Part 22; To Call Iron Out.
I've grown accustomed to my
brokenness.
it's the only thing keeping
me whole.
Theon
Theon was humbled by his wife's decision to name the tiny babe after him—No babe could carry a Bolton's last name.
Not after…
Skin tightened at the sheer implication of what could become of a child unfortunate enough to carry that last name.
Upon further examination—Theon saw Stark-features within the newborn's cherubic face. Round eyes; fiery, challenging-blue like that of the ocean.
Like Sansa's.
Skin baby-soft. Fragile enough so that blue-veins peaked right through.
Without even a dollop of pressure—destruction could come to the little being.
Theon recognized the innocence; the delicacy.
Something changed in Sansa's eyes. In her heart, perhaps. What mother could endure such pain—almost unavoidable death—in order to birth a creature into the world—and not see love in it?
Endearment?
Even Cersei had loved Joffrey until the bitter, unavoidable end. Despite the heads he called for—and blatant disregard for human life—at every bend.
Theon pushed aside unkeen thoughts.
This was his baby too, now. His heir.
Despite Ramsey's hand in little Robb's existence; Theon would attempt to love him.
Even as Sansa held him for hours on end. Cooed. Sang. Giggled.
Theon found comfort near the crackling peak of the fire. Sansa would not notice him for hours—sometimes an entire day.
Was it loneliness? Jealousy? —As Reek, Theon had known both in equal measure. Long windows of time without Ramsey's cruel touch—and yet. When Ramsey dragged soft, careful rags over long-abused, aching skin—somehow, he felt pleased.
Cared for.
It was sick.
To put those emotions on the one responsible for stripping his most sensitive bits away. For making him unable to conceive a true heir of his own.
Perhaps, it was jealousy. For what Ramsey was permitted beyond that grave—that he could never know.
How he longed to give Sansa a bundle of radiant joy that made her beam, like that. With a glow—translucent—all-consuming.
What could he give her? But ruts between her thighs like a dog—not even seed to be spilled. Just throbs, aches to be subdued.
When he looked at his own self-worth—he saw little there. So very little.
But he would not put a dagger to his throat—would not end it so cruelly; so as to remove Sansa's joy. She would blame herself—never love her son so brightly.
So completely.
So, Theon would suffer it. Silently.
The same as he did, as Reek. Theon was adept at playing at obedience. Curled upon the settee, scorched by fire-flames, with untold heat—Theon bent.
Ramsey's favorite reminder to him always happened to be that things which refused to bend—Would break. One way—or another. They would exist no more.
Theon used to make her smile that way. Now—she scarcely let the babe be taken from her arms. At times, little Robb even slept there. Nestled to a pink nipple. Feasting on her swollen teat. Was it wrong that he fantasized about latching on himself? Knowing a mother's sweet milk?
Perhaps it was the lack of nurturing, Theon could recall. So many memories had been stolen from him. The thought made him stiffen. Touch where he had no right to touch.
Shudder with the pleasure of it. Sansa never looked up—never noticed.
After two weeks—Theon found business elsewhere. Placed armor over marked skin—and attached his sword to his hip.
He only desired to feel useful again.
It was a crime for a cock-less man to want. Selfishly—Theon wanted. And not just wanted—needed. Affection. Love. Reassurance.
But he would not beg. He could not bring guilt forth in Sansa's calm ocean-blues.
Pretended it did not hurt that she did not ask for his naked frame against hers. He missed that warmth—Now, she had baby Robb for comfort. Mothering instincts were strong in her. The same as Lady Catelyn's had been. Sansa resembled her mother now. In many conceivable ways.
Theon learned to cry in silence. So, she would not hear over the crackle of firelight, or innocent baby-coos.
He had given his hand—his body—to keep her alive. Willed her to live, but the Gods were cruel. Her life, meant she changed. Returned from the precipice of death—a changed woman.
Strong as ever—no longer so afraid.
Not as he was afraid. Not as he feared the close bond she cemented with little Robb. What if Robb grew? Saw Theon as an obstacle in the way of his eternal happiness with Sansa? It was a stretch—but not considering his parentage.
A month passed, and Theon was starved for Sansa's affection. Even a touch would liven his mood. Cement his ache for her attention. Able to move from bed again—Sansa merely choice to do so, on rare occasions. To settle Robb in her arms, whisper revered tales of her brother. The self-proclaimed King in the North.
Even Jon sought joy in the newborn. One of his own was on the way with his Dorne wife.
Only Theon would never know how that felt.
The anticipation—and joy. With little Robb—he thought he might be ill. Through ninety-percent of the pregnancy. He fretted for Sansa. Still did.
Tonight, was any other night, much like the last. But Robb was tucked within his crib. Sansa, alone on their supposedly shared, marital bed. It took little persuasion for Theon to talk himself out of resting his head there, this last month. After all, the settee proved kinder than where he found sleep, when Ramsey owned him.
"Theon." Sansa's voice called to him. Beckoned in cooing tones.
Startled, to hear his name on her tongue—shock-waves of pleasure lit his hibernating heart.
"Sansa? Have you need of something?" Ears perked—Theon waited.
Confirmation was all he would accept.
"Come here." Was all she would say.
Theon nearly tumbled over his own stumbling feet to rush to her bedside. Hand sought hers. How long it had been since he felt that warmth.
Desire sparked up his spine. But he would not jump her bones. Theon would not prove to her—that he was still a hound that needed to rut for gratification.
Eager-eyes awaited her words. What use did she have for him? What might she need? Covers were tucked round her sides.
Breasts, swollen with milk were aptly hidden under the silken-fabric of her nightgown. Wet spots stained the fabric where milk leaked out.
"Does little Robb, upset you?"
Of all the statements, and questions in the world—this was least expected. So, Theon gawked, dumbly. His mind, immediately sought the—proper—answer.
Was this a trick question.
"He is my son, and heir. Of course, he does not upset me." Carefully, Theon rehearsed the answer inside his head—prior to letting it tumble from his sore lips.
Where she to observe his hands close—she would find the space where blood scabbed over. Nails having dug in, as his days grew more riddled with untold stressors.
Perhaps he had even taken to chewing on his poor, bottom lips with crooked teeth—but who would call him on it?
Knowing eyes, regarded his with careful, precision. "Theon. You never need fear me, Husband."
As though reminding him that they were bound together in matrimony—Theon's stomach churned. He could never forget. His wife's beauty was more than he would ever deserve in a lifetime. He carried that truth under his skin, every day.
"I do not fear you." That was the truth.
He did not fear his wife.
"But you still fear, Little Robb?"
Theon shook his head—maybe too quickly for her to relay his reassurance as truth.
She sighed. "Why do you never hold him? Share in his moments? You missed his first laugh. And you no longer share my bed."
Chills spread up his spine. How could he sleep alongside her? She never invited him, too. And the babe was always in her arms. Until, tonight.
Theon shifted in discomfort. "Ask what you need of me, Sansa." It was simpler to ask—than guess. When he guessed—He gave too much away.
"Am I…unattractive to you, Theon?"
Quizzically, Theon's eyebrows drew together. She had put on weight since the babe was born. Her diet not, healthy. Her skin no longer appeared gaunt—her bones did not stick out. Pudge was on her form—But not fat. Regardless, he would love her if she gained a hundred pounds.
"Of course, not! Am I unattractive to you?!" He did not mean to snap. But he tired of her speaking to him like a chastised little boy. Weeks of frustration—loneliness—self-loathing, amounted to the blame falling at his feet—again. "Did you want me to force my way into your bed? Is that it? Should I have done something different? Am I just too stupid to recognize what you wanted me to do?!"
Theon never meant to raise his voice. Never meant to become frustrated. But he never did this. He never stood up for himself. He let her cast him aside—Let her make him believe it was his fault. He was fucked up. Of that he was certain—but so was she.
Seemingly, stunned, Sansa's eyes widened. Then, she blinked back tears.
"You…You could never be stupid, Theon. I would never blame you…"
"Blame me for what, exactly? What have I done?" Fury wrote into his eyes. He felt strong—alive. And tired, all at once.
"A-Anything." Sansa defended.
"Do you do it on purpose? Cast me aside so that I am ravenous by the time you plead for me again? Do you get off on my need? Is that it?" He was so worked up—from months—years—of being silent—pathetic. That all he felt was contempt. Contempt for his own stupidity—His own failures.
"Theon—"
"What do you want from me?! Tell me what you want!" His tone raised to shouts. Hands balled into fists—nails dug into skin, until it broke—then bled.
"T-Theon…Please…"
"I feel ashamed enough to have to take you like a dog in rut—but to be denied until I ache—until I just want relief…Sansa…I do not want to be ashamed anymore…I feel so ashamed." His voice faltered—and he backed away from the bed. Remembered every other time. The need—how it shaped him. Quivered in his belly. Nothing would prevent him this time, from suckling from her. The shame was too much—far too much.
He bent—and bent-now—he broke.
Stormed from their chambers. As fast as his feet might carry him. Past guards—servants—Lords—Ladies. Out into the courtyard. He felt the wind whip his face. The chill settle into his bones. He wanted to freeze. To lower his pulse—to make his stub deflate. So that he would be able to control himself. He would have taken her—right there on the bed. Shamefully.
He would have done it.
And he would not have held back.
Just like every other time before.
Is that why she purposefully removed the baby? For one night? And then she might return to ignoring him for a month? Until the phantom aches took over. Until he needed it so bad—phantom memories of his cock came into play.
Sprawled on her back with her skirts up—she had played this game with him. Even then. As a little girl, budding on pubescence. He figured out the game. Manipulative, impulsive—and probably, exactly what a cock-less, squabbling, imbecile like him, deserved.
Huddling, against the stone-wall. The frigid cold stung his cheeks. But he only shivered, refused to return to his chambers for a warmer bit of clothes. He ignored his surroundings—and then felt warm arms coil around him from behind.
Her scent met his nostrils—and he ached.
"Sansa…I told you…I cannot, exist this way." He all-but moaned at the feel of her, full-breasts at his back.
She would freeze out here—She only had a coat thrown clumsily over her gown.
"You did not tell me you were aching, Husband. Do you think me a mind-reader?"
Theon turned docile; harsh tones died on his tongue. Her hand snaked underneath the top of his breeches. Index finger found sensitive-nerves on his stub. Theon jolted.
"S-Sansa—N-Not here…"
Hot breaths, brushed his ear. "Yes here. Right here, against this wall, no-less. Show me what I've done to you, Husband. Make me pay for it. Right here, in the courtyard."
Two fingers circled him. Applied pressure until he throbbed. Hips jutted forward. Skin crawled with lusts.
She had done this to him on purpose—Oh, how he knew she had.
And yet—Gods—He could not prevent his reaction.
"You think I do not see you stare at my breasts when I feed, Little Robb? Do you want to suckle from me, Theon? Or is it the remnants of Reek that wants to feed? Ramsey hurt him. Does he want motherly comfort, Theon? Do you?" Coaxing tones made him nearly burst against her fingers. And even then, he would not have known satiation.
There were warm bodies in the courtyard. Servants minding their tasks. Soldiers loyally guarding the gates—this could not happen—not here…
But—Theon could not overcome the shock. Of hearing Sansa speak this way—Of hearing her appeal to his other half—his dormant—yet, very real, other-half. Theon—and Reek needed protection. From heartbreak—from Sansa. So here he was.
For her.
Just as she called for him to be. He took Theon's name. Retained all those memories that Theon, and Reek endured—and came when Sansa called. Paved the way for this body to have true abilities to wake in the morning. To sleep (on occasion) at night.
And finally, yell at Sansa—when it was warranted.
"You think I do not know who you are? A protector. A dominant, piece of the man I love? I want to see all of him. So yes, I made you need me. I admit it. I let you view me breast-feeding. Let you touch yourself near the fire each night. I needed to entice them. Give them a reason to come out—give you a reason to lose control…" Sansa hummed in light, breaths.
"What is your name? You real name? Hm? Tell me."
Theon's mind spun. Grainy memories surfaced. Her touch was driving him rampant. And his need—outweighed his humiliation at being driven to this. He did not choose this broken body—rather it chose him. Needed him.
And now—He felt exposed.
"My name, is what you make it. I came into this form—for you. And oh, I want you, Sansa. This body screams for you. Theon—Reek—Me. We all burn for you." He braced her against the wall. Let her back meet hard-stone.
"Then take what you need—but let them have it, too."
His stomach churned; skin was alight.
"They are not stable enough to emerge—You saw what became of Reek when he did."
"I want to heal them—Heal you. Let me try. You are what is left of who Theon was before—are you not? His cocky—lustful side?" Sansa hummed.
His cheeks flamed with heat. "Yes—" He admitted.
Lips found the curve of her neck. Suckled on her skin. Still, that tantalizing-finger pad roughly grazed his stub. Drove him half out of his damned mind. He hoisted her up—ignored shocked features of passersby—and hoisted up her nightdress. Found bare-crippling warmth on display.
"No smallclothes?" He chided—eyes ablaze. "You have asked for this—"
Unlatching his belt, he let his sword cascaded to the snowy Earth. Pushed his breeches down only to rut against her gash. Like an animal, his hands sought out her nightdress—tore it open—revealed her breasts in his frenzy.
Silently—He rummaged for Reek—found him hiding in the furthest reaches of his psyche—and pulled.
Reek emerged—twitches—prominent on his skin. Hands trembled—shook; He found that the throb of the little stub (he usually preferred to forget existed) was more than he could withstand. He was not strong enough to cease this body's rutting.
"L-Lady S-Sansa…Forgive m-me…" Horrified eyes locked with hers. Recognition came into her view.
"Shh, Reek, I want you to feel pleasure. I will take care of you. I know what you need, Hm? You crave affection? Something Ramsey would never give you." Such kindness, lit the backdrop of her eyes. Sincerity.
Reek was unused to sincerity.
He did not trust it.
For the first time, trained eyes found where his hands had torn her gown open. Left solid, leaking mammaries, right out in the open-air. Pink-nipples appeared, hard-inviting. Temptation instilled by the constant, uncontrollable ruts against her apex, made hesitation dwindle.
"I know he broke so many of your teeth…Milk will be gentle on your gums…Filling for your belly. Go on…"
Reek was close to tears—this was the first time anyone cared to staunch even a fraction of his pain. So much pain existed for him. All the time. Pleasure was alluring his senses—and Reek finally gave in. Attached to her nipple. Sansa gave a low moan, as he pulled her milk into his mouth.
She was right—the liquid-texture was soothing in his mouth. And he felt his urgency only increase. And he rutted like an animal—like a hound—against her dripping cunt. Lost to sensation. To her arms.
Reek felt the pulse of her pearl against his stub. She came undone against him—and he, too felt his overworked frame spend.
Theon pushed his way through—the need to have the woman he was bound to—far too tempting to resist.
He had not been in control since their wedding night. He felt the thrill of holding her—almost too much.
"My wife…" Disconnected from her milky-nipple. Theon's eyes shimmered.
"Theon?" Disbelief came out.
He nodded his head—and she stole a kiss from him. Seemed to lick the milk that remained on his lips—right off with her tongue. All the while—Theon rutted—despite his release—He needed more.
"Jon will be so upset with us." He breathed.
Sansa gripped his shoulders, "Let him be."
Arms entwined round her middle; Theon bucked until he felt himself spent a second time against her. His skin twinging with need.
It all faded—and the dominant persona emerged. Deciding it was all the others could take—for now. So exposed, out in the open like this—it was shameful. And despicable—also dangerous. A guard was blatantly watching them rut, like beasts—not even attempting to hide his arousal at the sight.
"Sansa—They cannot take this—out in the open, like this…Reek would have come apart, if I let him stay."
Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she still clung hold.
"Then take what you need. I do not think you care so much, about who sees, do you?" She challenged.
"No, Sansa. I do not fucking care who sees." He felt free to be himself—rather than Theon, or Reek. He was dominant—in control. And now—Sansa knew it, too.
And that was the truth of it. He was in need—and that was all that mattered at this point.
He rutted, suckled from her. Rubbed her pleasure pearl until she came apart—and reveled in his own skill—as she sprayed him with her juices.