Chapter 9 : </3>

Sandor sits on the couch behind you, hulking, poised. His dark hair hangs in sparse greasy strings over his scars. Puff is captive in his lap. He clutches Randa's bottle of Malibu by its neck. A gutted suitcase lays at his boots, lace and silk scraps scattered pink flesh.

When he stands, he sways.

“Come here, pretty bird.”

He tosses Puff aside and gives your suitcase a sloppy kick. You open your mouth to scream, like get him out of here, you do not want to be alone with him, he's going to gobble you up! But only a whimper comes: there's worse beyond the door. Still, you make a show of fumbling with the lower latch until Sandor catches your bare shoulder and hauls you to your heels.

"Don't hurt me," you whisper, eyes on his boots, and your cute, polished peep toes.

He barks a coconut liquor laugh. "What happened to your pretty dress?"

Your lower lip drops and wobbles. "Joffrey and I broke up," you wail.

The next growl out of Sandor is even hungrier, fall-out low, famished. He upends the bottle in his mouth, chin dripping, then tosses it aside. Clunk. His hand dives beneath your neckline to grope your boob, but he scoops out strawberry gunk, and yuck, he sticks it in his mouth, a four finger suck. You realize—

“You told.”

“No,” Sandor grunts. “I signed your Uncle’s papers. Don't want the law on me.”

"Then why are you here?" you whine.

"I want my book."

"I don't have it. It's in my backpack."

"The one with your video games?"

You give a sad nod. "I left it in Uncle's car."

"Your Uncle's a cunt," Sandor says, and he's busy. He holds your weight with one hand tight on your upper arm; the other explores your slimy chest at will. He's really feeling you up, you're not even wearing a bra, and you realize he probably really likes that. "No boyfriend," he breathes, gross. His face is scary intent on your boobs so you look further down, which is worse. He's hard in his jeans, then he notices you noticing, and his dirty groping hand goes to palm his bulge. "So we can fuck then."

You whimper. It's not a question. He's really turned on. Probably because he touched your boobs and made your nipples puff up and even if your curls are messy and your makeup is runny you must still smell midsummer ripe. What did you do to deserve this? You don't feel pretty. You feel like a nightmare. You try to sink your knees, maybe you can get away with a blowjob. But Sandor keeps you limply upright. "I don't want that hole, little bird." He gives your arm a shake and glances down. "You've got two more. I'll let you pick which one gets this."

He goes for his buckle. Oh, it's really happening, no excuses. His cock comes out, heavy in its sheath, and all it takes is one little toss for you to land belly first on the dining table. Sandor nudges your kitten-heeled feet apart with his boot. He milks his cock stiff, hitches up your gown, and yanks down your thong. Cold air meets your insides, and God must really hate you, because your bladder lets go. You haven't peed since the frappuccino. Now you are. Now warmth spurts down your leg because a seven foot monster eclipses your back. You knew he'd devour you eventually and the strawberries are to blame: he wants what's inside, too. He thinks you have more pinkness to pluck.

"Do I frighten you, baby bird?"

Sandor grabs your hips and pushes his cock against your waning stream. He's playing animals, and one of the rules, which you can't remember if you made up, is that you always tell daddy dog the truth.

So you nod, eyes wide and watery.

"Good," Sandor says. "Now tell me, should I fuck your ass, or your cute little cunt?"

He's dirty. You hate it. But you whisper, "My flower, please," because you're never ever going to put anything in your butt.

Sandor isn't gentle. He breathes toxic waste breath and clutches your buttcheeks whole in his palms, spreads them wide. He slicks himself up in whatever wet you have going on down there, mostly pee, because after he reaps his next inhale, he thrusts, dry.

You scream because he invents his own hole, a reverse birth where something very alive and massive goes bare-ripping back to the womb. That’s how far he goes: the cervix. You know about anatomy. This is unfun sex, penis in vagina, screams that summon no concern. That’s how Joffrey liked it and Sandor does too. He winches your guts and slurs, “You like Daddy’s cock don’t you?”

This isn’t the daddy you like. He bounces against your end like an iron rod to an eye socket and your tearstained cheek slides against the smooth black tabletop. You kinda reach out, claw at flat nothing, futile, like a mouse in a python's jaw. Nowhere to go, bluebird. It really hurts. But what else could you have expected? You always knew he was dirty. You even wanted him to rut your pretty body parts, to scoop them out and show you like an afternoon at the berry patch, in a basket made of soft clouds and sun. The moon is out now.

"Tell me," Sandor growls as he pounds. "Tell me you like my cock."

"It hurts," you whine, so he’ll remember you’re small.

"It hurts, she says. What hurts?"

"Y-y-your cock. It's too big. It doesn't fit."

He thrusts into your actual uterus and you cry out, “Daddy, no!”

Sandor groans like a landslide. His huge hands plummet to either side of your head and black hair tumbles down. His big muscles are a threat, a dark sky sculpture, the architecture of imminent death. A basket of steel for a tiny bird, clenching, your size is a promise, a silent pact, make me, you remember, so he did, guts melded.

"Look at those pretty tears," Sandor says, and he thrusts, again. He spills a groan on your cheek and uses his slobbery tongue to drink up your diamonds. "There," he breathes in a sticky smog. "All better, baby bird. You look so pretty with my cock inside you."

You whimper. He throbs. He says, "My baby girl has the tightest little cunt there is."

Why is he nice if he’s hurting you. When he pulls back out, you feel a fiery slug of warmth. "Is there blood?" you weakly ask. All you can see is the pale heart of your backside, stuffed against Sandor's jeans. You decide to bury your eyes in his, a last-ditch plea, but he has such a far-off look, a slow savagery.

"Some," he replies, eyes gleaming in the blue ghost of moonlight. "But not nearly enough."

He swallows down your next whimper. He swallows all of you, you think. One arm snakes beneath your hips and keeps you steady on his dick. The other slides up your stomach, between your boobs, so Sandor can trap your neck. Into the belly of the beast, or maybe the sky came down. Either way, the lights are off, it's warm, and your oxygen is gone. Sandor presses himself down and around you. He puts whatever kisses he likes on your mouth. They're nasty liquor kisses, all tongue and teeth, the kind you'd expect from a ravenous hound. "Look at me," he growls. You had shut your eyes, because you couldn't tell from up from down. He squeezes your jaw, ten times harder than Joff did, oh my God, you just got broken up with. Now you're getting broken to pieces, not picked but macerated. "Look at me," Sandor snarls, and here's the culprit. He's ugly in a way that puts puddles in weird places. Like the toes of your Jimmy Choos are slip-sliding in what? Pee? Blood? Come? What is Sandor dragging out of you? Which organs are irrevocably damaged?

It doesn't matter. You're jam on the table. Sandor is ten tons of steel, throbbing.

"Not so pretty, am I?" he rasps.

You shake your head. He’s hungry and drunk. But drunk daddy likes scared baby. He feeds you wild groans and more cock than you can handle. You've gone numb down there, and slack on the table, slack in brawny arms, strangled. "Daddy is going to put his come inside his little girl," he says. "Would you like that?"

"Yes," you sadly whisper. You want it done.

"Use your manners," he barks.

"Please, Daddy," you beg, quietly, but very much for real. "Please can I have your come?"

One spine-shattering pump, and bam, there it is. You watch Sandor's face twist up and it reminds you of how he looked when you touched his scars. It's a consolation prize, your small victory, the fact that he's putting some kind of guts back where they belong. He gives you more kisses and licks up your new tears. "Good girl," he breathes. His scruff scrapes you raw. "That's a good little bird. I know the first time is hard."

When he takes it back, it feels awful. He leaves an aching negative space that drips and gapes. Like with every nasty thing, Sandor grins at it. "There's a pretty sight," he says. He gets fingerful of your stuffing, pinkish cream, as expected, and pushes it past your trembling lips. You suck, and swallow. Yuck.

"I am ruined?" you ask, everywhere raw.

"No,” Sandor grumbles, petting your cheek. He catches a tear with his thumb and pushes it onto your tongue. “Your little flower will heal up just fine."

You think you got nice daddy back, which makes your pulpy heart hurt, except just as you're about to ask him for help cleaning up, three curt knocks rattle the door.

"Time's up," Littlefinger shouts from the outside. "Get dressed. We're going."

Sandor straightens. His eyes flash bright. "I want that fucking book," he growls.

"No," you whisper. If Littlefinger finds you like this, he'll kill you, like actual murder. Still, Sandor makes for the door, because of course, he's the killer. "Sandor, no." You try to pick yourself up, but your ankles are bound by your thong, you slip in your puddle and land knees first on the slimy wet vinyl floor. "No!" you scream, bones aching. You scramble for Sandor's leg and catch him. "No, no, no!"

"Yes," Littlefinger shouts back. "Now."

"Sandor, please," you beg in a whisper, curling your arms around his thigh. "He can't see you. I'll get in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"He'll—he'll—" he'll know I'm a whore, but you say, "He'll take away my iPod and my DS. My phone, too. When I'm really bad, he even takes away Puff." You glance sorrowfully over your shoulder, where she sits alone on the couch. "Please, Daddy," you whisper, and you swear to God, your eyes have never been wider.

"Any day now," Littlefinger calls, but Sandor makes you wait. He pets your limp curls, thumbs your puffy cheek. It's your neck on the butcher's block. He's sizing you up: will I make the kill, or not? "You look so pretty on your knees," he says. You close your eyes to push two sparkling tears down your cheeks.

"Go on, then," Sandor grunts. "Hide me."

He tugs you up. "My thong," you whine, and he fixes it by ripping it off. Your gown is ruined: red splotches at the chest, red juice to your belly, dark circles of pee (ugh ugh UGH) on your knees. You have so much to worry about, but you push Sandor through your strewn clothing, past the bunks, to the bedroom. Sandor collapses into the bed, boots and all.

"Do not make any noises, understand?"

He grunts and waves you away; he's halfway to snoring. You close the curtain. What a mess. You throw a pile of towels on your puddle (they're navy, thank God), but there's no time for anything else. Littlefinger starts banging angrily on the door, so all you can do is hope that in your dreadful state, he'll take pity on you. (Fat chance!)

After you undo the latches, you scurry to the couch, snatch up Puff, and croon, "It's open, Uncle."

He comes in making that face he does, the world's most tightly contained scowl, all in the slight crinkle of his nose, and eyes sparking verdant horror. "Someone had a fit," he greets.

"I'm heartbroken," you mope. "They're engaged."

"I know. I found out tonight. They kept it quiet."

"What am I supposed to do?"

Littlefinger steps over pink bras and panties like they're landmines, or sulfuric acid that'll scald his loafers to his bones. He stops in front of you. You don't look up. "You ruined your Ralph Lauren," he says.

"I know."

"You ruined your relationship."

"No."

"Yes. Joffrey knew about the Hound."

"He was dating Margaery this whole time."

"I don't give a single fuck about Margaery," Littlefinger spits. He pinches your chin. Yeah, he's angry. You'd be more scared if you hadn't just been fucked empty, what, twice? Here's three times. You look Littlefinger square in the eye and ask, "Are you going to punish me or not?"

His nose twitches. "Get up," he hisses.

You do, but you don't let go of Puff. Littlefinger takes your spot, and you know the drill. It's a ritual for disobedient little girls. You hike up your skirt, and drape yourself, bottom up, over his lap. He's trying hard to be your daddy but he's not, you realize, as his first smack lands. Daddy never did this, and he's not a daddy like Sandor either. You can't quite put your finger on it. "You're a bad girl," he says, and he hits you again. His hands are small but they sting like a palmful of wasps. Actually, you're tired of being hurt tonight. It doesn't matter how many times or how many ways, you start to cry. "You're easy," he says. "You're a slut." See, Sandor didn't even have to pop out, and you still got the worst. Dead would be better. But Littlefinger isn't the killer. What would happen if Sandor walked in right now? Would he off you first, or Uncle? There isn't a good weapon around. He'd have to use his bare hands. You'd like that, you think. Sandor on your neck, squeezing, lights fading, lights out.

How loud would you have to shout to lure him from bed?

But you're not a baby. You don't scream, you quietly weep, little gemstone streams.

When Littlefinger is done, you wilt to the floor. You bury your tears in Puff's fluff. "I'll find you another boyfriend," Littlefinger says. "Just keep your legs shut." You don't move or anything, so he says, "Go on, get changed. I don't have all night."

The thing is, you do. Tour is over. Contract, fulfilled. Date, canceled. Valentine's Day, completely and utterly destroyed, smashed to smithereens, snorted like gritty coke. Your life is both over and open, and you're thinking, I want to fly. If you're a girl, you'll fall to your death, fine. If you're a little bird? Well, you'll reach the clouds. If you're lucky, you'll find heaven, and if you're luckiest of all?

You'll roost in the sun.

It feels good, like your first purge or pinprick or orgasm, when you whisper, "I hate you," right into Puff's head.

"What did you just say?" Littlefinger asks, each word barbed.

You look up. Scary is Sandor's cock lodged inside you, or his face, after he begs you to look at it, bear witness to a horror you're both well aware exists. You'd fuck him again. You'd stare him right in his bitter gray eyes and come out breast, leg, wing; you'd pee on the floor in front of him five hundred more times. That's terror. That's spooks in the night. This man in front of you, who's done everything for you, everything, because ur Still His Girl, he's not so scary. You feel very full, for a bird whose guts are gone.

"I hate you," you say again, because it's like a sharp, sexy knife. "You're not the boss of me."

Littlefinger's hand shoots out before you can blink, and smack! he open-palm strikes your cheek. Stars sparkle, your head reels, he's never done this, how could he do this, your pretty face, and ouch, it fucking hurts! But he's up and over by the door by the time your vision returns.

"I made you a star, Sansa," he says, slice. "I can just as easily shoot you down."

Like that, he goes.

Funny, you think you're done crying. Your face is tight, right cheek glowing, skin near mummified. Puff wears two black spiders of mascara on her pink fur. Turns out waterproof isn't waterproof on the most nightmarish night of your life. "I love you, little monster," you tell her, hug her, then put her aside. You stand, weak-kneed, and pull your gown over your head. Very deliberately, you stuff it in the stainless steel garbage can, alongside granola bar wrappers, coke cans, coffee cups, and an empty bottle of laxatives. Wylla's, probably.

Sandor snores from beyond the bedroom curtain, and you're kinda glad. It gives you time to shower and do damage control. Yes, there's blood between your thighs, and gummed up come. Thank God for the shot. You extend the showerhead and angle it right up. It stings. You prod your hole, lightly, and wince. The skin around it is definitely torn. You scrub your face with Wylla's Clinique, use Randa's Fekkai olive oil shampoo and conditioner. The smack looks bad in the mirror, red and swollen with five distinct fingers. Ugly is what happens when you disobey. Your butt hurts too. You dry off with a clean, not pee-soaked towel, and forage for clothes scattered across the floor: Hello Kitty bikini cut undies, a pink baby tee, and low rise Juicy sweats, also pink.

You and Puff visit Sandor. When you pry back the curtain, the stink hits you first. It smells like a bar, and worse yet, he puked. It's on his polo and pooling on the covers at his side. Looks like McDonalds, mashed up hamburger and fries. God, that's gross. "Sandor," you say, and you shake the toe of his Doc. He half-stirs and grumbles, "Little bird."

"You threw up."

He groans belly-deep, drags a hand over his face. "I'm fucking trashed," he says. Groggy, he pulls off his barfy shirt and covers his mess with it. "Come here, girl. Keep me warm."

You dutifully join him in bed, on the non-puke side. You nestle your sore cheek in his armpit. He keeps his eyes shut. He might already be back asleep, he's breathing that deep. But into the moonlit dark, he exhales, "You smell nice."

"You don't," you reply. "You smell like a bar bathroom."

"I shouldn't drink so much."

"Probably not. It's gross."

"Do you hate me?"

The question sticks in long silence. You don't know. Your flower really hurts. Sandor says, "Don't answer that." There's more silence, more breathing, his chest is a blue ocean before your eyes, limitless, rising, falling, even tide. "Did you love him?" Sandor asks.

"Joffrey?" Your throat thickens around the name like solid gold.

"No, your other boyfriend."

Your chin wobbles. Seems you have more tears to shed, but you will them put, you want Sandor to think you're cooler, calmer than you actually are. Clingy, a word that clings to your skull. But it's too late at night, too long of a night, for a show.

"I really loved him," you say, in a choked whisper. "I thought he was going to propose tonight."

"I'm sorry, little bird. Breakups are hard."

Sandor curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you close. This makes you lost at sea, you think, drowning in muscles like heavy waves. Going under. They say it's a good way to go, or was that hypothermia? Sandor's heartbeat is planetary. The moon, if the moon made its rhythm known as it dragged the tides. What a pretty song. A song to soothe weary bones.

"Sandor?"

"Mm."

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Anything you like."

You take in a mouthful of air, what could be your last. "I think I want to move out, now that I'm grown up."

"You should do that."

"Who do I call, to buy a house?"

"Who handles your money?"

"Um, Uncle, mostly, I think. And Mr. Reed has my trust."

"Is Mr. Reed your Uncle's man?"

"No, he’s Daddy's."

"Call Mr. Reed, then. He'll help you."

Mr. Reed, a perfect plan. You kiss the side of Sandor's hairy pec. You smell his armpit, overripe with body odor, because things are so nasty, what’s a little more? It’s weird but novel; he swamps your nose. You should probably get going soon, find Randa, find your phone, book a hotel. You could get a car to take you to the condo, but the thought fills you with black dread. That's the real drowning. The real thing that's killing you dead. You wait until Sandor is totally asleep, snoring again.

"Sandor?"

Moon quiet, good. This is your last breath.

"I'm afraid of him," you say. You taste salt water in your mouth. "I think I need help."