#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"

[edwardsissyhandsthtdanceslikeabb]

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

𓆩♡𓆪 photoset

[kissingrhi]

roman roy who views intimacy like a reward he can’t grasp. it’s unfathomable, a taste he can’t describe or understand. roman roy who needs you to tug him off of your inner thighs by the gelled strands of his hair to feel blood rush to his veins. to feel adrenaline pop into his system the way it should when he thinks about doing more with you. roman roy who begs you to peck at his jawline or graze his pecs — a dog begging for a scrap in his bowl. just eager enough to pant but never enough to latch.

if he feels like he’s running over he goes cold. petulance and crossed arms at his own decision making, slinking away if you try to repair his damage. he knows it’s wrong, sure, and he knows it doesn’t make sense. then again, has he ever been known to care about making sense? he’ll stick to falling over you in the middle of the night haphazardly (as some kind of an apology), and waking up with his arms slung over your torso and going to the bathroom to wash his face and hands. he hates that he has to unstick his flesh from your own, a reminder that he’s something living, something needing of nurturing. he always manages to feel dingy in the luxury of his place, the velvet carpet makes him wince. he shudders at the thought of being something more than a mutt.

[amarimeta]

the sopranos 6.13 "soprano home movies" // succession 1.08 "prauge"

[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??

[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?