#what soap feels around graves is all the death surrounding him warning him btw

[natelia-aldelliz]

"Yeah, they're definitely fucking. Or they want to at the very least. "

Soap sends him an incredulous look.

"Come on," Roach continues, "it's so obvious. Look at Alejandro's eyes when Rodolfo speaks, he's head over heels for the man."

"You really think so? I mean I've noticed Rudy looking at Ale like he's his soul, but ye think it's reciprocated?"

"Well, ok, I don't know if they know it, but it's definitely mutual. You have to trust me, I'm a genius in relationships."

Soap laughs at him, walking down the street, Roach walking beside him, though he doesn't touch the ground.

"You're definitely not that smart, you're trying to convince me your fiancé finds me hot."

Roach huffs. "I know he does!"

"I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm an annoying little fucker."

"Well, yeah, but an attractive annoying little fucker!"

Soap laughs. The villa is almost in view and he slows down, looking apprehensive.

"What, your brain finally caught up with your mouth? You finally realised you offered your head on a platter?" Roach teases, which makes Soap swat at him instinctively. Of course, it goes right through him.

"Shut up," Soap mumbles. "It's just..."

He sees him reach in his pocket and pick at the Shadow Company's insignia anxiously.

"It's probably nothing." He shoves the insignia back in his pocket, starts walking again.

"It's obviously something," Roach protests. "Tell me, it's not like I can tell anyone else!"

"There's something... wrong, with Graves," Soap finally says. "I feel... I don't know, heavy, like weighted down around him. Like I said, it's probably nothing. Probably psychological, cause I only see him when there's something wrong."

Roach hums, gaining some height to quickly check on where he knows Simon and Graves are hunkered down, waiting for Soap to enter their LT's scope. He can't really see them, which he supposes is kinda the point.

"Maybe it is psychological," he says as he floats back down. "But you're also the guy who sees ghosts, so maybe it's actually a thing."

Soap sighs. They turn a corner and he knows Simon now has visuals, but it also means the guards do too. He watches as Soap lifts his hands above his head.

"It's the same feeling as right now," he quickly whispers as the guards approach with their weapons trained on him.

"Let's make a deal, you come out of here alive and we look more into it."

Soap snorts. "Deal."

[romeulusroy]

You Remind Me Of My Own Unhappiness (Thomas Shelby Oneshot)

Character/s: Thomas

Word Count: 1,587

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @writerdream22 @brithedemonspawn @megnotfound @death-of-a-mermaid @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @captivatedbycillianmurphy @theshelbyclan @creativemayhems @soleil-dor @thegirlwithoutaname87 @babylooneytoonz @peakyxtommy @locke-writes @lucillethings @miahelen @valkyrie-2312

A/N: A lil writing before I start requested prompt fics, which are still open btw!!!! Ngl, I've had this is my head for a while, and it turned out better than I expected!!!!! I've been reading for my horror fiction class, so I guess this is kind of based off/inspired by all of it (lots of Poe, Jackson, King, etc.) so be warned my loveliest of loves!!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Summary: You knew too much for his comfort 💕

Gif Credit: @peakycillianblinders :)

FIC MASTERLIST PARTS 1 -> 3 / WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

The earth is soft in your palms, loose as your dig away, your fingers aching amidst the clumps and rocks. The maggots fall one by one off the bone, disturbed in their everlasting feast. Fresh in his mind, an open wound he leaves exposed, to bleed, to breath, to eat him alive. Shallow, as expected. Careless in execution. Impatient, your husband always in such a hurry. Even with this. Handful by handful, muddied, the morning dew undisturbed even as nightfall came. Smelling faintly of a sweet memory, that of the first time you kissed. The raindrops coming between you. Pulling away with a laugh, in awe, at how his beauty compared to that of a rainy day. Your shoes sinking deep, your hands clutching his arms as he pulls you from the muck, letting the slightest hint of a smile slip. The noise of that day, the plops from the pond, the quiet, yet powerful, taps of the leaves, the shudder of branches and bones alike cold from the breeze, the soft of his voice, low, teasing of all the things he'd do when you were alone. Lost, but not forgotten.

It doesn't exist here. The silence is heavy, deadly, respectful. Something he is not. Early, before the sun has her chance to even set and paint the sky. The in between, the dark not as inky as you remember, the stars fading in, resting for their show ahead. A creature of habit, your husban. Every night, at the same time, no matter what. Day by day, you grow less and less, and this becomes an ever harder task than before. Time staking, your movements slow, weary, all knowing of the journey ahead. There is an ache of gratefulness, a nod to the thoughtfulness you assumed he was lacking in, though it could have come out of selfishness none of the less. Not far from home. A quiet walk, that of seclusion. A quick pace, a tight jaw, he could have made the journey in no time. Your body was not as forgiving

No wooden box. Not eternal flame. A sheet, dirty now, and spotted in red, tangled around you. Wet and cold. The same sheets you used to wash, scrubbing clean, that thick soap smell no longer. One more thing you'd miss, the newness of this dying as each minute ticked by. That excitement, that joy, that want for anything more fades as all things do, decomposing with the rest of you. It's become a duty, an obligation, to him, to your marriage, as all things had been, or would become.

There is no where else to go. Nothing more to do. A broken routine was a broken man. Fight it, resist, and you might find him in the tub again, his spine kissing the porcelain, neck bent, waiting to sink until he finds the bottom. You might find him in the bed you shared, eyes open, never crossing that split down the middle, always faced away from your side. You might find him out, at the bar, a job, surrounded, your presence striking him, bloodying his lip. He stares, his balance off, truly shaken to his core. You are a guest he does not share, a secret he locks in his closet, a beating heartbeat under his floorboards.

So, you give up fighting, as you had the last time, and accept this battle lost. Wave your white flag, shaking yourself free of the sheets, standing uneasily on your own rotting skeketon. Step by step, your toes tearing, soles wasting, the entirety of you threatening to cave, making your way home. Tendons frayed, splitting apart. Your flesh bloated, runny, what's left is chewed away. You can feel it all. Your teeth chatter by the openings that were your cheeks, the cold passing right through you, whistling through your open ribcage. Dreadfully exposed. All of it is heavy. With nothing to hold, to cling to, you're stitched together by a single thread. You pull forward with all your strength, choking back a scream. It wasn't pain, not anymore, your nervous system long gone, but the memory of it bursts through your open chest the way it had in that moment, before everything seeped away in a puddle beneath you, and the warmth of your body grew into icy cold.

Your hair is all but gone, just like your middle. Innards spilling into your clothes, filling out, everything once protected inside catching their first taste of freedom. You give up making yourself anymore presentable. You could pass for sickly, at your best, even tired in the beginning. The bags under your eyes gone now, eaten away, the green tint to your demeanor disappeared, leaving nothing but a rotting smell. There was no hiding this, hiding the time that's passed. The flies buzz, bugs crawl freely. It's much their home as yours. You click, a tune you suspect is music to his ears, but it only leaves an ache in your hollow chest. There isn't much left of you, there isn't much more time.

How long does he want to do this?

How much longer can you?

The light streams through the windows, a welcomed warmth. You missed it. You missed that comfort, that knowledge of a place being yours. All you had left to your name was a hole in the ground, weak and muddy. Even then, few knew it was yours at all. The back door, the one only homeowners used. You could see it, your skeletal hand resting weakly on the heavy door. A night like every other. Pressing your ear to the door, listening, as if the pull from his want, his need to see you, hadn't tugged you the whole way here. This act, so small, so innocent, had lead to consequences he could never take back.

Listening, waiting, your own breath no longer a distraction, your own heartbeat no longer drumming through your veins, interrupting every word. It was the only way. Banished, shunned, turned away. Though you wrote his name, you did not share blood, a defining trait he could not look past. The business, family business, turned you away. Complicit, docile, that's what he expected, what you tried to be. Yes, Love. No, Love. For your own protection, Love, as if it hadn't been the barrel of his gun pointed at your chest.

Not everything, but enough, your first mistake was making it known. Invading his world one word at a time, overstepping boundaries with a bit of advice. That was all it took. You realized too late, none of it you could ever take back. Pleading, wide eyed, you promised not to say anything more, to keep your distance between the job, but the damage was done. He changed before your eyes. Tight, rigid, masking himself, crawling back into his shell. He trusted you, he did, but not after that. A man like him could trust no one, not even the person he married. If you knew, who else did? Even the smallest detail could be dangerous. It could coolapse his entire empire. He didn't want to, insisting there was another way, but they agreed as long as you lived, knowing what you did, none of them were safe. A family by name, hardly by choice.

So, by their insistence, he pulled the trigger.

He dragged the body.

He dug a shallow grave.

He made an elaborate story, one of belief, of half-truths, and throw away lines about your solemn departure seeking a new life, abandoning your husband for something else, each of them chipping pieces and plots to the story, anything to help them sleep a little easier.

And here you sat, the hard wood of your dining room chairs puncturing your back. There are two plates, and two sets of silverware. A candle is lit between you. Not always, but tonight it seems he's been missing you more. A napkin sits on your lap, waiting, covering the mangled mass that used to be your lower half. He sits across from you, the space between you large enough to seat the entire family. Only two, though. Everyone else has left, gone, suspecting what it is Mr. Shelby is up to, wondering why they are let go more frequently, always at the exact same time. He musters up a smile, that of pain, with horror in his eyes, finally realizing just how cruel this has all been for you. You smile back, pieces of you ripping open, your lips uncurling, splitting in two, revealing a mouth empty of teeth.

Thomas speaks lightly of the day passed. The endless dread of paperwork, the faint gnaw that someone has been following him lately, a special nod to the advice he took from you that had been successful. No thank you, though. No admittance of grief or wrongdoing, no apology, not even a word of what you were really doing here. He couldn't let go, move on, he couldn't shake the guilt that woke you each night and put you to bed hours later. You were dead, killed by his own hand, had been for quite some time. Yet, every night after the murder you joined him. For dinner, for drinks, to sleep beside him in the bed you shared since your wedding day. Step by step, decaying in your time of rest, the same thought in your mind over and over, never letting it escape your lips, you knew better from the last time: when would he let you rest in peace?