#rhysweek2026

@officialrhysweek Day 7 - Free Day

I think after the events of ACOSF Rhysand needs an emotional support animal to deal with all the stress, guilt and trauma his family went through.

He gets a new puppy but it suspiciously has golden fur and green eyes (and are those antlers coming in?) Meanwhile, no one has seen Tamlin for a while...

And nobody does it better Makes me feel sad for the rest Nobody does it half as good as you Baby, baby, darling, you're the best

Commission for @officialrhysweek 2026! I had to add more to the vital glasses Rhys agenda and I couldn't resist the silver fox look. When I think about Rhys I think every author has their work cut out for them - who else can make someone as romantic, powerful, infuriating, and charming as my favorite High Lord? He's the best, and he knows it.

ALL of the love to @redreart for making this gorgeous portrait!!

Two Can Play · Read on AO3

Explicit · 4.7k words

Feyre plans a game night—and not only does Mor ditch, but Mor’s cousin from Illyria shows up unannounced. Rhys is just like Feyre remembers: incredibly hot, out of her league, and still has that flirty look in his eye.

She's only had two one-night stands in her life. Both were disastrous. But he doesn't need to know that.

“Tattooed daddy?” he snorts. "Who taught you guys that?"  "Oh please," she huffs, standing a little taller. “Like I needed to be taught." Just as the words leave her mouth, her eye snags on the whorls of ink on his arms and neck. They snap up faster than natural.  Holding her eye, he brings his glass to his mouth. He sips, slow. Amused. Her stubbornness clamps down, refusing to break eye contact first, even as her skin starts to burn— Finally, he lowers the glass and brushes a thumb across his lower lip. “Is that what you call your one-night stands?”

For @officialrhysweek! Day 6: Daddy

rating: g

words: 522

a drabble for @officialrhysweek day three: illyrian baby.

or, a tale of two high lords.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. ✧・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A citrus-scented breeze wafts through an open window, rustling the sheer curtains framing the night sky. The High Lord breathes deep, looking down at the newborn cradled in his arms. His mate sleeps soundly in the adjoining room, recovering.

It had been a difficult birth.

Were it not for the healer, he could have lost them both.

The babe scrunches his forehead, still sleeping, and the High Lord watches, transfixed. His son, his heir. With a smattering of dark, downy hair on his head, and a pair of wings in perfect miniature tucked into his back.

An Illyrian babe.

Not what anyone would have imagined, least of all Gerallt. The Hewn court will have words for him, no doubt. They've already had words about his mate — swiftly dealt with, the price for dishonoring the High Lord and his consort paid in blood.

The denizens of the Night Court — all of the Night Court — will learn to respect their prince.

Rhysand. Aderyn named him as soon as the healer brought him to her breast. He didn't fight it, content to let her chose.

Rhysand.

Future High Lord of the Night Court.

While there's a possibility, of course, that the Mother could chose differently, he knows. Knows down to his bones that this sleeping babe is his heir in every sense of the word. Night-kissed power diffuses into the air from his tightly curled fists, power that will rattle the stars.

All there is to do now is mold it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. ✧・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A shrill cry cracks through the peaceful night, and Rhysand groans. He hasn't had more than an hour of sleep, stolen here and there, in two days. But Feyre — he won't let her lift a finger, not after what happened.

Not after nearly losing her, and their son.

Their son.

Rhys sits up, careful not to disturb his still-sleeping mate. Somehow Nyx's cry hasn't pulled her from dreams, a blessing from the Mother that Rhys doesn't intend to ignore. He's out of bed and across the room as quietly as a cat on the prowl

In the bassinet, Nyx squirms, his face contorting clumsily into approximations of discomfort. Perhaps rage. There's a lot of squinting going on in either case. When he holds the babe in his arms, the weight is a balm. A comfort. His son's warm, breathing body helps wash away the image of a too-small babe, not moving.

Of Feyre, bleeding to death.

Of the thought that he only had mere moments before he, too, would be ripped from the world.

Padding through the door to Nyx's nursery, Rhys says softly, "I think we ought to buy your aunt a particularly ostentatious gift for her mating ceremony, don't you?" Nyx gurgles.

"Yes, we can pick it out together."

He settles in an upholstered rocker near the window, Nyx peering up from the crook of his elbow. The High Lord of the Night Court and its prince stare at one another, transfixed. Rhys lets himself memorize every hair on his head, every wrinkle in his wings.

His throat goes thick as he rocks his son back to sleep.

An Illyrian babe.

family matters | feysand | a modern au

In retrospect, this was all Feyre’s fault for not doing enough research. She had just been so relieved– she’d been putting in applications for office jobs for years and this was the first one to ever respond. Somehow she had made it through three rounds of interviews and she was finally here, on her first day. It was technically just a job in the mail room, but still: it was a 9-5 position with full benefits, something Feyre had never had before. She’d only held a series of shitty service jobs in the past, but now that Nyx was older, she needed stability. Needed a daytime job that would pay her bills. Needed health insurance– god, did she need health insurance. After a one night stand that resulted in pregnancy, Feyre has every intention of never seeing the father of her child again. Life has other plans.

Written for Rhysand Week Day 6: Daddy @officialrhysweek

Summary: When Rhys gets appendicitis, Feyre's got soup at the ready. Warnings: None Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 842

For Whump Wednesday of @officialrhysweek, and also a get-well-soon gift for @popjunkie42! You can read it Here on AO3 or under the cut!