Wasn't that much longer. But Gods, did we have a scare outside of Deep Den.

See, in all the excitement, I had forgotten to bind you back up. Remember how I was feeling all gooey, thinking that if I never let you go, you could never run? Pussy shit. Gregor was right about me. I shoulda jammed the pill down your throat or choked you out. But no, I laid it nicely on your tongue and paired it with sugar juice. I went back to driving, and you slept, free as a bird.

Fifty miles out and the radar went off. No problem, right? I slowed on down, but it wasn't a speed trap, it was a goddamn checkpoint. Too late to turn back. All I could was slam the back window shut and pray you didn't peep.

The pig took a real long look at me when I rolled my window down and showed ID. No point in trying to hide the scars, not on the driver's side. I lit up, anything to keep my fingers off my heat.

"Where are you headed, pal?" the cop asked.

I blew a cloud in his face. "Home. I live in these parts."

He glanced at the back window. I dug my nails into the meat of the steering wheel, sucked half the cigarette down. Wasn't my usual MO to make chit-chat with vermin, but in the spirit of avoiding them in the future…

"Who're you out for, officer? Might be I've seen them."

The cop sucked his teeth beneath a dandruff crusted mustache. "We're out for a white pickup. License plate 345. Could be a girl's missing."

"Shame."

He was still looking at the back window. I was thinking of how loud your cries were, when you wanted them to be. How you didn't have any tape on that pretty mouth. How my Brightroar sat locked in the glove compartment, a charge and a pull away from freedom.

"You just go on and call Lannisport police if you see anything, you hear?" He handed back my ID. Gave the side panel an insipid pat.

"I hear you."

I was off like that. Took all my willpower not to slam on the gas. My pulse didn't settle until I blew through another pack of smokes and had a wank. Only then, at the base of the hill I called home, did I slide the window open a crack. You were sleeping like a little angel.

"Good girl," I said, watching you through the rearview. "I knew you wouldn't cause a fuss. We're home now. I think it'll be nice. I think I'd like it here, if I have you to keep me company."

Well, there was a bit of a drive. It was grandaddy's place technically, a poppy farm and moonshine hub back in the day. Daddy was into prepping for the end of the world or some shit, like to stockpile weapons in case dragons rained hellfire. And Gregor was always Daddy's boy, except he drank the Qanon kool-aid, took the farm off grid because solar power isn't queer if it's installed spitefully. Installed a heap of cameras too, lest the snowflakes come fiending for his arsenal.

So yeah, the place was always designed with discretion in mind.

I had the only key to open the rusty iron pipe gate, decorated by a bullet-riddled sign that read TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. Honesty ran in the family. The drive went up from there, just rutted gravel that required four-wheel drive. Two miles later the trees gave way to an overgrown meadow, and there she was, Clegane Farms. Nothing special from the outside—two peeling white-washed stories with a red tin roof, a porch wrapping full round the front. The garden had gone to shit since Ma died. Gregor only tended the poppy field out back. Now tangled shrubs hugged the banister and spilled out onto the cobbled walk. Grass grew a foot too long.


Hadn't been here since I got outta rehab. First Gregor bit it. Then I almost did, or tried. I was always trying though.

I was trying that day, I think. What else could I have been doing? Seven years and already like to burn eternally. Fuck me. I needed a drink if I was gonna avoid a leaden breakfast.

But I had my priorities: my little birdie.

You were still fast asleep, so I scooped you and your teddy up from the trunk and carried you inside. It was just as I left it: wood paneled walls sparsely populated with yellowed family pictures and trite paintings of the Seven's likenesses. A bronze star hung over the hearth, yeah, that one. Blessed be. Grandma's lace curtains dangled limply from the tarnished golden rods. Threadbare rugs lay slack on the weathered floorboards. The living room set was dust-ridden floral from the sixties. Ma's doilies sat prettily on the end tables.

I carried you up to Elinor's room. I liked being in here. I set you on the white iron bed, twin-sized with unicorn bedsheets. Gregor had messed it up something fierce, but I put it back together a couple years back. I refinished your dresser, bright white. I rehung your pretty dresses, tacked your raw-edged magazine pictures of Symeon Stareyes back on the wall. I lined your dollies on the shelf. Cobwebs strung them together now: the chubby Hug-me-Helicent, porcelain Myrielle with dark brunette curls, and your favorite, princess Jonquil, with her puff-sleeved dress and silver tiara. She had pretty stuffed teats underneath. I used to peep at them all the time. She was technically the first girl I fingered. Definitely the first girl who saw me come. I cleaned her up after, so you could have your fun.

Still, it looked bare. The floral wallpaper bubbled and peeled to reveal the paneling below. The ceiling sagged in one corner, dripping yellow streaks down to the floor. I opened the window to let in some air but the breeze somehow made the room quieter, flickering through the gauzy curtains to tickle the shortest curls at your forehead.

I sat there for a minute, in bed with you. Spent some time petting your rosy cheek. You stirred a bit, clutching your teddy tighter.

"I'm glad you're home, sweet girl," I soothed. "I missed you. I really did."

My breath got short that way. Sweat nipped at my scars. It feels like fresh flame when that happens, those long nights in the room next door with my skin crackling and puss dribbling but mostly being burned, marred for life, no return. I shuffled on out of there, did some unloading. Wasn't long before I went around back to the cellar. My stockpile of bootleg was right where I left it, a whole shelf of glass shoulder jugs, full to the brim with mountain distillate.

I nursed a jug on the front step. Enough to get my thoughts slowed down, to put a little friendly warmth in my gut. Didn't want to feel that harsh prickle I got 'round here, like Gregor was around the corner, ready to aim his BB at my sack or clip my ankle with his pocket knife. Elsewise he'd drag me into the bathroom, bury my head in a bowl of neon piss and still-steamy shit. You bet your ass that'd earn me a night in the stable. Dad didn't question his first born.

He was gone though. Overdose. Ironic that a flower brought the Mountain down. Poppy almost got me too. Soon as I had the farm I started sucking vials like nobody's business. I don't believe in ghosts or nothing but I was damn sure haunted. Dr. B called it PTSD and fed me pill after pill to get rid of it. Never happened. I came back from war undecorated and run ragged, stuck thinking of all the shit I saw overseas—men, women, and children turned to pretty pink mist. Entrails out, brains spilling into dusty ground. The screams chased me. Gunfire too. Thought a slammed shutter or cracked branch was gonna be the end of me. Accidentally punched through the glass case of the grandfather clock. Stabbed more than my fair share of pillows. Started sleeping in the tub.

It was better that way. I was always pissing myself. At first because I was piss drunk every night, blowing through Daddy's moonshine. But it wasn't strong enough. I switched over to poppy milk and figured out true bliss, what dying would be like, if you got to stay alive at the same time. I had to drive to make runs and do a little distribution, but not for long. I stocked up and tried to be alive-dead. Muscle on bone, and my muscles were going. I pissed where I laid in the tub. Only got up to shit and not consistently. Vials littered the floors, alongside cans buzzing with flies and ants. Meat moldered in the icebox.

And who the fuck came up to check on me but Beric fucking Dondarrion. Fuck his guts, literally.

Old Lady Lydden had called it in, said she hadn't seen me down at the ranch in a few months, but she took her horse up the drive and saw my truck. Smelled so bad she swore I'd died.

Stranger knows I tried.

But no, that faggot sheriff turned me into a project. Flushed my dope and made me wait out withdrawal at his place in town. Gave me a pamphlet the next week. Quiet Isle Rehab Clinic.

That's where the last of my money went. It's for the best. I came back here once to tidy up, but Beric caught me plowing the poppy field. We decided I best stay out in the Vale. Sever my ties to the trade. I don't regret the choice. It's how I found you, pretty girl.

I realized I was gonna sit here all damn day if I didn't get off my ass and get going. I had serious business to tend to, you know, my darling angel, my saving grace. You'd need more than gas station snack cakes, and it occurred to me maybe I could impress you, romance you some. A candlelit dinner, maybe a spot of Arbor gold. A welcome home sorta thing.

It was a tough choice, but you were out cold, no telling when you'd rouse. Decided to rope you to a chair and stick you in the closet. Not the actual closet, but the closet behind the closet, what where we used to hide from Gregor. Damn fool never figured it out, the little seam in the paneling that yielded access to the crawlspace, the nook above the kitchen. It could fit two little bodies comfortably, or me and you kinda squished. Fit you in a chair, head lolling listlessly. I taped your mouth and put Teddy in your lap. Oughta work. Lydden's got a nose on her. Two white hairs from the grave and she'd sniff out trouble no problem.

My first bit of trouble was the truck. The piggie up on the Golden Highway no doubt had my plates and my burns burned in his meaty skull.

Seemed like I'd have to pay Bronn a visit.

His chop shop was on the other side of the hill. I roared down there, beat the door of his office/shed near clean off its hinges.

"Who the fuck—"

I was greeted with a double-barrel aimed at my chest. Bronn's eyes went up. He showed off his silver incisors. "Sandor, you old dog," he said, grinning. "Get the hell in here."

Barely enough room for the two of us in his shack, nothing but a messy desk, two folding chairs, a minifridge, and a twenty-inch flatscreen mounted up in the corner. He had a hardcore porno going. Gangbang. He passed me a Blue Rose and rolled us a blunt. I cut straight to the chase.

"Need that truck deleted," I said, tipping my head out to the lot. "I want that Courser you got."

"Five thousand dragons and you got a deal."

"Three."

"Four."

"Three and a half."

He pulled hard on the blunt, then stuck out a ringed hand. "Deal."

We shook on it. But I could tell Bronn was feeling chatty, what with the way he leaned back and blew his smoke at my boots, looking me up and down like he wanted a happy ending.

"You hear about Littlefinger?"

"Who's asking?"

Bronn put his hands up. "Just a friend. Wondered if you mighta heard, coming in from thatta ways."

"I don't know shit about shit."

I should have left, but I stayed put long enough for Bronn to switch the TV to Channel 5 news. Taena Merryweather in front of 45 Iron Oak. Cop cars everywhere, glowing like Christmas. The banner along the bottom of the screen read Master of Coin Murdered, Niece Sansa Stark Missing.

"That's a shame," I grunted.

"Beric's gonna come knocking."

"I don't give a shit what that faggot does. I ain't got nothing to hide."

"Better watch your tongue. Lionslot County's a friend of the queers now. Our sheriff's got himself a little boyfriend. Thoros. A priest down at the red church."

My beer didn't sit right but I finished it off anyway. Sucked on the blunt as if the smoke would drown me. The red church. Can't believe that shit caught on up here. Seven cunty Gods oughta be enough, but of course this sorry lot would need someone better to tell them their work down at the processing plant meant a damn. Of course Beric would fall for it. He'd slob on the knob of any sad sack that showed him a bit of affection. He was half-dead himself, being homo this far out of Lannisport.

Tried to sound real cool when I asked, "Raff and the boys haven't come for him?"

"Oh, they threw some rocks through his windows and shit on his steps. But Beric's the law around here, and they're already number one suspects."

"Hmph."

"She's a pretty girl, Sansa." Bronn pointed the blunt at the TV, where your school picture smiled down on me. They played a little slideshow, pictures from your house: you at the school dance, you in a little tennis get up, you in a bikini on the Saltpans shore. My cock stirred.

"Yeah, real pretty."

"That kinda beauty could drive a man wild, don't you think?"

I stood up fast. Crushed the can in my fist and let it clatter to the floor. "Get me that bike."

It was a beat up thing, with a rusty motor and bald tires, but it'd get me around town. I forked over the modest stack of dragons, but Bronn had that twattish twinkle in his eye. I laid another thousand in his fist.

"Is that enough to keep you quiet?"

Bronn shrugged. I dished out another thousand. "Better?"

"Much better," he said, licking his fingers and doing some light addition. "It'll hold me over for a week or two. You got a number I can call when I need my next stack?”

Sure did, a flip phone I had picked up outside of Hornvale. Punched the number into Bronn’s burner.

“You keep quiet on that line, you hear?”

“I hear you, man. Won’t say a word. I run a reputable business. I play by the law.”

I ripped to the general store on the Courser, real choppy and gassy but a far cry better than a truck that'd land me in prison. Bronn was full of it, always was. Thinking he knew everything, when all he knew was the sweet release of cash. I'd keep him on my side.

Wasn't thinking of Beric none. Fuck him.

Lem was working the register, another blessing from the Stranger.

"Back so soon, Clegane?"

He swirled his dip and spit it in a styrofoam cup real pretty. Behind him, Channel 5 news showed me the best/worst of it: Qaartheen cotton sheets, sprayed crimson. I pretended not to get heated about it. I picked up a whole damn basket of sweets for my little bird, thinking of you'd love me soon, same as before. Snoballs, cupcakes, gummy worms, one of every candy bar. Cola, Sprite, fruit punch. Twizzlers. You wouldn't go hungry under my roof. Found a cute coloring book that might keep you busy too. Came with a four pack of crayons, seemed like a deal. I got myself another case of reds, unfiltered. Lem hated my guts but he slid an eighth under the plexiglass barrier.

Cash down, I was outta there.

My last stop was a regrettable necessity. Old Lady Lydden was gonna come poking around sooner or later, and I'd rather it be on my terms. Our drive was visible from her cabin on the adjacent hillside. Rancid crone had nothing better to do than whip out her binoculars and catalog every car that came by. So I came by to hers. She had her sons and grandsons do the tilling and butchering these days. I needed some butter and ground round and ribeyes. Some potatoes from her root cellar, cabbages too. Birds could live off of sugar but I was red-blooded, needed beef to stay potent.

"What brings you back around?" Lydden asked, as she shuffled around, filling a cardboard box with anything I pointed out in her freezer out back.

"Got out of rehab, Gran."

"Staying out of trouble?"

Lydden was blind as a bat now. She blinked milky eyes at me.

"Best I can," was what I had to say to that. She patted my forearm with a see-through hand.

"You were always a good boy, Sandy. I'm glad you're back."

I nodded to Garse and Erren on the way out. Kicked my bike into action, panniers stocked full. I used to hide out at Lydden's sometimes, me and Nell both. She never let Gregor over. It's a wonder he didn't arson her cabin to cinders.

Needed a stiff one after the look she gave me. Like the Stranger. Don't need sight to be seen.

If there was one place I wouldn't hit up, it's the sept. Ma liked it there. Ma died anyway.

See, there I was thinking about them again. I guess that's why the Vale was good. No specters tapping my shoulder and creeping into my cracks. My scars never healed proper. Rifts form and pus drips. Sweat gets in. Salt hurts the worst. You work hard, you ship your body to foreign lands to gun down different skins with different Gods. Gods that kill you dead the same. I stayed alive so I could kill myself thinking about it. All blood and guts, but brains are the real burden.

I dropped the groceries in the kitchen, then ran upstairs when I heard wood-muffled noises thatta ways.

Sure as shit, you were up. You had pissed again; there was a puddle at your feet.

"Little bird," I growled, disappointed and turned on by how poorly trained you were. I was being a good daddy though, so I carried your chair back into your room. "There you are, pretty girl." You gave me pond eyes as I unbound the ropes and tore the tape from your mouth.

"Ouch," you whimpered, clasping a hand to your lips. "I don't like the tape. It hurts when you take it off."

"What do you want, then? Cloth?"

"I guess so. I'd rather not be tied up at all."

"Is that why you pissed yourself?"

You nodded sadly. I put Teddy back in your arms, and you buried your face in him.

"What's Teddy's name?"

A mumble. "Louder, girl."

"Florian," you repeated, indignant and annoyed. A fool of a bear. Figures.

"I have new friends for you," I said, getting up and gathering the girls from the shelf. "This Hellicent, Myrielle, and your favorite, Jonquil."

You looked up at the name. "A girlfriend for Florian!" I gave you the doll. You had the two kiss.

That was real sweet. My good cheek burned.

"I have clothes for you, too." I rearranged the hangers so you could see all the dresses. Ran my fingers through them, like I used to do when you were busy. "You can wear any of them you like."

"But I'm dirty."

You pouted, and I remembered the routine: bathtime before clothes. Yeah, you weren't so thrilled when I locked us in the bathroom together. But it's not like you could stop me from unbuttoning the flannel and sliding off your panties. I got you in the tub, peeling enamel on an ancient clawfoot, steaming to the brim. "I'm not a baby," you fussed, when I got a rag wet and soapy and stuffed it in all of your crevices. I was too busy being hard as sin, thinking about standing up and administering my cock to those frowny lips. Maybe ramming it between your tiny tits. Instead I shampooed your hair with a bottle of castille from maybe a decade ago. You didn't make a peep when I combed your red curls out, only to tell me to go softer, so I did, just in case the alternative was tears.

You were honestly a little too quiet for my liking. I almost wished the chatty bird back, even though I wasn't so sure what to talk about just yet, aside from asking you if you had to shit again. This time you did. I turned my back on you while a series of tiny turds plunked into the bowl.

"I hate this so much," you said, clutching your little tummy, hunched over.

I stole a look. So what.

"You hungry?"

You nodded, frowning. I flushed for you.

I tried to zip you up into the pretty dress you pointed out, lemon yellow with puff-sleeves and a little ruffled skirt, but the zipper only went up halfway. You were too big for ten years old.

You told me. "It's so small. The zipper is pinching."

"Suck it up," I replied. "These dresses are yours. You better fit them."

"But they're not mine! They belong to some little girl."

I didn't like you talking like that. I grabbed your chin, stuck my thumb deep over your molars, so you remembered that I was bigger. "You're my little girl now. How often do I need to repeat myself? This is our house. We live here together. I'm your daddy, and I'm taking care of you. Do I make myself clear?"

You were clear, at least your eyes were. Clear as the creek in midsummer sun. I didn't let up though, not until you whispered, "Yes, S-Sandor."

I patted your cheek as a treat. "Good girl. I'm making dinner for the two of us. Would you like that?"

"Yes, please."

I gave you a small tour. Kinda told you about the place, as I towed you room to room, with my hand snug in the crook of your elbow. I showed you mine and Gregor's room, with a pine bunk and two pine dressers. Walls and floors scratched to shit. Brown blood stains in the throw rug. I showed you Ma and Dad's room, a bigger oak bed where I'd be sleeping, with a rose patterned quilt and lace bed curtains. An antique washstand and matching wardrobe. A picture of the five of us, one unsmiling. Portraits of the Mother and Father beside the vanity. A crosstitching that read, Bless our Family. Nothing comes of cotton words, it turned out.

"I grew up here," I told you. "They're all dead though. It's the two of us now. We're starting over."

You didn't say anything save for a quick, sharp inhale. Your tears stayed in.

I skipped the security room, an old broom closet that Gregor had outfitted with a half dozen monitors and nonstop camera feed. Nothing my little bird needed to see. So I showed you the kitchen and the dining room, and the living room last.

"Who's the little girl?" you asked, fingering Nell's picture on the wall.

"Elinor," I said. Didn't feel like elaborating on that.

"She's cute," you said.

I looked at my boots. Swallowed down vomit-flavored belch. "Yeah."

"What happened to her?"

"No." We weren't going there. You went somewhere else.

"Is that where Gregor hurt you?"

You tipped your head towards the hearth, but didn't give a full look, maybe worried half my face would still lay crisped up in there like pork skin. Bringing you here felt like a mistake in that moment, because you stared at me instead, stripping down my other half, the one I'd barely clung to all these years.

I rubbed my scars raw on my shoulder trying to soak up the sweat.

"I got you a present, pretty bird."

"Oh," was all you gave me when I put the coloring book in your hands.

"I thought you might like princesses."

"Oh, um, yes," you answered. If it was a lie it was a good one. "I used to—I really like Princess Nym. She's my favorite."

We settled down for a cozy dinner: you at the table, crayons spilled out of the box, tongue poking from two pink lips. I started downing hooch, just in case you were an apparition. Couldn't quite chase the buzz outta my skin as I fried steaks and roasted potatoes in the oven. I busted out some stale spices from plastic shakers, hoped they'd do the trick. My hair was rain-slick by the time I dropped down the Grandma's china and silverware, lit a dusty candle I'd pulled out of Ma's credenza. Wished I dressed better, or maybe showered. I'd been too preoccupied with bird care to give a damn about myself. I was wearing the same t-shirt and jeans as yesterday, rank with body odor and sweat. Too late.

I had forgotten wine. I mixed moonshine and fruit punch in an old jam jar and plunked it in front of you.

"It smells like alcohol," you said, looking up at me.

"No shit. That's one-eighty proof. It'll tucker you right out."

The kitchen felt as bare as the other rooms. Just simple oak cabinets on the walls, plain lace over the one window. A table for six handcrafted by Grandpop half a century ago. No artwork, except for a trivet of a knight and his lady above the gas stove. The one lamp flickered above us, the glass half-dome kind that looked like a tit. I realized the emptiness was how quiet you were, fork scraping as you pretended to eat the bits of ribeye I'd lovingly put on your plate. You ate a few bites of potatoes. You drank your juice and grimaced, then drank some more.

I had plowed through an entire steak and three shots before I got fed up. I fell back in my chair, cleaned my teeth with my tongue.

"How was your day, little bird?"

"Oh, um—well, I wasn't really awake for it," you said, toying with a pile of peas.

"Do better," I grunted.

You leveled your big eyes at me. "What am I supposed to say? I had another accident because I was tied up, in the dark, for way too freaking long, because I've literally been kidnapped by some stranger who wants me to call him daddy. My daddy is dead! And guess what? You even killed my uncle. So yeah, it's been a horrible day. I'm wearing a too tight dress from some dead girl in the middle of nowhere, and it's all because—"

I slammed my fist on the table. "Enough."

We stared down big time, long enough for your lower lip to droop and wiggle. "Don't try that shit on me. It won't work. I didn't kidnap you, little bird. That was a rescue."

"I didn't need help."

"Is that right? You were sucking your uncle off every night for fun?"

"Uncle loves me. And you did way worse."

"I love you too. I love you better."

You pressed your fingertips to your temples and slowly shook your head. "You don't know me at all. You're just some freakazoid stalker, like the kind in scary movies. And now my life is ruined. I wish you had just murdered me."

I pulled my pack out of my pocket and lit up. I didn't know if I hated this or if it made me hornier, all the insults you so freely threw. The horniness came from that temptation to take the Brightroar from my belt and serve you right back. I imagined that then, your underdeveloped brains smattering the wood panels. Painting the window like stained glass—all hail the Maiden.

But that would be too easy. After a few puffs, the urge mellowed.

"You have a new life now,” I told you. “It's you and me, and the baby growing in your belly. Don't make it hard, girl. I don't want to tie you up either. I won't, if you promise to be good. And if you run I've got deer cameras all over these woods. I'll catch you in a heartbeat if the wildcats don't get you first, or the wolves. They get hungry this time of year. Hungry for sweet little birds."

"What about school? What about my phone, and the internet? What about all my friends?"

"I'll teach you. I'll buy you any books you like. You don't need the damn internet. Our pups will keep you company. That's all we need."

You didn't talk for the rest of my cigarette, or the next one. You didn't touch your food, ten whole bites of steak gone to waste. I reached across the table and polished them off in one tip of the plate.

"Would dessert cheer you up?"

You shrugged.

"What if I let you pick out a movie?"

"How is that even possible without wifi?"

Gods, such a baby bird. I towed you by the wrist to the TV cabinet, where the old tube sat behind oak doors, on top of a drawer stocked with VHS tapes.

"Oh my gosh. Old."

"No complaining," I barked. "Choose one or I will, and I'll choose porn."

Pop's bootleg copy of Milkwater Milkers never ceased to please, smartly labeled Gregor Goes Hunting. You ran your fingers over other home tapes, Sandy's First Steps, and Nell's Ninth Birthday. Dunno why I hadn't burned it yet. Made me feel off, seeing your hand that close to the worst of me. Either I was hungry again or about to lose my shit in my jeans. I lit another smoke. You picked out Princess Nym's Great Adventure and held it up to me.

"This one, please."

I put it on. You were prickly at first, when I tugged on you on the couch with me and wrestled you under my armpit. "So smelly," you moped. "I don't want to be your girlfriend. I'm too young and you're way too ugly. This is wrong in all kinds of ways."

"You're not my girlfriend. You're a little baby bird, and I'm your keeper."

You frowned. "You're sick, Sandor. You need help."

I picked up your neck, lined my fingers with the bruises I'd made the night before. I didn't want to be psychoanalyzed by a kid. That wasn't the point of this arrangement. "Then help me," I said, thumbing the ridges on your windpipe, dropping close enough to taste your wispy breath. "Be sweet to me. Be like her."

You swallowed. "But I’m Sansa, I can’t—”

"Try," I said, and I kissed you, even though you shook like a leaf and puckered tight. I made out with you for a while, feeling up your pretty body in your pretty dress, rubbing your panties between clenched thighs. You were stiff as a board and whimpery to boot, but it didn't stop me none. I took out my dick and jacked off with you locked under my arm despite a little bout of squirming. I ate your protests and licked your tongue clean of boozy punch. I came fast with your stench in my nose. It was starting to combine with mine, with hers, with yours.

After I washed up real quick and brought out a bagful of dessert, you were still on the couch, with your knees curled to your chest, glued to the screen. Smart enough to stay put at nighttime, which I liked. I cuddled you as you nibbled your way through two packs of Snoballs, three Reeses, ten Twizzlers, and a half a bag of sour watermelons. By the end of the movie you snored against a puddle of drool on my chest, the plastic bag full of wrappers clutched in your hand. I let the credits roll and cranked it one last time.

I carried you up to bed, one arm under your ass, legs splayed on either side of me. You woke up a little when I stripped you down, kinda fussed. You fussed worse when I spread your legs and stuck a finger in your flower. "No," you said, grabbing my forearm in two hands. "Hurts."

I flicked the light on to see. You weren't happy when I forced your thighs apart, but I got what I needed. Your inner thighs were bruised up. Your hole was raw and puffy at the edges, with hairline tears crusted red. I wanted to fuck you anyway. Sore or not, your petals were small, almost nonexistent. Your hole looked tight as I remembered.

I raked my fingers through your flossy maidenhair, fire red.

"I'll give you a pill. I'll be gentle."

You slept and I used an old tin of tallow as lube. Decided to use your other hole because it wasn’t torn up none. It took twice as much force to lodge myself up there. Got easier with the warm slickness of blood that shortly followed. Worked me up so bad I nutted after five thorough thrusts. I savored each inch of virgin asshole as I dragged my cock in and out. I stayed inside you for a good ten minutes. Kissed your cheeks and lips and forehead.

"I love you, pretty girl," I said. "I've never loved anyone as much as I love you."

I cuffed you to the bed before I left you for the night. For Daddy's peace of mind. I didn't have much, but I had even less by the time I collapsed into bed, bare as my name day, damn near dying for sleep. No luck. I was thinking of how quick you diagnosed me. How it hurt. How sex and smoke and liquor don't work, not after a certain point. Not after you've milked poppies for however goddamn long. At night, it's me and him. He's in my skin.

I'm sorry, sweet girl. I let you down.