gavin i can't even with you

There’s an undeniable crime problem in Los Santos, an affluent city rife with thieves and bandits of all pedigrees, which isn’t in itself all that strange. What’s odd is the incredibly high number of unsolved crimes, of acts no one claims, ones that the LSPD can’t even begin to lay blame for. Even when committed in broad daylight, even when the police arrive on the scene in the middle of a heist, no one manages to catch more than unclear glimpses of the culprits, no bullets hit their marks, and when all is said and done there is somehow never any reliable evidence. No camera ever manages to catch a thing, no trap is ever successful, and never has a single witness managed a coherent report, like somehow none of them ever pay enough attention. Like somehow what they’ve seen can never be put into words.

Throw a stone and you’ll hit a crook in Los Santos, from thugs to conmen to masked killers they all call the city home, all know their place, yet somehow the balance of powers never really makes sense. Like something is missing, like everyone’s fighting to be second best while the title of top dog goes empty. Not that the reluctance to take charge is all that surprising, considering the way any crew which starts to grow big enough to extend their hold over the city is cut down. Driven out or found murdered, often laying in the remains of what was clearly a vicious shoot-out, though the killers are never found. Like vigilantes, only not nearly so altruistic; the spoils belonging to the defeated gangs are always taken, and only reappear at the scene of yet another unclaimed crime.

There’s a crew in Los Santos, so ingrained in the essence of the city itself no one seems to remember how things were before they arrived. The Fake AH Crew; legends in some circles, monsters in others, both consummate enigmas and borderline celebrities, the crew with the world at their feet. The main six players of the inner circle aren’t odd, exactly, each criminals of great renown but still holding pretty standard goals, greedy and bloodthirsty and perhaps more loyal than most but still acting well within their given standard of normalcy. They aren’t unusual, really, but these days they do have their little quirks.

As the leader Geoff has always had to present himself as reasonably level-headed, controlled outside the occasional snaps of frightful anger, a little overbearing in his need to dictate every plan maybe, but what criminal kingpin isn’t? What’s odd is the new fear kept behind closed doors, Geoff second-guessing his own ideas to a degree that is wholly out of character, running over plans again and again, pulling them apart and looking for flaws, debriefing even after successful missions when everyone else just wants to celebrate, unconsciously pressing his hand to his heart like reassurance that it’s still beating.

Jack drives like she’s made a deal with the devil, like every vehicle is just an extension of her being, inherent ability paired with unmatchable knowledge of every backroad and alley in the city. What’s odd is the nightmarish daydreams she gets sometimes, when she looks back at her latest baby and sees flickers of crunched metal and shattered glass, the phantom scent of spilled gasoline and the unmissable click-whoosh of catching flame.

For all his quick temper and flippant attitude Michael can be utterly pedantic about checking and rechecking the timers on bombs, which honestly isn’t an awful trait in the resident explosives guy. What’s odd is the way Michael gets angry about it sometimes, storms about the penthouse yanking out every last alarm clock, the way he swears he can still hear something ticking with furious intention, like the last seconds of a countdown.

He may be happier in a no-holds-barred fist-fight but nobody could say Jeremy isn’t good with a gun, an excellent shot with just about any weapon he can get his hands on. What’s odd is the little burst of panic he gets right after firefights, patting down his own chest, checking again and again like he can’t quite believe he wasn’t hit.

Ryan isn’t wracked by guilt, doesn’t regret what he does the way some might; he’s a killer and he owns it, he chose it, and it truly doesn’t bother him. What’s odd is the way he still can’t sleep, can’t close his eyes some nights when the darkness squeezes close and he feels so cold, like the depths of the ocean are pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs.

In terms of his own safety Gavin is as reckless as they come, all slapdash impulses and delighted disregard, chasing amusement at any cost when it’s only his own neck on the line. What’s odd is that sometimes Gavin walks around with a parachute strapped to his back and no intention of flying that day, utterly overzealous precaution without any real explanation as to why, like some part of him is always terrified that he’s going to fall.

Maybe the Fake’s know, on their worst days, that something isn’t quite right, something about them has gone awry, but the concern never lingers in the face of their unmatched success. Because a crew’s a crew, right? Maybe they’re a little luckier than most, maybe they’ve been unstoppable for so long it feels like no one else is really trying, like they are the merciless gods of their city. Maybe they catch themselves drifting sometimes, losing time or memories or thoughts or scars. Maybe they all know something is not quite right, a distant siren in the back of their minds begging them to pay attention, but surely it doesn’t mean anything.

You can romanticise it all you want, call them the scariest, the most dangerous, devastatingly talented in all the worst ways, but at the end of the day all humans are flawed and all crews will fall. Whether or not falling is enough to shake them from their throne is, however, a completely different issue. If a crew dies in the woods (the city, the sky, the sea), and nobody is brave enough to tell them, did it even happen? 

There’s an empty penthouse in Los Santos, one that cannot be sold, one no one likes to talk about, not really. What has been said is that the door sticks sometimes, cannot be opened no matter how much force is applied. What has been said is that things move around all on their own, new stains reveal themselves and furniture appears and disappears like someone’s been squatting, but the dust is too thick for anyone to have visited. What’s been said makes shivers run down spines, hair stand on edge, gives rise to furtive glances and shared discomfort, an unspoken agreement never to return.

Maybe this alone wouldn’t be such a problem, maybe owning the most prestigious penthouse in a city overrun by wealth would be enough to attract some sceptic, but there is of course the matter of the previous owners. The most despicable, untouchable, indelible criminal gang the city had ever seen. Has ever seen, even this long after their passing. They died, at some point. No one quite remembers when, or how, no one really seems to talk about them anymore, not beyond wild stories of their antics, amazing heists and unspeakable terrors fading off into silence, like they did in the end. How bizarre it is that the crime levels didn’t actually drop even after they were gone.

There’s something deeply wrong in Los Santos, something strange and unsettling, like a catastrophic event has knocked the whole city just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world. It’s in the way the LSPD have cabinet upon cabinet of unsolved crimes that never manage to make their way into reports, years of unacceptably unpunished offences that would bring the might of a federal investigation if only they were disclosed. In the way a startling amount of those offences resemble crimes from days long past, copycat plans following acts of a crew long buried, new targets hit with the same old flare, methods and motives impressively in-character down to the smallest details.

There are secrets in Los Santos. Things no one knows, things everyone knows, an awful, impossible, inescapable reality they’ve all been trapped within. It’s in the way unease builds and dissipates without cresting, citizens never quite recognising their own discomfort, never fully acknowledging the oddity of acting without reason, of crossing the street or averting their eyes, of taking the long way home simply because that one corner just didn’t feel right. In the way the city is beset by sudden inexplicable explosions, the way gunfire rattles without a source, the way empty streets echo with chilling laughter like the ghost of a memory, the phantom chill of a nightmare, the ceaseless loop of those who will not be laid to rest.


Gavin didn’t know much about the concept of “home.” Growing up, he was lucky to consider what he had even a house, a dilapidated flat in the rough part of the inner city was where he used to lay his head for the vast majority of his life. There was no refuge there, no warmth or happiness or safety. Going “home” was synonymous with yelling and pain and so much fear that it just never seemed worth it.

It wasn’t always like that though. For 8 years of his life, he really was happy. In his grandfather’s little cottage in the outskirts of Oxfordshire, tucked far away from any neighbors, but Gavin could say he was never wanting for love or affection.

His grandfather–Nonno, he called him–was a kind man. Honest. Had worked and worked and worked until he could scrounge up enough money to move his family from their tiny town in Italy to the UK, and then worked until he no longer physically could. A man who had every reason to be jaded and bitter, having outlived his wife as well as their three children, but Gavin can not think of a single time when his Nonno was anything other than a sweet, kindhearted, happy-go-lucky fellow. Even when he became sick, when cancer and chemo ravaged his body from the inside out, left him pale and frail and a shadow of the man he had once been, he never once let his smile slip. A charmer, Gavin remembers the nurses all used to say with a fond grin when Gavin rushed straight from school to the hospital every few weeks for the next chemotherapy appointment.

There Nonno would be sat, in one of those cushy, reclining chairs that did nothing to mask the view of the bleak white walls or the smell of antiseptic or the image of his fragile grandfather attached to various leads and IVs all poking through his skin. Gavin would always feel sick looking at it. But Nonno would see him in the doorway, smile that bright, brilliant smile, and exclaim “Bambino! You are here!” in that heavily accented voice that never failed to put Gavin at ease.

Nonno had taught Gavin a few things in the years Gavin lived with him: work hard for the things you think are worth it, never be afraid of failure, and a home-cooked meal can cure all ailments.

Gavin didn’t believe the last one, as a young lad of 9 years, he couldn’t correlate Nonno’s favorite phrase with his inability to cure his cancer. But even a young Gavin couldn’t deny the look of utter joy Nonno always got when cooking. Or the look of pride when tasting something Gavin had cooked himself.

Those days in the kitchen, with Nonno patiently directing Gavin on how to spice something properly or the true Italian way to make pasta from scratch, were some of Gavin’s fondest memories. Now that, he will forever associate with home.

That’s what he thinks as he lugs out the old-fashioned pasta maker out from the cabinet and readies the dough he already rolled out. He works on autopilot, the heavy, warm smell of garlic and tomato enveloping him and reminding him of a simpler time.

“Whatcha doing, B?”

“Bugger me!” Gavin snaps, jumping a foot in the air, much to Dan’s amusement.

“Aw did I scare you, B? Sorry B!”

Gavin glares at him before pointedly returning to his work, cutting a long strip of dough to insert into the machine. Dan lets out another laugh and wraps his arms around Gavin’s waist, settling flush against Gavin’s back and resting his chin against his shoulder.


“Your observational skills are unparalleled, Daniel.”

Dan snorts and kisses Gavin behind the ear, grinning widely when Gavin instantly melts against him. He presses another kiss behind his ear and then moves to his cheek, and then the corner of his lips. He hums happily when Gavin sighs and turns in the circle of his arms to kiss him properly.

“You are an absolute menace, Daniel Gruchy.”

“Aw B, don’t be like that B!”

“Don’t be like what?” Meg asks as she walks into the kitchen, popping up on the counter next to the boys and puckering her lips for kisses. The boys easily oblige.

“B’s being a prick,” Dan whines instantly to her, nuzzling Gavin’s hair.

“And Dan’s being a twat.”

“Boys, boys, no fighting in the kitchen.” Meg leans over to the stove and lifts up one of the lids, inhaling deeply at the smell of homemade pasta sauce. She ladles a bit out, blows on it, and then sticks her pinky in. Gavin watches intently as her eyes close and she moans around her finger. “Fuck that’s good.”

“Yeah? Does it need anything?”

“Could do with a sprinkle more of oregano, but other than that–” she dips her finger again. “Ugh. Delicious.”

“Cheers, girl,” Gavin smiles. He moves for the cupboard, but finds himself completely stuck. “B, lemme go, I need to get the spices.”



“Nah,” Dan grins. “I demand payment.”

“I’m cooking for you, you spoiled wanker!”

“Mmmm, nope. Not appeased. Need more kisses.”

“Kisses eh?” Gavin turns fully in Dan’s hold, chest to chest, and grabs Dan’s face with his floury hands. When Dan sputters at the sudden onslaught of white powder, Gavin squeaks out a laugh and kisses his nose. “That enough payment for you luv?”

Dan splutters again and glares, wiping away frantically at the floury handprints on his face. Meg laughs hysterically, bent at the waist, and Dan turns his glare on her too.

“You’re both awful.”

“Naaaaaah,” Gavin laughs. Meg leans over for a high-five and then jumps down to skip over to the spice cabinet and pluck the dried oregano from the bottom shelf. She holds it out to Gavin but quickly draws back when he reaches for it.

“What about my payment?” She grins cheekily, which slips a moment later when she sees Gavin’s hand inch towards the flour. “NO, GAVIN I WILL–”

The flour collides with her forehead and she holds her breath as the dust blooms outward around her.

“Gavin?” She calls over the raucous laughter.

“Yes luv?”

“You know those knives you got me for my birthday?”

“Yes luv.”

“It’s going straight in your nose.”

“It’s a big enough target.”

“B! Traitor!”

It’s a free for all then, the pets wisely steering clear after the first time Hebe was nearly trounced by a baguette. By the end, all three are absolutely covered in powder and the floor is littered with cans and herbs and even more flour, laughter still ringing through the halls. Miraculously, the pasta sauce and fresh pasta remained untouched.

Gavin pulls himself upright, accepting the hand Dan extended and the tomato-y kiss with a wide grin.

“I’m not cleaning this,” Meg says immediately, picking basil stems out of her hair with a grimace. “Dibs on first shower!”

“Meg, no! I already called it!”

“Race ya, bitch!”

And once again, Gavin is left alone in the kitchen, beaming fondly after them. He shakes his head, picks some Parmesan from out of his ear, and returns back to work, readying the noodles to boil. By the time both Meg and Dan return from the bathroom, the food is complete.

They kiss his temple when he returns from his own quick shower, vow to clean up so he doesn’t have to, and they all relocate to the living room. There, with Gavin sat comfortably between his partners, the shitty movie Dan put on completely ignored in favor of digging into the delicious food, moans and compliments filling the air in between bites, Gavin realizes something.

He found home again.

  • Ryan: Alright. So, here's are take away from today. We've fucking mastered wood. Wood is our bitch.
  • Michael: Wood and dirt. Wood and dirt.
  • Ryan: Wood and dirt. I am overrun with wood and dirt.
  • Michael: I am a fucking... I am the king of dirt. I have found my rightful place in Minecraft. Just give me leaves and I'll make dirt.
  • Ryan: And then we can start turning that into stone.
  • Michael: Alright. Shoot. I can't wait till we can get Jack back here. I mean, the construction kinda slows down when the general contractor isn't here to tell you what's happening.
  • Jeremy: I don't know what we're doing. I made a whole bunch of shit. I don't know what's happening. I cooked a worm and eat it.
  • Gavin: We need Jack back because I tried to make stairs to the top of this thing, and I bollocksed it.
  • Ryan: What have you done!?
  • Jeremy: How did you even do this?
  • Michael: Jack, you left, Gavin built a staircase to nowhere, Jeremy ate some worms...
  • Gavin: It's not going to nowhere, Michael. Look at the state of it.
  • Ryan: It's just wrong in every way.

Ryan almost didn’t see him.

He was draped in creeper prints, which under the thick foliage, rendered him practically invisible. He was curled up, arms wrapped tightly around his midsection, even as he stared up at Ryan through the undergrowth.

It was his laboured breathing that caught his attention. And then Ryan saw the broken twigs and crushed bramble that lead to where the other man had fallen.

Their eyes met.

The creeper boy froze, hands balling in front of him as he twisted into a low crouch, looking animalistic as he frantically looked for an escape.

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  • <p> <b><p></b> <b><p></b> <b>Negan:</b> (to Saviours) I want Daryl found, do you all understand?! I want him found NOW!<p/><b>Simon:</b> Damn right. He made us look incompetent by escaping. Needs teaching a less-<p/><b>Negan:</b> *backhands Simon* Stupid shit, no! I want him found before he has an opportunity to have any fuckin' bromance moments with Rick. Rick is MINE!<p/><b>Dwight to Gavin:</b> Think we should tell Negan about <I>the</I> hug?<p/><b>Gavin:</b> Fuck no!<p/><b>Dwight:</b> Yeah it's probably not the best idea... I can't even talk about it without getting emotional.<p/><b>Gavin:</b> *wipes away tear* Me neither.<p/></p><p/></p><p/></p>
Cloudberry Kingdom 11
  • Gavin: Do you think your life would be less or more rich without ever having met me?
  • Michael: Define rich.
  • Ryan: Uh, yeah, are we talking monetarily or...
  • Gavin: No, no, god, no just like- just like full of like joy and richness of love.
  • Ryan: You enrichen life more than most people I have met. I will give you that.
  • Michael: Interesting. That's a compliment.
  • Ryan: Like a fertilizer. Which is typically made out of shit.
  • Gavin: Are you saying that I'm horse shit?
  • Michael: You could be cow shit, too.
  • Gavin: That was a compliment- So much of a compliment at the beginning and so much of an insult at the end.
  • Ryan: It turned.
  • Gavin: That- I think that pretty much sums us up.
  • Gavin: “You are the horse shit to my life.”
The Price of Life

I did it again… another street!Michael story.  Inspired by another headcanon found on yetiokay’s blog.  This one was - “So, Michael is super hungry one day and is just munching through the fridge and one of the guys makes the comment that he is eating them out of house and home. He gets self conscious and stops eating because "he doesn’t want to make them spend any more money than they already have.” The guys don’t really notice until he passes out and they confront him about it. He tells them that he is used to passing out because of lack of food and they all start watching him and keeping track of what he eats.“  I hope you enjoy it!

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  • shameless writers: gallavich will be canon this season. We're gonna promote it af because it's gonna be canon, absolutely.
  • shameless: bitch no.
  • shameless writers: I said canon? I meant there will be less screen time than ever and oh, they're breaking up (even if the possibility of Noel not coming back is there) but sshhhhh keep the secret you people.
  • the fosters writers: jonnor will be canon this season, just like omg, they are gonna be a teen couple in love for a whole episode maybe idk.
  • Hayden: "Jonnor fans are gonna die this season......."
  • Gavin: "they win so much screen time this season..."
  • The fosters: *coming soon*
  • Okay so I'm pretty sure they are not going to do the same thing here and I just can't wait. I hope jonnor saves me from the gallavich shoot that stills