Chapter 3 : ૮╥﹏╥ა

Joffrey doesn’t text, but there are more pictures. 

Randa picks up tabloids because you ask. You obsessively check the Spider’s website (the bane of your existence, ugh!) whenever you have internet. This means, late at night, after your show, when your knees and ankles ache and your throat is raw for like a gazillion reasons, it’s you and what other people have to say about you. You do your face masks, you put on your chiffon robe and Cinnamoroll slippers, and you have Randa bring you raspberry zinger in your sakura blossom teacup. 

In a king-sized bed, you devour. Sometimes Randa stays. Sometimes Wylla is there, though she technically gets her own room (she'll stay wherever you tell her to). The activity is always the same. Open up the Macbook. www.thespidersays.com. There’s Joff and Margaery in Malibu. There they are in Beverly Hills, and Melrose, and Santa Monica. They're getting closer, smiling wider, laughing like starlet Kirbies drinking each other up. There's no touching. No kissing. 

Yet. 

You’re looking for the kiss. Waiting for it. So is everyone else. The Spider says America’s Bluebird is on the decline, look, here’s this picture of her in a Juicy sweatsuit with her hair undone in last season’s shoes and can you see that pooch? She’ll be America’s marshmallow soon! Bye-bye birdy! 

Your publicist Nym is doing damage control. She told you to post on your blog, just a little tour update: hi lovelies! sorry it’s been a while!! i’m having so much fun on tour seeing you guys!!!! sooo busy wish i could post more, but everything is so perfect xoxoxo

And obviously that's all Littlefinger wants to talk about during your nightly calls. He's better in small doses like that, because he has lots of advice and sometimes it's overwhelming to take in. Stuff like, what are you texting Joffrey? and what did you eat today? The two seem related when he asks them like that. You hop on the scale he's coordinated to have delivered in every hotel room and send him pictures. He really cares about that number: 123. Lower since he switched your pill, one big word to another. 

Pill or no pill, your relationship is on the world's mind. When you step from the bus to the stadium, stadium to hotel, the cameras are there, and the questions rain down. You wear your big rectangle Gucci glasses to hide tears that burn. “Is it over? Are you over? How does it feel, not being his girl?” The Kettleblacks shove people away. You keep your head high. You’re grateful their photos will be too grainy to capture the wet gemstones that drip from your chin. 

And the show must go on. You’re in the most boring part of America now, where all the food grows and everything looks the same, one brownish-yellow blur punctuated by loud billboards that claim to announce the will of God. “He Saves” or “He’s Watching” or simply, “He Knows All”. You believed in God once. Daddy was a Lutheran. He took the family to Immanuel every Sunday and shook everyone’s hand. He said, “We’re equals in God’s eyes.” You liked the pretty insides of the church and how the light fell through the big stained glass windows and put soft rainbows on your skin while you held Daddy’s hand and barely listened. He sang the songs loudest and you sang by his side. That was the best part, because at the end of each hymn, he’d lean down, and whisper in your ear, “You sing beautifully, darling girl.” 

That’s what you think of when Brienne announces your arrival somewhere in Arkansas. It keeps you upright, long enough to make it into the stadium; this one’s indoors, a basketball court. You run through rehearsal, and you try to stay focused. All your intensive research doesn’t leave much time for eating. You want to think of daddy, but you keep seeing her, and it’s like, she’s the hollow ache in your tummy. It’s not an ache anymore. It’s kittens scratching with their sweet precious razors for claws. What a bitch! Yes, you said it! Like, how could she? Joffrey is yours! 

And you’re looking for him. Not your boyfriend, the ex-marine monitor engineer who kissed your throw up clean and wiped the mayo from your fingers. He's not in his booth below the stage. He’s big, how can he hide so well? 

Brienne says, “What’s the matter?” Then, “Let’s take five before soundcheck.” 

You snatch up your purse from the pipe and drape dressing room backstage just in time. Buzz buzz, and it’s not Joff. It’s the Spider. 

They're at Rae's Diner. 

Sharing a milkshake.  

Holding hands. 

Look at these lovebirds, reads the text alert, and not one of them blue!

Immediately your vision is pure water, and as you burst from the dressing room, the stares rain down. If you know, they know. “Leave me alone!” you shout. “Get away from me!” You’ve wanted to say that for so long; the words taste as sweet as sugar puke, and you run. You’re going away. You charge blindly out into uncharted concrete-walled hallways. You mash keys on your phone; you’re texting Joffrey, or no, no you need to call. You guess-mash correctly, the line rings, you open the first door you see and throw yourself into the blackness beyond. 

“What?” comes a snarl on the other end. 

Oh my gosh, it’s Joff! “Baby,” you blubber. “I’m so glad it’s you.” 

“Just tell me what you want.” 

“The-the-the pictures.” 

“So what?” 

“Are you dating her? Are you in love?” 

“No.” 

“Then we’re still in love?” 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be? Did I say we weren’t?” 

You sigh out a moan. Of course, you’ve been so silly for no reason. “Oh babe, I’m so sorry. I got mixed up.” He says nothing. You say, “I just miss you so much.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Oh, and I love you! Tour is going okay, Brienne is bossy as usual. Wylla is kinda annoying and Randa is alright because she does what I say. Honestly, it’s pretty boring without you because like every day is the same and I just really wish—”

Click.  

Ugh. He must have had somewhere to be. You slide your phone back into your purse, satisfied for the time being. We’re still in love.

“Shit boyfriend,” comes a deep voice from behind. You nearly jump out of your flip-flops and turn to see him, the Hound. See! He’s always hiding like that. This time, you figure out why. He has a metal flask in his hand. He’s drinking on the job. 

You turn your nose up. “He loves me.” 

“He loves your cunt.” 

You gasp; Sandor moves closer. The room is dark except for flickering red and green lights on towers of black machines. A sound room, maybe? Does he belong here? There isn’t really enough space for the two of you, especially because he’s like, three men combined. 

“Don’t kiss me,” you say. He laughs. He has the ugliest laugh, like boulders breaking at the bottom of a canyon. His mouth opens wide and his sharp teeth sparkle and spit flies. He quiets but only so he can drink. He palms away the excess. He takes another step. You back into one of the machines; knobs nestle into your spine. Sandor steals your cheek. He breathes hard. A rough thumb brushes the fresh tears from your lashes. You’re wetter somewhere else. 

“Shh, little bird,” he says. “Just a bite. I know you liked it.” 

Right as his lips descend, the door flies open, letting in a shower of yellow light—Brienne. 

Sandor straightens. “I found the little bird,” he grumbles, and he shoves you into Brienne’s puffed up chest. “She likes to fly.”  

He pushes rudely past and disappears down the hall. 

“Are you alright?” Brienne asks. 

You blink away the remaining tears. “The Spider sent a picture. I freaked out. I’m sorry.” 

“And Sandor?”

You look over your shoulder. He’s long gone, but sour liquor clings to your nose. 

“He found me."

— 

You thought the call would fix things, and it did, really. The problem is the Hound rebroke them. Like who is he, an ugly old man, to call Joffrey Baratheon a shit boyfriend? Joff’s loved you since the moment you met, at the party Littlefinger threw the month after you got famous, because your birthday party was canceled and he wanted to make it up for you. All your new friends showed up, including the Boy Kings. Sparks flew! It was magical. You wore a blue puffy-skirted Dior gown and sparkly Chanel heels and of course you put on one of your Tiffany tiaras. Joffrey bowed and kissed your hand. He stayed by your side all night, the very picture of chivalry. He has the prettiest golden curls, the softest red lips, and the most dazzling smile. He’s been your boyfriend ever since. He’s your prince! Soon now, very soon, he's going to sweep you off your feet, and take you to LA! Then you'll never be apart (<3) (except for tour!) 

Margaery probably forced him to go on that date and hold her hand. Joffrey hates milkshakes and he especially hates PDA. That’s what you decide. 

So you finish three southern shows, then it’s up through St. Louis and west to the Rocky Mountains. The shows are all pretty much the same at this point, and you can hear the screams of fans on and off the stage but when you can't hear them you watch TV or play your advance copy of Wild World or listen to music. There's this amazing song called Everytime We Touch (from this German group Cascada, Europeans dominate pop, like, dating back to ABBA) and you listen to it on repeat on your iPod. You're thinking of the time on your seventeenth birthday when Joff took you to a fancy steak dinner because you asked nicely and when asked nicely again he held your hand. It really gave you butterflies in your tummy, like this feeling. But when you space out, or maybe it's right before bed, there's another touch to think about. A rougher one. A touch that throws you up like a cloud and sends you up to the sky. I swear I could fly. And it doesn't matter how high the volume is turned up, a voice breaks through, a voice from the underworld, a voice that says, "Little bird." 

No amount of dance music gets rid of the kittens that claw at your belly. It doesn’t look good online. The world is talking, and here’s the voice: she’s over, she’s done, she’s dead. Bonus: she’s fat. (I know! Shut up!) But fine, you stop eating. When you absolutely want to cave, Littlefinger has a special pill for that. You’re not even supposed to tell Randa. It’s the orange ovals that keep you perky and downright tummy-less. No need to worry about food when you float like an angel! 

The only thing that drags you down is the Hound. He’s always there, smirking. He drives the True Knights truck. He beats you to the venue every time, smokes against the hood, and watches you arrive. You know, because you can see his scary face high above the flashy line of paparazzi. (OK, so yeah, you're standing on tiptoes and craning your neck a bit—the point is, he’s staring!) (And always smirking!) 

(Ugh!) 

So rehearsal in Denver is nothing new. It's mid-November now; you're sore. You practice your steps, but your eyes follow Sandor. Seven feet tall is your guess, which makes him one foot and four inches taller than you. It feels more like three feet, probably because he's so wide. He brings in his equipment cases as if they were made of air, the same as he did to you, a cloud lift. A puddle, more like. He puts one between your legs. You discovered that after the incident in the dark room. Panties down on the toilet, and what do you find but a whole slimy slug on otherwise pristine cotton. When you wiped—the same. Once again— 

UGH! 

Hyle brings your earbuds for soundcheck. This part is nice because Sandor hides in the monitor booth below the left part of the stage, and you have every excuse to stare at each other, an opportunity which you both gladly seize. But today is different, because right as the mix to Twinkle Twinkle starts up, your phone buzzes in the pocket of your bootcut 7 jeans.

It's the Spider. 

It's Joffrey and Margaery on Carmel Beach. 

Kissing :'-(

Your heart falls through to hell. Really, it goes that deep. No wait: it's just mashed up, like the devil shoved a fist into your ribs and squeezed it to strawberry jam. Ouch. You want to cry; the tears are for sure sparkling in your eyes, but when you blink away the first set, you see Sandor, scowling. He tips his head and mouths something. You realize. He's saying, "Sing." 

And somehow, you do. Because he doesn't stop watching you and maybe his scowl is like, a scowl of concern? He's never stared so intently, yet so softly, as if steel could melt to a blanket and bundle you up. That's not comfort: it's armor. You work through Twinkle Twinkle, Seven Minutes, I'm the Boss. Hyle has the stage crew bring out the piano, oh, you need to practice Yours. 

It's probably better that you sit. Your heart isn't working right so you're very shaky and your tummy is completely empty (good). But as your fingers kiss the keys, Sandor comes out from his booth. OK, this is weird. Soundcheck is over, you think, but he doesn't say anything to you or the crew. No, he goes down to the empty stadium floor, grabs a folding chair, and flips it open, front and center. He sits. He crosses his legs, ankle over knee. He crosses his meaty arms. His tattoo pokes out. He listens. He's smirking. Or is something wrong with his stupid, half-crisped lips? 

Well, you can't stop singing. You have to impress! 

The sun shines down, bright pink, purple, red, and orange. You've been to Colorado before. You can see the whole sky out here, no trees or buildings; it's heaven set atop the earth. Color streams through the long windows of the Pepsi Center and paints the white grand piano like melted sherbet. So pretty, and your hands know the keys, your voice knows the notes, you sing, "I'm lost, far from home, I'm alone, lone, lone. Small, in the snow, you gifted me the sun. I'm a flower, you're the warmth, I'm yours, yours, yours." 

Now you're really crying, you can't help it, because you're angry that Joff would think anything so pretty belonged to him. You're angry that maybe he isn't that pretty, maybe he doesn't deserve your stupid strawberry jam heart and maybe you shouldn't have served it up with his afternoon tea. Mostly you're angry that daddy is dead and he left you alone and he took away your home and why does life feel like a blizzard all the time? Why is it so fuzzy and white and black in your head and quiet in the wrong way. Quiet in the way that it's loud with one huge staticky note and you can't hear exactly what that note is but it's there; it's a song you don't know the words to. It's a song that feels heavy and dark like it doesn't like you. An enemy song, even though snow is pretty and fluffy and crystals split colors in the right light, under perfect sun. Then your song is over and daddy is still dead and you think, oh, if only you could join, you don't know if you mean it, but you stand up and your head isn't ready and you're crying too hard to see. It's the blizzard. You step once, twice, but the world is whiteout snow.

You fall. 

One minute you're in the sky, the next the sky slides out from beneath you. Your song, briefly, is a stunted scream. Darkness flashes. It stays. 

You wake to a warm, familiar hand. A concerned voice. "Little bird," it calls. "Wake up, little bird." 

Sandor. Your cold burden is in his arms. He's solid ground. You open your eyes. His one good brow is furrowed in a way you like. "How did I do?" you ask. 

For the first time, when Sandor laughs, you don't flinch. He holds your cheek and strokes your upturned lips. "She's up," he barks behind him. "Get her that drink she likes—Cherry Coke." You're acutely aware a crowd has gathered; there are whispers and scuffling feet. You find the will to pick up your hand and latch onto Sandor's shirt. "Don't let me go." 

"What hurts?" 

"My heart," you say. Your belly too, but that doesn't count. 

"Was it something on your phone?" 

You weakly nod, then sob, "Joffrey kissed her."

Sandor makes a weird noise, a predatory rumble that he pushes through his crooked nose. He pairs that with a soft stroke of your hair, which is also weird, because you know there are people around and they'll see him with his big paws petting your pretty curls, something only a boyfriend is supposed to do. You sob harder because it feels nice, like the devil is back in your chest, un-jamming your bloody fruit insides or at least appreciating them like he ought to, which is just like, all kinds of wrong. 

Sandor accepts a can, cracked open with a pink straw inside. "Pink," you peep. Sandor puts the straw between your lips, but you taste the sugar immediately and spit it out all over his gnarled fingers. "What?" he rasps. 

"It's not diet," you sputter. 

"Fuck a diet. Drink." 

He repositions the straw and his eyes are so sharp you don't dare disobey. Brienne stands over you and Sandor talks to her. You don't listen. You're filling yourself with sugar. It hums in your skull like sacred mass, hallelujah! The stadium is still pink inside. Beams of light spill over Sandor's broad shoulders, and you breathe him in. His deodorant is strong and unforgiving like prickly pine, and you realize that's exactly what he is: a big, black tree. He's old and not quite pretty, half-burned, but still standing, still strong, still safe for little birds. 

"Did you hear me?" 

The dregs slurp out loudly from the can. Sandor takes it away. "Can you stand?" 

"Um—" 

You look to Brienne. Randa and Nym are there too, the Kettleblacks close by. Ready to call Littlefinger, most like. Lastly, you peek at Sandor. He says, "Let's try." 

Small hand in big hand, he pulls you up. Your knees wobble. You give your head a few seconds to stop spinning. "I think I'm good," you say, but you don't let go of Sandor. "I'm fine, really. A silly mistake." 

Sandor grunts. Brienne says, "Are you well enough to perform?" 

You nod. "Of course!" 

A palpable tension disperses from the stadium as Brienne and probably a dozen others heave out a sigh. Hands come to collect you; it's definitely makeup time. As your fingers slide from Sandor's you hear, "You did good, little bird. That's your best song."  

— 

You have your best show yet. Everyone says so. In the dressing room you wash off your stage-face, then put on a cute low-rise denim mini and a sparkly Fendi tank. Then it's off to the green room, and for once, you're happy when it crowds. They set up for you exactly how you ask. You think Versailles is pretty, like Baroque was such a good time, so you ask for puffy antique couches with pink satin cushions, and swirls of dark wood for trim. There's golden lamps molded to look like candelabras alight, and white curtains draped over otherwise drab industrial walls. A place where you can, as ever, be a true princess! 

You drink water and even sneak a flute of champagne. Nym ushers in the VIPs; Randa is on standby. You produce autographs and award-winning smiles. A reporter from Hot Teens Now wants a quick interview. She's the first to hear the real story: "Joff and I are still together, of course. No matter what Margaery thinks, I'm his girl." 

You and Wylla pile in the back of a black Mercedes and cruise to the downtown Hilton. Wylla snuck champagne, of course. She tips it, bubbles frothing, into your mouth. She drinks the same way and kisses her mouthful into yours. You get sticky and laugh your way to the top floor. The two of you shower together, do a quick line of coke, get dressed in silky nighties and robes. Powerpuff Girls is on. You topple into bed and drink some more. The bubbles in your belly lift you higher and make the world lighter. Like, Wylla impersonates Brienne and Randa and she even goes so far as to mock Margaery, the awful, stupidly pretty whore. But it makes you giggle because she is so stupid and not a threat and what do you care? You're a bird, or better, a cloud, vapor so thin it can't be bothered with such hefty sows. Like whose ass needs to be that big?  

You laugh, and laugh, and you forget to look at your phone.  

But after a while, you simmer down. Wylla falls asleep beside you while you take Littlefinger's call—you were afraid at first, because of the kiss, and the slip-up during rehearsal, but he says he's "figuring it out" to which you reply, "I only drank Coke today". (He can assume it's diet >:)) 

You hang up when there's a tap on the door. You and Littlefinger both know: it's Randa. She comes every night to deliver your bedtime pill (there was an incident and Littlefinger doesn't trust you anymore)(please don't tell anyone)(it's an antidepressant)(dumb, because you're not depressed, being depressed is for poor people)(you just get sleepy and so sad, so sad, you want the sleeping to stretch into infinity). But so what, you got away with lying, because you drank champagne. You're thinking about getting everything you want when you toss the pill back with a sip from your flute and ask, "Which room is he in?" 

"Who?" You give her the look. "Oh," she puffs. "The Hound? Are you sure?" 

"He saved me." 

"He looks like an axe-murderer." 

"I think marines use guns." 

"Fair enough," she sniggers. "What do you want with him?" 

"I want to thank him, duh." 

Room 421. So low, sigh. Randa insists on walking with you and the nighttime guard-for-hire. It feels maybe a little silly, traveling in your Cinnamoroll slippers, fur-trimmed chiffon robe, and icy blue slip. You brought Jigglypuff with you, for moral support. You do the hard work of delivering three gentle knocks. 

Um, you were very much not expecting this, promise. 

The door swings open and Sandor is basically naked, except for black and yellow plaid boxers that look painted on his beefcake thighs. He's, uh, endowed. He coughs. "What's this about?" 

Before Randa can get in a word, you chirp, "Can I come inside?" 

A long heartbeat passes. Then he grumbles, "Fine." 

A free bird, you flutter by him and take a seat on the end of his bed. He has a thick book set on the covers— A Feast for Crows. You trace a finger over the red jacket. "Is it good?" you ask. 

He stands in front of you. His hairy abs are eye level, oh my God. They're not super defined but they puff out (like six soft buns with a V that lead down south), which means he probably exercises a ton but still eats well. Or maybe he was really buff once but now he's not. Did you mention you weren't wearing undies? Nowhere for your slime to go now, honey bun. You manage to pull your eyes up, but they stick to his hairy chest. It's A) huge and B) tattooed, with a blue rose, two criss-crossing swords, and a scroll that reads Death Before Dishonor.

"Woah." 

Sandor laughs, and boy do his big muscles look extra nice in action. "The book's alright," he says. "Who's your friend?" 

You glance down to the plushie in your lap and blush. You were already blushing, but you're a little strawberry now. "Um, this is Jigglypuff. You can call her Puff." 

"What is she?" 

"A Pokemon."

"What's a Pokemon?" 

You find the nerve to look up. "Pocket monster. She sings her enemies to sleep." 

"How about that," Sandor grunts. "A little monster." He reaches out and pets Puff's head. It gives him an excuse to take another step. His bare feet trap in your slippers. His bulge makes itself known. "Why are you here, little bird?" 

You know why. First, you set Puff beside the book. Sorry you have to watch. Then you tuck a finger in Sandor’s waistband and slide it to where his belly hair meets an even darker, denser patch of hair. 

Sandor backs up. You slip off the bed onto your knees. Your hands snake up his muscular thighs into the legs of his boxers; he’s a God from this angle. Hades, if you had to pick one. “Little bird,” he says, rock-bottom low. You like this song. His cock grows and bounces against flannel, wow, impressive. You slide out one hand to tease his swell. You earn another, “Little bird,” and reach into his boxers to find your prize, nearly a foot (a whole foot!) of red, throbbing cock, uncut.

“Oh my God. This can’t be real.” 

You pair that with a squeeze and Sandor staggers back against the TV stand. It’s your utmost pleasure to shove this absolute monster cock down your throat. You don’t even start slow. It’s mouth on, lips spread to their max, and you push the whole thing in. Your biggest meal in years. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Sandor groans. His hands hover above your head—is he trying to bless you? It doesn’t matter. He’s breathing out growls like he usually does, but more irregular. His cock is really hard. With each drop, his pulse batters your throat. He might reach all the way into your belly! Oh gosh, you’re wet. Your clit well and truly pounds; you pray you don’t leak through silk to the carpet.   

You don't need your hands so they slither up to find his abs. So thick. So strong. He’s a wall of man, a furry fortress. He finally touches down on your head, but soft as a rainbow. “Good girl,” he grunts. “That’s a good little bird.” 

You are a good girl! He knows! Your heart sings and you do your best technique, a swish of your tongue up his shaft and along his ridge, then a swirl and suck on his head. Sandor gets out a terse, “Oh fuck, I’m gonna—” and his fingers trench into your damp curls. Now he seizes your head and thrusts his hips and, true to his word, he blows. Hot come shoots straight into your tummy. You swallow.

His face stays scrunched up while he catches his breath. His grip on your hair relaxes at least; he sort of pets your head. His half-hard cock slips from your mouth, still massive as sin and stringed in spit. Half-sheathed, you put it back in his boxers. 

Sandor gives you a brand-new look. Through shadowy threads of dark hair, his eyes widen and shine.

“Wanna watch cartoons?” you ask, sweet as cherry pie. 

His thin lips twist to a sharp-toothed grin. “You’re trouble."

“No, I’m a good little bird.”  

“Then get in bed.” 

You do. You rescue Puff, kiss her, and snuggle under the covers. Sandor turns the TV on, but he doesn’t know where the cartoons are. “Channel 31,” you tell him. Inuyasha is on! The new episode, how could you forget! Stupid tour. Sandor slides into bed next to you. His armpit makes the perfect little cove to rest in. He showered. He smells like hotel soap and fresh body odor, probably sweated out while you sucked his dick. “What is this shit?” he asks, but you shush him with a finger set to his lips. “No talking.” 

He picks up his book instead. Get this—he wears glasses to read. Nothing fancy, just rectangular metal frames that somehow stay up even though one of his ears is a black lump. It must be his huge hooked nose, though he wears them halfway down its slope. You’re part watching TV and part watching him. How odd that monsters can read! Especially giant, mostly naked ones! It’s hard to keep up, Sandor runs his fingers lightly up and down your arm, and oh no, this episode is getting sad. Kagome can’t overcome the darkness in her heart! The Infant takes control! You bury your face in Sandor’s inky hairy chest. A heavy arm curls around your shoulder as the end credits roll. “That was sad,” you say to his skin. Sandor grunts. 

You pick up your face and peek at his book. “What’s it about?” 

“Kings. Castles. War.” 

“Princesses?” 

“There are princesses.” 

“Pretty ones?” 

"Very pretty.” 

“Do you like pretty princesses?” 

“I like the ugly lady knight best.” 

“A girl knight? Those don’t exist.” 

“They do in Westeros.” 

“Well read to me, then.” 

Sandor grumbles, but pulls you in closer and holds the book open in two big hands. Yep, he’s definitely reading about castles. The poor ugly knight is searching for the lost princess. Everyone is mean to her—her nose is apparently lumpy and red. Her hair is gross and thin. She’s too tall and too strong. She should give up, but she’s sworn an oath: she’ll see the princess home. You lose yourself in the story, and in the moment you don’t fully realize what’s happening. You go to another world, the way you like, but you’re in the crook of a beastly arm, bedded in brawny flesh. You, the princess! 

Sandor stops reading when your tummy gurgles. A shame, because you had really started to enjoy his gruff voice. “What?” you ask. 

“You’re making noise.” 

You put a hand on your belly and frown. You had done a great job of not thinking about it—of course Sandor would ruin your lovely evening together! He’s not finished, either. “Are you hungry?” he asks. You shake your head, but then he presses, “What have you eaten today?”   

You frown harder. “Little bird,” he says, deep as a dungeon. He puts the book down. Glasses, off. You squeeze Puff tight and confess, “Coke, champagne, and um...come.” 

Sandor gets out of bed and comes back with a styrofoam container from the minifridge. He pops it open, and your eyes go wide. “Sushi,” you breathe. Your favorite! It’s a little gross, because most of the rolls have been savaged, and only half of a tuna maki remains. 

"Do little birds eat sushi?”  

You sigh. “Well, no.” Fat birds eat sushi. You can tell Sandor’s cross by the way he breathes, but you’re staring at the top of Puff’s head. The cats in your belly yowl. “Here,” Sandor says. He climbs into bed, and puts you in between his legs. This is how he caught you earlier today. 

“We’ll share.” 

He takes a bite first, then hands you the rest, but you keep your mouth closed. Like, he is not gonna want more blowjobs if he fattens you up! “Little bird,” he warns, gentle and stern at once, so you basically have no choice but to open up your pouty lips. He puts the sushi in. Begrudgingly, you chew. Swallow. “It’s so good,” you say, and there are tears, even though you don’t want them. “I know,” Sandor replies. “Best in the city. They fly their fish in fresh.”  

So he feeds you sushi and brushes away your tears until you’ve had six whole pieces. When the container is empty, he puts it aside, and brings you in close. Your tummy throws a party. Sandor hears it too. “I don’t want it in there,” you say. He says, “Shhh.” He holds you and drinks a bottle of beer with a bike on the label. “I want some,” you tell him, just to see if he’ll do it. He does; he tips the bottle into your mouth to give you the tiniest taste. “Gross.” Like boozy sour bread. 

Sandor drinks the rest. The empty bottle joins five others on his nightstand.  

It’s late. The champagne has for sure left your system. You remember where you are and don’t love it, and you find yourself saying, “You’re not as mean as you look.”  

“Should I get meaner?” Sandor asks. 

When you don’t answer, he picks up your chin and nips at your nose. Then he kisses you. He’s an old man and he’s not your boyfriend, but he kisses you like he really wants you in his mouth. Like he needs your lips beneath his teeth and your tongue wedded to his. He keeps his jaw wide open, big as half your face, and if you moan, he eats it, if you whimper, he eats it. When you say his name, Sandor, he growls back, “Little bird.” 

You were holding his chest but stuff a hand between your thighs. You’re sticky. Sandor knows. “Let me,” he says, and a hand invades your nightie. He growls again when he discovers your lack of undies. “Naughty bird.” Not true! But his fingers are on you, words beyond you, he sticks two of them in, oh my God, that’s divine. You nestle into his pecs and clasp his thick neck and he plunges deeper and it’s really sensitive back there you’re getting very wet. You make a kitten sound and he says, “God, you’re soaked.” You make another so he says, “It’s alright. I like your mess on my fingers. You have a tight little cunt. I knew you would.” You don’t mean to, but all the sudden he’s in the exact right spot, you can’t stop yourself, you're definitely there, you’re full and it’s bliss, and because that's not enough, he puts his thumb on your clit. You breathe out, “I’m coming,” and you hear Sandor smile, and your insides dance around two perfect, strong fingers. You get a kiss on the head. “Good girl,” Sandor says. 

You press your smile into the flower on his chest, and whisper, “Will you read to me again?” 

You’re waiting for the ugly knight to find the princess. 

She doesn’t. Not yet.