#Sarah black

[leverage-ot3]

thief conference but it’s just the leverage ot3, red notice ot3, and neal caffrey and el burke (peter isn’t there for plausible deniability)

[deepinthelight]

Characters played by Gal Gadot

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

lies are only as good as the person telling them (and you’ve never claimed to be) part 4

Read on Ao3 Masterlist

Pairings: bishops/nolan booth

Warnings: gunshot wound

Word Count: 3089

Nolan gets shot, the Bishops have to deal with their feelings.

"Drive," Sarah orders, pressing her hands hard to Booth's side. John pulls the car around and the tires squeal as more gunshots ricochet off the back bumper. She grits her teeth and presses harder, willing the blood to stay inside Booth's body. "Stay awake, do you understand?"

"I understand that you're currently fighting with my ribs, yeah." Booth yowls like a cat as she pushes down harder. "Hey, hey! Take it easy, I bruise like a peach."

"You're not sweet enough to be a peach," she mutters, too caught up in the fact that Booth is bleeding out from a bullet he took from her to worry about the words coming out of her mouth, not when he's rapidly losing color in his cheeks. "Just stay awake."

Even with his paling face, he still manages to make an offended pout. "I'm plenty sweet enough! I even have the rock-hard pit in my—okay, okay, ow, ow!"

"Do you ever stop talking?"

"Not when I'm awake."

"Keep him talking," John barks from the front seat, "as long as there's bullshit coming out of his mouth, we know he's not about to die."

"Aw, you do love me."

She hears the hitch in John's breath better than Booth does, she's sure, and she doesn't imagine the way John leans into the curves of the road a little more, trying to get them through the next mile before Booth ends up bleeding to death all over the back seat. She grits her teeth again and pushes even harder. Booth winces, his expression contorting in pain, but he doesn't say anything else.

"What were you thinking?" Sarah hisses, shifting her grip as the car swerves around a turn.

"I was thinking that I'd rather not see you get shot right in front of me," Booth grits out, "that's what I was thinking."

"That was reckless of you."

Booth huffs a wet laugh. "What, making sure you don't get shot? You're welcome, by the way, and yeah, maybe not my finest moment, but you tell me how polished and suave you'd be if you saw someone pointing a gun at your partner."

Sarah's hands stutter and her gaze snaps up to Booth's. Booth isn't looking away, isn't biting his lip, doesn't look like he regrets what he said at all. No, it's far worse than that; despite Sarah's best efforts, his eyes are dropping lower and lower. His breathing is slowing under her hands and in a panic that she will deny later because Sarah Black does not panic, she presses down hard enough that she can feel something under her give.

But it works. Booth's eyes snap open again and he stares at her.

"Stay awake," she orders and it comes out more like a plea, "just stay awake until we can get you someplace safe."

The corner of his mouth tugs up the smallest bit and she hates how much she hates the fact that it looks like such a pale imitation of his normal smirk. "The Bishop has a heart after all, how touching."

"You're one to talk," she scoffs if only to cover up her relief that he's talking again, "you just took a bullet for me."

"Which I still can't tell if you're happy I did or not." He coughs once, twice, as the car swerves around yet another turn. "I'd ask if it'd kill you to say thank you, but I think I know the answer already, so—"

"Thank you."

Booth stops. His mouth drops open. "Okay, I definitely must be dying because I could've sworn you just said 'thank you,' and I—"

"You are not dying," she says firmly, as blood covers her hands, "and I did say thank you."

He goes to say something else—I'm sure it was excellent, Nolan, don't worry—but then he's coughing again and the wound under her hands gushes. She pushes harder and gets him to lie down in the backseat, climbing on top of him and using her full weight to press down on the bullet wound.

"Whoa," he mumbles, half-dazed, half-confused, "if this was all it took to get you on top of me, then…"

He trails off before he can finish his sentence and despite everything, she smiles. "If it's what you wanted, you could've just asked."

"Nah…you'd keep it from me," comes his reply, voice beginning to slur, "you're…you're so clever…you'd make—make me work for it…"

"Booth? Booth!"

"'S okay," he mumbles, eyes starting to droop again, "jus' a…jus' a minor s'tback, see? 'S not…'s none of my b'sness anyway…"

"Stay awake," she pleads again, pushing down as hard as she can as John curses and swerves again, "stay awake Nolan, you need to keep your eyes open. Just look at me, alright? Can you do that?"

Nolan's eyes blink open slowly and a slow smile manages to make its way onto his face. The soft sort of smile you see when the person isn't thinking about it, the one you can't really feel until someone points it out. Nolan is giving her that sort of smile now, as she presses down on the wound that should have been hers, as John drives them through the streets of Paris. Nolan just looks up at her, and he smiles, and how could she ever have believed him capable of the same sort of cruelty she was?

"There," she hears herself say as his breathing grows raspier and raspier, "it's okay, Nolan, you're going to be alright. We're going to get you someplace safe and fix you up, right? Then you'll be quipping and annoying us just like you always do, alright?"

"Tha's me," he slurs, "pain in the ass."

John's hysterical chuckle mixes with hers as Nolan grins with dopey pride. Something terribly sad occurs to her then as she has to adjust to keep her balance.

Is this all he expects from them? Just the occasional bone thrown to the world's most annoying dog? Does he think that's all he is to them?

Too late does she realize that in her moment of distraction, Nolan's eyes have fully closed.

"Booth? Booth!" She pushes down harder. "Nolan!"

***

"In here," John says, rushing to the bedroom and laying the too-limp form of Nolan Booth on top of the sheets, "grab the kit from the bathroom."

Sarah is off the next moment, her shoes clicking across the floor as John rips open Nolan's shirt and throws his own jacket to the side. He curses—the bullet's already gone through and through, which is why Sarah was having such a hard time keeping all the blood inside him in the car, and why he's still losing color.

"Here," comes Sarah's voice and he rips the kit open immediately, "I'll get everything else."

He barely has time to shoot a thanks or even an acknowledgment over his shoulder as he gets to work. Nolan will not die on their watch, they won't let him. He's a goddamn stubborn son of a bitch but they're more stubborn than he is put together, and they're sure as hell not gonna let him slip away.

"You think you can just tap out now and make us do the rest of the work?" he finds himself muttering as he works over the limp body. "Not a chance in hell. This whole thing was your idea to begin with, so you're damn well gonna stick around until it's done, you hear me?"

Nolan doesn't say a word, and John curses the part of him that ever wanted to shut Nolan up for good. He doesn't want that, he bargains with the universe, he wants the Nolan that pokes and prods at them all the time like it's his goddamn job. He wants the quips and the jokes and the innuendoes that perfectly walk the line between funny and too crass. He wants the asshole that's unfairly good at singing on key while he works on the blueprints or the lockpicking kits. He wants the dipshit who went right up to the people who betrayed them, double-crossed them right back, and then invited them to work with him on the biggest score they could ever remember.

He wants Nolan Booth, damnit, and if this bullet takes him from them before they've even gotten a chance, he's gonna march right down to whatever pit in hell they decide to stick his soul and drag him back to the land of the living.

"Come back here, you prick," he mutters as he gently cleans away the worst of the blood so he can see what he's doing, "you're not getting away from us that easily."

Sarah's hands join his and together, they patch the worst of the bleeding before Nolan can bleed out. He lifts him carefully in his arms as Sarah ruthlessly strips the sheets from the bed, tossing the mattress protector too for good measure. She remakes the bed with astonishing speed and strides to the bathroom to start getting the blood out. It's what she needs to do, he knows, pour her frustration at the situation into something so it doesn't blow up in their faces, but that doesn't make him move from his self-appointed vigil over the too-still Nolan.

Just watching his chest go up and down, up and down.

When night's fallen and Sarah's scrubbed the sheets within an inch of their lives, she comes to sit next to him. They don't say anything, just sitting silently as the moonlight spills across the bed. Nolan's hands are still bloody. He gets up and goes to the bathroom, getting a washcloth and running it under the warm water. He goes back to the bedroom and picks up one of Nolan's hands in his, tenderly cleaning the blood from his knuckles. When he's finished with the hand, he offers the washcloth to Sarah. She takes it and cleans his other hand as John keeps a hold of the one in his.

"I think he'd be a great dancer," Sarah murmurs after an eon, her eyes still on Nolan's knuckles.

"I think so too."

There's another moment of quiet.

"I think," Sarah says again, her voice even quieter, "if you asked him to dance, he would say yes."

John swallows around the lump in his throat. "Yeah?"

"You might have to ask a few times," and now Sarah's holding Nolan's hand too, the washcloth draped over the foot of the bed, "and he's probably going to say no at first."

"But you think if I show him I really want to dance," John finishes, "you think he'd say yes?"

"I do."

They look at each other across the too-quiet room.

"Are you—" he stops to clear his throat— "are you gonna ask him to dance too?"

She looks down at him, her fingers idly toying with the cuff of his sleeve. "I don't know if he wants to dance with me."

He huffs. "Didn't sound like that in the back seat."

"But that's who he is," she says back, "he makes the jokes and he takes the hits because it's expected of him."

"But he doesn't do things he doesn't believe in."

"You're biased," she says with the ghost of a smile.

"Of course I am," he says and she laughs, "but so is he. You two had a thing going way before he even knew about me."

"That was different."

"Is it?"

She looks at him, and she looks at Nolan, and she slowly lets out a long breath.

"He needs to wake up first," is her eventual concession, "and then…then it's going to take him a while before he's up to dancing."

"That's okay with me. Is it okay with you?"

She smiles and she looks like the Sarah Black he knows and loves again. "No one ever got anything worth having without having the right amount of patience."

See, he says silently to the sleeping Nolan Booth, we're waiting for you, you asshole, come wake up already.

***

When Nolan wakes up, he's very, very confused.

Because in the world he fell asleep in, he was very much the reluctantly dragged third wheel of the Bishops, who only teamed up with him because he blackmailed them into it. He was spat on and kicked around because he was an easy target and hey, he could give insults as good as he got. They kept him around because he was good, goddamnit, and he knows how to set up a good score. They needed him, and he needed them, and that was it. He took the hits because they couldn't hurt him in ways they hadn't already, and he took the good moments because he's a greedy bastard who doesn't know when to stop himself.

Including taking a bullet for the fucking Bishop.

Things got really hazy in the back seat, and not in the good, sexy way, but in the incredibly un-sexy blood loss way where he's not quite sure what happened, but he has vague memories of Sarah on top of him, telling him to stay awake, and saying thank you. He's not really sure what to make of those, nor what embarrassing things he ended up saying, but he's pretty sure that that world at least by and large makes sense.

The world he wakes up in, on the other hand…

Well, for starters, he blinks awake on a bed. Not a hospital bed, not a hotel bed, but an actual fucking bed. Hartley and the Bishop's bed, to be more specific, in that shitty little apartment on the outskirts of Paris. His mind would love to conjure up all the fun reasons why this could be happening, but then there's a blooming ache in his side and his head is pounding and the bed is cold, cold, cold.

Except it isn't, because there's a body like a fucking space heater right next to him, and he just manages to crane his neck to one side to realize it's Hartley. Actual, built-like-a-brick-shithouse Hartley, who blinks awake and smiles at him like he's something worth smiling at.

"Hey," he says, voice all soft and rough from sleep, "you feeling okay?"

Uh, no, he's pretty sure he's either died and gone to heaven or woken up in some parallel universe.

"Here," Hartley says, sitting up and reaching over him for the glass of water on the nightstand, "you're gonna be dehydrated, drink up."

Nolan goes to lift his hand when his body informs him that no, moving is not allowed right now, and a pained hiss escapes through his teeth before he can stop himself. Concern flickers openly across Hartley's face and he's sitting up more, turning and sliding a hand under Nolan's head to let him drink.

Water never tasted so good.

"That's enough for now," Hartley says when he's managed half the glass, "don't want you sick on top of the bullet."

Right. The bullet. The bullet he took for the Bishop. The Bishop—

"Hey, hey, hey," Hartley soothes as he starts to panic, one large hand pressing him down into the mattress, "shh, calm down. She's okay, she's just in the kitchen."

"Is he awake?"

"Yeah, he's up, he wants to see you."

"Don't—" he coughs through his dry throat— "don't put words in my mouth."

But then the Bishop actually comes around the corner and he can't stop the way he sags in relief at seeing her unharmed. She comes over to the bed, sitting down near his hand, and—and picking it up and putting it in her lap.

Uh, no, I definitely died and went somewhere else. What the fuck is happening?

Oh.

Oh.

It's just part of their ploy, isn't it? To get him to—to—well, he doesn't know what the fuck else they want from him at this point. Shit, he just took a bullet for the Bishop and now he's completely and utterly at their mercy, what the fuck else could they want? It's not like he's in any position to stop them if they wanted to do something right now, they could just go and do the score and leave him here on this bed, in the apartment, all by himself, while they go and he's left alone, all alone—

"Hey, hey…"

"Shh…don't cry, Nolan."

"Look at me. Hey, Booth—Nolan, look at me."

There's a hand on the side of his face. The side of his face is wet. Why is the side of his face wet? Oh. One of them said don't cry. Is he crying?

"Do you need more painkillers?" There's still a hand on his face. "Sarah, can you—"

The hands on his start to pull away and he's clutching at them desperately before he can snap at himself to stop it. But it's too late, the Bishop is sitting back down and they're having a murmured conversation and then there's a cool hand on his face too.

"Don't worry," comes her voice, smooth and soft as fresh water, "we're not leaving, Nolan."

"You're stuck with us," Hartley agrees.

But—but—but that doesn't make sense. Nothing in this world makes sense and he wants to go back to the other one where at least things made sense, where things hurt but at least he knew when to expect it, not here where he has no idea what's going on and he just wants everything to go back to normal and then he won't be guessing, second-guessing, triple-guessing everything until they leave him again.

"Silly boy," the Bishop says fondly as tears drip like razorblades down his cheeks—there goes his resolve never to let them see how badly they hurt him— "did you think I would let you take a bullet for me and then let you leave without giving me a chance to pay it back?"

"I—I didn't—I didn't mean—"

"Shh," Hartley soothes, his big hand moving to card through Nolan's hair, "calm down, Nolan, it's okay. We can talk about this again when you wake up properly, just rest for now. You've worn yourself out."

"I'll wear you out," he mumbles back, more out of instinct than anything, and Hartley chuckles warmly.

"It's a promise, big guy."

Nothing makes sense right now, Nolan decides as that big hand lulls him right back to sleep, but if the Bishop is promising they're not going to leave him alone, and Hartley is laughing at his stupid jokes, he thinks that maybe he could figure out a way to make this world work.

Just for a little while.

[dustedmagazine]

Lupo Cittá — S-T (12XU)

“White Bracelet” shocks itself to life with a screech of feedback, a jolt of electricity that kicks off a barrage of electric strumming, a rumble of chaotic drums, a careening, coursing flood of vocal melody that is both world-weary and extremely energized. It’s the second song on Lupo Cittá’s first album, an emphatic rocker after the narcotic echo and sway of “Onde.” This is the one that sounds most like Chris Brokaw, which is always a good thing. Though to be fair, there are other songs that don’t especially, that perhaps bear the mark of the two other members, Sarah Black and Jen Gori, and they are awfully good, too.

Chris Brokaw, as you might know, has been in roughly a million bands, genre defining ones like Come and Codeine and lesser known outfits like Martha’s Vineyard Ferries and Charnel House, but all of them rough-edged and heart-felt and excellent. Lupo Cittá is the latest Brokaw-affiliated musical ensemble, formed in pandemic’s ebb tide around 2021,with two other indie music lifers. Sarah Black was a fixture in a vibrant Minneapolis scene, playing in Kickball, Period, Plain Jane, the Bleeding Hickeys, the Lie-Ons, the Pointing Geenas and Brandy Thunders and doing performance and visual art. Jenn Gori intersected with Black in several of those bands, playing drums in the Bleeding Hickeys, the Lie-ons, Pointing Geenas and Brandy Thunders.

Once the three members met, they discovered that they had just missed connecting in various episodes of their lives. They were in New York and Seattle during the same periods, and they all moved back to Boston in rough synchronicity though they didn’t really become aware of each other until meeting at a summer 2021 house show. Soon after the two women asked Brokaw to play guitar on a song for them, which grew into more songs and finally Lupo Cittá, an echo-drenched, psychedelic garage trio enamored of 1970s horror and spaghetti western soundtracks.

“Gallup to El Paso,” for instance, has a slouchy western swagger, a molten shudder of bass running through its cavernous, surf-inflected sound. A nocturnal penumbra hangs over this and other songs, clouds of reverb shadowing its slanting cowboy vibe. There’s something lurid about the way the melody breaks through the gloom, a flash of neon in a rainy midnight. “Only in Love” does the same trick with a 1960s girl group melody, wrapping it in so much darkness and uncertainty that it becomes something else altogether. These songs loom up like highways signs as you fly by, flaring out of the impenetrable black then disappearing. Jenn Gori sings in a haunting, dream-shrouded way, slipping in and out of a mess of undertones, even on the all-out rockers, so that the songs have both murderous energy and mystery. “Shawano Pickup,” for instance, blusters and rollicks, an unstoppable rockabilly rave in its bones, but its head, somehow, in the clouds.

This is not exactly a slow-burner —if you like this sort of thing, you’ll like it from the very start. But it does pick up depth and resonance from repeat listens, as this straight on rock record reveals the enigma at its unruly core.

Jennifer Kelly

[ctarchangel542]

Unmatched face card

[iamaboredpotatonugget]

Nolan Booth/John Heartly/Sarah Black Red Notice Fics because I love this movie so much

Booth was scrunched up in the backseat with far from enough room for his legs, doing his best not to feel like a third wheel while also trying to keep the two very keen eyed criminals from noticing the blood that was steadily staining his shirt.

"Again?"

It's not really a request.

"You're insatiable!" he squeaks, throwing his hands up dramatically.

It's her turn to shrug now, like she's been caught and can't be bothered to defend herself. She resets the board, black side facing him this time.

Nolan Booth picks up shoplifting while he and the Bishops wait for their new score, gets caught, and gets fucked. Things get messy.

Nolan thinks he's been flirting with his soulmate-slash-professional rival for the last few years until he realizes he actually has two soulmates. And they've already found each other.

It takes a solid two weeks for Nolan Booth to realise that he’s essentially just following The Bishop and Hartley around like a lapdog.

It takes him a lot less time to realise that they fuck a lot.

Sarah and Hartley attempt to negotiate polyamory with Nolan, but Nolan is too clueless to figure out what is happening.

Not everyone has a soulmate. Only about 10% of the population is born with a mark on their skin signifying that somewhere out there their perfect match walks the earth. And even then there is no guarantee that the two will ever meet.

John Hartley has a soul mate somewhere. Sarah Black does not.

“That you could never truly give me what I wanted,” Nolan said bitterly with a laugh. “I was such a fool to think that I had finally found a family, people who actually cared for me…”

“What was it that you wanted?” John dared to ask.

Nolan stared them down with a fixed look. “Isn’t it obvious?” When they shook their heads, his lips twitched into a small smile. “God, you’re both thick, aren’t you?” He sighed, eyes flickering towards the wall. “I wanted the two of you.”

It had been hours, days, since those bastards had taken Nolan, and Sarah didn’t like to think of what could have happened in that amount of time. She couldn’t think about any of it or she would have to fight the urge back even more to claw at the eyes of anybody who got just a little bit too close.

And then they're alone.

This feels staged. It feels like such a fucking setup. "Found anything interesting?" he tries.

"Only on this side of the door," says Hartley, not without humor.

Booth makes an effort to brush past that with a positive outlook. "No news is good news, right?"

Hartley raises an eyebrow. "So you kissing my girl is not new?"

[palmofafreezinghand]

oh bill, i love you so...

Billy Black and Sarah Wilde get engaged. on ao3 here.

1984. 

La Push, Washington. 

The trip had been shit, the entire last three months of fishing had been shit. Not a single catch was worth the amount he spent on diesel. This time Billy would be lucky to get two hundred bucks for a week worth of work. He was halfway to Mexico — off the recommendation of Harry Clearwater who had caught enough bluefin to pay his rent for the rest of the year — when the engine started to click…again. Last time that had cost him almost a grand in parts and almost a month in a dry dock. 

At this point he would be better off sinking the thing, taking the insurance payout, and working at the gas station for the rest of his life. He had missed last month’s insurance payment. It was between that and the slip fee. There went another one of his plans. 

The boat pulled into its slip, the clicking louder and louder, like a time bomb, until he cut the engine. Then it was hauntingly silent. 

Anxious to get to shore before the entire thing exploded, Sarah wouldn’t get his life insurance anymore, he tied the knots quickly, looser than he should have. Maybe he’d get lucky and it would drift out to sea, he’d have no other option than to work at the quick fill or maybe he’d get a job at the bait shop telling hobbyists what lure to use when he couldn’t manage to catch anything himself. 

He threw the nearly empty cooler onto the dock, a week of exhaustion meant the cooler flew right over the dock and into the harbor, his spoils spilling into the sea. The gulls which had followed him in from a mile out, anxious to get spoiled bait descended on the gourmet feast. He cursed under his breath, watching two pelicans fight over a halibut larger than both of them combined. He threw his laundry bag onto the dock, which landed perfectly dry, because of course it did. 

After he locked the boat up, although there was nothing to steal he didn’t need to find a sea lion in his bed, he jumped onto the dock himself. He landed wrong, not in the water, but his ankle rolled under him. Another expletive as he analyzed the sprained ankle. 

He needed a drink. He needed a stiff drink. Hell, he’d take the bottle. 

Sarah hated alcohol, so he rarely drank, but she wasn’t here. She was almost four hours away, ignoring his proposal. 

When she got the almost full ride to the University of Washington there was no question she had to take it. She had offered to stay, to go to Pensiula instead, they would be able to see each other more often. He wouldn’t hear it. At that point, they had been dating for almost five years. They had started as two dumb middle schoolers who didn’t know a thing about love and then in the blink of an eye his grandmother was giving him the family ring and Mr. Wilde was asking when he was going to get serious. 

He let her go without asking, he figured it would be easier that way, and it was until it wasn’t. 

She had less than a year left, it might as well have been a death sentence for him. They hadn’t seen each other in months. 

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he decided to send her the ring, instead of waiting until they saw each other next. All he knew was two weeks ago he had driven down to the post office in Forks, wrapped the ring box in three dollars worth of bubble wrap, stuffed the package in a far too expensive cardboard box, tucked a simple note inside, and paid for overnight shipping for the first and only time in his life. 

He waited by the harbormaster’s phone for three days, waiting for an answer to a question he had asked in a hundred unspoken ways. His boat bore her name, a deteriorating friendship bracelet that had never left his wrist since she had made it many summers ago, he spent every Saturday evening eating dinner with her family. It was a question he had waited to ask until he couldn’t anymore. 

It was a question she had yet to answer. They had spoken on the phone twice since he sent the ring. On the first call, she hadn’t gotten the box yet, on the second call she had just picked up her mail but had yet to open the box but she promised she would as soon as she could. 

They hadn’t spoken since. She had left a voicemail that she had gotten full credit on all her finals and she was excited to finally have a weekend off, she was doing something he didn’t quite catch with her friends. No mention of the ring. 

He slung his laundry bag over his shoulder and fished his cooler out of the empty slip next door. A gull lunged at his hand, a half-eaten mackerel still hanging out of its mouth. He averted the attack and started to wheel his cooler down the gangway. 

Someone in the parking lot was blaring their radio, some kids who should have been in school. He was barely twenty. Two years removed from being one of those rowdy teenagers ditching last period to linger around the harbor and he was already a cynic. They had warned him the sea would turn him cold, would take everything he ever loved until it swallowed him too, but he hadn’t listened. 

A car horn honked. He didn’t look up. The kid probably bumped it, clamoring into the backseat doing something they shouldn’t. Billy had found himself in that situation before. Never in broad daylight, he’d been smarter than that. Well, Sarah had been smarter than that. 

The horn blared again, longer much more intentionally this time. 

“William Black Junior!” His head shot up. No one used his full name…except one person. 

Sarah Wilde was leaning against the hood of her car, doors open, radio blaring. Much too far away for his liking. 

“What are yo-” 

“Listen to the song,” she shouted across the harbor. 

He stopped, dropping the cooler by his feet. It was an old song, he’d heard it before, years ago, probably on one of his mother’s cleaning records. He didn’t know the song well enough to understand why Sarah had shown up unannounced simply to play him the song. 

“ I was on your side Bill when you were losin'

When you were losin’”  

He was certainly losin’ at the moment. He opened his mouth to speak again, and Sarah simply held out her hand to quiet him. 

‘I'd never scheme or lie Bill there's been no fooling

There's been no fooling

But kisses and love won't carry me.’

Sarah was now holding a small box in her hand. Was it the same box he had spent a small fortune shipping to her? No. It couldn’t — 

“'Til you marry me, Bill

I love you so I always will.” 

Waves were crashing against the jetty behind him, threatening to drown out the song. 

She opened the lid of his grandmother’s ring box, picked out the small heirloom ring, and slipped it on her left ring finger. The whole time singing along to the woman on the radio lamenting about her own Bill. 

“Yes?” Billy stammered. 

“You thought I’d say no?” She yelled over the gulls and radio. 

“It took you two weeks to respond!” He shouted back. 

“You sent me a ring in the mail. Who does that?” 

“How else was I supposed to get it to you?” 

“Just kiss her already!” An old man shouted from the dock across the way.

Sarah laughed, leaning into her car to turn down the radio as the song ended. Billy smiled to himself, picking up his empty cooler and full laundry bag and starting down the creaky gangway. 

The short walk felt like a marathon. 

He unlocked the harbor gate and was promptly greeted by arms latching around his neck. He dropped his cooler again but caught something, someone, much better. 

The two broke the kiss when they were interrupted by cheering. From the docks, the nosy fishermen who had pestered him about settling down clapped, he could hear a few jokes about the big mistake Sarah had just made. He was too happy to care. From the small fish and chip stand by the shore came a roar of applause, from some of their best friends: Harry Clearwater, the head cook of said fish and chip shop, Sue Uley, and Billy’s best friend since third grade, Charlie Swan, who had been the first person Sarah called and the only person’s blessing she asked or cared for.  

“You reek,” Sarah smiled, hands clutched on the lapels of Billy’s jacket. 

“That’s me?” Billy asked, feigning innocence. He smelled like a bait box. 

She laughed, a laugh he had missed more than land. 

“You’re not quitting school,” he said, thumb brushing over her hand, settling atop the diamond. 

“Can you stop worrying for one minute?” She grinned, leaning closer for another kiss. He happily obliged. 

“Hey,” Harry shouted. “I have world-famous fish fry in here, come on!” 

Billy looked up. 

“It’s on the house,” Harry laughed. 

“Alright then,” Billy smiled, slinging his arm around Sarah’s shoulders as they made their way across the parking lot. 

They ate dinner happy as could be, and for the first time in his life, without a worry in the world.

----

2000. 

Somewhere in the Olympic Peninsula, Washington. 

The Clearwaters had the children for the night. Sue had insisted he needed a night to himself. The last thing he wanted was to be alone. But, the one thing he wanted more than anything a month after he had received the call which stopped his heart was to break down. He refused to do this in front of anyone, let alone his children and so he found himself driving down the 101 at three in the morning. 

That’s how he found himself driving down the 101 at three in the morning, sobbing. He had refused to get in a car for a week after the accident. But La Push was too small. Every single inch a reminder of her. Every street one she had been on. Every person, someone she had known, who looked at him with pity. 

He needed out. He drove all the way to Astoria, without truly realizing it. He needed to make it back before school drop-off. He was in Quinualt, less than an hour from hom– the house, when the song came on the radio. 

The truck swerved off the road and into the ditch as The 5th Dimension sang, ‘ I look at you and see the passion eyes of May .’ 

At some point, he managed to get out of the truck, hike down to the roadside phone, and call Charlie Swan. It was blurry. 

An hour later a police cruiser, lights on, came to a screeching halt on the side of the highway. 

It took Harry and Charlie till sunrise to pull the truck out of the ditch. Billy sat on the side of the road as they worked, working through a six-pack of Ballantines Charlie had brought. His first drink in fourteen years. 

Charlie drove him home, without a question, Harry following in the now dented truck. They made it home in time for Billy to walk his kids to school when nothing else Billy Black was a man of his word.

[octopunkmedia]

I haven't really shared public stills of Livescreamers yet, so it's about time!

This one features Neoma Sanchez as "Lucy." The film is nearing completion, and I'll update with a new still every month until it releases!

Livescreamers is an upcoming horror feature film from Octopunk Media, creators of Detroit Evolution, Detroit Reawakening, and Seven Deadly Synths. Michael Smallwood, Chris Trindade, Sarah Callahan Black, and Neoma Sanchez lead an ensamble cast of gamers who must band together to survive a haunted video game.

[gisellelx]

Twilight Advent, Day 12

Masterpost/prompts

Dec. 12 - Tell us some headcanons about a Twilight character you don't usually post about.

I had to ask for this one. There are so many and I generally have some semblance of something for most characters that any of the characters I write more often interact with. @bellalaine and and anon had some great suggestions though and they are characters I think about infrequently, Victoria and Sarah Black.

Victoria is one of the reasons I don't care for the Illustrated Guide. Above all else, I am interested in motivation. And while her very thorough backstory there suggests a more interesting story, it didn't actually impact the story in any meaningful way suggesting it was made up out of whole cloth after the fact, rather than taking bits of the character and fleshing them out.

But her backstory there and what is presented in canon is at least consistent with how I've thought about her in the times I've needed to, which is that going after the Cullens/Edward wasn't about avenging her mate; it was about proving to herself that she was powerful. This stems from the fact that there was absolutely no reason for her to have rolled up on the Cullens with an entire newborn army (and TIG has to jump through several hoops to explain this!) when she easily could've lured Edward and killed him during the timeline of New Moon, seeing as he was alone, if it really was about "a mate for a mate." Prior to meeting James, she was self-sufficient. She wasn't looking for a mate; she was content. She was interested in keeping undercover, the trait she learned as a human. In some ways, James's need for flashy hunts and kills grated on her, especially coupled with his lack of devotion to her. And then he tries to kill this girl, and the girl's vampire entourage takes out James.

She didn't go mad. Building up an army isn't what madness looks like. Learning enough about Alice's gift to evade it isn't what madness looks like. She went after the Cullens because she needed to prove to herself that she could. The backstory she's given in the guide would suggest that this could very easily be "little sister" syndrome and that would track.

Sarah Black was perfectly content to only have girls. Billy wanted a boy, but only sort of—he was worried about what would happen if vampires ever came back to Quileute lands. So they were actually not particularly trying for Jacob, but they weren't trying to avoid him, either.

Sarah doted on Jacob when he was a baby; it felt easy after having had twins. She sung him the oldies music she heard from her own mother growing up. When the twins were asleep and Jacob was awake, she would put him in a cradleboard and tell him the story of when he was born.

She, more than Billy, worried for her kids getting off the reservation. This was an internal struggle for her: she desperately wanted her children to revere and love their background as members of the Quileute peoples, but she also was not willing to look away from the poverty and difficulties of life on the Rez, especially after Billy developed diabetes. She wouldn't have fully approved of how Rachel and Rebecca did it, but she had always instilled in them that they should keep their heritage and it would protect them, but then that they should go into the world. She told them, even though Billy disagreed, that it would be okay if they married white men, as long as the white men were good.

Sarah was the pusher of the children's educations. She read them things they didn't get in school: though the tribal school augmented the typical grade school curriculum with Salish texts, she read them things like Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and Bud, Not Buddy and later so much Sherman Alexie. She wanted them to be able to contextualize the world off the Rez. They couldn't afford to send the girls to a private boarding school, but she was already trying to consider what things they would need to know to go to college. After she died, Billy found two neat, identical piles of books tucked away in the closet where Sarah kept her paints: two copies per title of Romeo and Juliet, Brave New World, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye, Jane Eyre, The Bluest Eye, The Great Gatsby, Julius Caesar, Hamlet—all the books that every high schooler not in a tribal school would be reading. But after they were tainted by their mothers' death, the girls never did read them.

Finally, her frybread was well and truly the bomb. These days, Sue sometimes makes a dark joke that the only reason Billy likes hers is because Sarah got out of the way. And they laugh, a little, and then tell the old stories.

[thieves-never-say-die]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Red Notice (2021 Thurber) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sarah Black | The Bishop/Nolan Booth/John Hartley Characters: Sarah Black | The Bishop, John Hartley, Nolan Booth Additional Tags: Whumptober 2022, Whump, Blood Loss, stabbed, sarah is too hard on herself, Heist gone wrong, OT3, Polyamory, Established Relationship, Sarah Black whump Series: Part 5 of whumptober 2022, Part 8 of trash talking love Summary:

“I take it we’re here for the same thing,” the other thief said cautiously. “It would seem that way,” Sarah responded. When on a job to steal a diamond necklace, Sarah runs into an unexpected complication.

Day 5: blood loss Altprompt 11: stabbed

[deepinthelight]

Gal Gadot and her characters

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

lies are only as good as the person telling them (and you've never claimed to be) part 6

Read on Ao3 Masterlist

Pairings: nolan/john/bishop

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3457

It’s the day of the gala. And where once he would’ve been not-so-secretly thrilled that Nolan couldn’t come with him, now it’s simmering under his skin like a badly healed bruise.

Sarah’s noticed, because of course she has, and she puts her hand on his arm as they’re getting ready to go.

“What if someone comes looking for him,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice low enough that Nolan in the bedroom won’t hear it, “we didn’t move locations the way we should have. Is it safe to leave him like this?”

“If they were going to find us, they would’ve made a move by now. You said it yourself: we lost them enough on the way back that we could afford to stay at least until the next phase.” Still, he sees her glance over her shoulder too. “Besides, he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

He catches the almost imperceptible tremor in her voice and gives her a look.

“Hey!” Nolan’s voice comes from the bedroom. “You guys talking about me out there?”

“No,” they say in unison, which is as good as a ‘yes,’ judging by Nolan’s little chuckle. Sarah rolls her eyes. “We’re leaving now, stay out of trouble.”

“Yes, mother,” Nolan grouses as they walk to the door.

John gets behind the wheel and pulls smoothly into the late-night Parisian traffic. He’s driven these roads so often he practically has them memorized by this point, which is good because when there’s an unexpected detour he know exactly where to turn to still get them to the gala on time.

What isn’t so good is his brain choosing to take that time and focus on the injured Nolan Booth back at their shitty apartment.

Nolan’s caught on to them, at least somewhat. He’s giving them looks now when he thinks they can get away with it; he’s all furrowed brows and tight mouth and puzzling like he’s trying to…well. Like he’s trying to figure out the trick. Only there isn’t one to figure out and he’s not sure he can ever get Nolan to believe that.

He’s already tricked him once. He’s not too egotistical to think he could ever get away with something like that again, even if he was trying, nor is he too proud to admit that yeah, Nolan Booth might be a ship that’s already sailed. Sure, he’s the one that came to them with the idea for the score, and he’s the one who’s been the reluctant go-between for an uncomfortable amount of their contacts, but him? Actually getting to the Nolan behind all the quips and the facades and the walls that he’s still letting them hit?

They might have a better of chance of just walking in and asking if they could have the Mona Lisa.

Sarah’s voice comes from the passenger’s seat when they stop at a red light. Just a quiet hum, but she doesn’t need to say anything else. He sighs and lets himself slump against the seat for a second.

“I’m worried about Nolan.”

”He’s going to fine, John, we won’t be gone long enough for somebody to��“

“Not that.” He rubs his chin. “I mean I’m worried he’s…I’m worried about us.”

Sarah falls silent as the light turns green. He presses them slowly back into the sea of traffic. It takes three more intersections for her to speak again.

“We can’t exactly blame him, we did con him.”

“I know.”

“And we did it by establishing a level of intimacy with him that would be difficult to achieve again.”

“I know.”

“He probably thinks it’s another scheme.”

“I know,” he says, a bit more bite in his voice, “I know that, Sarah, I do. And I know he’s probably thinking the same thing. But this isn’t a scheme.”

He glances at her as he turns and sees the thoughtful wrinkle between her brows reappear. “He’s not going to believe us, not without some sort of proof.”

“We can’t prove a negative.”

“I know.” She turns to stare out at the passing lights as they near their destination. After a second a small smile comes to her face and she huffs a laugh.

“What?”

“I can’t help but think whether this would have been easier if one of us took a bullet for him.”

“Nobody else is getting shot,” John says automatically, but it’s already done what she wanted it to.

What would’ve happened if he or Sarah took a bullet for Nolan? Would they have? He’s the likelier of the two of them, probably shoving Booth out of the way and catching the stray shot in his shoulder. But then would come the exclusion, shutting Booth out even more while Sarah patches him up, her anger at his being hurt redirected at Booth for allowing it to happen. His own gruffness sharpening in an effort guilt Booth into…what? Being less himself? And with Sarah…his hands tighten reflexively on the wheel as he remembers the things he’s done to people who dared touch her, and what he might do to Booth if he were any sort of scapegoat.

“I don’t think we would’ve realized,” he says eventually, “I think it would’ve made things worse.”

Sarah hums. “Perhaps you’re right.”

As they get closer and closer to the mark’s event, he forces himself back into mission mode. There will be time to think about Nolan Booth later. For now, it’s game face time; there’s no use in thinking about what to do after the heist if they don’t get the whole thing off the ground in the first place. Beside him, he can feel Sarah sitting up a little straighter, her icier mask falling into place over her features. They join a long line of cars trailing down the block toward a blood red awning, accompanied by several masked guards and a host in long white gloves.

“Is that him?”

“That’s the checkpoint. If our aliases don’t get us past here, we’re screwed.”

“They will,” Sarah says with a comforting confidence.

John takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders.

Time to go to work.

***

Count Evon Madripoor does not spare any expenses. The hall is lavishly decorated, bordering on the ostentatious; crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, garlands of ivy and wildflowers forming a pseudo-vaulted look over glittering tables and an actual marble dance floor. There’s a full orchestra up on one of the landings, a conductor with an earpiece talking to someone on the dance floor. Across the way are the doors to what must be the kitchens, suited-and-booted waitstaff carrying plates laden with lobster, steak, expensive dishes the likes of which could probably finance an entire school district. It’s gloriously hedonistic and it makes no small part of John want to spit.

But of course, Arthur and Roxanne DeVale do not spit at the celebrations of their fellow elites, and so they saunter into the midst of the crowds. Sarah’s picked her dark blue dress for the evening, the one that has the tiny crystals in the skirt that make her look like some evening goddess. Another diamond sparkles at the point between her collarbones, two more from her ears. Her hair cascades over one shoulder, hiding the earpiece, the open back distracting from the slight indentation at her covered leg where the holster sits. His own suit has diamond cufflinks and tie pin, charcoal gray covering a night-black shirt. The two of them move through the throng of party-goers until they reach an unoccupied table, sitting and examining the menu in front of them. A waiter quickly comes over and offers them a wide variety of liquor to choose from.

“Gin and tonic,” Sarah orders smoothly.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

“Right away, Monsieur, Mademoiselle.”

He darts off into the back and John turns to casually survey the room for anyone who might resemble the Count. He spies a few people that fit his rough description, but no luck.

“He might not be here yet,” he murmurs to Sarah as they both feign consulting the menu, “rich jerks always like to make an entrance.”

“There’s a staircase at the far end.” She indicates the carpeted marble with a slight turn of her head. “That might be where he comes from.”

“Any idea when?”

“The official start time of the party was about forty five minutes ago. I’d say anywhere from the one to one-and-a-half hour mark.”

That gives them at least fifteen minutes to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. They’ve faced far worse odds.

The waiter comes back with heir drinks and a bread bowl while they consider their meal options. Sarah refrains from taking any, elegantly sipping from her drink as her eyes travel the room. John takes a single roll, breaking little bits off to eat every once in a while. In accordance with Sarah’s prediction, it’s almost fifteen minutes later exactly when the orchestra gives a sudden musical flare and a spotlight appears at the top of the staircase.

Count Madripoor is as disgustingly overblown as John expected, right down to the golden buckles on his shoes and the gemstones inlaid along the collar pins as he spreads his arms wide.

“Friends, old, new and yet to be made, welcome to my humble little get together.”

A polite titter goes up amongst the crowd.

“Eat, drink, and be merry. Life is for the living, after all, and we have our debt to settle with the reaper upon our passing!”

He claps his hands and the orchestra strikes up again. John and Sarah each exchange a glance before casually arranging themselves to highlight the lack of food on their table. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the count making conversation with more than a few people, shaking their hands and gesturing about, slowly making his way around to the tables. Sarah finishes her drink as he approaches, arching her back just a little to send a surreptitious glance over her shoulder.

Sure enough, it takes barely another moment for the count to make his way over to their table, the faint smell of wood smoke following him.

“It seems a disgrace that there are two such fine faces at my party and I have not the faintest idea who you are.” He bows slightly. “Evon Madripoor, your humble host.”

“You are too kind,” Sarah demurs, looking every bit the blushing maiden, “Roxanne DeVale, the honor is mine.”

”Ms. DeVale. A lovely name for a lovely woman.” He holds his hand out for hers and places a chaste kiss on the back. “And you, my handsome friend?”

“Arthur DeVale. You sure know how to throw one hell of a party.”

“Ah, well, when one is born with more money than can be spent in a single lifetime, that doesn’t mean one shouldn’t try. I notice your table is comparatively empty, is none of the food to your liking?”

“To be honest, we have been struggling to choose.” Sarah peers around and leans a little closer. “And your portions look too generous for me.”

“If I may, Mademoiselle, life is too short not to enjoy good food. But if it is a smaller portion you desire, then of course it shall be made. If you are truly stumped for options, might I recommend the Chef’s delight?” He points to one of the entries further down the menu. “She has been refining her techniques for many years.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“And for you, Monsieur, do the portions daunt you as well?” The count gives him a smile that’s too intentional to not be flirtatious. “Or is there something else that keeps you from a decision?”

“I’ve had a range of these dishes before,” he says, feigning aloofness, “I’m looking for something more exemplary.”

“Might I suggest the third of the dinner platters, then. A delicacy I assure you that you would not find anywhere else.”

“Are you bothering guests into trying things again?”

They turn to see a graceful woman in a black and white suit glide up to them, giving the count a look before nodding to them both.

“Forgive him his enthusiasm, if you would be so gracious.”

“Anastasia DeVeaux,” the count introduces, “my major domo and the only reason this party is as successful as it is.”

”We’ll take your suggestions,” John says, nodding to her, “nothing to forgive.”

She nods and a whole crew of waitstaff ready themselves. She gives the count one last look that John can’t quite decipher before vanishing back into the crowd.

“If it is not too much an imposition,” Sarah asks, “would you be so kind as to join us? We could hardly bear to keep you from your celebration but—“

“Nonsense,” the count says, waving a hand, “I would be honored to. Come, come, let us talk and drink! I notice your drinks are nearing empty, come, let us get you refilled.”

What passes next is…surreal. Their food comes and admittedly, it is delicious. The count takes no small amount of pleasure in seeing how much they both enjoy it, ordering a dish for himself and engaging them in polite enough conversation. He doesn’t seem to care when they’re a little cagey with their responses, launching off into ludicrous tales of his own to give them time to eat or to decide what it is they want to say next. In a word, it’s pleasant, yet there’s this itch at the base of his spine that he can’t get rid of.

It’s when the count just about makes an innuendo that he realizes what it is: he’s leaving space for Nolan.

The pauses he and Sarah are leaving every once in a while are for his stupid quips. The laughs they feign are so he can make up the next part of the story with some playfully fond insults that he only half-means. The glances they shoot at each other stutter about halfway through because they’re missing the other person to look at. They look for him now, and the realization makes him take an extra sip of his whiskey.

This could be bad. This could be very bad.

“Well,” the count proclaims, throwing aside his napkin, “I do hope your appetites have been thoroughly satisfied?”

“You did not offered undeserved praise, you used is indeed a master.”

“Could you be tempted to a spot of dessert?”

“Not at the moment, I fear,” Sarah laughs, holding a hand to herself, “I’ve already eaten my fill.”

“And yourself, Monsieur?”

John fakes a laugh and waves his hand, mirroring Sarah’s posture. The count simply laughs and acquiesces, getting to his feet.

“I have often found that a bit of mild exercise aids in digestion,” he says, adjusting himself and bowing again, “if you would do me the honor?”

John glances at Sarah. She nods. He inclines his head and gestures to her. “Please, as long as she wants.”

“Oh, forgive me. Although I am sure the Mademoiselle is lovely—“ and here he bows again to Sarah— “I did hope that you would deign to accompany me.”

Oh.

Oh.

John blinks. The count is still waiting patiently, his hand extended, and all he can hear is Nolan’s voice in his head saying I didn’t mean walk like you were going to ask me to dance.

He swallows, forces himself to smile, and takes the count’s hand.

The count leads him to an open spot of the dance floor. To John’s surprise, no one looks twice at them. The count steps carefully into his space, as if expecting him to back out t any moment, and holds out his hand once again.

”I guess that you’d be more accustomed to leading?”

“If it’s not too presumptuous of me.”

“Of course,” and he steps easily into the follower’s position, “I would be delighted.”

The count is a…well, he’s a good dancer. He doesn’t quite have the body type John’s used to leading, but he moves as easily as any dance partner he’s ever had. The only thing is that, well, now Nolan’s voice is really loud.

“Monsieur,” the count says after a few minutes turning about the floor, “if I may be so bold?”

“It’s your party, I’d say that gives you the right.”

“You are too kind.” He wets his lips and sighs. “I will be blunt. Am I a stand-in for the evening?”

John blinks, swallowing his panic with practiced ease, playing surprised instead. “A stand-in? How could you be a stand-in?”

“You and the Mademoiselle. You both act as if you are missing a piece.” He inclines his head back towards Sarah. “I am not intruding, am I? There is not a third waiting for you both?”

“No, you’re not intruding. He—“ John realizes his mistake a moment too late, but the count gives him a gentle prompt to continue and stopping now would only be more suspicious. “He was supposed to come but he couldn’t make it.”

The count makes a sad noise. “A pity, indeed. I would have liked to meet the man who could successfully charm both of your hearts.”

A sudden image of Nolan’s face makes his step falter. The court catches them easily before they bump into another couple, making it look as though John is the one steering them out of the way.

“Unless…he does not know?”

John swallows. “It’s complicated.”

“Life is complicated, Monsieur. Very few things easily gotten are worth their getting.”

“We hurt him,” John hears himself saying, “I don’t think he trusts us anymore.”

“Ah. Well. That is complicated.” The count shakes his head. “Did he know before?”

“No.”

“Truly complicated. You, Monsieur, are not one for understatement.”

John hums. They dance for a little longer until the count shakes his head.

“Life is too short, Monsieur. Too short to let complications deter you. I ask you now, regardless of the complications, or the history, does he hold your feelings? And the Mademoiselle’s?”

He thinks about the shitty apartment. He thinks about Nolan’s blood still on the back seat of the car. He thinks about Nolan’s face when he asked him to dance, how heartbroken and betrayed he looked on that beach, how he lit up when they found that vault in Argentina, how he looked when he held him out over the train tracks, and how terrified he’d been when Nolan got shot.

Fuck. Fuck, he does. God, he does.

The count smiles when John manages one jerky nod. “I implore you, Monsieur, tell him. If he is the kind of man who could charm the both of you, he is a good enough man to hear you.”

“Thank you, Count,” John says, and he surprises himself with how genuine it is.

“Please, you must call me Evon.”

“Thank you, Evon.”

Evon grins. “Tell you what: I am having another little party in a month or so, at the Louvre. Bring yourself, the Mademoiselle, and this other man, hm? Let me see the three of you with my own eyes.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

John tells Sarah. Of course he does. It’s the second thing out of his mouth as soon as they’re in the car and driving back to the apartment. Sarah just looks at him, reaches across the console to squeeze his hand, and smiles. The cocktails churn in his stomach as he puts the car in park and gets out. Sarah’s heels click behind him as he makes his way to the door, taking one deep steadying breath before pushing it open.

“Booth? We’re back!”

No response.

”Booth?” Sarah quickly comes in, drawing her gun and glancing around. “Are you alright?”

Nothing. John bites back a curse and looks around. Sarah keeps moving toward the bedroom—no sign of forced entry, no trace of the windows being opened or anything, all their stuff is still where they left it, safeguards and all. Maybe he’s passed out in the bedroom? Did his stitches pop and he could’ve fix it? Is he—

“He’s gone,” comes Sarah’s too clipped, too calm voice, “all of his things are gone.”

John races to her side and finds her staring down at a piece of paper. He leans over her shoulder. It’s the address Arlo gave them to pick up the forgery with the time and code words. Drawn under it in pen is a pawn lying on its side like the king at the end of a game of chess.

John just stares at it.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Nolan’s gone.

“We need to get him back,” he hears himself say from miles away, “we gotta get him back, Sarah.”

“I know,” she says, her voice still too even, “don’t worry. We will.”

He wishes her confidence brought him comfort.

[whatsallthisnow]

I wrote a thing. It's not a long thing but it exists and from what I can tell of the Red Notice tags it's an on brand thing so maybe check it out please.

Fandom: Red Notice

Words: 508

Chapters: 1/1

Summary

Not everyone has a soulmate. Only about 10% of the population is born with a mark on their skin signifying that somewhere out there their perfect match walks the earth. And even then there is no guarantee that the two will ever meet.

John Hartley has a soul mate somewhere. Sarah Black does not.

[bandcampsnoop]

12/23/23.

Gerard Cosloy's 12XU label has never gotten the attention that his earlier labels Homestead Records and Matador Records have received. But the label puts out consistently great music. Lupo Citta "Lupo Cittá" truly sounds like it could have been at home on any of those Cosloy labels.

This is hard edged rock in the vein of The Men, Sonic Youth or Eleventh Dream Day. And it does sound like Chris Brokaw's "Puritan" which is apropos seeing as Brokaw is one of the band's three members. Sarah Black and Jenn Gori are the other members, and it seems as if both have an extensive band history of their own.

Lupo Citta are a Boston, Massachusetts based band.

[natti-ice]

speaking my truth guys

[pro-royalty]

Doechii x PAPER Magazine