#bonkwrites

Martyn kissed him and kissed him and kissed him and Ren felt himself start to get dizzy from lack of air. He worried that Martyn’s fists curled into his shirt collar would leave Martyn with sore fingers later.

“Ren,” murmured Martyn against his lips. Softly, sweetly. Ren felt his cheeks heat up. “You’re too forgiving. And I’m so selfish with you…”

“I don’t mind.” Ren fitted his thumbs against Martyn’s hips. “Whatever you want.”

Martyn shifted back, leaving Ren’s lips burning with the ghost of his kiss. “Whatever I want?” His eyes met Ren’s. Lord, Ren could count his lashes. If he wasn’t sitting on the edge of their bed he might have gotten weak in the knees.

“Yeah,” Ren said, but his voice cracked and it tapered off into a quiet breath.

“What if I want you?”

“You have me,” Ren replied, as if it was an irrefutable fact.

“No,” Martyn hummed, “not like that.” He popped a button on Ren’s shirt. Ren’s breath hitched. “What if I want you every day, all the time? What if I want to wake up in a little house instead of a fortress? What if I want to lie in bed with you instead of waking up war-ready?” He undid another button. “I want time, I want peace, oh, I want a garden. I want you, all of you, all the damn time.” Another button. “Not just at night, not in glances across the room, not in whispers. I want you. Your life, your heart, your thoughts. I want it all to be mine.” Another, and another, and then the last button on Ren’s shirt. Martyn tugged it off Ren’s shoulders.

“…I can plant you a garden,” Ren offered weakly.

Martyn cupped his face between warm, warm palms. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “You don’t have the time.”

Martyn kissed him. Ren felt something in his chest crumble, so he wrapped his arms around Martyn and leaned back until his head hit the sheets. They rolled into a more comfortable position, legs tangled together, nose to nose. Ren draped an arm across Martyn’s waist and Martyn reached out to brush a thumb against Ren’s throat, over that dreadful scar.

In the morning, there would be no time for loving or what-if-ing, but at least Ren could hold him now.

Martyn looked into his eyes blearily, surely saw the grief there, and kissed him one last time.

“I mean,” Ren started, considering Martyn’s question. He’d thought about it before, sure, but it had admittedly been a while since the topic was last brought to mind. “I wouldn’t say I’m opposed, dude. I just think that— well, I have a lot of stuff about myself that I still need to take care of, y’know? I’d want to sort myself out before I decided to take on a responsibility like that, and, uh. I’m— I’m old, man.” He chuckled a little, fiddling with his hands. “38 already, and I’m sure I’ll be older by the time this is all over. At some point, I guess I decided I was too old to have kids anymore— sounds silly when I say it out loud, ha. But if I did have kids, I know I would fight like hell to give them the best life I could.” Ren unfolded and folded his fingers into each other. Unfolded them again. Folded. Again. “…The only thing I’m really worried about, I think, is that kids need their parents to be an invulnerable, reliable sort of figure. And I’m—” he sighed. “I’m not invulnerable, and I’ve never been good at pretending to be.”

(Being genuine, letting Martyn know that his questions mattered, Ren needed to do these things. Needed to prove to Martyn that he could be trusted now, that he was worth the careful love and devotion Martyn offered no one else.)

Ren clasped his hands together loosely, bouncing a knee. He hadn’t expected all of that to come out of his mouth, honestly. He waited a moment before chancing a look at Martyn’s face.

Martyn was looking right back at him, wearing a very blank and distant expression.

Then he took Ren’s hands in his own, wedging his thumbs in and unlocking them. It was a delicate, languid movement.

“I’ve always wanted kids,” Martyn murmured, like it was a secret he was scared someone would overhear. Like someone other than Ren was watching, listening. His head was angled down at their connected hands. “When I was younger— there was this girl I wanted to marry. Loved her lots. Wanted to have a family with her.”

And that was— it was odd to hear it out loud, truthfully. Martyn had always seemed like the type to never want to be tied down or held back, to want as few vulnerabilities as possible. Ren tried not to think about how he himself had robbed Martyn of those wants. He didn’t ask what had happened to this girl Martyn had loved so much. Didn’t need to, knew Martyn didn’t want him to.

“It’d be nice,” Martyn whispered, even quieter. Quiet, he was so quiet in that way he always got whenever he bared a piece of himself to Ren. Sometimes Ren wondered what he’d do if he ever got his hands on whoever had convinced Martyn that fragility was a crime. “That was the only reason. I wanted— I don’t know. Maybe it’s just human instinct, or whatever, but nurturing them, watching them grow into their own person, I feel like that would have fulfilled me. At least two, so they’d have each other as they grew up. Sleepless nights, loud mornings, I would have loved all of it.” Then he was silent. “There’s a second reason now. I reckon… it would be peace. No war, no arena, none of—” Martyn glanced up for a split second, too quick for Ren to get a good look at his face, but he knew Martyn’s eyes had flickered to his neck. “—none of this. Just the family I’ve always wanted.”

And Ren… Ren imagined it, for a moment. A lovely house. Walls splattered with drawings and calendars and pictures. Kids with Martyn’s punny humour, Ren’s stuttering laugh. Silly traditions, holidays Ren thought he’d never celebrate again past the age of fourteen. It certainly wouldn’t be boring.

“Martyn.” Ren removed his hands from Martyn’s as gently as he could, but Martyn still flinched. “Look at me.”

Martyn looked, and Ren reached out to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Martyn simply closed his eyes and let himself cry in Ren’s hands.

“I’d like to…” Ren swallowed. “I’d like that. Maybe someday. I said I wasn’t opposed.”

Martyn shuts his eyes, thankful for his aphantasia for once. Thankful that he will never be able to recall the look on Ren’s face in all the right morbid detail.

It’s not like he’s forgotten, though. He couldn’t possibly forget the feeling of skin and bone giving under a blade; warm, sticky blood kissing his cheek; the smell of it; the terrible, strangled sounds he made; the way Ren stood there after, ready to do it all over again in a heartbeat, his head bowed, like a fucking fool, so damningly vulnerable—

“Martyn?”

Ren steps into the safety of Renchanting’s dull basement, elbowing the door shut, and there’s something delicate cradled in his hands. He’s not wearing his crown, and his sunglasses are pushed up in his hair to reveal red, slit-pupiled eyes. Martyn forgets what he was supposed to be doing by the time his body has walked him over to his king.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Martyn leans forward to glance into Ren’s palms. It’s entirely unnecessary, but Ren’s breath hitches when Martyn enters his space, so it’s entirely worth it.

“I, um.” Ren moves his thumbs away so Martyn can get a better view, and clears his throat in that low, rumbling way of his. “I made this. For. For you.”

It’s small, in Ren’s wolfish hands. A dainty string of wildflowers tied into a crown. It’s flimsy and fragile, the knots of the stems looking like they’d tear with one wrong breath, and Martyn loves it.

“You made this? For me?” Martyn murmurs. He reaches out, cupping Ren’s hands that cup the flowers. His king’s hands are cold.

“Yes, I— I wanted to do something nice, that didn’t have anything to do with… work, or our situation, or anything of that sort.” Ren clears his throat again. “And my options were kind of… limited, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

Martyn looks up into Ren’s shadowed face. He’s missing the bloody gold ring of his crown, but there’s a collar of scar tissue wrapped around his throat in a similar shape, and he’s holding a circle of flowers that he went out into the dusk to pick and tie with Martyn in mind, and his irises are thin crimson loops that stare wide and nervous, and Martyn loves him.

“My liege,” Martyn says. “You silly dog. It’s beautiful.”

Then he thinks about Ren’s hulking, clumsy form crouched in a field, plucking flowers, and he has to stifle a laugh.

Ren’s smile carves lines in his cheeks. “May I?”

“You may.”

So Ren settles the flower crown in Martyn’s hair, his touch light and reverent.

Then he takes hold of Martyn’s fingers, dips into a bow far too low for a king, prints a kiss to the back of Martyn’s hand, and says, “Me Hand.”

It’s corny, and dramatic, and incredibly romantic, and if Martyn wasn’t already crazy for him he’s sure that would have done the trick.

“My liege. Rise.”

He does. Martyn kisses him.

Ren is Martyn’s king, but tonight, Martyn wears the crown. King of Ren’s heart, Ren would probably say, something stupid and wonderful like that. Whatever. Ren is Earth, and Martyn is his single devoted moon.