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"I've always been an ironic dreamer, unfaithful to my inner promises.
Like a complete outsider, a casual observer of whom I thought I was,
I've always enjoyed watching my daydreams go down in defeat.
I was never convinced of what I believed in.
I filled my hands with sand, called it gold, and opened them up to let it slide through.
Words were my only truth.
When the right words were said, all was done; the rest was the sand that had always been."
Fernando Pessoa,
The Book of Disquiet
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best read—dark mode
hoefler font, second to
smallest
The nine times you should've stopped and the reason why you didn't.
There's a funny way to life that makes you feel like you have to achieve something, scrap your hopes and dreams (or lack thereof) and become a superstar, or to morph into that girl you remember from your hometown because she always spoke too loudly and became prom queen, the business men that live on Figure Eight. Those are the type of people you watch from behind the counter, soaking them up like a parched sponge until you ring them through and they're gone, pending to the next day. There's an incessant itch at the back of your neck when you watch them, you're missing something; you aren't having enough fun like those kids who steal boats and beer and pick up half smoked cigarettes off of the sidewalk to meld with their own lips.
Those kids are in trouble and you can sense it, they're going to infect you with this trouble and you don't really care because there's nothing for you past the life you already have. The trouble starts like this:
Cue scene, count one [ I ], and it's like he was still there. One house. One dream. One parent. You don't know what's happening, but things are changing and you've got a vacant, vacant type of ache in your bones.
Two [ II ]: Two men walk into the Kildare24, city slickers, you can smell them from a mile away and this is starting to sound like a bad joke, right? Two city men walk into the Kildare24, signal laugh track, it's not that funny but you should laugh anyway so they don't get suspicious—you're trying here, you really are.
It takes three [ III ] formal meetings with that boy to crack, spill your guts all over the grass in the darkness of the day when the line between night and morning is blurred beyond recognition. That boy's reckless, under the influence and high on adrenaline, you know this, and again, you don't really care until he starts spilling his guts too.
That boy's a problem child: all sun-bleached hair and coffee stains on wood, he smells of seasalt and weed and something sweet that lingers in the air the longer you think about it. He's trouble. His friends are trouble, too, but you have a knack for being fodder to fire. It's only a matter of time before you both realize he's all fire and smoke and anything caught in between—try not to burn yourself or the wound will fester your freckle-dotted skin no matter how much you disinfect it.
He lets you in on a scheme for gold, it lurks in the depths of the town and there's a clandestine manhunt for it. Four-hundred-fucking-million [ IV ] dollars to be split amongst the five [ V ] participating parties: you want in. You agree to the long list of terms and conditions before you actually read the manual, and because of this that boy grins, wicked and cheshire-like, tinted with that scent of hidden sweetness that makes your head spin spirals until you have to leave.
You're going to be six [ VI ] feet under by the end of this; seven [ VII ], eight [ VIII ], and nine [ IX ] are secrets that you aren't sure you want to be uncovered at the finale of your story, some things are meant to be left alone.
But for a third time, you aren't sure if you really care or not.
People you don't know are going to die again and again, multiple times, they're going to come back as ghosts that walk among the living, and the people you watched behind the counter will become monsters that lurk in thriller movies—you just hope you aren't one of them. You've always had that empty sort of personality where you don't know yourself enough to know other people. It's a little funny. You'd pray to Creator but they're not listening, not when this is turning out exactly how you expected.
Your name is Sansa Blackbird and you're chasing something that isn't there.
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khadijha red thunder,
Sansa Blackbird
Additional Cast
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Saint Blackbird, As Described
Noodin Blackbird, Edna Manitowabi
Florence Blackbird, Nika King
Bemidii Blackbird, Billy Merasty
JJ Maybank, Rudy Pankow
Barry Narvaez, Nick Cirillo
Rafe Cameron, Drew Starkey
OBX Cast, Respective Roles
Disclaimers
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──── omg fic time 😱 hopefully i actually update this one in a reasonable amount of time...
sansa is my little skrumbly muffin and i do hope that you all like her, though i do have some things to say as a little preface. she is indigenous (anishinaabe/cree) as well as second generation immigrant (dominican) and these are big parts of her identity, so they will be mentioned a lot. i'm not apart of either of these groups. i will be doing as much research as i can in regards to this using first-hand knowledge from people that i know, as well as the internet, but if somebody that identifies with either of them notices something that's factually incorrect i would love to hear some feedback so i can fix it.
i am so, so excited to start this fic and im TIRED of seeing jj being mischaracterized as well as so many other characters within the show. literally sick to my stomach. im not really sure if i will be writing s3 because of how messy it was, but that could change depending on how i feel during writing.
──── warnings: typical obx trigger warnings, abuse (physical, mental, verbal), drug use, mention of drugs, suicide, generational trauma, racism, mentions of homophobia, violence. anything particularly bad will be tagged at the beginning of the chapter
──── dt; austrxlians thegirlsgone storyofanotherpaola hpcmxx ciellunes libraing
Sunbleach
girlpools / 2022
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