wild things can't get comfortable

by donnerstag

Summary:

Ren and Martyn steal what small moments of comfort they can get.

Several loosely-connected scenes from Dogwarts as Ren struggles with his feelings towards the Hand of the King.

Notes:

written primarily for the discord pals, if ur not a member of the server dni this aint about u /j

title from animal skin by bryan dunn

Chapter 1

Winter fell heavy over Dogwarts, the deepening cold heralding short, brittle days and slow, dark nights. The ground grew hard with frost, and occasional flurries left a thin dusting of snow over the grounds in the early blue hours of the morning. In the brief moments between conflict or visitors, the world inside the kingdom’s walls felt eerily still. Like it was holding its breath. 

The winter made Ren anxious. There hadn’t been enough hours in the day even back in the warmer months, and that was long before war had started brewing — working clear through the night was becoming more and more common now, with the tensions rising and so little daylight to burn. 

Which, of course, meant the phantoms were out in droves, constantly. Even now, Ren could hear the foul beasts screeching somewhere distant overhead in the darkening sky (too early, far too early, and the nights crept on so long now). Despite the solid stone ceiling of the Dogwarts basement between him and them, the sound set him on edge. It felt like everything set him on edge, these days. 

Ren shook his head, pulled the dark-oak door shut behind him. The phantoms would be dealt with if the night called for it. 

 

---

 

“Ah, my liege, you’ve returned,” Martyn called, slipping out from the tunnels tucked behind the furnaces. Ren smiled at him, weary but genuine. 

“Aye. How goes it with the villagers?”

“Brilliant, actually. Worked out a deal for more enchanting books earlier, almost depleted our stock of emeralds getting everything sorted out. But it was worth it.” 

Martyn rummaged through their storage as he spoke and emerged with a set of diamond armor in his hands, freshly inlaid with lapis-stained runes, the magic glowing through the plates. He looked over Ren, who stood there in his mismatched, hastily-enchanted, well-worn iron, and inclined his head with a small smile. “About time we got you kitted up properly, I’d say. And no offense, but you look a bit, uh. A bit rough, right now. Shall I... just...? I mean, as Hand to the King, it’s my duty, I’d say.”

Ren wasn’t sure what he was being asked until Martyn approached, setting aside the diamond armor; and as soon as he realized, he hesitated, because he was fully capable of changing into the new armor by himself, and surely Martyn had better things to do—

But he hesitated for long enough that Martyn simply reached up and began to undo the straps of his chestplate, practiced and casual. Ren went still, watching Martyn’s hands for a moment before averting his eyes. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this, although admittedly it was the first time under such... unnecessary circumstances; the last time Martyn had needed to strip Ren of his armor had been an emergency on the battlefield, and hadn’t felt nearly so intimate. Without a poison-tipped arrow in his side, all he could feel was the warmth of Martyn’s hands through his shirt and Ren wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, lean into it. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been touched in a way that wasn’t frantic or violent, and it was almost stupid how much the simple, purely incidental contact affected him. 

Ren allowed himself to relax into the rhythm of it, letting Martyn maneuver him around as he removed the iron set piece by piece. He worked down his body: placing a hand against his side as he tugged at a strap, steadying him with a hand on his hip while he slid a plate from his thigh, having Ren lean his weight on him when he took off his boots. It wasn’t long before Ren stood before his Hand with no armor at all. He felt lighter than he had in days, but also incredibly exposed.  

This shouldn’t make him so nervous. They’d long since proven their loyalty to each other by the blood on the altar, and Ren had no doubts in his safety with Martyn — but of course, it wasn’t fear that made his gut twist as they stood there, barely inches apart. When Martyn stepped away to gather the diamond armor, Ren let out a quiet breath and tried to bury lingering, longing thoughts of arms wrapped around him, hands cupping his face, fingers running through his hair and stroking his ears. Of a warm, clever smile, golden-blonde hair, and—

That Martyn didn’t hear the rapid thud of Ren’s heart as he returned with the diamond chestplate was honestly a miracle. He said something about the enchantments as he helped connect the straps of the back-piece, but Ren was too focused on the hand resting lightly near the crook of his neck to care and he certainly didn’t trust himself to speak. He just stood carefully still while Martyn crouched to help him into the plates of the leggings, albeit with a slight tug of guilty unease. 

He really shouldn’t be having Martyn do this for him. He should’ve taken the armor from him and just done it himself, but to say something now as he was halfway through being redressed felt pointless. It was simpler, really, to just let this happen. (And if the selfish part of Ren clung desperately to every stray touch, every brush of Martyn’s hands against his skin as he slid the armor neatly into place, well, no one else had to know.)

Ren stared resolutely at the wall as his Hand knelt at his feet. Martyn played his role well; his dedication and loyalty to Dogwarts was far more genuine than Ren had allowed himself to hope it’d be when he first took him in, and Martyn had taken to the position of Hand with pride. But Ren also hadn’t forgotten what he was like, back when they’d first met, when Martyn remained carefully detached from any solid allegiance. He couldn’t help but wonder if Martyn was truly happy being tied into this partnership, if he wasn’t sick of carrying the red banner and waiting on its king. 

Still lost in his own head, Ren barely noticed when Martyn finished with the plating and straightened up to his level again — but he definitely noticed the loud clank as Martyn gave his chestplate a hard rap, his sly little grin when Ren jumped. He felt some of the tension leave him as they both started to laugh, quiet and brief but sincere. 

If nothing else, at least, very little could dampen Martyn’s irreverent streak, and Ren took comfort in that. For whatever reasons he had Martyn was here, by his side despite their troubles, despite the danger, despite the inevitable ending they both knew would come in time. And for as long as they had left together, Ren would be grateful for that.

Chapter 2

Summary:

barely proof-read, written largely at 3am, posted in the bathroom at work? that’s what we call high quality fic babey. anyways here's ren pining vs martyn snoozing. i think this one technically takes place before the last chapter but who’s counting? not me.

“My liege, I need rest.” Martyn rubbed at his face, shoulders slumped.

“Of course.”

---

Ren had offered to take watch as Martyn slept, knowing full well he himself wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Not that he wasn’t exhausted after the brutal day they’d had — but there was an anxious, thrumming energy that he couldn’t shake, and plenty of work to be done.

He’d left Martyn to his sleep and busied himself throughout the night with forging a new weapon with the help of their blacksmiths. Throwing himself into the work gave him something to do with his hands and occupied his mind well enough for a few hours, but eventually the axe was done, and Ren was left staring into the polished crystalline blade at his own reflection. The yellow eyes that stared back at him were strange, recognizable yet unfamiliar. He wondered how they’d look in red.

He wondered if it’d hurt as bad as the first death had. A beheading was supposedly quick and painless, but knowing it was coming—

Martyn snored slightly in his sleep. Ren mentally shook himself and stowed the axe.

The time for their test of loyalty had come sooner than he’d expected. He’d been planning this ritual in the abstract sense for a while now, but tomorrow was a much more concrete concept than eventually. And much closer.

Tomorrow he’d find out how far they’d go for each other. His life would be, very literally, in Martyn’s hands upon the altar. And if Martyn decided that Ren had done enough for him already, or if he felt Ren was a threat, then that was it. His time here would be done.

And Ren had accepted that. It hurt, to think his Hand would break his loyalty to the King. But it was no test of loyalty without that risk, and by god, it was a risk Ren felt worth taking. If it meant he gave up his life to the Hand, then he’d accept that. He’d have to.

The nervous energy had him wanting to pace, but the ache in his bones and the long-held exhaustion of the previous day was wearing on him. Ren instead settled down next to the bed, his back to the wall so he could keep an eye on the door. Just in case.

Tomorrow he’d be Red.

He found himself looking over at Martyn, fast asleep. Loyal, confident Martyn, skilled both on and off the battlefield. He was quick with a bow and clever with his words, sharp with a blade and sharper with his wit. He was observant, light on his feet, ever-vigilant and always ready to spring into action. He was self-assured and capable, never one to let an opportunity go to waste. He was beautiful to watch in action, and Ren was certain there was no one better to be his Hand.

He wondered if, before tomorrow, he should... say something. It’d been weighing on his mind how he felt about Martyn: warm and pleasant and slightly overwhelming on occasion. He relied on him, and he appreciated him, and he never wanted to take everything he’d done for granted.

But Ren also just wanted him. There was no other way to put that aching sense to words — he loved him, he cherished him, but there was nothing else that described the sense of yearning he felt. He needed Martyn by his side, he needed to know he had his back, he needed to know Martyn was safe, was happy.

He’d wanted to tell him. But the implications of confessing to Martyn after he’d put him through this test of loyalty and turned Red, become a viable weapon of war — it didn’t sit well with him. So he wondered, then, about saying something before, if the chance arose…

Ren squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, ragged. Of course he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It would botch the test, telling Martyn that he loved him before asking him to hack his head off with an axe and go to war with him.

He’d just have to come to terms with it and move on. And he’d known this for a while, admittedly, and kept trying to talk his way around it, but there was no other option at this point. He was Martyn’s boss, his king, and soon, his Red. It wouldn’t be fair to put the weight of his feelings upon him as well, not after asking so much of him already, not after binding him to the kingdom of Dogwarts and her people.

And what other choice would Martyn have but to reciprocate, even if he didn’t truly want to? Martyn, despite himself, had made a home here with Ren. He’d forsaken anyone else on the server to be the Hand of the King, he’d accepted them as a unit, two halves of a whole, the beating heart of Dogwarts and the Red Army. Maybe he’d even see it as his duty, to make his king happy at the cost of his own comfort. The thought made Ren miserable.

And if Martyn said no, what would that mean for him? Would he stay, trying to distance himself from Ren within the confines of their small domain? Or would he go, strike out on his own once again? This time he’d be without allies, in the midst of this war because he’d chosen to ally himself with Ren and given everything to his king. It was practically a death sentence.

He opened his eyes again to watch Martyn as he slept. He wanted him to be safe and happy by his side — and as his King, that meant he could never let him know how he felt. It made his heart hurt, but pining from afar was better than attempting to pursue him while acting as his superior. 

Martyn’s chest rose and fell steadily. One of his hands laid slightly off the side of the bed, just within reach; and despite the turmoil over his feelings Ren found himself reaching out to him, longing to steal just this one small comfort for himself. He let their fingers intertwine, keeping his touch feather-light for fear of waking Martyn.

And after a long, heavy moment of hesitation, Ren leaned forward, raised Martyn’s hand to his lips. He kissed the back of his hand — tenderly, softly, reverently, before he let their hands come to rest on the bed again. Ren felt himself tremble slightly as he leaned back against the wall. Martyn remained asleep.

This was the closest he would get, and he’d have to make his peace with that. Tomorrow, he would give Martyn the axe and ask him to take his life.

But just for tonight, he could have this.

Chapter 3

Summary:

sometimes writing some self indulgent bullshit and barely proofreading it is something that can be so personal..
updated work rating to mature for this chapter, just to be safe. it's not really that spicy? but (shrugs)

As the winter wore on, they’d fallen into a pattern of sleeping in shifts. It made the most sense, after all, to have at least one of them awake on watch while the other caught what little rest they could. And, well — they did only have the one bed. Martyn had shoved it into the corner not long ago, tucked it right up near the furnaces for warmth, and there wasn’t room for much else back there.

But for quite some time now, the bed had been sitting empty and cold, the blankets haphazardly tucked under the pillows in the same way Ren had left them almost four days ago. For him, sleeping less wasn’t as much of a concern: he hadn’t felt the need to rest nearly as often since he’d gone Red. But he knew for a fact that Martyn had been skipping his usual quick naps for longer than Ren had been awake, and Martyn was still very much Green. He was always there when Ren woke up, always doing something; the dedication would be admirable if it didn’t have Ren so concerned.

(Also, the flock of phantoms they’d gathered was getting a bit absurd.)

Martyn was, of course, fully capable of looking after himself. He was incredibly skilled and he didn’t need Ren worrying over him — but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. Just that he was a little more subtle about it. And when he noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the yawning he tried to hide, the way he swayed slightly when he stood up, Ren figured that as Martyn’s king, it was time to step in.

It was late — some ungodly pre-dawn hour and brittle cold — and Martyn was still in the fields surrounding Dogwarts. He’d been reinforcing the wall, with spare cobblestone in one hand and his bow in the other, likely in case the phantom flock swarmed again. But at the moment he was leaning heavily on a loose pile of lumber set to the side, eyes shut and head dipping low.

“…Martyn?” Ren called, and Martyn’s head jerked up immediately, the hand on his bow going tense for a moment before he recognized his King.

“Oh— hello, hi. Sorry, was just… resting my eyes,” he mumbled, squinting at Ren in the flickering torchlight of the yard. “Is everything alright? Are we under attack—?”

“No, everything’s fine. Just, ah — just wondering, when was the last time you slept?”

“Uh,” Martyn started, then shrugged. “Well, just now, I guess.”

“I mean properly. In a bed.”

“…Sometime recently, I’m sure.”

Ren snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t think I believe that.”

“It’s fine,” Martyn waved a hand casually as he stood up, “I got a little nap in just now, so I’m basically good to go, right?”

“Martyn—“

“I’m fine, boss!”

“Martyn,” Ren placed a firm hand on his shoulder and raised the other to his cheek, turning Martyn’s face towards him. His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed to struggle with focusing on Ren. “No, you aren’t fine, you’re exhausted. You’ll be no help to anyone if you’re dead on your feet like this. Come.”

Letting his hand fall from Martyn’s face, Ren took a quick step back. He hadn’t realized how close they’d been, but tried not to think too much about that as he herded Martyn down into Dogwarts. Martyn, despite his attempts to protest — he was fine, he could keep going for just a bit longer, honestly, this was nothing — did not resist. He stumbled slightly on the stairs, and Ren caught him, looping an arm around his shoulders and letting him lean on him the rest of the way down.

By the time they reached the corner near the furnaces, Martyn had clearly given up trying to convince Ren that he didn’t need sleep. He shrugged off his coat and started fumbling with his dented, scuffed armor, allowing Ren to assist with the straps on his back. Martyn sat and gracelessly kicked off his boots, then shot a bleary, vaguely amused glance up at Ren, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

“You’re looming again, m’lord.”

“What? Oh. Sorry,” Ren said, trying to shuffle his posture into something less ominous — ever since he’d gone Red, his presence had gotten a little more menacing. Something to do with the dead grey skin, the sharp red eyes... the fact that he could kill without cause at a moments notice.

He knew it had to be this way. But the thought of feeling like a threat to Martyn made him desperately unhappy.

Not that Martyn seemed all that threatened at the moment. He yawned, unperturbed as he sat there barefoot, unarmored, and half-asleep before the Red King.

“Hey, c’mere for a sec,” he said, giving him a thoughtful look. Ren obeyed without hesitation — then made an incredibly undignified noise as Martyn grabbed him around the waist and fell back, pulling him down with him. They both landed heavily, Ren lying partially on top of Martyn before he hastily rearranged himself off to the side.

“I’ve noticed that you’ve been skipping shifts down here, too,” Martyn said, rolling over to face him. “I see you scurrying around down here when you’re supposed to be sleeping, I hear you working away with the villagers, you’re not sneaky. If you’re gonna make me sleep, then you better be prepared to get some rest as well.”

“Oh,” Ren said, a little overwhelmed by how close their faces were at the moment. It was certainly warm in this corner of the basement, with the furnaces nearby and another person in such close proximity. “Well… I, er,” Ren stumbled over his words, before sheepishly acquiescing, “…if you insist, I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Nope,” Martyn smiled at him, then rolled over with another barely-muffled yawn. “Goodnight, my King. Get some sleep.”

Ren mumbled goodnight as well, shifting off to the side to shed his armor before settling back down. He laid on his back and stared up at the ceiling. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t think he’d manage a lick of sleep like this. Not with Martyn so goddamn close.

(Plus, if he weren’t laying on his tail he just knew it’d be wagging right now, and he wasn’t sure he could handle the embarrassment of whacking Martyn with it in his sleep.)

“You’re still tense,” Martyn suddenly piped up beside him. “My liege, I assure you, even if someone were to show up, the iron golems—“

“It’s not that,” Ren muttered, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. “I just... I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable—? Ren, this bed is perfectly big enough to two grown men,” he insisted, despite the fact that that was clearly untrue. “Just don’t steal the blankets from my side and you’ll be fine.”

“That’s… sure. Alright,” Ren snorted, finding he was too tired to argue the point.

He shifted and tried to settle more comfortably. He could already hear Martyn’s breathing evening out as he dozed off, thankfully. So long as he got some proper sleep, Ren would consider this a success.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, listening to Martyn’s quiet snores, the distant sound of the wind in the crops in the yard, the low sounds of the furnaces. But at some point, he found himself slipping away, his exhaustion winning over in the end.

 

---

 

Ren fell in and out of a restless, fitful slumber; when he was asleep, his dreams were dark and confusing, full of ringing explosions and phantoms circling and lava sinking in pits of churning sand—

And when he woke again, heart racing and breaths catching in his throat, it was to a dark, cool basement and a warm body pressed up to his chest. An arm was laid across his shoulder, hand curled almost protectively near the nape of his neck, and faint, soft snores were muffled by his shirt collar. One of his own arms was trapped under the other person’s torso, wrapped loosely around their waist. Soft blond hair tickled his cheek and chin; Ren buried his face in it as the dreams faded out, the familiar scent of Martyn chasing away the lingering dread.

…Oh god, Martyn—

Ren’s heart was pounding again, body going rigid. He suddenly felt wide awake.

This was— this was bad. This was everything he’d wanted. This was too much, it wasn’t enough. He shouldn’t have let this happen — he wanted this more than anything. He couldn’t have it. He needed it.

Martyn shifted slightly, and Ren’s heart skipped. He could feel his breath against his throat, warm and slow. He didn’t dare try to disentangle himself, but—

“Ren…?” Martyn’s voice was muffled, thick with sleep. Ren cursed himself. It was too late to try pretending like he wasn’t awake; Martyn looked up at him, eyes finding his face in the dark.

Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the worst. He knew he should say something, anything, but his mind had gone completely blank as soon as he met Martyn’s gaze, and…

…and there was a warm hand cupping his face, thumb skirting over his cheekbone. “M’liege, you okay?”

“I— yes,” Ren managed, breathlessly, after a long hesitation. “I’m… fine.”

“Good,” Martyn murmured, and pressed a light, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Oh. That was— oh.

Ren felt his face flush with a hot prickle, his lips parted slightly. Martyn blinked up at him, and Ren could see the slow realization of what he’d just done cross his face even in the dim shadows of the basement.

“I… shit, I wasn’t really thinking,” Martyn squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace, “I’m sorry, was that—?“

Ren still found himself struggling for words, still red-faced and reeling, but he shook his head. “It was— no! No, it’s good. It’s good, you’re good, I….” He held him closer, let out a shaky exhale. “Please.”

It was was barely comprehensible and felt so utterly, utterly selfish to ask, but Martyn’s eyes were on him, and there was a tint of pink to his cheeks, and his ruffled bedhead was falling into his face, and it was the prettiest he’d ever looked. He leaned in again, and this time their lips met. Ren let himself give in.

It was faltering and clumsy to start, both of them uncertain in the ways they moved against each other. Martyn’s hand was light on his cheek, while Ren’s hold on his waist was loose and hesitant. But there was an intent to the warm, languid way Martyn kissed him, a growing sense of eagerness in the way he pressed himself to Ren, tilted his head for a better angle, parted his lips for him. Ren was still hesitant to ask for any more than Martyn was offering — but as he grabbed at Ren’s arm and let his tongue graze his lips, it felt like he was offering him everything. 

Martyn rolled onto his back, pulled Ren atop him, grabbing his shirt to drag him back down into the kiss. Ren followed easily, tossing a leg over him to straddle his waist, supporting his weight with an arm positioned next to Martyn’s head. The kiss deepened, Martyn’s hand going to the back of his head, tangling in his long, loose hair; when Ren licked along his bottom lip, he gave it an encouraging tug.

They parted briefly, breaking the kiss, both taking a second to breathe together. Ren rested his forehead against Martyn’s, who combed a hand gently through his hair and gazed up at him with adoration. “My lord. My king. My Ren. God, I love you.”

And with that Ren fell forward again, moving to pepper Martyn’s scruffy jaw with kisses as he whispered back, “I love you, I love you too, you’re everything to me, I love you,” gripped with a sudden, fervent need to let Martyn know just how much he meant to him. He kissed down his throat, feeling the warm rhythm of his pulse under his lips, the way Martyn tilted his head back like an invitation.

He followed the line of his neck down to his collarbone, reveling in the way Martyn’s breathing shuddered as sharp canines pressed to his skin. But Ren was gentle with him, despite the hint of teeth to his kisses; even when he bit up along his jaw, it was light enough not to leave a lasting mark. Although the idea appealed to him, on a base level: a visible sign of their bond, a mark of his claim. His Hand. His Martyn. His.

He followed the scrape of his teeth with his tongue, and the way Martyn sighed his name sounded like a prayer.

“Hand of the King,” Ren breathed, reverential. “Martyn. So beautiful.”

If there were any moment Ren could cling to forever, it would be this: Martyn below him, grinning that gorgeous, clever grin, looking thoroughly tousled, and holding onto Ren like he never wanted to let go. 

He pulled Ren back down, reclaimed his lips with a smile.

 

---

 

When they finally settled down it was some time later — minutes, hours, lifetimes? He couldn’t say. Even after they parted, Ren wrapped unabashedly around Martyn and all but clung to him, chest flush to his back. They laid there in the dark together, warm and comfortable; Ren pressed his cheek into his hair, arms folded protectively around Martyn’s chest, and let himself relax for the first time in far too long. All was quiet in the basement.

...Aside from a faint, gentle thump, thump, thump. He felt Martyn shift in his arms as they both noticed it, and Ren cleared his throat sheepishly when Martyn asked, “Is that your tail?“

“…Maybe,” he admitted, voice muffled by Martyn’s head. “Look, dude, I’m just— I’m very happy right now, alright!”

“I can tell!” Martyn laughed, and Ren couldn’t help chuckling as well. When the wagging noticeably sped up in response, Martyn cracked up harder. Despite himself, Ren found the laughter contagious. Even as Martyn cracked jokes about puppy love at his expense, he hugged him close, a warm bubble of affection glowing in his chest. This felt like home. And even if it were only for the night — even if this was to be their last night together — it would be more than enough.