nothing without god

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.

You’ll realize how prideful man is and how low he thinks of the holiness of God when he becomes angry about the idea of God sending sinners to hell.


A/N: I’m honest it’s not the best smut story that I’ve written :D Other pages are definitely better in that than I am! But  I still hope you like it! I was a bit inspired by “Woman” so listen to it while reading this! Have fun!

This pic is not mine!

Warnings: Smut

Her whole body stood under fire. Every fiber and every cell in her entire body burned with undeniable desire and passion. She barely managed to breathe because pleasure took control over her, making it impossible to fill her lungs with the fresh air that she needed. Her head was spinning around and she couldn’t think properly. She felt him everywhere. His hands traced from her naked belly up to her chest, leaving a hot trail behind. She felt his soft lips on her neck, licking and sucking on her tender skin, marking her as his own. Everybody should see that she belonged to him and only him.

He was possessive with her. Just the thought of someone touching her innocent body made him go wild. Nobody was allowed to. Nobody except for him. He would kill the person who dared to lay a finger on her. He would be controlled by blindness and it would prevent him from showing mercy towards that person. Whoever it might be.

His life was dependent on her. She was like a drug he was terribly addicted to. Her beauty alone could drag every man on his knees. She was the sweetest creature he had ever met and his only angel.

“Harry!” A moan escaped her heavenly lips. She spread her legs more apart so she could take more of him as he thrust deeper and faster into her wet core. He pressed his hand on her belly again, teasing her belly button.

“Can you feel me here, baby girl?” He groaned. “I bet nobody has ever fucked you the way I do. Nobody has made you feel like the way I do. Right baby girl?”

The only thing she was capable of was nodding at him. Her tongue felt like it was knotted, she couldn’t form sentences.

“I’m going to destroy that sweet cunt of yours, baby. I’m going to tear it apart so you will not be able to walk tomorrow. And when you’re at work, everybody will know! Everybody! Even that ass Trevor!” Harry hissed aggressively, increasing his pace and slamming his dick harder into her.

She threw her head back in pleasure, digging her nails into the soft skin of his back. Angry Harry was something she hardly could handle under the sheets.  He turned into animal then. He was wild, rough and partially hurt her but damn, never had pain felt so good.

“You’re mine, baby!” He groaned. “Mine! Not his! Mine!” Jealousy spoke out him. Harry never liked Trevor, your co-worker. He was the only one who showed no fear against Harry. Quite the opposite, Trevor loved to make him angry. He tried to test his limits, testing how far he could go until Harry would explode and beat him up.

Harry, on the other side, knew that you liked Trevor as a good friend and only for you, he kept his temper. However, he hadn’t missed Trevor’s attempts to flirt with you at every occasion. Harry already talked to him thousand times, making clear that she was his girlfriend and that he should leave her alone. But Trevor didn’t seem to understand.

Harry pressed his lips on hers, stealing a hungry kiss. The sound of skin slapping and deep moans echoed through the expensive hotel suite they rented. He shoved his tongue into her mouth so they could fight for dominance but it was clear that Harry would win that little competition. He always did.

She pulled him closer to her, so their chests were pressed against each other. Letting her fingers run through his curls, she slightly tugged at them. A gesture that Harry adored. Their lips pulled apart.

“Tell me how much you love me!” Harry grunted into her ear, continuing with his assault on her core by thrusting with much vigor so that she could see the stars sparkling in front of her eyes.

“I…I.. love you so much!” She panted and stuttered, still not able to speak normally. She was close to her climax and Harry noticed. His thump went down between their legs where he found her clit, rubbing and teasing her, helping her to find her release.

“That’s right, baby! You need me, don’t you? Say it! I want to hear it from your pretty mouth!”

“Y-yes, I-I need you! I’m nothing without you! Oh god!”

“That’s my baby!”

Confident with her answer, Harry needed to push a few more times until she found her release.

She threw her head back as her orgasm approached, shouting his name so loud that probably the hotel could hear it. Her walls clenched around his member, leading him to his own climax, coating her inside with his cum.

“You’re mine,baby! Never forget that!”  Harry panted, falling onto her chest. Sweat covered their entire body and both of them were exhausted. Still recovering from the intense sex she had with Harry, she felt him getting up, and leaving to the bathroom. Once he got out, freshly showered, she watched him collecting his clothes from the ground.

“Have some things to deal with, babe.” He said shortly while he was getting dressed, his eyes never leaving hers. She just nodded, too tired to say something. He came towards her and put a kiss on her forehead. “Be a good girl, okay? You’re a good girl, aren’t you?

He covered her naked body with the white silky sheets and caressed her soft and messy hair before he stepped out of the suite.

“Mine.” He whispered on his way out.

kairi-ou replied to your photo: [1] HEY REMEMBER WHAT I WAS SAYING JUST BEFORE…

Translation notes? Oh no D: What does it say?? Also the family theme running throughout this whole thing is amazing honestly.


ok no, photos are not working this late at night. Let me type out the offending section, in the description of Amaterasu:

“…Kurogane’s Country of Japan differs from the Sengoku period in many ways. In our world, the monsters didn’t exist (we assume), the emperors were male, and for most of history, the emperors had no real political power themselves. Amaterasu, as a female emperor with real political power, would have been inconceivable in the real Japan.”

I am livid.


Nothing reaches you without Allah’s (God) will. From every rain drop that falls on your face to every hardship that you endure has been willed for you specifically.


::starts response to post about ‘problematic’ media::

::realises life is too short for this shit::


God you are so good !

Wow god you amaze me and completely blow me away with your faithfulness and provision. You said jump trust and follow me I have I hasn’t been easy but I is totally worth it. The doors you are opening for me are amazing they are things I have always wanted but never knew how to reach them. So I thank you for being my provider Lord and my everything. Continue to open doors that need to be open and shut doors that need to be shut. You give me so much joy and peace when I follow after you and your ways. Help me to continue to trust you because I am nothing without you.

In Homer, of course, nothing happens without the god concerned manifesting himself. But despite this remarkable proximity of the divine, everything takes its natural course. We hear, indeed we see in lifelike imagery, how a god whispers a saving device to a baffled warrior at the right instant, we hear that he rouses spirit and kindles courage, that he makes limbs supple and nimble and gives a right arm accuracy and strength. But if we look more closely at the occasions when these divine interventions take place, we find that they always come at the critical moment when human powers suddenly converge, as if charged by electric contact, on some insight, some resolution, some deed. These decisive turns which, as every attentive observer knows, are regularly experience in an active life, the Greeks regarded as manifestations of the gods. Not only the flow of events with its critical moments, however, but also duration itself indicated the divine. In all larger forms and conditions of life and existence the Greek perceived the eternal visage of divinity. Taken all together these essences constituted the holiness of the world. Hence the Homeric poems are filled with divine proximity and presence as are those of no other people or age. In their world the divine is not superimposed as a sovereign power over natural events; it is revealed in the forms of the natural, as their very essence and being. For other peoples miracles take place; but a greater miracle takes place in the spirit of the Greek, for he is capable of so regarding the objects of daily experience that they can display the awesome lineaments of the divine without losing a whit of their natural reality.
—  Walter F. Otto, The Homeric Gods: The Spiritual Significance of Greek Religion