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.
AN: This … wasn’t how I thought this blog would lose its Barba virginity. But life is funny that way. Anyway, I doubt Barba’s secret in “Know It All” will be anything like this but this was still my take on it. And God am I awful for it.
@ohbelieveyoume I sincerely hope you enjoy because my perfectionism is screaming right now *dies*
Everyone made at least
one bad decision in their lifetime. This was something that Rafael Barba, as an
attorney, knew as an absolute guarantee. Granted, the poor choices he usually dealt with on a regular basis
were either truly heinous acts or ones that just made his job harder, all
committed by other people against his warnings or better judgement. Neither of
which impressed the attorney in the slightest: He prided himself on being a
self-made man who stuck to his guns in the face of chaos, always keeping a leveled
head to the point of blatant cockiness.
If not for the fact that
you had been dating him (and could therefore assure that, yes, Carisi, hand on
the Bible, Rafi is human), you would
have perhaps fallen to the oft assumed notion that Rafael was relatively
without a dramatically erroneous decision to his slate. This was not to say
that he was perfect by any means: Putting
cold and calculated logic a step or two ahead of emotion, calling off dates to
work on cases, and being so stubborn as to not want to lose even a personal
argument were not traits of his that you favored.
But considering that he
always made sure to right those wrongs, made you feel like a member of
Manhattan royalty when he could, he was practically an errorless outlier
compared to a majority of men living in New York.
So I had to chop off a bit of the intro and outro but here’s a thing I just spent an hour working on. Idek it’s kinda garbage but you guys might like it. I’ll reblog later with all the tags cause idk where my tag list is rn.
told her that. Whispered, sometimes, like it was some sort of secret. Like he wouldn’t notice their sideways looks
as they whispered into her ears. Her mother had even told her that the very
same day she met him.
“Anny,” she had
said, quietly after he had gone home and they were washing dishes and cleaning
up together after dinner had ended, “you could do better.”
A hand had reached
for her shoulder then as she steadfastly kept her gaze on the dishes she was washing.
“I don’t think I can,” Antoinette had replied in a low whisper.
“You could do
better”, a sentence told to her at every turn, even from strangers she had
never spoken to. Even from people she had barely spoken to in her college
courses. And still, she didn’t think she could.
For all of his
faults, Ivar Ragnarsson held her heart. He was someone that scared professors
and students alike with his anger. In freshman year, she had witnessed him
knock out a guy with a punch to the jaw for calling him “Boneless”. She had
later found out that it wasn’t just teasing about him being the crippled son of
the well-known Ragnar Lothbrok. It had something to do with an incident from
his senior year of high school. But that didn’t bother her.
bothered by the way he spoke to her when he was in a lot of pain, all full of
anger and condescension. She wasn’t bothered by the crutches he had to use to
get around. She wasn’t bothered by the antagonistic way his older brother,
Sigurd, spoke to her when she came across him at school.
“You could do
better” was just a common thing for her to hear. She just wasn’t used to it
coming from him of all people. He was
lying in bed beside her, shirt off and left arm around her waist. He wasn’t looking
at her, staring up at the ceiling of his room. “Why are you still with me?”
She looked at him,
taking in the beautiful features of his face. “I don’t think I can,” she
FINALLY The Last part of the Bitty comic, (Im so Sorry it took so Long T.T) yeah I went for the Pibbidy ending cause swap!Palette needs more love❤ ALSO THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO READ THIS UP TILL NOW!! I’m REALLY REALLY Happy to be able to make this and for you guys to read it(even though its a mess😅) I was Inspired to draw more and to do art in general because of all the Nice comments and just knowing some actually like the things I do O-O(Like WOAH) BUT Anyway THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR THE SUPPORT! And SPECIAL THANKS TO Nekophy, Angexci & thegreatrouge you guys inspired me very much and knowing that you’ve liked my stuff is huu no words to describe how happy I am. Also @Nekophy so much thanks like so much for all the reblogs, tags & comments without all that i’m not sure if I would have finished this. SO THANK YOU ALL❤ Credits and Disclaimers: Palette & fell!Palette(Icing) @angexci Goth & fell!Goth(Cupcake) @nekophy wolf!Goth @echoiart L!Goth @bunabelldraws sailor!werewolf!Palette, Cc!Palette, Caretaker!Palette, Gloom, Pibbidi, Pj’s Daycare, NaJ & LJH @blogthegreatrouge
Hey guys! This is just a small drabble sorta thing I did because I have a huge audition tomorrow and I’m really freaking out. Writing this kinda helped me calm down so I thought I’d post it just cause! Hope you lovelies enjoy!
Your foot tapped nervously against the floor as you helped with research in the library. In less then twenty four hours, all your hard work would be over. For six months you had been working for this moment, and in one more day it would be over. This moment would make or break something you’ve wanted for years. Needless to say, your nerves were killer. Dean raised an eyebrow at your restlessness.
“You okay there kid?” he asked, drawing Sam’s attention toward you.
“Yeah just a bit nervous for tomorrow. I’ve been excited up to this point, but now it’s getting to me. I’ve worked so hard for this, you know? And this time tomorrow it’s all going to be over,” You sighed. Sammy put his hand on top of yours squeezing it comfortingly.
“I know it’s nerve wracking sweetheart, but I’m so proud of how far you come. And Dean and I will be here for you, no matter what,” He pulled you into a tight hug which you gladly returned. Arms wrapped around your back as Dean joined the hug.
The next morning you woke up to a bag of candy on your nightstand, courtesy of Gabriel. Sam mad your favorite breakfast and Cas was surprisingly downstairs, wishing you the best of luck. And to top it all off, Dean let you drive Baby to school. Sure, you were still nervous and a little scared for what was to come, but you knew that with your family by your side, you would be okay, no matter how it went.
Sorta. I did a tiny quick thing a long time ago around the time when we got the MSW leak saying that Rey’s hair was wild and flowing or something. I remember thinking that it sounded impractical for her, so I did a half up half down thing because it would have keep her hair mostly out of her face.