Since we know rhys taught feyre I would like a little something where everytime feyre reads a whole paragraph without once faltering rhysand rewards her like y'know what reward 😈
Btw you really are keeping the feysand fandom alive. They less and less talked about in the fandom.
THANK YOU FOR THIS PROMPT ANON!! My brain worms needed it today. I hope you can excuse that this is unedited and untitled, it's late here and I wasn't expecting to write a full smutshot but here we are. This is set pre-mating bond acceptance cause I wanted to sprinkle in a little bit of angst for ✨fun✨
Rhysweek Day 3 - High Lord
Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord.
Feyre frowned at that familiar first sentence of the document Rhys had set on the table in front of her.
“What is this?”
“Practice,” he answered, smirking from where he’d perched one elbow against the table. She’d seen that look on his face too many times for it to invite any measure of comfort.
“I thought we’d finished practicing my writing,” she said, holding up the parchment in protest. “I can read what this says.”
Rhys pushed off the table, faelight glinting off his eyes as he circled around her chair. His fingers trailed over the wooden spindle as he went, brushing ever so softly against her back. “Go on, then.” He tipped his chin towards the page. “Read it.”
Through gritted teeth, Feyre read, “Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord.”
She jumped as his voice murmured in her ear, “I do love to hear you compliment me, Feyre.”
In a winter forest, the soft crack of a branch was enough to send a nest of birds fleeing towards the skies. And apparently in a Night Court library a gentle whisper in her ear was just as effective in setting every winged creature in her stomach into motion.
“As the most handsome High Lord,” he continued, fortunately oblivious to those millions of flapping wings, “I need to make sure that the skills of my Inner Circle are properly honed.”
“Well, I just read it,” she said indignantly. And maybe some of that hostility was directed towards herself. More than she’d like to admit. “So consider it honed.”
“Ah, but I’ve been thinking.”
“—well it sounds like that was your first mistake—”
He pressed a long, elegant finger to her lips, but was otherwise unphased by her interruption. Still smiling with an arrogance that only a High Lord could possess.“You may read just fine in the comforts of my home. But, then, that was never the issue, was it? Cauldron forbid you’re ever put into another stressful situation. Where you need to read quickly. And with accuracy.”
Dread boiled in her stomach. In her mind, she saw those stone tablets and levers. Could still remember how the smooth surface had felt against her palm, how she might as well have been wrapping her fingers around Lucien’s neck, for the way she held his fate in her hands.
“So my question is, Feyre, would you still be able to read these sentences if you were distracted?” He raised a brow, leaning in so close so could taste the mint of the tea leaves he’d been drinking just moments before. “Would you be willing to bet someone’s life on it?”
Feyre glared at that parchment, at the stupid ink scrawled over its surface, and tried to think about anything other than how those spikes had felt descending towards her. How the proximity of the scorching metal had burned her face.
“Just tell me what you want from me,” she said finally, refusing to look into his eye.
Rhysand wasn’t having it. His fingers found her chin and pulled, turning her face until his eyes were boring into her own. She hated when he looked at her like this. Feyre knew her shields were up, and yet he was staring at her like he could see straight through to her soul.
“I want you to answer my question. Would you bet someone’s life on it?”
“No,” she snarled, pushing her face closer. Baring her teeth like a wild animal. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Yes,” he said, releasing her. “It means you need to practice.”
“And, what?” He was walking back around her chair now, but she kept her glare trained on his back. Hoping his peaked ears would start burning from the contempt she wished he could feel. “You’re going to chain me up and put me beneath metal spikes?”
Rhys was frowning when he turned around. “We’re going to play a game. A simple one.” He pressed a firm finger to the top of that page, directing her attention back towards the text. “If you can read this page quickly and without stuttering, you’ll get a reward. And if you mess up…” He grinned. “You’ll see what happens.”
“And what’s my reward? Getting to look at your face for five minutes?”
The grin grew wider. More dangerous. “I was thinking I would have you look at something else.”
She swallowed. Tried to pretend that suggestion got lodged in her throat, instead of slipping past like warm silk until it pooled in her stomach. “That sounds more like a punishment.”
“Thanks for the idea,” he crooned, slipping between her chair and the table. “And if that’s your punishment, what would you like your reward to be, hmm?” Rhysand leaned forward, bracing his hands against either arm of her chair. She could smell the wind on him, from wherever he’d been flying that morning. Over the sea, she thought, picking up a hint of salt.
“Would you like to see me on my knees again?” His eyes were burning, and if she stared at them any longer her face would be, too. So she fixed her head towards the corner of the table. A mistake, because a moment later she could feel his lips against her earlobe. “Do you want to know how I’d lick you, Feyre?”
She said nothing. What could she say, that wouldn’t be an outright lie?
Rhys dropped to the floor before her, so tall he still fell level with her breasts. Feyre didn’t miss the way his eyes wavered there, before flickering up to her face, entirely unashamed.
“Go ahead, Feyre.” He placed a warm hand on her knee. If it was meant to urge her, it was having the opposite effect. “Read the page.”
What would he do, she wondered, if she lit the parchment on fire and refused to participate? His fingers burned her skin, even through the fabric of her loose Night Court trousers. Rhys wouldn’t really make her do anything she didn’t want to do. Not when he had spent so many years under that gods forsaken mountain.
So why was she reaching towards the page? And why were her fingers shaking, like she believed there was actually punishment waiting if she messed up?
… Like she was hoping there would be.
“Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord,” she repeated.
His hand slid further up her thigh. “Good girl.”
That was nearly enough to make her falter. But she knew his games well enough. She knew that hand was trying to throw her off, especially as he began stroking his thumb against her inner thigh in long, deliberate sweeps.
“So handsome, in fact, that any female should feel Cauldron blessed to be in his presence. And it is only because he is so ma-m-mag—”
The fingers stilled for a moment. Then they dug, just enough to pull her attention back to the male watching her. So she could see the triumph painting his lips as he purred, “I believe the word you’re looking for, Feyre darling, is magnanimous.”
“Prick,” she hissed, throwing the paper down. “You put that in there on purpose!”
“Oh?” The chair scraped over the wooden floor as Rhys pulled it closer, until Feyre was forced to spread her legs wider to accommodate for the large body wedged between them. “And I assume if you ever need to, say, read from a spellbook, its authors will have ensured the words are easy to pronounce?”
“Then teach me spell words,” she growled. “Teach me the Old Language. All you’re trying to do here is—”
The words died on her tongue, shriveling like fruit left too long in the sun. Something had slithered over her ankle, then up, shimming beneath her trousers until it was at the seam of her inner thigh. Not Rhysand’s hands, or any other part of his body. It was just denser than air, and cold. A wisp of darkness, of his magic, snaking beneath her underthings.
“Tell me again what I’m here to do, darling?” His brows were raised, and she might have fallen for his indifference if she didn’t notice the way he was studying her face. Even pulling at the bond of their bargain, like he might uncover a reproach deeper than the mask she wore.
That tendril crept closer. A challenge. A dare.
“You’re here to make my life miserable,” she said.
Soft as breath fogging up a glass, she felt that magic brush over the folds of the most intimate part of her body, continuing its ascent up until it swirled around her clit. Her lips parted, and it was an effort to keep from gasping. Rhysand’s eyes never left her face, marking every exhale that spilled from her lungs.
Then he leaned his face closer, until those perfect lips nearly disappeared between her thighs. She told herself she widened them only so she could keep an eye on Rhys as he took an exaggerated inhale. “You don’t smell miserable, Feyre.”
Pain screamed into her nails as she dug them into the wooden armrests, anything in attempt to distract from the pleasure licking up her spine. Rhysand’s magic continued in slow circles, rubbing just enough to make her squirm.
“You smell like you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, smug enough that her cheeks burned with loathing. For him, but quite possibly for herself, as well. “Which is rather magnanimous of me, considering I should be punishing you for messing up.”
“Then punish me.” Those words felt raw as she scraped them out. Maybe it was more anguish than she wanted him to see, and certainly more desperation than she’d ever admit to. Because if it was punishment—if he forced her to enjoy it—then it would be easier for her to pretend she didn’t want this. Want him.
“Start over,” he said instead. His magic pressed down more firmly. She whimpered, and she swore he shivered at the sound. But the authority in his voice didn’t waver. “Pick up that page and read from the beginning.”
She could have been running out that door, back to her rooms. He would have left her alone, pretended this all had never happened.
And still she reached for that paper and started reading, “Rhysand is the mo-oh!”
If she thought he would play fair, the face buried in her lap was a stark reminder that Rhysand never played fair. And why should he? When she was already melting beneath the heat of his mouth, licking her through her clothes.
Her fingers flew to his hair, tangling in the dark locks. She couldn’t even tell if she was trying to push or pull, but she was able to gasp, “I thought you were supposed to be punishing me.”
“I am,” he said, and then he was tugging at the waistband on her trousers. And maybe she was lifting her hips to help him slide them off. “Unless you mean to say you want this, Feyre?”
The air felt so heavy in that moment, as their eyes met and held. She knew what he was doing, what he was offering her. To have what she wanted, without the stain on her soul of admitting it.
It made her a wretch, and a liar, and a traitor. But the coward in her shook her head.
Rhysand’s eyes went dark, even as his grin widened. “Then remember this—you don’t get to come until you beg for it.”
He yanked her by the thighs, hoisting her practically out of the seat as he buried his face into her cunt, licking up her center with no preamble. Feyre couldn’t resist the moan that escaped, and was grateful it was masked by the sound of Rhysand’s own. He delved his tongue inside her, thrusting like he meant to taste every inch. And meanwhile that tendril of night returned to her clit, just gentle enough to make her ache.
Feyre slung her arm over her mouth so she could bite down, trying to smother every obscene sound for the sake of pretense.
Not that Rhys seemed to notice, for the way his eyes had fluttered shut. He licked her the way she’d seen people lick honey, like it was something sweet he wanted to savor on his tongue. But when he thrust at just the right spot, she couldn’t resist the way her hips bucked upwards. Body begging for more, more, more even when she couldn’t bring her lips to say it.
Rhysand’s eyes snapped open. So vividly purple against the haze of desire. He pulled his face away, and she tried not to notice the string of saliva that followed, practically begging to keep them connected.
“Does it still feel like a punishment?” His voice was nearly as rough as the caluses on his hands, scraping along her thighs. He chased away the tendril so he could replace it with his thumb, and fixed her with a cool look as he began to apply more pressure. “Because it doesn’t have to, Feyre. It’s not too late to be good for your High Lord.”
Her toes curled as the pleasure built, until it was nearly unbearable to keep it all contained. Her legs were already shaking from the effort to do so.
“If you want mercy, Feyre, say ‘please let me come, High Lord’.”
“Prick,” she said, though it lost its sting when it tapered off into a whimper.
“Ah.” Rhys flicked his fingers against that hooded bundle of nerves, triggering a burst of razor-edged bliss that had her seeing stars. “Don’t be naughty now, Feyre. I might stop being so… what was the word again?”
Bastard, she thought.
“Go on,” he purred, rubbing her oh so perfectly. “Say it.”
She was so close.
“Magn-ma-ah.”
He pulled his fingers away, cutting off that cresting pleasure before she could fall over the edge. “What was that?”
“Rhys,” she gasped, feeling tears spring to her eyes.
“You know what to say,” he murmured, ducking his face back between her thighs.
He licked her again, slow and merciless. Feyre keened, and he used his free hand to keep her still.
“Please,” she gasped. “Please, High Lord.”
“Good girl,” he breathed, before plunging his tongue back inside her.
The edge came faster this time, spurred by Rhysand’s fingers and tongue working in tandem. Feyre dug her fingers so hard into his scalp she was certain she must have hurt him, but all she could feel was that blinding pleasure as it peaked.
And like pulling the curtains from a room, light came bursting in, haloing her skin as she came around Rhysand’s tongue. He was groaning, and from the look of reverence that crossed his features, and how he knelt on the ground with his eyes shut, she might have thought he was giving prayer.
When he pulled away, they were both gasping.
And he smiled. “Shall we practice this again tomorrow?”
Can you tell I've demolished the ACOTAR books I got for Christmas...? 🥴🥵
