about me?”

You whimper, you’re dangling on your own leash of longing. He’s pressed against your back whispering all the fucked up things he promises to do to you if you just give in. Just let go, he murmurs.

Temptation licking the back of your heels like hellfire. It doesn’t help that he’s pawing at your tits, squeezing your tender flesh like clay. Cock slipping and sliding against your sodden cunt, slick with want and need. Dripping a honey-thick desire so brutal you’d think he was a demon sent from the inferno.

“Ok! Ok, won’t post it, just fuck me! Please, Rome.”

He groans, a hearty whiny thing that makes you clench around nothing.

“Good girl, good girl.”

It’s immediate, the way he slams back in and drives home. Your sticky skin slapping against his, thighs shaking with burning effort, stretched cunt a dripping mess against his cock. You’re babbling, hands reaching back to grip his thighs, nails digging into his flesh.

It’s not long before you’re gushing, clamping down, and seeing stars in your blacked-out vision. Hearing Roman moan and whine before he’s pulling out to cum over your back. The warmth spreads over your spine. He’s shivering, thighs twitching, and abdomen clenching. It’s never felt that good before.

You both pant and heave, body relaxing into the sheets. You’re exhausted, eyes lidding and drifting, faintly feeling the sensation of a towel wiping across your skin.

“Holy fuck-”

You smile softly, eyes closed. Roman plops down next to you in bed, watching as you roll over and sit against the headboard. He’s sweaty and so very good-looking. You smile in a chagrin manner, brushing a finger against his cheekbone.

“How’s that for an interview?”

You laugh, swatting his arm.

“You’re crazy.”

He smiles at you, strangely content. A pinprick of emotions swells in his chest, and you feel that influx of rot starts to crawl its way up your chest. He’s so beautiful, that you’d hate to see him crumble when he finds out you already sent your paper to your editor to post.

But for now, you enjoy the small moment of peace between you two. You laugh and joke and keep this sweet until morning until he realizes what you’ve done.

[shattteredvisage]

the four casket spaces left in logan's mausoleum. a stone fortress that he bought but didn't build himself. literally made by a man who sold pet supplies. carved into the side while he is laid to rest in the middle, forcing them to orbit him forever. he knew his children would be the only ones to never leave him - loyal dogs until the end. and because it's what logan says will happen, the world shifts to make it come true. the cage is open so why won't you leave??

[edwardsissyhandsthtdanceslikeabb]

romulus roy (succession) x mindless koЯn indulgence's - here to stay (remix) — brainrot presents:

𓆩♡𓆪 photoset

[losingrome]

roman roy + the dog motif

[macfrog]

all three dogs

Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love. andrew kane, how to be a dog

inspired by this gorgeous post (good idea to read it before you read this), and this gorgeous ask (thank you @iknowisoundcrazy). also shoutout to @mrsmando for being the queen of character study. i am not sure what this is, exactly? is it about joel miller, or is it about some dogs? i do not know. but it was fucking cathartic, so here, i guess. here's how i see joel at his worst.

summary: "dog metaphors are all about devotion, devotion to a person, a concept, a place etc, to be a dog is to be devoted."

warnings: little graphic i guess? blood and guts. violent joel. sarah dies and joel shoots up a hospital to save ellie. angst. i think that's it

word count: 1.3k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets with notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🖤

he loves you, sarah says, fork digging into egg.

he’s dependent on me, joel quips, not the same.

i think it’s the same.

when the first dog is born, he gives his heavy head a shake, and his ears flick to life. his fur is still damp from the blood and fluid of his mother’s body. he still smells like her – looks like her, too. he is still connected in some way to where he has been; the umbilical cord coiled and dripping.

she licks and licks and licks until he is clean. watches contently as he pads off into some distant future, where he will lose that boisterous gleam in his eye, the gentle wag of his tail. but for now –

for now, he is brown-haired. brown-eyed to match. he has a daughter. he is bright, and alive, and he makes jokes when they bubble up to his tongue. he is good. he knows love like a first language, as if each swipe of his mother’s tongue on his coat melded it into his makeup.

he does not know the warmth of another man’s blood on his hands. he has not drawn the screams and howls of pain from another’s throat.

she is the sun – his daughter – the most radiant part of his life. his life, which spins on its axis around her. always looking for her, to her, at her. vitamin c, she tells him, and he accepts the glass of orange juice. she tells him to swear and he says, on my life. she tells him he’s lame and he says, i know.

he trots faithful and pliant at her heels. circles her legs and passes over her shadow, waiting to be told different. waiting to be shooed away.

only – when he is told, he doesn’t listen. he can’t. what is a planet with no sun to orbit? what becomes of day, when its light begins to drain?

she digs her nails into his skin. pushes and scratches and begs him with shallow gasps to take his hands off her stomach. to let her go. to go away.

i know, baby, i know i know i know i know –

he tells her she’s going to be okay. because what the fuck else does he know? he’s just a dog. he’s just her dog. all he knows is her.

the sun is being eclipsed. the world begins to darken.

i’m just gonna get her killed, joel weeps, i know it. i have to leave her.

when the second dog is pulled from his mother, he wails in a collapsed heap on the cold tile floor. the world is dim, colorless. the sun is gone. he does not know how he ended up here.

love is akin to violence. it speaks the same language, inflection and cadence blurring between words. he is only as strong as his fists are able to break bone. he has run out of road – a panting, ragged, old dog, tongue hanging lopsided and jumping. ears dented with the pieces of him lost to fighting.

something quakes within his chest, a deep, unstable movement. a shifting of the tectonic plates that make up his bones. he shakes violently, feeling for the thrash of his heart against his chest wall. something in the darkness commands him to act – to move, though it never reveals where to or what from. just fucking move.

and then – the eruption of his temper. like waves on rocks, breaching in violent and unpredictable bursts. spray of black ocean on the jagged cliff edge. i made this decision for your own good, he reasons, stood in the pink-papered bedroom. the snow flutters silently outside. his hackles slowly furl. she scoffs. she knows as well as he does: he’s as good a liar as he was a pet.

but for all his anger, for all the fear he misdiagnoses as weakness – there is a glimmer somewhere on his back. a pale light catching in the broken face of his watch; lighting the kinks of his dark coat. it begins to push him; to stir him like the tide.

something is controlling him again. pulling on his collar. someone is lighting the way.

where is she?

fuck you.

it takes as little time for the dog’s ears to prick as it did for his lungs to suck in a breath. his upper lip twists, canine glinting in the trembling fluorescent light. shining with saliva and the rusted tinge of blood. joel thinks it over less than once. his eyes flood black.

i don’t have time for this.

when the third dog rips his way into the world, he tears everything around him to shreds, too. his teeth are already bared; his claws are already swiping. his eyes are black as ink; he cannot remember that soft-footed pup he once was.

there is nothing left to hide. not anymore. he has existed in the darkness too long to try. his shirt and skin are stained with dirt and sweat and blood. his fur is matted; his fangs are brown and rotten. if she saw him, if her light cast its golden spill onto his bloodshot eyes and mottled coat – she would never know who he is. she would not recognize her own father.

but he was always this way, it seems: he has always loved catastrophically.

everything is red. saturated in threat; a screaming, nauseating red. it turns his stomach just to look, to peer down the chamber of his gun. the blinking of the alarm light. the maroon stains on his hands. the metallic smell seeping from the slumped vests. the thick pools he steps through, the footprints following him around every corner. they will catch up to him eventually. they always do.

his paws hurt. pads skinned raw from all the running. his lungs ache, now, too. his throat lurches for breath, closes in on itself and then sticks, choking him. he cannot remember the heat of the sun on his arms. he does not know when he last said her name.

he doesn’t remember when he last said anything. he speaks in growls and barks and bites. when his mouth opens, his lips curl by instinct. he swallows his drawl and replaces it with something sharper. something poisonous. there’s foam lining his gums.

all he has – of this he is sure – is his brute force and the quick snap of his bite. the shattering of bone, the mauling of flesh. the brawn and breadth of his body; the squeeze of a trigger with one thoughtless pull. all he knows how to do is swing.

and so, one heavy boot steps in front of the other. crunching over broken glass and scuffing over bullet shells. whereisshewhereisshewhereisshe. it loops through his head like it used to when he could see color and feel the wind in his ears. like chasing his tail. catchitcatchitcatchit.

where did she go – the moon? which cloud is she hiding behind? how many men do his maws have to tear apart to find her?

and what will she think when she sees him again? his collar missing and his claws dripping crimson. when she feels the rips in his ears, sees the scar on the side of his head. what will she do, when she runs her hand down his dirty coat, and in place of a loving lick or nuzzle of the nose, he sinks his teeth straight into her wrist?

swear to me. swear to me that everything you said about the fireflies is true.

the dog lowers his head obediently. his ears fall flat. tail curls between his back legs. the wind pushes hard against joel’s chest, threatening to take him with it. i swear, he says.

ellie’s gaze falls. she nods once. tightens her fist around the dog’s leash.

okay.

-

lots of inspo drawn from:

how to be a dog by andrew kane

grit by silas denver melvin

monster theory: reading culture by jeffrey jerome cohen [seven theses]

[puppymotifs]

maybe i’m afraid of you

[circusbythesea]

US v THEM

[makzimaal]

I get mean when i'm nervous, like a bad dog.

[nobodyisevrmissing]

Am I my brother’s keeper?’ In essence, the entire Bible is written as an affirmative response to this question.

[stewyhosseini-bf]

Can't keep a good dog down, right Ken?

[heyitskoye]

I don't even go there but I drew Roman Roy

Just finishing succession and man. Season four.