Chapter 1 : (✧ω✧)
Post-show stickiness. It pools in your hairless pits, north and south, and turns your foundation to soggy cake on your face. You wear your smile backstage. You move on jelly legs, escorted by the two younger Kettleblacks plus Brienne, Nym, and Randa, orbited by everyone else. There are exchanged congratulations, camera flashes, praise (You killed it! Stunning! Breathtaking!), and then Randa sticks you in the dressing room. You get a bottle of mineral water and one white bar, which you dutifully sling back.
“Is he here?” you ask.
“He’s here—he brought the boys. Do you need a minute? Should I let them in?”
No minutes to spare when Joff is here! Honestly, you were expecting a little more than a late arrival (and a little more than another pair of ruby earrings, gifted at your party yesterday). But it's your boyfriend of three years! Your bird heart flutters; your smile is real.
“Let them in,” you say, and they come.
The Boy Kings: Joffrey, Aegon, and Trystane. Bishōnen pop legends, smooth-skinned, long-limbed, graceful, poreless, royalty. Joffrey is the prettiest, with his golden side-swept curls, sporting a pink polo and tight white jeans. Aegon’s hair is thinner and blonder, Trystane’s darker and thicker, but their cuts and clothes match—they always do. They fill the dressing room with Boy Funk, their signature fragrance that smacks of rueful puberty. They’ve come of age, like you. They look younger.
“Glad that’s over,” Joff says, smiling ultra-white.
You flock to him, as you always do, and toss yourself in his arms. “Hi baby,” you say, eyes zeroed on his pretty strawberry lips. You steal a taste. Yummy.
“Get on the table,” he says back. “Do you have any coke?”
You fetch him your Chanel bag from its place on the coat rack, then back up to the table and let its cool glass top kiss your nylon-ed cheeks (your final costume is plaid taffeta, an homage to your Ground Zero debut). Joffrey is on you like a lion—he really loves you. He pets your tummy (“It looked better at fifteen”) then he pushes you to your back. He unzips behind you forcefully and you wriggle out of your dress. Cold air to flood your wettest, ugliest bits. “Stay still,” Joffrey says, as Aegon sprinkles your belly with snow and takes out an Amex to line it all up.
Joffrey always gets to go first; he’s in charge. He fingers you a little because he’s nice like that, but you have to stay still while he bends over to snort his first line. It tickles but you hold your breath until your lungs burn. One sneaky inhale, then Aegon gets a line, then Trystane. They each get another. Then it’s cocks out, all of them. Joffrey pumps your pussy. Aegon puts his dick in your mouth and Trystane gets a hand. They point out the mistakes in your show so you don’t make them again. You mumble agreement through a mouthful of meat. Then they talk about their upcoming tour, Boy Blast. They don't want to hear about Still Your Girl, and it's okay.
You're enjoying dinner. You're your own favorite meal. You're stuffed full, or you would be, with a dick in your butt (gross) and another in your spare hand. There are Kings enough. They've shared you for what, two and a half years? It doesn't count as cheating if Joff says it's okay. They love to party. You are the party. You're the main course, girl!
Joff comes inside you. Aegon comes on your face, and Trystane puts his load on your belly.
“Clean up and let’s party," Joff says, zipping up. "Ramsay's penthouse.”
“I have dinner with Walder," you say.
“Lame. You’re not as fun as Margaery.”
“I’ll come! I’ll come after!”
“Whatever.”
"Love you!"
And they go.
Randa always gives you a few minutes after the Kings visit. You stagger to the vanity and wipe pale peach and streaks of black on soft white towels; it's vomit of another kind. When the come is mopped up, you strip, and pull your dinner look from the rack. It's a silky plunge halter dress—Versace, ice blue. You fix the clasp low on your hip. That's enough work for the night.
"I'm ready," you belt out, and the room fills.
You only have to lay slack, and life simply happens upon you. People's jobs, their livelihoods, depend on posing and painting you like a porcelain doll. Merry fixes your dress; Mary and Molly push you into a chair to reconfigure your hair and makeup. "Leave it down, please," you tell them. You're not so inert. "Purse, please." It lands in your lap; you fish out your phone. One hundred new texts. Ugh! So few! A reminder from Littlefinger: Ten PM sharp. Oh—something from Arry! Happy belated birthday dork :P don't suck too bad.
Wish I had seen this sooner! I would have sucked less ^-^
An immediate response: There's always next time! anyway have fun on tour. send pics
I will :) love ya lots
you too
Randa's pudgy, red-nailed hand snaps between you and your screen. With a groan, you slam the phone shut and drop it in your purse. "VIPs?" you ask. "VIPs," she replies.
You stand and give your hair a little flip. See, you have some agency. The white pill is feeling so nice. It's five calories, but Littlefinger says pills don't count. Have as many as you like, just don't drink. You don't, not really. They don't put calories on liquor bottles for a reason. Anyway, your body floats and your belly lays flat (you haven't eaten all day, you skinny thing!) Your smile comes easy. Randa and Nym get you out to the ordained autographing room, position you at a table, and drop a stack of headshots down before you.
The tweens descend. They're loud and gab like little brace-faced hyenas. It's never girls your age. It's the ones with lumpy boobs doused in the latest Limited Too, with stringy sidebangs and red Lipsmackers smeared up to their noses. You sign pictures and give hugs and take more pictures. They only say nice things. "I love you! You're so pretty! I'm your biggest fan! OMG! You look like a princess! You're so sweet! I love your dress! I love your hair! I love your shoes!"
Love, love, love!
Your cheeks go strawberry. Littlefinger has looked into electroshock therapy to prevent you from sweating, but you haven't booked it yet, so your pits clam up again. Sometimes, like now, when the room is full of dozens of hot bodies, also sweating, and blushing, and chit-chit-chattering, you really get to thinking. You're thinking, I'm full. You're too much flesh and blood. These people, an extension of you, by love, have filled your every hole. They're crawling into your mouth and ears and up through your vag and worse. They're splinting your fingernails and toenails, squeezing into the soft red gaps between. They're in your belly button; they're full speed ahead up your eyelids and down through your skull.
You blink fast; you're blinking them out. They won't go!
You give Randa that look. She gives Nym that look. Nym shepherds out the tweens, and before you know, you shoot up onto your kitten-heeled feet. "Air," you say to the room at large as it tilts on some invisible axis. There's a lot of steel and concrete above and around you, bending. "Air," you breathe again. You take your coat, light blue suede with fur trim, and grope for the door. You're vaguely aware of a Kettleblack at your side as you push through the hallway. You follow the red exit signs, glittering beacons of hope in close black tunnels.
You reach the final door, and burst through.
Stinky city night air smacks you in the face. Ah, safety! When you blink, the full-love feeling is gone. You're in a grimy loading dock, each space occupied with a truck emblazoned with your larger than life smiling likeness, black pavement under-wheel glistening with red and white light. Festive, almost. Car horns ring like bells at a distance. It smells like bright green smoke. You breathe it in until your belly strains against your silk sheath. You're not supposed to smoke, firsthand.
A cough and a cloud burst from your side. You turn.
Oh yikes, it's him. The big ugly monitor engineer that replaced Barristan. He's a few feet away smoking pot.
"That's illegal," you say.
He grunts and pushes his next exhale to his boots. They're Doc Martens, massive, shiny and black; they've probably crushed a few bones. You feel Osmund's body heat and darkness right behind you. "Give me some space," you say without turning. You look to the engineer.
"What’s your name again?"
So, honesty hour—this is a trick. You know his name: Sandor Clegane. You know everyone's name, and you would never forget the name of a man so huge and dark and point-blank: scary. Half his face is melted off, down to the bone. You can't see the bone right now; black hair falls to his shoulders. He combs it over his gross scars. Smart.
You had the misfortune of meeting him today during soundcheck, when Hyle gave you the wrong in-ear monitors. “These aren’t mine,” you said. He said, “They are now. Selmy retired. There’s a new mons, says these work better.”
Um, someone new, and they didn’t tell you? You huffed offstage to go find this stranger, but you missed the last step and went flying. Strong hands shot up your armpits to catch you, hands stronger than Joff’s or Littlefinger’s.
They were hands as strong as Dad's.
When you craned your neck to look at your savior, you saw everything. Or rather, the lack thereof. You saw a face of harsh bones sharp as steel, gutted. His right cheek was hollow. His left cheek had a thin layer of charred black skin, barely basted over red strings of muscle. He was missing half his lips and an ear. His jawbone poked out. His nose poked out the most—it was huge, the muzzle of a beast, a snarling kaiju. He bared his fangs. "Careful, little bird," he rasped. He set you to rights, but you weren't done looking at him, Anne Barrow. You pouted. "It's bluebird," you said. You had to look up because he was so stupidly tall. His chest was as wide as three of you and chiseled like stone through his tight True Knights Sound Co. polo. "That's odd," he said back. He leaned close enough for his stringy hair to kiss your temples. "You look pretty damn little to me."
Thankfully, Brienne rescued you. "Who is he?" you asked in a whisper, when the beast was long out of earshot.
“The new monitor engineer,” she answered. "Sandor Clegane."
So he sat in his stupid booth below the stage and eyed you all of soundcheck.
Your mix had never been better.
He hasn't answered you yet so you take two steps closer. He's King Kong and a dang skyscraper, backed against the wall. There has never been a man so tall as this. He puts his eyes on yours and says in a plume of smoke, "You know who I am."
He deserves a jet to the ribs. "You're rude," you say. He scoffs and looks at your chest, where your dress scoops low to reveal the sides of your non-existent boobs. He doesn't deserve those, pitiful as they are, so you shrug on your coat and pull it tight.
You wait for it, but it doesn't come.
"How did I do?" you're forced to ask yourself.
Sandor grins; his incisors are pearl-white and preternaturally pointed. "You did good, little bird."
"Really?"
"Really. They trained you well, all that chirping and flapping, right on cue. And naked, too. Christ."
You stitch your brow—you can feel it through your new coat of makeup. "I wasn't naked. I was in costume, and it was a pretty costume!"
He shrugs. "Never said it wasn't. I happen to like half-naked children."
"I'm not a child," you huff. "I turned eighteen yesterday."
"I know." He straightens up and somehow gains an extra six inches. His spliff falls to his boots. Crunch. "But you're still a girl to me."
He moves to leave, but he works for you, and he hasn't been dismissed. You catch the edge of his polo sleeve and purge, "Well, you're a monster."
His big head drops back and he roars a laugh. You regret your words immediately—his hair falls out of place. The dragon scales are out, now. He plucks up your wrist. He takes one step, and you’re against the wall. His chest is a second wall an inch from your face. You get butterfly breath but the only air is him. He’s heaving down stinky fire that reeks of pot and beer and his horrible rotten insides. His black shirt is damp at the armpits, and he’s burned through his deodorant.
“A monster, is it?” he rasps. He clasps your chin and commands your eye. You think of dad’s hands again: strong, but not nearly as big. Sandor holds your entire jaw and up to your cheekbones. Where on earth is Osmund? “Take a look, girl. Take a nice, long look.” He pushes his blackened skin up to your nose. You’re inside a sinewy cavern of scorched muscle. Your knees give; you probably pee a little. But his iron grip keeps you upright. “Might be I’m a monster. And what do you think made me that way? The war?” You whimper; he turns to dagger you with his eyes, cold steel, burning somehow. “My brother gave me these pretty scars. Stuffed my face in the fireplace when I was all of seven. And why? Because I took his toy. He was twelve. He didn’t need the damn toy. But fucking hell, neither did I. I paid the price.”
Tears come. You blink them out and they trickle over Sandor’s rough fingers. “Oh, we’re going to cry? You think my father let me cry after I had half my face singed off, when I laid awake every night in agony, weeping pus and blood, sucking in smoke, drowning in fucking flame?” He’s still on fire, you realize. His jagged, snarling face is full of it. He spits fumes. You’ve had enough.
Your eyes close. A ten carat tear slips from your lashes. “No,” you whisper.
“That’s right.” His foul breath paints your lips. “Grow the fuck up,” he barks, and he lets you go. You get your own weight back. Sad. He makes for the door to the stadium, grabs the handle, then turns. “And if you tell anyone, you’ll stay a damn girl.”
He goes. After the heavy metal door slams behind him, Osmund is there, on the other side, smirking. He was watching the show—you’re good at putting them on, aren’t you?
You make it to dinner on time—Randa sees to that. Cameras flash like supernovas as you step from the Mercedes into Hornwood's. Walder, Walder, and Littlefinger are already in the private dining room, an old fashioned space, with dark oak floors and paneling, red velvet curtains, and leather upholstery on antique dining chairs. Severed and stuffed heads of bears, deer and even a lion stare as you circle the table and put a kiss on every old and wrinkled cheek. A white-gloved waiter pulls out your seat. He offers wine, you ask so sweetly for Diet Cherry Coke.
After a few sparse pleasantries and a sip of mineral water, you realize dinner is done. If they wanted to talk about the contract, about your slipping sales and need to do better, they already have. The bread crumbs have been swept from the white tablecloth. Coffee has been served.
You're here for dessert.
You are dessert.
Littlefinger dismisses the waitstaff with a wave of his hand. You help yourself up and over to the younger Walder, Black Walder. He pushes his chair out just enough for you to perch on carpeted ground between his legs. His cock is already hard when you take it from his gray wool slacks. It’s cut and maybe like six inches max. He doesn’t trim his pubes, so dark and wiry hair prods your face as your mouth descends. “As good as she was at fifteen,” he says, and they all laugh. Contract: secured. You secure it extra well when you swallow down seed that tastes the way green meat smells. You don’t even pull a face—except to smile, real sweet.
Black Walder packages himself back up and shoos you away.
That leaves the older Walder, the patriarch himself. He’s halfway to being a pile of dust, he’s that old. He’s a bag of soft papery skin and bones with a fuzzy spotted egghead. Gently, you lower yourself onto his lap. You keep the toe of one shoe on the ground—you may blow like you’re fifteen but you’re also fifteen pounds heavier. It wouldn’t do to crush him.
You undo his belt and unzip. He’s as hard as a man of ninety can be. So he’s still pretty soft as you work your hand up his few remaining inches. You nestle into his saggy neck and kiss him because he likes that. He wheezes—it means you’re doing a good job. He won’t tell you, though. You have to sell yourself. “Do you like that?” you whisper into a hair-packed ear. “I like it. I more than like it. I love your hard cock. It feels so good in my hand. You’re better than those boys. You’re a real man.”
He sputters and a paltry teaspoon of come squirts onto your hand. You wipe this on a napkin. Too many calories, and maybe poisonous. You give Walder what ends up being a very wet kiss on the mouth. That's show business for you, blech. The men finish their coffee while you peck at your phone and drink Diet Cherry Coke from a crystal glass.
Where r u girlie, says Wylla. Attached: a picture of Margaery and Joff. Ugh!
You rudely tap your feet and slump over with your elbow on the table. Littlefinger knows the attitude, so he wraps up business. A few slimy kisses later, and you’re free.
“Do you think I’ll get it?” you say in the backseat of the Porsche, in half-repose on slick leather. Littlefinger pets your thigh, from your knee up to the oddly damp crotch of your thong.
“There was never a question,” is his reply.
He says you can visit the penthouse (yay!) but he’s coming too, and he’s bringing the Kettleblacks. He doesn’t trust Ramsay—totally fair, he’s a creep. But his dad is an important investor, blah, blah, blah.
You go to the party for one reason: attention!
(Another reason: coke! >:-))(Littlefinger says it's okay!)
But when you step off the elevator, they don’t fall at your feet. Oh, some C and D listers smile and wave and kiss your cheeks. One quick survey of the ultra-modern parlor reveals all: it’s Margaery. Her offensively lustrous smile dazzles in the center of the living room. Like a lamp, you think, but you’re lying to yourself, she’s just a prettier star. She’s one year younger and currently has three charted singles (that’s one more than you, ugh). She’s in a satin Versace dress too, except her boobs are bigger, her waist slimmer, and her butt—it’s somehow round, perky, and small at the same time.
When you approach, she stops her conversation with the Kings. Her big brown eyes go straight to you. Showtime. You smile, kiss, and pet each other’s hair. You do lines with the boys and kiss them too. You laugh together—it’s a singing competition. Whose is higher? Whose is prettier? Whose is perfectly in tune? All her girls get in the mix, and you form a vacuum, a black hole if black holes shone bright. You’ve felt this feeling since even before your parents died. That people are planets, orbiting. You have gravitational pull. It’s the same pull that brings the house down, the same pull that puts cocks in your mouth and fingers up your skirt. You’re sucking them in. You stuff yourself full.
Your head is staticky fuzz when Littlefinger comes to collect you, early. You set out on tour tomorrow, after all. “So soon?” you whine when he throws on your coat and pushes you toward the door. Sometimes it’s nice to put up a fight.
But you arrive back at the walk-up, and flutter to your third floor room. You tune into your own coke chatter to fill the nighttime quiet. Think of the tour, think of Joff, think of LA, think of your future beach house, the Pacific ocean every day. Think of the Uggs you want, think of your first Birkin bag, or that Gucci bag, think of your songs, sing a song. You get naked and shower and put on a silky blue robe. You curl up in your king size bed, covered three-quarters of the way with plushies and layered in five frilly blankets. Jigglypuff goes in your lap. You turn on Cartoon Network. You pull out your phone and your Gameboy. Fifty new texts, :(, and nothing from Joff. Good night baby xoxo, you type and send, because you’re a good girlfriend. Sailor Moon is battling crime on the flat screen. By the power of the moon! You face off against Team Magma. A Zubat creams your Pikachu—no fair. Moon tiara action! You receive a text from Jeyne: had fun tonight! Oh yeah, she was at the show. Yay :-) you reply. You remember to check your texts from Wylla. Last thing she sent was how much coke should i bring on tour
As much as u want, you send back. I can always get us more.
You try your luck with another Magma grunt; Bulbasaur brings you success. You give him a kiss. Cool, says Wylla. party was fun. You don't remember seeing her. Ya totally =^.^= you reply. A red rose slices through the air; Sailor moon gasps. Tuxedo Mask! That mysterious jerk! Before you realize, your fingers type out the craziest thing happened 2nite. But you invite a black bubble of thought, you silly bluebird. You think, what happened?
Your arm goes slack with your thumb on send. Your eyes shut. Dark monsters prowl behind them, smashing towers, spewing flame. You’re a little plastic doll in the fist of a fifty foot beast.
Your last waking thought on September 12th, 2005: I want to stay a girl.