#deomas and rhys

[much-ado-about-whumping]

stumbled upon your deomas masterpost. I started with the (somewhat)happy end with rhys to ease into it, and I just wanted to say very well done, and that I love the detailed warnings in the story👌 💛 very much appreciated!

Thank you so much! I'm so glad you liked it. 💖 There's theoretically more to come, but I'm not sure when that will be - Déma lives in my head rent-free but doesn't always show up when invited. :p

Glad you found the warnings helpful, too! If you're in the market for other stuff in a similar vein, here's where to find some of my other whumpees: https://much-ado-about-whumping.tumblr.com/reblogging-this-now-for-that-one-anon-whos-trying/bcz99ke15fdt

Edit: lol jk, it's https://much-ado-about-whumping.tumblr.com/post/686922189722812416/reblogging-this-now-for-that-one-anon-whos-trying

And thanks again for the kind words - nothing cheers me like head-pats. ☺️

[newbornwhumperfly]

❤ for your muse, Claudia, to my muse, Catríona

what a lovely butch4butch moment you’ve asked for, @much-ado-about-whumping 😍

~

Claudia crosses her arms, gives Cat a long, unreadable glance. After a minute, her lips quirk into a half-grin as she jerks her chin in Cat’s direction, eyeing her bare arms.  

“You build all that muscle for protecting your friends, huh?” She chuckles, short and dry. However, it’s warm. “You like to put yourself in front of folks, yeah? Tough shield, takes the blows, nice and solid. It’s cool you’re driven to put your body in front of people who get stepped on.”

Claud’s glance softens when it meets Cat’s. 

“Make sure you, uh, got people around you who’ll actually appreciate that. Taking it for granted is easy.” She smirks. “Don’t ask me how I know.” 

~

ask comes from this prompt!

[newbornwhumperfly]

❤ for your muse, Sarai, to my muse, Rhiannon (Rindy)

my beloved medic girls!! thank you for requesting this interaction, @much-ado-about-whumping 🥰🥰🥰

~

Sarai’s gaze is searching as it roams over Rindy’s face. Not sharp, not seeking to reveal, only looking and seeing (maybe more than Rindy knows). 

“You know something lovely about you, Rindy? You really make the people you heal feel defended. They don’t doubt you’re on their side, that you don’t think they deserve to hurt, no matter what. Holding people’s hurts with such respect that they can sense it? I very much respect that in a healer.”

Sarai not explicitly saying that she sees how dearly Rindy deserves safety and…how much she can sense that Rindy’s loyalty has been cheaply bought before. 

If Rindy is receptive, Sarai gives the softest squeeze to Rindy’s callused, hardworking hand. 

“I’m so glad your friends have earned your loyalty, you know? Healers need to get taken care of too.” 

~

ask comes from this prompt!

[much-ado-about-whumping]

Rhys - losing Deomas

Rhys swallows hard.

"I already lost him," he says quietly. "I still wake up some days and for a moment I think- "

He shakes his head.

"If he's up first, if his side of the bed is empty, sometimes I get this horrible, sick flash of panic, like he's gone, like someone's taken him, like- "

Rhys trails off. Looks away for a long moment in thought. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

"I guess it's guilt, partly. For a long time he needed help, he needed me, and I wasn't there. He spent months in Merrion's service before I found him, almost a year, and if I lost- if I lost him again- "

He has to pause, to collect himself.

"I'd never forgive myself."

On a scale of one to ten, this fear is an eleven.

From this ask game. Thanks, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump ! 😈💖

[much-ado-about-whumping]

Deomas - someone from court recognizing you

CWs: trauma, past non-con (kind of heavily described), internalized victim-blaming, internalized slut-shaming, nightmares

Déomas has been home for a little over a week when Catríona asks if he'd like to come with her to the market, and his answer confuses him.

In an instant, a shuddering No has resounded through his body, because his master is very particular about who sees him out in public.

But no sooner has that thought flashed through him than he realizes what he's thinking, that the prince is dead, that he has no master.

He tries to imagine what going to the market would be like. He thinks of the variety of sights and sounds and smells - the many-colored bolts of fabric, the fragrant floral perfumes, the bulk spices arranged in beautiful, aromatic heaps. The grilled fruit kebabs he likes best are in season now, caramelized in their own juices to a sweet, delicious crisp. It's been ages since he's seen those things outside of the context of the court. Merrion's perfumes were curated for him. Merrion's cooks never served him any dish so common as to be presented on a skewer.

But the thought of the court shakes him for a different reason. He knows, he knows that not every courtier was killed in the revolt. Some fled, certainly, and some may still be living among them in the city. Perhaps some of those were invited to Merrion's sumptuous feasts. Perhaps some of them have memories of Déomas on his hands and knees on the table, bound, bare, with an apple-shaped gag forced into his mouth. Perhaps some of them have memories of making use of him there.

And what if he sees them again?

For a moment, the thought makes him feel sick, shaky, frozen. He imagines a hand closing around his wrist, yanking him into a dingy alleyway. He imagines himself looking up to see a sickeningly familiar face and freezing, going instinctually to his knees. He imagines Cat looking for him, finding him that way, servicing some forgotten courtier, and realizing he looks quite natural there, really. The Catríona in this terrible fantasy, much crueler than she has ever been in his real life, decides he's always been a worthless slut, after all. She marches him home, scowling, and leaves him at Rhys' mercy, and the Rhys in this fantasy is cruel, too. He goes cold, distant. He tells Déomas he can go back to the fucking palace if he's going to keep spreading his legs and going to his knees for any noble who glances at him. And Déomas ends up turned out of the house like he's always secretly thought he deserved.

All this because he thought he knew best, because he left the prince's chambers, where he was safe-

He hears the thought and startles.

He isn't in the prince's chambers. Nobody in this house is going to hurt him. And his friends will protect him, if he lets them - he's pretty sure of that.

"I'm...afraid of being seen," he says haltingly, his gaze refocusing on Catríona.

"Do you think maybe Rindy would come, too?"

More numbers seem safer, somehow.

Cat's gaze softens. "Yeah, I bet she would. Want me to ask her?"

In the end, the three of them go together. Catríona stays close beside him on one side and Rhiannon takes his arm on the other, holding onto him as if they were much younger, like children walking each other to school. They come home a couple of hours later and Déomas feels lighter, more buoyant than he has in ages. His ears glint with new rings, pretty things made of colored glass to catch the light. His basket is filled with summer fruits and plans to make jam and marmalade. He even bought a little posey for Rhys, the handful of flowers tucked carefully into the basket so they won't get crushed. A daisy pokes out from each of their heads - Rindy saw to that, arranging a flower each in her own and Déomas' hair and then batting her lashes until Cat let her stick one behind her ear. For the rest of the day, the horrid fantasy of being recognized by a courtier is forgotten.

Late that night, however, when everyone else is asleep, Déomas wakes with a strangled sob from a dream where the afternoon went differently. He covers his mouth to stifle his cries and tries to go back to sleep.

This fear is an eight.

From this ask game. Thank you, Ember! 🥰

[newbornwhumperfly]

the ink bled right through...

CW: allusions to attempted non-con

so i love @much-ado-about-whumping and i love their beautiful characters – Déomas and Rhys – and i love writing spinoffs of other works rather than my own stuff (hehe) so here we are!!!

you’re so inspiring & kind, Bel, so here’s A Thing insp. by your boys and your love of sartorial whump!

title from “colour me in” by damien rice

~

Déma is rumpled.

It is the first thing which catches Rhys’ eye as he stumbles upon the slighter figure in the hallway to Rhys’ office. There is at times an aura of disheveled roguery Déma has, making what Rhys would deem sloppy in another person seem dashing. Daring. Charming…like it suited him somehow.

Yet now, there is nothing of the windswept to his hair, auburn strands sticking up here and there like the mop of an unruly child, ruffled by his mother. His shirt is crumpled, creased, unevenly untucked. A button on his trousers is undone halfway up and the lacings are loosened, partially-tied, as though they had been yanked.

Furthermore, the way he darts at Rhys’ rounding the corner puts him in mind of a spooked horse. Rhys glimpses the whites of Déma’s eyes before the man crooks a smile at him. 

“Hey, Rhys. Just heading to grab a quill from your office.”

Rhys frowns.

“Are you alright, Déma?”

The smile is...wrong. He didn’t meet Rhys’ eyes and as Déma tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, Rhys sees - 

“Are you hurt?”

A scuff, berry-red, sits bright on Déma’s temple. But when Rhys goes to brush his hair back, to see, to help, Déma glides back. The whites show once more and the smile flattens, paper-thin.

“It’s nothing, mother.”

“Don’t give me that, Déma, what happened?”

Déma opens his mouth to speak and pauses. His gaze, unsmiling and skittish, darts over Rhys’ face before he shrugs into an airy reply.

“If you must know, Sir Percy and I had a...small tiff. About my...availability to his, ah,  affections. His feelings were hurt but he’ll...he’ll get over it.”

His smile broadens, razor-edged, and now, closer, Rhys sees his rosy lips are darkened. Bitten. 

Rhys’ stomach floods with ice and his hand flies to his rapier.

“Sir Percy? He, Déma, did he hurt you?”

A stupid question. Rhys’ gaze rakes over Déma again, taking the detail in with new horror. 

He imagines the man in question. Taller than Rhys, heavier, threat stocked in wide shoulders and massive arms. A brutish man. He imagines those meaty hands on Déma and the ice melts, boils, turns to anger with a dizzying speed. 

“Where is that bastard?”

He’s gritting words through his teeth, flushed, aching to fight. Déma frowns and narrows his eyes, a cloud darkening in his expression. 

“I appreciate you’re such a gentleman, Rhys, but it’s all quite in the past now. Under the bridge, if you will.”

Déma quirks his eyebrows, grins – thin, sharp, bright as foil – and tosses his head back, flicking Rhys’ concerns away like a fly and the fringe of his hair slips to veil his left eye, to hide the mark on his temple.

Rhys has the sudden thought that this was his intent.  

“Déma, this son of a bitch hurt you, you can’t just expect me to do nothing.”

He’s hot. He’s burning up. He needs to spread that fire to something else, to watch it burn, to hurt whoever saw fit to touch and take and harm because they possessed some modicum of power. 

He grips his pommel harder and harder and doesn't even realize he’s taken an urgent stride forward until Déma starts again and steps back again, putting space between himself and Rhys. The wariness which burns, bright, in Déma’s eyes makes Rhys feels scorched by it. He wants to cry but instead he widens the space by stepping back himself. 

“I’m, fuck, I’m sorry, Déma-”

“It’s fine. Just...just don’t make this-, Rhys, don’t-, just let it go. Alright?”

Rhys bites, hard, on the inside of his cheek, the throb easing the harsh thrum in his veins. His muscles, defined with swordplay and archery, clench around his hot blood, as useless in their strength as his fury-sorrow-frustration is sitting idle in his veins. He feels helplessand he hates it. He trembles with the want – the need– to help.

But…

Déma is glancing up at him through the russet locks, coy – yet his bitten lip is worried by his teeth and there’s a tension coiled through him, the coquettish brace of hands on hips failing to disguise how his slim shoulders are hefted nearly to his ears and his dark eyes are watchful, wary…a plea in the pinch between his brows.

Rhys wants to push but this isn’t about what he wants – it’s about what Déomas wants.  

He also has some sense – an instinct unique to his lover – that Déma is fragile right now and any indelicate word, any sudden touch, will make him spring, snap shut like a mousetrap. So he breathes. Releases his tension with his exhale. Unclenches his fingers from his sword-hilt, palm swirl-grooved from the carved pommel, and – slowly – reaches for Déma’s chin. Cups it, rubs the cleft with his thumb, soothes. Cradles Déma’s neck, thumb soothing there too, circling behind the ear. Tries to cool the heat of his fury to a tender warmth, to pour his desire to protect, his concern, his fondness for Déma into his touch.

“Of course, Déma. Whatever you need.”

Déma sighs and with the breath, the ribbon of tension untwists in his body. He allows himself to be soothed and Rhys knows he made the right choice. Déma’s dark eyes soften and the sharp edge of his grin has dulled when he pecks at the ball of Rhys’ thumb, nuzzling, feline and malleable.

“Thanks.”

Rhys’ heart takes its turn to clench now, like a fist behind his ribs, the muscle seizing in his chest, creeping up to his throat, on all the things he wants to say – vows, reassurances, pleas.

But all he does is pair his palms in a cradle of Déma’s face – so sharp and so soft and so precious – and swoop into a kiss.

Demá hums into Rhys’ hungry mouth and when he pulls away, a bit breathless, he’s bright again. 

“Well, speaking of water under the bridge, I’m all messy anyhow. Want to, uh, help me tidy up?”

Rhys slides his fingers through Déma’s hair, skimming his brow, kisses his mouth again, his little nose, his temple. 

“Of course, Déma.”

It will have to be enough.

For now.

~

Sir Percy was jumped. 

Or at least, that is what the chambermaid whispers to a fruit vendor, the murmured gossip snagging Déomas’ ear as he pays for a plum (and sneaks another, smaller plum for good measure). If the girl was to be believed – and she should really learn to whisper better, not that Déomas is complaining, but honestly – the knight was allegedly accosted by a masked man upon venturing home. The maid caught a glimpse of the aftermath, her master howling and cursing up a storm.

Broken fingers. Busted nose. Battered ribs. Shoulder sprained so badly it was nearly wrenched from its socket. Two black eyes and many a sore spot. He’d also, the little maid recounted with a note of glee, been kicked between the legs quite a lot. 

Déomas did not blame her one bit for her schadenfreude. Sir Percy was well-known for his wandering hands – it is good riddance they are hurting now. Some might call it poetic justice or even divine intervention.

Personally, Déomas scoffs at the notion of a deity and if there was one, they certainly seemed to possess the same biases as mere mortals by dropping further favor into the fat laps of those born favored. However, it is nice that the pervert got knocked down a peg or two.

Déomas rolls his shoulder - the bruise hidden below his shirt still sore, purple shadows lingering from the demanding clutch of meaty, mail-gloved fingers - before taking a bite of his plum.

A thought tickled at the back of his skull but it was swept aside as he wove his way between stalls, hunting and gathering remaining fruits – fresh fat berries of red and black and blue – in preparation for supper. He was baking a tart and it was going to be sumptuous and Rhys would agree.

He wasn’t baking it forRhys – Déomas loved pie. He would certainly do this all for himself, whether Rhys were involved or not. Certainly.

By the time the evening hour rolled around, a crisp, golden pastry is cooling on the sill of Rhys’ office. Déomas had charmed a flask of sherry off the cook and a sparkling compliment had left a glow to her wrinkled cheek as she thrust the bottle at him, grumbling something which sounded suspiciously like insufferable.

Rhys, however, is uncharacteristically late.

Déomas is sipping at a refill of his glass of sherry when Rhys sweeps through the door, apologizing profusely, dropping a soft kiss, another, once more to Déomas’ brow, breathlessly detailing some tale about horseshoes and cobblestones and really believingit would take an hour and Rhys is so fretful that Déomas forgives him immediately, scarcely pouting at all as he mellows under the kiss. He cannot be all that upset with anyone who says Déma so sweetly and is so very handsome.

Déomas blames the quite excellent alcohol for that thought.  

He blames the sherry further for the fact that it takes him a good while to notice that Rhys is…less than perfectly put together.

Rhys’ doublet is rumpled. A closer peek shows a seam has split along the shoulder at one spot, disrupting the perfect symmetry of stitches.

There is a spot of blood, nestled like a gem with the creamy folds of linen.

“Déma, I’m so sorry, I...I lost track of time. i had to take care of something and it got away from me.”

If Déomas were a little more sober, he might nod and smile and tell Rhys not to mention it. He really might just pull Rhys into a chair, straddle him, and kiss him senseless. But Déomas has never left anything he should leave be well enough alone and there’s a nervous weight to Rhys’ shoulders which provokes Déomas’ curiosity. 

“Bullshit.”

Rhys seems to very nearly drop his sword, setting it upon the desk with a heavy thump.

“D-Déma?-”

“Bull. Shit. What’d you do?”

Déomas is not suspicious. Nothing so childish. Nothing so jealous. He is...worried. Rhys looks heavy. A weariness lays over him - he has had to do something, something he doesn’t like, and there’s something about that which Déomas doesn’t like. Not at all. 

Rhys raises his chin, his deep, dark eyes direct and bold in the firelight.

“You won’t like it. But...if you ask me, I’ll tell you the truth.”

Déomas gazes back, just as steady, just as firm, and nods. 

Rhys sucks in his cheek, biting, he does that when he frets, and sinks into the chair beside Déomas.

“I know you told me not too...do anything. About him.”

Rhys spits the pronoun like poison, like he wants to get it out of his mouth, and Déomas doesn't ask him to clarify. He just waits, only the crackle of the blaze in the hearth disturbing the pregnant space between them. 

“I tried to make it random. Something which couldn't be tied to, to anything in particular. But I...I had to. I had to do something, Déma. Someone like him can’t just believe he can do this. To anyone. But especially...especially not to you. Not in my own home. Not ever. So I...hurt him. Nothing permanent. Less than he fucking deserves. But...something.”

He finally looks away from the dancing tongues of orange, blue, red fire to glance at Déomas. His dark face is drawn tight with uncertainty. He is resigned. Resolute. Hopeful. But there is still that familiar tenderness, a concern and a care, to be found in his expression, rolling under and over the anxiety, spilling through the cracks, filling in the blanks. Ever-present. 

“I understand if...if you’re angry with me.”

Seized but an urge, nameless as it was undeniable, Déomas surges from his chair and drags Rhys into a kiss. It is hungry, messy and missing lips for cheeks, scattered, falling again and again, one kiss becoming dozens in his need to touch, to appreciate, to...to be near Rhys, as close as he can be. 

Finally, Rhys gasps for air, weakly chuckling as he presses their brows together and Déomas sinks into his strong arms, feeling folded up and held and safe. 

“You’re a mess.”

“Hardly.”

“Hmm. For you, it’s practically a pigsty. You’re a disgrace to your class, Milord Rhys.”

The man snorts, startled into indignity, as he pulls back to smile ruefully.

“Help me to tidy up?”

Warmth pools in Déomas’ ribs. He kisses - again - Rhys’ cheeks, his eyes, his mouth. 

He’s so beautiful. So good. So...Rhys. 

Déomas never wants to leave this warm room, these warm arms, this feeling, ever again. He does not say so. Instead, he drops a fleeting, final peck to Rhys’ lips.

“Gladly.”

~

well....there we have it!!! a lil’ softness

[much-ado-about-whumping]

🔺 Rhys, does Deomas’ sluttiness bother you? Do you think he asks for the bad attention he receives, be honest. (i’m sorryyyyyyy 😩😩😩) - newbornwhumperfly

Ooooh, @newbornwhumperfly , this is a mean one. 😈😈😈

CWs: allusions to past non-con, slutshaming, victim-blaming

How badly does he not want to answer? 4/10

Rhys scowls, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching tight.

"What the fuck kind of a question is that? Of course he doesn't deserve- he's never deserved- you can't 'ask for' that."

He draws a steadying breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Look," he says more softly, "Déma's beautiful. Of course he is. That doesn't mean that anyone has the right to- to hurt him, to put their hands on him, to- to own him, to frighten him, to violate him. There's nothing he could do that would make him deserve the things that have happened to him."

He sighs, shakes his head.

"And, for what it's worth- I like that he likes sex, okay? I wish it weren't...scary for him, sometimes. But I like how in touch he can be with his own senses, and with mine. I wouldn't call him a slut, but if that's what you mean- I like that about him. It doesn't bother me. I only wish he felt safer exploring it without other people thinking that means he's fair game to hurt."

(Ask from this game! Feel free to send more!)

[much-ado-about-whumping]

🔺 Deomas, are in love with Rhys? - newbornwhumperfly

Awww, thanks @newbornwhumperfly !

Rate his discomfort: 3/10

Déomas looks down, away, rubbing at the nape of his neck with one hand. There's a flush in his cheeks.

"I- I mean, he's great, he's really great, he's- his arms make me feel safe, and he smells like home, and- fuck, you saw what he did for me, didn't you? You saw him take me- take me out of that place- "

He shudders, shakes his head.

"I don't...like to put this out there, but I do love him. Very much. And...if I'm being honest? I think I have for a long time."

(Ask from this game! Feel free to send more!)