#dogs as a metaphor for love

[0ccams-chainsaw]

House and wilson are a dog and his owner as a metaphor for love

House just wants to play games and he eats Wilson’s shoes and he needs attention and he would die without him

he is loyal he will never leave he is just a dog Wilson does not know how houses world revolves around HIM because he pees on the carpet and bites sometimes but it’s not his fault his previous home wasn’t very nice

he is a beast he does not deserve the love Wilson provides he will always come back home he will always listen to Wilson he will try and be good but he was left outside in the cold winter and he can’t trust now

he eats Wilson’s food off the table thinks he’s his guard dog bites new people who get too close wilson leaves he is depressed he waits by the door he tries to forget him but he can’t neither of them can THEY MAKE ME SICK

CAN UOU GUYS HEAR ME IS THIS THING ON

[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still deep in the episode 7 brainrot. because OH BOY AM I

(also one more extremely, obnoxiously self-referential thing, I'm -- I'm so sorry)

[heavenbarnes]

(tw allusions to murder and violence)

your older bf!simon who’s more accurately described as a gun dog.

trained to the sound of a gunshot- where you tell him to go, he’ll follow.

loyal like a hound, too. whatever heinous little mess you find yourself in, he’s there to clean it up.

lick the blood right off your hands.

“i didn’t mean to, he was being so awful- i just pushed him- i didn’t know his head would hit the curb!”

the tears in your eyes were doing less to convince him and more to make him harder between his thighs.

big thumbs, rough pads and blunt nails, pressed to your cheeks to wipe away the tears that were trailing off them.

“don’ worry, sweet’art- i’ll ‘andle it”

tells you to go inside and make a tea, let the kettle whistle long as you want. turn the telly up full tilt and put your feet up.

if you hear anything, don’t come looking.

so you do as you’re told, you curl into his side of the couch and you tune out the sound of the garage door opening, the distant sounds of dragging.

you don’t even flinch when you hear the first swing of an axe.

you forget, you’re free of thought when he takes you to bed and turns your brain to mush. lets it leak out your ears like-

anyways.

gun dog, retriever- picking up kill and dropping it at his master’s feet.

just once. he doesn’t like seeing you get dirtied by what he feels more aptly fits him.

after that, attack dog. hound waiting to be released, will bare his teeth if you so much as whistle.

“you should’ve seen the way he looked at me, simon”

his teeth could’ve shattered with the force in his jaw behind his bite.

“looked at me like he wanted me, thought that he owned me”

a visible shudder ran through him, visions behind his eyes of you with anyone else.

“told him i had you but- well, he said you didn’t matter”

so you stay inside and you forget, don’t even flinch when you hear simon get his keys and lace up his boots.

“i’ll be ‘ome soon”

you forget, isn’t till he’s kissing your forehead and laying you back on the couch that you even remember he was out.

long fingers wrapping around your ankle to sling over his shoulder. you don’t pay attention the the dried blood under his finger nails.

disregard the scratches down the length of his chest. replace them with your own.

“anyone ever gives y’grief, jus’ tell me and i’ll ‘andle it”

there’s a symphony of “yes, yes, yes” slipping off your tongue and you could blame it on clever fingers of his but-

you like being the hand that holds the leash.

fighting dog, ring dog- lay money on him and he’ll make you rich.

lay a finger on what’s his and he’ll make you pay.

“sweaty hands, tried to grab me when i walked past”

ignore the blood in the tread of his boots.

“called you weak, said a real man would’ve been out with me”

ignore the bite marks on the shell of his ear.

“called me a filthy slut- kind of the same way you do”

ignore the new wood chipper behind the house.

simon’s a big dog with loyalty in spades, born to serve one master.

you never ask so he never tells. play ignorant, blissful and unaware about what grows from the seeds you plant.

seeds scattered to the wind that happen to catch within him, seeds that take and grow gnarled and angry and looking for an excuse.

any excuse to show what he’s made of.

you know he’s always been a mean dog, you know he’s always had bite.

but you, of course, never worried your pretty little head.

not even when an ugly one turns up on the doorstep.

bad dog.

plays with his food.

[lazycranberrydoodles]

everybody go home. this is my magnum opus

[cephalopodish]

knife dog monster friend

[cod-fishing]

New allies or new enemies (fools, all of them) assume when interacting with the 141 that Ghost is the unit’s attack dog. And those that get close enough to start reading into their team dynamic often assume that one Soap MacTavish must hold the leash, despite their difference in rank. After all, the Sergeant is the only one who seems to ever get close to the hulking Ghost, more monster than man. They assume this because they think someone has to. After all, a beast can’t keep himself on the lead.

But what they could never anticipate with their little pea brains is this - Ghost is in complete control. Sure, he postures, and he wears his mask, meant to ward off anyone who would even think of getting close. But the mask is as much of a target as it is a tool for his isolation. For every 10 men who steer clear, there’s one who picks a fight just cause he’s the biggest, scariest guy they’ve ever seen. And so he honestly has learned to keep his cool. To turn the other cheek. To know when it’s important to fight, and when it’s better to just let posturing idiots be posturing idiots.

Soap, however.

He’s young, and he’s strong, and he has a painfully endearing golden-retriever sense of justice. He has no idea how to back down when the fight isn't worth it, to him it's always worth it.

And the only one who he'll listen to, the only person on the planet who can call off his bite is Ghost. When Soap bristles at some rando bothering a girl in a bar, ready to start swinging, it's Ghost that steps in with a cool word instead, stopping the fight before it starts. It’s Ghost who puts a hand on Soap’s back when he can feel him tense, teeth barred, it’s Ghost who calls Soap back to the present with a quiet hey, not now. And miraculously, Soap listens.

He holds the lead. He always has.

And when people underestimate them, when they’re unprepared for Ghost’s patience and even less prepared for Soap’s bite, they feel the wrath of Ghost’s attack dog, let loose.

Ghost likes that he can call Johnny back in, but he likes letting him free even more.

[gauloiseblue]

[TW: rape, non-con, dark]

There's something about stray dog's behavior that speaks König to me.

He'd been kicked around, ridiculed, and left on the cold pavement alone. He had no real house, and had to beg even for a scrap of food. Those were the factors that forced him to grow teeth way earlier—and sharper—than he's supposed to.

He'd held the bitterness in his heart, causing him to despise the weak, the poor who couldn't stand up for themselves. The perfect replica of his past self.

He hated seeing them, he'd even go as far as 'taking care' of them. Letting them know that no one would help them, no one would come to the rescue. Just like what people did to him back then.

He recognizes his contribution to the vicious circle, yet he finds himself helpless as he's unable to break free from it.

Perhaps that's when God decided to punish him for it.

There's a mission that required him to work together with the other team, and met with the reprisal for his bad deed, in the form of a medic.

He didn't spare a glance at her, didn't acknowledge her existence, until she defended her patients in front of him.

One of the missions went wrong, causing the soldiers to be injured by gunshots and a grenade. It was theirs to blame, because they didn't pay attention enough, but she shouted at him, telling him if he'd given them a deserved break, it would've been avoided.

He, of course, was angry at her.

He told her she didn't know anything, that she's hindering the mission. But she didn't flinch, even when he growled at her.

It frustrated him, because even his glare would send his soldiers running. Yet it didn't work on her. The people who's not afraid of him are usually those in power, but she isn't one of them. She's just a mere medic.

He tried to kick her out of the team, but the higher ups told him that there's no one available for her replacement. He also tried to make her quit, but what he did came back around to him, as he received a penalty.

It stresses him out, to the point that he'd overwork himself to distract him from his thoughts.

One day, a bullet passes through his heart and lungs, causing him to collapse on the spot.

In daze, when his consciousness slips in and out, he thinks how he could've easily avoided it. But his body wasn't listening to him, delaying his feet to move back.

In what feels like months, he opens his eyes for the first time after the incident.

What he sees, is a pale light on the ceiling, and a blurry figure by the bed.

And there she stands, just like the angel of mercy.

She doesn't say much, except for telling him to rest, and that he's lucky he survived.

She tells him the same thing for days, before he can muster two words out of his mouth.

Shut up.

And strangely, she smiles.

"Seems like you've recovered well." She responded, "Welcome back."

She continues to nurse him, despite his snarky remarks that she easily deflects. She takes care of him with patience that should've withered away from the moment she joined the army.

It shouldn't have bloomed in front of him.

For the first time in his life, he feels the weight of his guilt on his chest. He could've been kinder, could've been softer, and he would've broken the cycle just like she did. But he chose to nurture his anger—just like his father, and his father's father.

Then again, she could've gotten it easy from the start. Though in his heart, he knew it's just an excuse for his behavior.

The day he's permitted to work again, he left without saying thank you.

At night, he wonders if she'd come to hate him as well. No one would blame her if she does, but deep in his heart, he hopes she doesn't.

Since that day, he has followed her like a lost dog. But he would turn his head away whenever she looked at him.

Sometimes he scoffs at himself for thinking about injuring himself, just so he could receive her care. Yet he couldn't help but panting at her feet, lapping up every little conversation they made. He wants to surrender himself to her, letting her put a collar around him and call him hers.

And it's all because she showed just a little kindness to him.

On lonely missions, or lonely nights, he often imagines what they could be. Living in the suburbs, white fences, and kids. The picture perfect of the marriage.

Until it all shatters on the ground.

It's not his intention to eavesdrop, but he couldn't help but lean in when he hears her voice. She sounds happier, as she shows her friend the ring on her finger.

So he bares his teeth,

And bites.

(One time, his uncle had to put down their dog

Because he bit his children for no reason—

Other than jealousy

He heard the dog whined

on the cold table,

alone, and scared

As the vet slowly pushed the poison

Into his bloodstream

And God, how cruel is it

To put a heart inside of a beast

When all his life

He only knew

How to bite?)

He pants as he presses himself into her, causing her to whimper, as her voice is long gone from screaming and crying.

She must've had no idea of what's coming to her when he called her to his office. The scratches and bruises on his body were enough proof of her gullibility, that she came to him, unassumingly, and trusting.

He had her bent over his desk, smothering her easily with his body as he forced himself into her. She was a fighter, but not strong enough to defeat him.

He had lost his inhibitions, as his back arched for the eighth time, spilling his seeds into her.

And she's lost as well, as her eyes were unfocused, and all her energy had been zapped from her body.

"Leave him." He said, as he drove himself into her once again.

She lets out a high-pitched moan when his cock stretches her open again, filling the room with sticky sounds.

"Leave him and love me instead." He said for the second time, and she cried in pain when he buried himself too deep.

"Love me," He sobbed as he pulled the ring out of her finger, knowing fully well he couldn't replace it without twisting her arm. "Please love me."

Her tears flood her cheeks as she watches him discard the ring from her, before latching his mouth onto her shoulder. Marking her with another bite, drawing yet another blood with his teeth.

He knew she had closed her heart the moment he slammed her on the table. He knew she wouldn't come to love him. But if he's not loved by her, then no one should.

[canisalbus]

Machete and Vasco are so pomegranate-and-the-hand-that-slices coded. To me.

Pomegranates are seen as messy, bloody, inconvenient fruits. You slice or tear or bite and in return for your effort you come away underwhelmed, disgusted, and stained too deep to wash. The consumption of a pomegranate is a violent act of defilement, for both the fruit and the eater.

But that is because most do not understand how to open a pomegranate. They have little patience for the precise carving. They see no point in coreing the fruit gently, no reason to be reverent as they pull the quarters apart. When done correctly, opening a pomegranate leaves little mess. Your fingers will still stain, your knife will still slick, but there will be no pool of crimson drowning both you and the fruit.

The seeds are only sweet to those who understand the merit of a light hand and intricate slicing. Why put in so much effort for a food so bitter and clearly armored against consumption? Surely it must not yearn to be eaten.

(^insane about silly catholic dogs)

.

[kyouka-supremacy]

Being into bsd is so weird. Author will make an interview condoning the most screwed up morals ever which makes me loathe them and then further down in the same interview they'll talk about sskk using the word “relationship” four times in a row and I'll be like. They can go for now.

[starcrossedsuicide]

pathetically like a dog, i continue to sleep waiting and waiting until you get back and give me attention. i want you to pet me, play with me, do whatever you want with me until you decide i need to be put down, ill still wait for you and love you all the same.

[livingdeadhorse]

It is a pointless exercise that ends in either no conclusion or the conclusion of the dog catching his own tail, which is useless.

[smartwatermagic]

Percy: Why do I feel like Mrs. O’Leary likes you two more than me?

Annabeth "played fetch with Cerberus" Chase and Alabaster "dogs are Hecate's sacred animals" Torrington: ...who wouldn't?

[sulliedsorrow]

i think nikolai would kill fyodor knowing full and well that fyodor would subsume him. in fact that’s the whole goal

[brenninthetaylorverse]

yeah that's cool but you know what's cooler?

you asked to walk me home, but I had to carry you. and you pushed me in, now my feet can't touch the bottom of you. you couldn't have, you couldn't have stuck your tongue down the throat of somebody who loves you more. so I will wait for the next time you want me, like a dog with a bird at your door. we hate "tears in heaven" but it's sad that his baby died. and we fought about john lennon until I cried. and then went to bed, upset. but now i'm dreaming and you're singing at my birthday and i've never seen you smiling so big. it's nautical themed and there's something I'm supposed to say but can't for the life of me remember what it is. and if I could give you the moon, I would give you the moon. you are sick, and you're married and you might be dying, but you're holding me like water in your hands. when you saw the dead little bird, you started crying. but you know the killer doesn't understand.

[rottendust]

Yeah

[lunarhorrors]

Old Dogs, Old Habits.