Chapter 6 : (ꈍ ᴗ ꈍ✿)

You’ve never been more excited to get back on tour, and you know the reason.

You fly into Salt Lake City, and as soon as your car takes you to the stadium, you make your way to the monitor booth. Like who cares? Littlefinger isn’t here. Joff isn’t here. And besides, you’re the boss!

(Who desperately needs the guidance of a big, strong monitor engineer, of course (ꈍ ᴗ ꈍ✿))

You flutter around the floor to the front of Sandor's booth, and put yourself in his view of the stage with all his soundboards between you. His back is turned and he’s messing with one of his machines and cursing. Amazing, you did not dream up how good his muscles look in that polo shirt.

“Hi Sandor!” you chirp.

He freezes for a second, then slowly turns. When he sees you, his lips do that weird half-twitch thing.

"Hi little bird."

You step close, kinda dip your head into his airspace, over his machines. He stretches his palms wide on either side of the table and meets you halfway. "How was your Christmas?" he asks.

You shrug. "Boring." New Years was even worse: Joffrey wouldn't fly in for the party at Ramsay's place since he was still in Europe. No kiss :( You don't want to go there, so you ask, "What about yours?"

"Not horrible. Saw my sister. Drank too much."

"You said your family was dead!" Liar! You playfully bat his chest. Oh no, your hand stays behind and rests on a palmful of hunky pec. Sandor watches you steal free samples.

"Mostly," he says.

"Did Santa bring you presents?"

Sandor snorts a laugh. "He did."

Your hand sneaks up to his collar. You give it a tug. "Well?"

"I got a new game."

Your eyes fly up and you seize the opportunity to pet his thick neck. "You play games? No way!" Sandor doesn't say anything, his eyes do a little dance over your face, then up and down to your hand. Weirdo. So you stroke his Adam's apple with your thumb and ask, "What game?"

"Civilization. New one came out last month."

Hm, you've never heard of it. "Is it a computer game?"

Sandor gives a small nod. You come in closer, kinda pull down his neck. "I play computer games too," you whisper. "But it's a secret. I have an iMac, but I also have like, every Gameboy, and a Gamecube. Only the fun games, the cutest ones. Like Pokemon is a TV show but there's also the video games and the card game. They're so much fun, except I'm not really supposed to be playing them, since I'm like, a pretty girl."

"That's bullshit," Sandor says.

Your jaw drops. So crude! But he's sort of right, right? You don't know why, or how this would even be possible, but you say, "I could show you sometime."

"I'd like that," he replies.

Accidentally, your mouths attract, like magnets, almost. But before they make contact you hear Brienne call your name. You pry yourself off of Sandor, and oh my God, what were you thinking? Brienne's up on the stage, glowering down. You turn rose red. "Any day now," she says.

Still, you turn back to Sandor. He says, “You're needed, little bird." You know. You get a few steps away, but those dang magnets pull you back. "Sandor?"

"What?"

"When's your birthday?"

"March fifteenth."

Your eyes go wide. You want to hug him, but you'd never be able to reach over the soundboards, or get away with something so brash. Instead, you set your fingertips to your lips, and, very secretly, blow him a kiss. He catches it in a fist and slides it into his breast pocket. You hope kisses can seep through cotton and sink into tattooed skin. You'd be in his heart, then.

A pisces.

A marine gamer pisces who lives in Los Angeles <3

—

You have two shows in Las Vegas at the MGM Grand. You sneak around the monitor booth way more than you should, and steal wisps of conversation. Sandor tells you about Civilization: you play as a monarch, build cities, and wage war. Sounds like something Arry or Bran would like. You tell Sandor. He doesn't mind if you talk about your games, either. So you explain Pokemon as best you can, then Animal Crossing, and even the Sims (do not spill our little secret!). You even tell him about other websites you go to, like eLouai and Neopets. You blush a bit, because you realize it's little kid stuff. Maybe you should have asked him if he likes coke, or like, what his favorite kind of beer is.

Maybe you should have gotten his number.

The subject doesn't come up, and besides, you're not technically friends. He's too old, thirty-four to be exact, so he's really just your brooding monitor engineer, and kinda dangerous to look at.

After your second show, you have an extra day in Vegas. An extra day means a spa day, which is utter perfection. It's girls only with Wylla, no boys allowed (in the flesh) but that's all you talk about. Joffrey still (STILL) hasn't texted you since the nude, like what the heck? Wylla agrees, it's no good. Usually you would have texted him every day, good morning and good night, but you've kind of given up. You don't bring your phone to the Bellagio spa. You get a soak in the jacuzzi, a steam in the sauna, an hours long hot stone massage, another soak, a deep sea facial, a manicure and pedicure, then at last, another massage. So refreshing! All the while you sip lemon cucumber water and munch on berries so you just know your insides and outsides are perfectly clean. No purge required!

After fake eating dinner together you go back to the penthouse suite. It's meant to look like Italy in here, like fancy Roman times, except you wouldn't know for sure, because Littlefinger hasn't let you travel to Italy yet, sigh. You do some coke off the coffee table, a rectangle of glass propped up by four squat ivory columns. It keeps your appetite down and distracts you for a while, but Joffrey definitely hasn't texted you today. You decide to open up your Macbook instead, and weakly surf to Spider's website. It's not good. When you gasp, Wylla gathers around. The Spider posted a picture of you in your juicy sweats arriving at last night's show. He circled your belly and captioned it Uh-oh.

"Bullshit!" Wylla says. "He's a hater. You look so good!"

"I think—I think I'm just gonna go to bed," you reply.

It's a lie.

You're going to spend time with the Spider. Wylla leaves you alone, and you shouldn't, you shouldn't, but you scroll down to the comments. They're self-inflicted salt to self-inflicted wounds.

so fat LOL
she used to be cute…now she's fugly
america's bluebird? more like america's hippo
idc if she's fat im jacking off to this (aw that one's not so bad)
ever heard of a diet?
she can't even sing
she's ugly
gross
better off dead

Ugh. You know. Now you really should log-off, but you refresh the main page, and a new picture pops up.

Oh my God.

No.

You should have seen this coming. There wasn't a picture of Margaery for a week. Where had she gone off to? Switzerland.

Switzerland.

Where Joff's chateau is. There she is: a little ski bunny, with Megga, no boys. But like, what else could she have been doing there? Oh my God. She's been with him this entire time. You're so stupid, bluebird. You're a bat! You're blind!

You shut your laptop.

You shove it tenderly to the floor, and curl into a ball. You want quiet, nothingness, but the black monster cat has an agenda for you, sharp on one end, heart-shaped on the other. Tough love. No! Not tonight! Please, not tonight! Good thing she’s so stinking heavy. She weighs your poor heart down and gives you this instead: Joff doesn't love you because you're ugly and old and way too fat. You let yourself go. You can't even sing. Margaery can. Margaery is everything and more, everything you'll never be. Cersei's showing her the ring. She might be trying it on right now, checking to see if it needs to be sized first. Cersei's smiling. She's saying, you're the daughter in law I always wanted. Guess what? You're not a princess, and Joffrey's not your prince. You're a kitchen drudge, no, you're a spent loaf in the hearth, overcooked, bitter, ash.

Forgettable.

Unlovable.

Dust.

The cat wants more, she says, get your Macbook, look, look, look! See the truth!

You unfurl, fine, you'll do it, but then your phone goes off—Joff!

No. It's Littlefinger. Your heart flashes bitter black and you press ignore.

A few minutes later, there's a knock on your door. A courtesy, because you know Randa has a key. She lets herself in and treks to the bedroom, wearing a silk leopard robe and matching leopard slippers. For being so chubby, she certainly is glamorous. She perches on the edge of your bed, and if anyone else can see through you, it's her. "Everything alright?" she asks.

You shrug.

"Is it the Spider?"

You nod. Randa pulls you into a hug; her boobs squish yours and she smells nice, like jasmine soap. "Do you want anything?" she asks.

You were trying to be good today, really. But the question opens up a big gap in your chest and out flies a little bird.

You want your tree.

But no one in their right mind would ask for that outright. So you exhale an extra wistful sigh. Thankfully, Randa reads your mind. "Not him," she says, kinda affronted. You make puppy eyes. She says, "He's like, twice your age, and the—" she gestures wildly over the left half of her face, then shivers. "Those."

"Sandor's good at cuddling," you whine. "And he read me a book."

Randa raises a well-plucked brow. "It has nothing to do with his ginormous dick?"

"Randa!" You pretend to pout and playfully slap her arm, then confess, "It was like a foot long."

"I knew you fooled around."

"Blowjobs don't count."

"That's all you did?"

You sigh. Randa knows all. "He fingered me too," you say.

"What about Joff?" she asks, because knowing everything, she knows you love him. But you don't want to think about him, not right now.

"He won't find out," you say. "Uncle will make sure of it."

Randa makes a mother hen clucking noise. It's no secret that Littlefinger put you and Joff in each other's paths. But if he loves Joff so much, maybe he should date him. Instead of reminding you all the time how important this relationship is, how you can't mess it up, how Joff will propose soon if you can just keep off the weight and kill this tour. You're so close to being his fiance, his wife, his forever girl. So close, but he kissed Margaery on the beach! He invited her to the chateau! And you know what? Maybe he is a shit boyfriend. Maybe you deserve to be kissed and called pretty and told you have perfect tits. It's a gross word for boobs, but still, perfect.

Is that crazy?

How's this for crazy: "Do you think—do you think I could go see him?"

Randa shakes her head. "The True Knights guys are at the Excalibur," she says. When you frown, she picks up your hand and squeezes. "I know, gross. But I think I could get him here."

For the first time that day, you really, really smile.

A few phone calls later (on Randa's part—you're too shy to invite Sandor over, you want it to seem like maybe it's a part of his job he can't refuse, so you snuggle Puff and listen to him grumble indistinctly on the other end) then it's agreed: he'll come.

And yes, he'll bring A Feast for Crows <3

Randa's going to meet him at the service entrance and sneak him up!

While she does that, you scurry around the suite and primp as quickly as possible. You're already wearing like the cutest nightgown, mint green with little puff sleeves and empire waist that gives your insubstantial boobs a miracle squeeze and lift. You need a little perfume, oh, a couple puffs of Mitsouko! You swipe on mascara, but skip the blush. You have enough. You run a brush through your curls and fluff them up. You try a smile in the mirror: if you were a lonely old man, would you think this (Sansa Stark) is hot?

Yes!

Showtime!!!

—

When you hear the next knock and flock to the door with Puff in tow, you forget entirely to throw yourself in Sandor's arms. He's not wearing his usual polo. He's in a white short sleeve button-up stuffed to bursting. Seriously, five buttons are undone. His hairy pecs (plus a devastating sliver of tattoo) spill out and his biceps put his sleeves on like, life or death trial. Under one of them: the book.

"Hi pretty bird," he says in a low grumble. One of his delectable main course arms shoots out and a big hand lands on Puff's head. "Hi little monster.”

You finally find his eyes but his thin black hair is clean and neatly combed and the right side of his face looks so scary sharp that you can't remember your manners. It doesn't matter. Sandor pushes inside, drops his book on the marble countertop, and goes rummaging through the cupboards. "Where's your booze?" he asks.

Ugh he's always drinking! You slide onto a leathery bar stool. "Do you know how many calories alcohol has?"

Sandor slams the fridge door shut and sets a hand on his belly. "I'm fat, is it?"

"Well, no," you huff, indignant. "But—but I'm not even old enough to drink."

"I know," Sandor says. He reaches over the bar to pick up your cheek. His thumb sinks into your mouth. "You're a little baby bird," he says, leaning close and bringing beer breath with him. "But you're a special bird. Pick up the phone, and order me a drink."

You know room service will get you whatever you like, but you roll your eyes and trudge dramatically to the couch. Sandor knows too. When the line picks up, and you ask him what he wants, he asks for a whole bottle of scotch! Lagavulin 30, whatever that means. And that's not even all. He stands in front of you and barks down, "A ribeye, too. Medium rare, with fries." Just as you're about to let the desk attendant go, he snatches up the receiver and adds, "Don't forget a milkshake, a big one, for the little bird."

You don't want to want a milkshake! But Sandor thrusts the receiver back into your hand. When the attendant asks, "What flavor?" You chirp, "Strawberry please, with whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, and a cherry on top.”

Your order comes up quick. It's a welcome distraction: Sandor got talking about Westeros. He reeks of beer and definitely a little weed too. You don’t mind because he cuddles you on the couch and pets your hair and tells you it’s more than just Westeros, there’s Essos, Sothyros, Asshai by the Shadow. There are three other books in the series, each one thicker than your arm! (Sandor curls a fist around your bicep to demonstrate. It's nice.)

You jump to answer the door (it’s your penthouse after all) and the white uniformed server rolls in a whole cart. He insists on arranging everything at the dining table, and gives Sandor a weird look from across the room. Shoot, you think. Another NDA.

A problem for tomorrow’s bluebird!

Sandor takes a seat at your side, which is kinda silly, but it means you get to be closer. He pours himself a half glass of scotch, and really makes a show of swirling and sniffing it. When he takes his first sip, he groans. “I want some,” you say. You don’t want to miss out! Besides, Daddy drank scotch, so it must be good, and it ends up tasting alright, like a spicy tree? Idk. It’s very warm though, a fire in your tummy. Sandor goes to town on his steak and you steal sips of scotch and have a staring match with the shake. “It’s not getting any colder,” Sandor says.

Ugh! He’s watching. Your tummy yowls. You pull the frosty glass over by its little flared base, pluck the cherry up and suck it to the stem, chew, swallow. So yummy, omg. You put the straw in your mouth and tell yourself, suck, suck, suck, but ugh you can’t. You flop back in your chair. “I shouldn’t,” you pout. “I was so good today.”

Sandor grunts. Says nothing, but slides the shake over for himself and puts his stupid crispy lips on your straw and he actually drinks! Thief! “No!” you cry. You grab his hairy forearm but oh my God his muscles are steel. “It’s mine!”

Thankfully, he gives the glass back. “Then be a good little bird and drink.”

“Fat birds drink shakes.”

Sandor's brow slants. “You, fat? My left tit. If you’re hungry, you need to eat.”

That sounds like a trick somehow. If you’re hungry, you should stay hungry, because you're accomplishing something: being more hungry. Hunger is a virtue. Right? But Sandor’s done paying attention. He’s deep in his steak and fisting fries and pouring another waterfall of scotch.

Okay, maybe you're hungry. You scoop a fingerful of whipped cream first, utter perfection. Why does bad food taste so good? Gosh, you really have become a bad bird. But that’s not what Sandor said. So you get your lips on the straw and sip and yes: you want this. Strawberries are so yummy. They’re obviously the best fruit. And guess what? Good birds get extra treats. You drink, and Sandor offers you a fry, says, “Open up,” and sticks it in your mouth. That earns you a “Good girl,” so you sip your shake, and get fed fries, and the glass goes down halfway. Then you slump back and put two hands on your tummy.

“I’m really full now.” Too full. Too round. You want to get rid of the calories, and barring throw up, there's only one other way. “Wanna hear a song?”

Sandor does. He takes his scotch over the couch. You get your iPod and plug it into the stereo. “This song is so good,” you tell Sandor. “It's called Everytime We Touch and it's like, the best song ever. I’m gonna dance, okay?”

He nods, drinks, and stares: a show!

You definitely need to make this very pretty for Sandor, so he knows you’re a pretty bird. You’ve practiced this performance alone of course, but now there’s a big man sitting on the couch, legs splayed, scotch glass swallowed up in one giant fist. So you slide the coffee table out of the way and scurry over to press play.

Here goes nothing.

You start with some wistful sweeps of your arms, full of longing, then hands to your chest, eyes to the sky, more longing. But when the chorus bursts to life, so do you. Everytime we touch, I get this feeling, oh my gosh, yes, I swear I could fly. So you jump, do pretty spins, until your nightgown puffs like a cupcake, cute! And yes, that's the feeling! I'm cute! Look at you, strawberries and cream, sugary sweet, rainbow sprinkles, kawaii. Do a cartwheel! Oh my gosh, so much fun, another! Your head floats higher, you twirl, and can't you feel my heart beat fast? I want this to last.

Need you by my side.

You land graceful as a silky, minty snowflake in a forward split, arms stretched high, boobs heaving against your nightgown. You give Sandor your award-winning smile, and wait for it, wait for it, but it doesn't come. His eyes are bright gray and white, his lips zipped tight. You guess he liked it, because from here on the floor, you can see: his jeans are tented; twelve (?) inches of talent climb down his leg.

Cute as a little kitten, you crawl across the carpet and settle between his Docs.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," he replies

"Isn't that song pretty?"

"Very pretty." Sandor toys with one of your curls. When his palm comes close, you nuzzle your cheek into it. "I loved your dance," he says.

"Really?"

"Really. You're very talented, little bird."

Oh, he is truly dishing out your strawberry heart feeling now. You want to be nice too, so you run a finger along the inside of his leg, trace the outline of your midnight snack. But who's eating who? Sandor snares you by the waist and puts you in his lap, straddling him. God, he's huge. You're not usually shy, but he's like twice your age, and definitely three times your size, with a meaty chest that blocks you in like a fortress. Your arms are my castle, you think, and crap, the song is about him. It's about the two giant hands sunk into your hips that have cleaned your tears more times than you'd ever care to admit. It's the fact that your heart is soaring sky-high and absolutely pounding down below and all you can do is stare at his enormous bulge.

Sandor doesn't want your eyes there. He picks up your chin, and you have no choice but to study his face. This is the hard part, and you feel bad, because you can't really make eye contact. He looks like a trainwreck, like steel burnt and bent at odd angles. Seriously, why do his bones need to be so sharp? His hooked nose, his cheekbones, and his jaw, what the heck.

Dangerously, you set a fingertip there and sweep down his scruff to his square chin. You shiver but you don't draw blood. You've arrived at his true ruin, the monster half that peeks through sparse strands of black hair. It's a dark sun, cracked black and streaked crimson, burning alive. And it's a weird opportunity to touch someone's sinew insides, but Sandor is sitting so still, breathing steady scotch breath, watching your hand instead of your face or chest, for once. So your fingers slowly creep up his charred skin until your palm rests on his cheek. It's softer than you thought it would be, but that makes sense. It's an open wound.

You owe Sandor your eyes, you decide, but he closes up.

"They're not so bad," you say, because it seems polite. Sandor grunts. So you ask, "What happened to your brother?"

"He died.”

"That's good."

"Yeah." Sandor swallows hard, then says, "I should have killed him myself."

"Who killed him?"

"Heroin."

Oh. That's a really bad drug. You don't know what to say, so you say, "I'm glad he's dead," and you don't know what else to do, so you kiss Sandor. It's weird, usually he's ravenous, but now, his lips barely part to accept yours. A tender kiss. He probably doesn't like thinking of his brother, so you decide you'll distract him, you'll kiss him harder, turn your kiss to smooch. You crave Sandor, and he knows. "Why do you want me here, little bird?" he asks. You taste his need, like sweet smoke, strawberry and scorched earth. "I have a crush on you," you whisper to rough lips. "But it's a secret, you can't tell."

Your castle comes to life and the walls close in. One brawny arm braces you under your butt and the other slides up your spine. You're on the move. You're a princess sealed inside with a restless dragon, but you don't mind, you have the treasure, the ruby fruit flesh he craves. Now Sandor's hungry. Now his jaw opens and steals bites of your lips, your tongue, your cheeks. His spit burns like flame, but roast me, eat me alive.

Sandor ousts you instead. You fly through the air and land with your head held perfectly by your pillows.

And oh my God.

He is so tall.

So tall, so dark, and is it possible to be both scary and sexy?

Is Sandor sexy?!

You try to figure it out while your clit goes berserk and he's just standing there at the end of the bed, predator-staring you down, a huge hunky man, with those gosh dang porterhouse pecs half-out, threatening his poor buttons. And his cock! Oh my God, now there's a slab of meat, so big in his jeans, bulging out like it belongs to some mythical beast. You think of that, lancing you through to your ribs. No, no, you aren't cut out for this. Princesses and dragons aren't meant to be.

"Please don't fuck me," you say, frowning, pushing back to nowhere in bed. "I have a boyfriend."

Sandor advances with one knee sunk into the mattress. He runs his knuckles along the arch of your bare foot, slowly, then curls a finger around your big toe. Snared. "I just want to see you, little bird," he says. "I promise I'll be gentle."

A nice dragon, okay, that seems fair. You nod. Sandor climbs up, splits your legs, kneels between them. You pull in your lower lip. It's sad, but this feels clinical, because your body has been on display for so long, up for public consumption, passed hand to hand, picture to picture. Sometimes you don't recognize yourself in the mirror because flash! your image has been stolen, separated from what actually sits inside your brain. And other times, like now, you're wet and this is really sexy, you just decided Sandor is actually hot, you're really very wet, but you're also afraid, and partially leaving your body behind, letting it go, in case it's about to fail you, like it tends to do. You've never been good at sex. All your sexy costumes, photoshoots, and dances, all your blowjobs, they're just pretend. They’re for your fans.

But it's Sandor between your legs. He promised to be gentle, and he's breathing so calmly, moving like you're a deer set to startle. It's in your eyes. His palms skirt up your thighs and lift your nightgown, flashing your lacy pink undies. "Pretty," he breathes, a nice little bribe because next he takes your ankles in a fist, slides your undies up, and flings them off so smoothly, you know he's done this before. And when he spreads your thighs back apart, you have nowhere to hide.

Insides, out.

"Look at you," Sandor says. He thumbs your malformed lips and you make a dumb wounded kitten noise. So many kinds of embarrassing stow away between your legs like you don't even know which one to be most worried about, and Sandor is pretending like everything's fine. He has this odd glimmer in his eye; he runs a finger through your slime, he even inspects it, rubs his fingertips together like he's testing the consistency, and all you can think of is how this is the same way he swirled his scotch, like maybe he's savoring, cataloging. His tongue circles beneath his lips and around his cheeks. "You're soaked, little bird," he says. "What have you been thinking of?"

You whimper and clench fistfuls of starchy down comforter. You wish you had brought Puff with you to bed. You aren't prepared and Sandor is far from done. His attention is on your marshmallow mound. "And this…" he pushes out a lungful of hot dragon air and it falls like friendly fire on your already inflamed clit. "So smooth," he says, "naked as the day you came." He thumbs your bad red dots, the worse white lines, and you wince. That's it. Your cheeks flare up, and suddenly you've had enough, like you're really ready to cry. He's noticed all the worst parts of you, except the next thing he says is, "You truly are a baby bird."

You blink out tears. He's looking at your ugly bits, and somehow he knows; he cradles your flimsy shell in his fist, one squeeze and you’d be dead, but instead he’s tapping you open, fingering the jagged seams until they split. You want his calloused fingers in your pinkest flesh, puncturing the pinprick channels to your prettiness. You'd make him fit.

In your tiniest, most tremulous voice, you ask, "I'm a b-baby?"

Sandor grins. His fangs are white blur. "You are," he says. He cloaks you in shadow and picks up your hot, tearstained cheek. "You're my pretty baby bird, and you know what?"

"What?" you whisper.

"I'm going to take care of you," he replies. His thumb brushes your lips. "I'll be your dog."

With your next whimper, his thumb sinks in. It's okay that you're crying if you're a baby. It's okay that you start sucking on his thumb, like really sucking on it like you mean it, while your clit throbs white-hot. Sandor's hand takes up half your face and he tastes like heat and salt. His other hand comes to wipe your tears. He wasn't lying. He's taking care of you, because it's literally his job, and you know the name for that, for when an egg pops out and the shell flakes off, and there's a feeble, pruny creature in the nest. You're the tiny creature. He's big and he knows what he's doing. He smells like scotch. Sheepishly you ask, "Are you a daddy dog?"

Sharp smoke breath blankets your face. "Would you like that?"

You nod, but decide not to say anything else so humiliating, except Sandor takes away his thumb. "Tell me," he says. It's the world's softest, strictest command.

You open up, and his eyes are two saw blades, swirling through your skin. You put yourself on the butcher's table, hop, hop, hop, an empty-headed easter bunny, and all it takes is one swipe to split you clean in two. But no, there's more to you than that: you're a creme egg, and your sweet, suggestive guts seep into the bedspread.

"You're my daddy," you say.

"I'm your daddy," Sandor replies.

"And you'll be gentle with me?"

"So gentle, baby bird."

He comes in for kisses. He starts with your forehead, then pecks his way down your nose to your lips. You have a little make out, and it's hot because finally you can feel up his chest. Your hands slip into his shirt and his pecs are everything you could have dreamed of, like hairy but firm and really warm. Waaaay more than a handful. And the kisses are nice too, because you're inventing new kisses together, the hungry wet kind, tongues tangled, lips mashed at odd angles.

The best part is that Sandor dry humps you. Well, it's not very dry, because you're definitely drenched. But his huge boner smashes your spread apart wetness and even though his jeans are rough, you can feel how bad he wants to fuck you, and this is kinda what it would be like if he did, but it's even hotter, because holding himself back, for his little baby's sake.

Of course, he's been feeling you up too, but his kiss wanders, he wants to feel with his mouth. And he's really so suave; he pulls down your sleeves just-so to let your boobs slip out. He licks and sucks like they're some sort of delicacy, like there's really a technique to gobbling you up and maybe some actual substance to them. Joff has never given your boobs so much attention, but Sandor is an expert. So you grip his hair in two sparse handfuls and make lame little noises you didn't know you were capable of, noises that make Sandor attack your other boob, and snarl like a big dark dragon. When he bites you cry out: "Be gentle.” Sandor looks up beneath a wickedly arched brow. "Sorry, baby bird." His huge tongue laps over your poor, achy nipple. "I have an appetite."

"Do you—do you like them?"

"I love them. Prettiest tits in the whole world."

You mewl; he kisses his way down your belly until his scary face hovers above your absolute puffy wet wreck of a vag. Oh my God, no one has ever been close to your scars like this, and you get the dumb bunny feeling, but Sandor for sure won't let you hop away now, no matter how hard you frown or tug his hair, because he's mashing your lips around, pulling you apart, and like, really looking.

"Am I ugly?" you weakly ask.

Sandor's eyes go soft in an instant. "No, sweetheart. You have a perfect little flower."

You frown hard, but it's a happy frown. A flower? A little flower?

"Really?" you ask in a whine.

"Really," Sandor replies. "You have the prettiest pink petals, the shiniest dew, and the smell—" He sticks his big nose in you, inhales deep, and surfaces glistening. "Roses in summertime. My little bird has the sweetest flower there ever was. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I want to taste you."

Your heart tries to bounce out of you in like twenty different directions. "T-t-taste?" God, you're pathetic. But Sandor's only response is kissing your marshmallow fluff, then down into your red-hot sticky mess.

Holy crap.

Okay, you've seen guys eat pussy in porn, but you didn't know it happened in real life. And now there's a giant sexy man, with a huge mouth and monster tongue slurping you up, like all over. He licks your lips, your hole, and especially your clit. It feels really silly and kinda alien so you squirm and watch the top of Sandor's head as if you're lightyears away. And you really watch when he sneaks a hand down and unbuttons his pants. He touches himself (you can see his beefy arm moving) and it's so hot for some reason because he's eating you and putting his wild grunts into your flower and he has to do all the work himself. "Good dog," you say, because you're a dutiful little bird, chirping out what he's already told you, and it's fun to play animals.

Your reward: Sandor's fingers.

It's not fair how good it feels. Like he sucks your clit and hooks into what you're pretty sure is your g-spot, but you'd rather call it your supernova spot because it lights you up and oh my God, you're really gonna blow. "S-Sandor," you whimper, and you thread his hair tight between your fingers. You must be strong, because he finally comes up for air.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he asks. "Are you going to come?"

You pout-nod and Sandor grins. "You like your daddy's fingers, don't you?" You definitely won't answer that but you don't even get a chance. "Oh, of course the baby bird likes it. Her little cunt is throbbing. It's hotter than the seventh ring of hell in here." He shoves his hand in knuckle-deep, then rises to his knees.

No, now it's really not fair, because you're looking at his enormous red cock, and he's beating it to a blur while he positively milks your star spot. It's all stars: they sparkle in your vision, sizzle in your blood, and your clit—your clit is the biggest, brightest sun of all. "Please," you beg like a prayer, because you might be at heaven's doorstep. "Daddy, please," you beg again, because you really need his mercy, and then, "Oh my God, Daddy, please can I come?"

"Go ahead, baby girl," Sandor calls from the clouds above. "You can come on my hand."

Stars, stars, stars.

You, the little bird, float in big black sky, crammed full of glittering white. You don't have a body. It's you and your heartbeat, scream-singing sacred hymn: I'm alive.

When you tumble down, a pile of warm come sits on top of your flower. Sandor's cock is right above it, and his fingers are buried inside. He didn't fuck you, but you think this counts as sex, and it was dirty sex, good sex, the best sex you've ever had. You'd be more frightened if Sandor didn't say, "Easy now, pretty bird." He gently pulls out his fingers, sucks them clean, and zips up his cock. He wipes his come with a tissue from the nightstand, which is a little sad, you liked when he licked it up. He didn't fuck you, but you're a shell of a rabbit. Tears come before you can stop them because Sandor won't really look at you. When he gets out of bed, you realize you have no more sweet cream insides to offer, and what if that's all he wanted?

So you lay there, boobs out, nightgown a mess, and listen while Sandor pees, like, a lot. When he comes back, you give him sad baby eyes, and thankfully they work. "Hey," he says, and he sits by your side. He fixes your sleeves and tugs your hem back over your lower half. "Do you still want story time?"

"Yes, please," you say, cute as can be. "And I want Puff, and a glass of water, and my DS too."

Sandor brings it all, even scrounges up your Gameboy from your Louis Vuitton backpack. He helps you drink the water, then slides into bed and waits while you get settled in his lap. You nestle into the perfect spot on his big chest, cuddle Puff, and open up your DS. Sandor doesn't even read at first. He lets you explain Animal Crossing even though he tells you it's silly, why are the animals talking like that, where's the action, what's the point? He likes looking at your outfits though, and seeing your cute house and flower garden. Like you've had this game for a month and you already have the perfect village!

"You can read now," you say, when you're tired of him poking fun at favorite villager, Peanut.

So he puts on his glasses and starts where he left off. You try to play your game and listen but you're worried because you said some pretty naughty stuff during sex, and if Sandor thought it was weird, he's definitely pretending it wasn't. Eventually he stops reading, probably because your eyes betray you. He sets his book down on the nightstand. "What is it, little bird?" he asks.

You blush and shake your head, but he stares hard from above his lenses and gives an even more stern, "Little bird."

"I called you daddy," you say, just to start with the facts. "Is that bad?"

"No," Sandor replies, curt. "It was hot."

"You think I'm hot?"

"Fuck yes."

"Am I cute, too?

"Little bird," Sandor says, low. He cups your cheek in his palm and makes you small again. "You're cute as a button. Cute as a kitten. Cute as those little dolls they used to make, the ones with the big eyes. My sister had one."

"I want to be a doll," you mumble to Puff's head.

"You are a doll. My doll."

"And I'm still your baby bird?"

You hear Sandor smile, and you look up, because the sight is a treat, like stars inside. He runs his thumb over your pouty lips. "Would you like that?"

When you give a meek nod, he drops in to sprinkle the top of your head with little kisses. These ones are freakishly soft and make your heart all melty. "I'd like that too," he says. And you worry you really will turn to goo, so you throw your arms around Sandor's thick middle and stick your face right on his hairy pec. "You're a good daddy," you say to his skin. His arms close in around you: safe in your castle. His nose and mouth rest on your head. His breath is funny, his voice craggy, when he says, "You're better than me, Sansa. You're a very special girl.”