Ren & Martyn [Dogwarts]

Ren, the so-called Red King, is a creature of spectacle and hunger. He wraps himself in majesty like blood-soaked silk, every word sharpened to a command, every grin a wolf’s snarl stretched too wide. He thrives on the intoxicating weight of power: on watching others kneel, break, or burn under the force of his decree. Ren does not merely rule; he devours. His cruelty is performative, a theatre of torment designed to remind all who look upon him that he is the only sun worth orbiting.

Yet beneath the king’s mantle of laughter and brutality lies a feverish devotion, not to crown or conquest, but to Martyn. Ren’s heart is a blade sharpened on Martyn’s name, and he wields it with the same careless ferocity he brings to his throne.

Martyn, his Hand, is quieter in his cruelty but no less terrible. If Ren is the roaring blaze, Martyn is the smouldering ember that never dies. He holds himself with the calm of a man who already knows the outcome of every game— because he has tilted the board while no one was watching. His sadism is subtle, precise, a knife slid between ribs without the victim realising they’ve been gutted until the warmth spills down their chest.

Martyn thrives in the shadows of Ren’s brilliance, but his devotion is not submission; it is symbiosis. He is the Hand because he chooses to be, because Ren’s madness gives shape to his own hunger. He is both lover and accomplice, the whisper at Ren’s ear urging him toward greater horrors, the steady grip that steadies Ren’s flame so it burns longer, hotter, crueller.

Together, they are an unholy union: king and hand, predator and predator. Their love is as vicious as their rule, tangled in obsession so complete it blurs into violence. They do not merely love each other: they consume each other, endlessly, a cycle of adoration and destruction. To them, the world beyond their bond is nothing more than a stage of pawns and playthings. They would burn kingdoms to ash for the other’s smile. They would carve their cruelty into the flesh of the world, side by side, laughing, crowned in blood.

Ren rules like a pyre set alight in the middle of the night; blinding, crackling, impossible to look away from. His laughter carries like a war drum, manic and terrible, the sound of a man who knows that mercy is weakness and adoration is best wrung from the throat of fear. He calls himself King not because the crown fits, but because he has beaten it into submission until it could rest nowhere else. His cruelty is a living thing, a performance dressed in teeth and blood.

He delights in suffering not only for the dominance it proves, but for the pleasure it ignites in him, the way bodies broken at his feet reflect Martyn’s approving smile back at him. Every decree, every public execution, every command barked in that sharp-edged voice is a love letter written for Martyn’s eyes alone.

Martyn, by contrast, is the stillness after the scream. He is soft-spoken, deliberate, the kind of man who smiles while twisting the knife and thanks you for the opportunity. His cruelty is patient, almost tender.. he savours suffering like a connoisseur, carving it slowly, elegantly, making each act of brutality into a private masterpiece.

If Ren is fire, Martyn is the slow suffocation of smoke: insidious, inescapable, filling every corner before you even realise you cannot breathe. And through it all, he watches Ren with an adoration so sharp it could gut him. His every act of violence is another verse in their scripture, a vow renewed in the crimson language of blood.

Together, they are monstrous. Ren’s mania feeds Martyn’s precision, Martyn’s whispers sharpen Ren’s frenzy. Their love is not gentle, nor kind. It is possession, obsession, the kind of love that strips flesh from bone and calls it devotion. They orbit one another with the inevitability of planets, crashing and colliding, burning brighter in their ruin. When Ren howls, Martyn steadies him; when Martyn carves, Ren praises him. They would lay waste to nations for each other, not because they must, but because it delights them to.

Ren is wolf first, king second. His body carries it in every movement; the twitch of ears that catch whispers meant to be secret, the restless flick of his tail when bloodlust gnaws at his gut, the gleam of teeth that glint like blades in the light. His instincts are animal, hungry, unrelenting. He is all bite and heat, a predator dressed in flesh and crown, driven by primal urges he never seeks to tame. He is ruled by sensation: the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, the intoxicating scent of fear rolling off prey, the electric hum of Martyn’s heartbeat thrumming against his ribs when they hold too close. The wolf in him does not know compromise. It knows possession, dominance, loyalty to pack— and Martyn is all three.

Martyn, on the other hand, is achingly human. No claws, no sharpened fangs, no beast beneath his skin. Just fragile flesh, cunning mind, and a heart that beats steady even in the face of Ren’s savagery. Yet that humanness makes him sharper, crueller, more dangerous in its way.

Where Ren lunges, Martyn plots. Where Ren tears, Martyn whispers. He wields words the way others wield knives, and each careful syllable drives Ren deeper into madness. Martyn’s fragility in body does not weaken him, it binds Ren tighter. The wolf aches to protect him, to guard that delicate mortal shell with tooth and claw. But it is Martyn who truly protects Ren, feeding his fire, tempering his hunger into conquest, urging him to keep taking, keep burning, keep killing.

Their devotion is not softened by their differences; it is sharpened by them. Ren’s beast recognises Martyn not as prey but as mate, chosen and claimed. Martyn, in turn, sees Ren’s savagery not as threat but as proof— proof that he is loved so utterly that a wolf would bare its throat and crown alike for him.

Together, they are obscene in their devotion, unholy in their intimacy. Ren would rip out throats for Martyn’s smile, would break kingdoms over his knee to hear Martyn’s soft approval. Martyn would place himself willingly in the path of those fangs, knowing Ren would never bite him, only bleed the world dry for his sake.

Wolf and man. King and Hand. Predator and conspirator. It should not work, and yet it does, bound together in a love so obsessive it makes monsters of them both. Ren’s animal heart beats only for Martyn. Martyn’s fragile human soul is already long since promised to the wolf. And so they cling, teeth in flesh, fingers in fur, inseparable, devoted to the point of ruin.

Martyn loves to watch. He loves to watch his King take action, to rule, to bend others over his knee where he couldn't take their place. He doesn't mind being cucked, in fact he adores it. Watching Ren take control, lead the way while he watches, observing, praising Ren with each rough thrust or movement he takes with whoever he had dragged over his lap.