Welcome to the latest installment of PBM chaotically clowning. This is a slice from the middle of my popstar au, daydream_lover_girl. It's told in second person so you are Sansa Stark. It is NOT y/n DEAR GOD. Please. Would I ever? The reason I'm posting now is bc of all the plushie discussion. I just wanna give you this chapter while the hc is hot bc I wrote this forever ago and idk I just want to give it to the world. I don't know if this story will ever make it onto the web in full, rip. The only other context you might need is that this is Sandor's first visit to Sansa's Malibu mansion. She's wearing a lolita dress as in the Japanese fashion style. She's obsessed w it but hasn't shown anyone ever. It looks like this. Brace yourself for some shameless ddlg smut. It's not the full thing so it ends abruptly before too many spoilers, sorry. Love y'all. Please tweet your thoughts at me. This story is my favorite open wound :-)
Oh and it's easier to read sideways if you're on mobile. Y'all gotta endure my novice coding hehehe
Randa clears out your Sunday for your playdate with Sandor. You spend three days trying to be very casual about it, like of course you have friends over all the time! So you text him updates about Lady like nothing is different, even up until the afternoon he’s supposed to come over.
A rainbow fabric storm rips through your closet, because omg, you haven’t really ever dressed up for Sandor specifically aside from pajamas. You try on a dozen outfits, and Lady is zero help! Like should you dress casual? Cute? Sexy? Sandor is so old fashioned. Maybe you should dress punk! So you pick out pleated plaid miniskirt, pink and grey, plus a pink babydoll tee. It's all you have, no black shirts, but it's Happy Bunny. She's sassy cartoony and yellow with the caption hey you made me throw up a little. Wylla got it for you, because, you know…
White knee-highs and Mary Jane Docs on, you're ready to rock! Lady woofs in agreement and gets a pat on the head.
You do smudgy eyeliner and bright pink eyeshadow, glittery. (Littlefinger would never approve, hehehe.) You finish with a heap of pink Juicy Tubes lip gloss because you need Sandor to kiss you. Then you pace around the foyer with Lady at your heels. Last thing he sent was Driving, but that was over an hour ago. You almost, almost, call him, then you get a buzz from the front gate!
“Let him in,” you tell Meryn over the intercom, twice, and forcefully. You wish you had taken a white bar when Sandor's old truck rolls down the drive.
“Hi, little bird,” he rasps after you open the door.
He drops two shopping bags right on the floor, then swallows you in his big man arms so your face mashes against a creepy yellow smiley with exes for eyes and a wiggly grin. He hoists you off the ground for an ash-flavored kiss that clears your gloss and backs you against your Blackberry Picker painting. The crotch of your undies rests atop a thriving bulge, but when Sandor goes for his belt buckle, you clamp down on his wrist.
"No," you puff. "You need a tour first."
Sandor grumbles but sets you down, fixes a fallen curl. "My pretty little girl," he says.
Dang, you were kinda going for adult!
You hold hands for the entire tour. Sandor picks up Lady and lets her ride on his forearm like a fuzzy football. Then she doesn't feel so left out as you wind parlor to parlor. Sandor makes sure to tell you everything is pretty when prompted. He doesn't need prompting to fuss at the paintings. "A Leighton?" he asks, in front of God Speed. You gesture down the wall.
"No," you say. "Three."
He grumbles his way up to the tower, and grumbles the most when he sees your Lord of the Rings books in their special glass case. "Jesus fucking Christ. You even read these?"
"Mhm. Daddy read them to me."
Sandor goes quiet, stares soft. "Did you like them?" he eventually asks.
"I loved them, what I remember at least. It's been like ten years."
"They're good. Great. Legendary."
"Yeah, I like Eowyn the best."
"You remember her?"
"Um, duh! But no living man am I? Talk about a legend."
Sandor laughs, gruff. "She's quite the gal."
After Sandor sees your instruments, it's time for the bedrooms. He asks why you have so many. "For my friends, duh." He says he's tired of you saying duh. You say you're tired of him being an old grump. That shuts him up, but during your staredown, Lady starts peeing. It drips from Sandor's elbow and pitters on the floorboards. "OMG, gross!" you shout, unmoving.
"It's just piss," Sandor grunts. He puts Lady down gently so she can finish her business.
"Pee is gross," you come back, then quietly, "duh."
Sandor descends to nip at your nose. "Speak for yourself," he growls, then ducks into the nearest bathroom. Um, what? But he rinses his arm then comes back with TP to wipe up Lady's mess. That's nice. Daddies are just big grouchy maids.
Still, when you make it to your bedroom, you remind him to be nice, because it's a very special place. He promises. The air inside tastes different with stinky Sandor filling it up. It's like having a zoo animal over because he's so big and dark and feral. Or shoot, maybe you're the attraction. It's hard to figure out because Sandor silently treads on your pink carpet, fingering your white desk, keyboard, flatscreen monitor. He probably doesn't have one. He looks at the framed Sanrio posters like they're art in a museum, grunts, moves on. The frilly bed is where he lingers. It's filled halfway by a tower of your friends, the cotton-stuffed fabric kind, dozens of rainbow animals—the zoo.
Double shoot.
You're a baby bird, in a pink holding pen meant for a silly girl.
Sandor sits down on the edge of the bed. You notice him noticing a Feast for Crows on your nightstand, but he doesn’t pick it up. He puts Puff in his lap instead. You stay backed up against your desk, acting very cool and mature, like not worried for her safety at all.
"Well?" you bravely ask.
"It's pretty," is all Sandor says. He's still looking around, fingering the gauzy pink bed curtains tied back with big bows. You want him to be more regular, but instead of being cool, you blurt, "I don't have any alcohol."
"That's fine."
"I have coke."
"Coke?"
"Um, yeah, we could like, do a couple lines. It's very fun."
"I don't fuck with that shit anymore."
"Oh."
You decide to watch your Mary Janes, tap, tap, tap. "Why don't you introduce me to your friends?" Sandor asks.
You look up and his dirty paw is on Bun’s head. "Really?" you ask.
"Yeah, really. Come here, girl."
Turns out Sandor is great at listening. He is so getting invited back for show and tell. Obviously he's met Puff, but there's Bun, Kitty, Puppy, and Hop, your oldest friends, retired from aggressive cuddling but they still get the front row spot. You have other Pokemon: Pikachu, Clefairy, Butterfree, Vulpix, and Squirtle. (Zap, Rosie, Angel, Stella, and Squirt). There are beanie babies galore (heart shaped tags safe in plastic cases) and like, a lifetime of gifts. You used to get a stuffed animal from Daddy for Valentine's Day, Easter, and Christmas. So when you finish explaining every animal on the bed, you hop up, then gather an armful of friends from the shelves. And okay, Sandor is being so good! Every time you make an introduction, he asks them, "What's your story, little pet?"
So you weren't really expecting to launch into lore, but since he asked…
Mr. Fuzzy and Madame Paws have always kind of been at odds. They were actually married once, and the divorce was messy. They fight over the kids: Spot, Patches, and Bessie. It's a total disaster—they have to be far apart on the shelf, and the pups only see Mr. Fuzzy on the weekends.
"Sounds tough," Sandor says.
"Oh, it is."
"Are any of the other animals dating?"
That's a great question! You scale the fluffy pile at Sandor's back and retrieve the two Build-a-Bear teddies that sit up top: one in a princess dress, the other in a knight costume.
"Aurora and Phillip," you announce. Your grandest stuffed animal romance!
"A princess and her prince," Sandor says.
"Mhm."
You kneel bedside so you can play easier. Aurora loves dancing with Phillip; they're very much in love. The royal wedding was five years ago, but it's as if no time has passed! You tell Sandor this and he watches from above. He picks up Zap. "Are monsters allowed at court?"
"No way!"
But Sandor marches Zap right over the comforter to your imaginary ballroom—rude!
"Ah! A monster!" Aurora screams.
"I'll save you, my lady," Phillip says. "Pretend he has a sword," you whisper, brandishing a brown paw. You hate to hurt Zap, but really he doesn't belong here. "Go now, foul beast," Phillip says. "Or you shall perish."
But Zap advances—Phillip has no choice. He stabs and stabs and stabs. "Die, die, die!"
Sandor tosses Zap back to the pile. "Poor cunt didn't stand a chance."
"He shouldn't have come to the ball! But give him a kiss, so his feelings aren't hurt."
Sandor does. It's very nice. Then you're on your knees and he's high up on the bed, being bigger than you. "Thank you for showing me your little pets," he says, picking up your cheek, freshly blushed.
"You're welcome," you peep. "Can I show you something else?"
"What is it?"
"Um—a surprise."
You don't know what you were even thinking (you weren't) but your legs take you into your closet; shaky hands pull your lolita dress. Here's a thought: Sandor will like this. He has to. You were tempted to send a picture via email because you have sooo many from playing harajuku, but you held back, because what if he didn't respond?
Now he has no choice.
After you zip up the dress, you scrub off your makeup. You need a cute look, not punk. So then it's just a little eyeshadow and mascara, and no blush—you're already a berry. You fluff your curls and wish you had bangs. All kawaii Japanese girls do. Sigh. You settle for two loose pigtails instead, and a smile that dances in the mirror.
Timidly, you creep across the landing, back into the bedroom.
"Oh, sweetheart," Sandor says when he sees you.
Even though that wasn't exactly what you were hoping for, you smile for real; you still got nice daddy, which is like, your favorite. You show off a few twirls to see if he'll give you more. But he's staring that museum stare, like you’re a gazillion dollars, irreplaceable.
"Come here, baby girl," he says in soft rasp. "Come sit on your daddy's lap."
You giggle and take up your black denim throne. It's so silly—sometimes you play daddy and baby without being animals. Sandor fingers the three red bows on your bodice, transfixed.
"You’re my little doll," he says, low.
Naturally you respond with doll eyes. Sandor breathes heavier, but still moves slowly down your belly and skirt, until his fingers graze the shore where lace hem meets bare thigh. A bulge grows in his jeans, snakes down the leg opposite you. Babies don’t know about these things—to animals in precious pens, the keepers are the beasts.
But Daddy is calm, so you put a finger on what frightens you. Sweetly, you ask, “Why are you getting big there, Daddy?”
Sandor exhales hot cigarette-smelling breath on your forehead. “Because you make me feel good, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” You prod him, feel him surge at your touch. “Is it a monster?”
“No. It’s Daddy’s cock.”
Oh gosh. Babies definitely don’t know about cocks. They only know about feelings, and right now you feel tingly between your legs, and even tinglier as Daddy’s hand sneaks up your skirt, toys with your panties. “Not there,” you whisper, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt.
“Shh, you’re alright,” he soothes. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”
Daddies aren’t liars, so you try to relax, but when a warm finger sinks in your special place, you crumple into his chest. “Easy, sweetheart.”
“My flower,” you whisper.
“That’s right. It’s your little flower. These are your pretty petals,” he says, and pets a part that makes you frown. “This is your little bud—” he presses down; you whimper. “And this,” he breathes, sticky and smoky. “This is your rosy center.”
A finger glides in. “Ouch,” you whisper-gasp.
“Does it hurt?”
You shake your head into his pecs. “So it feels good?” You nod. “Good girl,” he says, and he slowly plunges. “I love your precious flower. I want her to feel good too.”
The tingles are good, even though they make you blush in Daddy’s lap, especially when he pulls your legs up over his, and drops his thumb to your bud. But there’s a sticky sound with each touch, and a slickness between your thighs—a mess. “Is it water?”
“It’s dew.”
“Is it good?”
“So good, baby girl. Look what it does to Daddy’s cock.”
You chance opening your eyes, and holy smokes, the bulge is huge. “Why don’t you be a good girl and help your daddy?”
“H-how?”
“Take him out and play.”
You would be more afraid without a strong finger in your spongy, sparkly insides. So you undo Daddy’s buckle, unzip, and he’s just…there. A foot of red flesh springs free, bobs back and forth. It’s actually quite silly, so you giggle. “Touch him,” Daddy grunts, and he mashes his finger up into a spot that hurts so good, you have to return the favor. You play like a baby would, clumsy poking, weak finger strokes of this red monster, alive and thick-veined. “He isn’t scary,” you peep, and he bounds up to Daddy’s belly.
“But he’s hungry,” Sandor growls.
Before you can blink, he tosses you back into your stuffed animals, making pillows of Bun, Kitty, and Puppy, and armrests of Puff and Zap. He stations himself between your thighs, yanks your panties down over your knee-highs.
“D-d-daddy,” you whimper.
“Daddy what?” Sandor huffs, as his cock meets your dewy petals.
It’s like the bus, no escape, because even with your knees clamped at Sandor’s beltline, your flower is out, strawberry skirts bunched on your tummy. “I’m scared,” you say, frowning.
“My little girl is scared,” he repeats. Two giant hands land on your hips; he thumbs the bones that jut. “Of course, her little flower is unplucked.”
You nod—it’s true. That’s what being a baby means.
“How about we go slow? Would you like that?”
“Yes, please.”
“Alright, take a deep breath.”
You inhale through your nose so you can smell daddy’s spiced pine deodorant, burned through with even sharper body odor. You exhale and Sandor sinks in an inch, enough to make your nerves glitter in one bright ring. “Good?” he rasps, dark hair dripping, eyes on your parts, together. It’s not question because he pushes deeper, deeper, oh—
“Stop,” you whisper.
“Stop?”
He glows hot in your tummy, but now when he bounces up, he bounces into your special spot, the spot you like. “Yes,” you say. “There are stars there.”
“Stars,” Sandor breathes. “Good stars?”
“Mhm.”
“I’ll give you more stars, sweetheart. I’ll give you as many as you like.”
This time is easy because of your dew, and because Daddy is nice, so cautious his big muscles tremble, a black bull with a porcelain girl beneath him. He remembers exactly where to stop and angles up for maximum effect. You hug Puff and put whimpers in her head. You whimper more when Sandor smooths your pigtails over Bun and Puppy, says, “There’s a brave girl. I know the first time is scary.”
Your center clenches his thick heat, and he feels it. “Oh, fuck,” he growls. “She has a tight little flower, doesn’t she? No one has been inside of her but her daddy.”
You mewl, bad idea, because he puts his thumb to your bud. “Daddy,” you whine. You don’t know what you’re doing because this has never happened, but your flower keeps clenching, as if it has a hunger of its own. You even think something’s wrong, so you make the mistake of looking down, only to see a mere half of Sandor’s cock inside you, pumping steady, but pumping sparingly. “Oh no,” you puff. “Oh no, no, no.” Because you're floating-falling fast, slipping into thick sky. “Shh, you’re doing good," Sandor says. "Come on Daddy’s cock, sweetheart."
As soon as you let go, Sandor groans so deep it ripples through your bones, matches the pretty thunder of your lady’s pulse. He pulses too, wet and strong. Then he drops down, swallows you in muscular darkness, damp armpits caging your cheeks. You actually don’t mind it in here, which is good, because Sandor keeps you trapped, keeps his cock stuffed soft but thick inside your flower. You stare at that dumb smiley face on his t-shirt and tread swampy man stink.
Maybe ten minutes later, Sandor rouses. His tongue makes gross sucking noises as he circles it around his teeth. Then he falls to his back, puts his still glistening cock away, and uses the same hand to dig Puff out from beneath him. He tucks her in his other armpit.
“Hi little bird,” he says, looking down on you, scruffy chin pressed to his chest.
“Hi.”
