Thank you so much to everyone who participated in Feysand Week 2025! We are so grateful to everyone who took the time to share their creativity and engage with the week!
We can't wait to see you all next year! 💜
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📝Fics, drabbles, and poetry:
I'm Setting Off, But Not Without My Muse by @honeydewpoppy
Your Ivy Grows and Now I'm Covered in You by @dogsarethebest312
Long Story Short by @reverie-tales
La bohème by @littedidyouknow
you're the only game that i like to lose by @temperedink
wrap around me like a chain, a crown, a vine by @baenakinskywalker
I'll Be Your Father Figure by @the-lonelybarricade
Blindsided by @northisnight
all the stars in the moonlit sky by @astra-aeterna
do I really have to chart the constellations in his eyes by @corruptedclarity
We Don't Love Like Flowers Epilogue by @quantum77-writes
Tale As Old As Time by @amethystficarchive
🎨Art and moodboards
The Night Court by @night-and-stars
Feyre Walking Rhys by @shallyne
Ad Astra by @witchlingsandwyverns
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If we missed one of your contributions, kindly reach out to our event runners!
There's never a convenient time to go into labor, but really? Now? When Rhys has taken Nyx to Illyria for a meeting with Cass and Devlon, and Feyre is waiting in Mor's office in the Hewn City after meeting with newly appointed city officials, and Azriel is somewhere… doing something.
Feyre breathes slowly out through her mouth, resting her hands on her belly. Just a warning cramp, she assures herself. Not true labor. Not yet.
It's not an unfamiliar sensation, the pressure low in her abdomen, but it's still somehow foreign—a feeling that her body could not produce on its own. "Okay, baby," she soothes, looking down at herself. "Just chill for a day or so, please? I need time to prepare and get your daddy back here."
She receives a little fluttery kick in response, higher up towards her ribs than usual.
Higher up. So the little babe has shifted. Ready to emerge. Lovely.
Feyre stares at the desk in front of her, trying to decipher her schedule of meetings and whether or not they can be pushed off. Whether or not they even should be. She waits with equal anticipation for her next meeting and next contraction.
The meeting comes first.
Maybe the baby was just teasing her, a slight shift in position pushing against her pelvic muscles in early preparation for birth.
"Thank you, High Lady," the new minister of housing says as she rises from the chair across from Feyre. "I appreciate your time, and your attention. It has been… many centuries since we have had hope, as a city. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed."
The sentiment nearly brings tears to Feyre's eyes. Yes, she knew she was doing the right thing in trying to help liberate the Hewn City from their cutthroat and dark ways, but to hear that she has made a difference where others hadn't? It tugs at her heartstrings. Her mortal heartstrings. Certainly not a weakness, she thinks with a wry chuckle.
A chuckle that's cut off by a new contraction, and it takes all of her energy to focus on not wincing as she bids goodbye to the slight fae she'd been meeting with.
"Wait—" she calls, just before the door shuts. "Yaslana, would you be a dear and fetch Morrigan for me?"
The fae nods, brows furrowed in concern, before gently shutting the door behind her and leaving Feyre to ride out her contraction.
"You just had to make a dramatic entrance, huh? Am I going to have another little one that takes after Rhys on my hands?"
There's a tinge of exasperation in her voice, but it's tempered by fondness, by love. Being like Rhys really isn't a negative.
For all that he's stubborn and dramatic and a pain in her ass, her mate is also loving and patient and compassionate, sweet and determined and equitable, and thousands of other amazing things that she wouldn't trade for the world.
Even if it means this new babe is trying to force their way out of her at an inopportune time.
"Feyre?" Mor's concerned voice calls out as she gently opens the door. "Yaslana said you asked for me?"
"Yeah. The little one seems to be, ah, attempting to make their debut into the world." Feyre grins as Mor's honey-brown eyes widen almost comically. "Not urgently. And I should be able to finish off my last two meetings today just fine, but, y'know, so you're aware."
"You're starting labor and insisting you can finish your day of work? Cauldron, no wonder you and Rhys were mated."
Yeah, this is why she wanted to tell Mor before anything else. She isn't freaking out, or insisting Feyre rush home. No, she's just gently chastising Feyre for being something of a workaholic.
"So… you just wanted me to know?" Mor checks, stepping into Feyre's space to press a smacking kiss to her cheek. "I'm honored."
"I wanted you to know that I'll be asking you to winnow me home. I don't think I have the focus, and I don't want to risk it."
"Of course, Fey! Just poke at my brain when you're ready to go, okay?"
And she does.
Once she makes it through the last two meetings—only having to grit her teeth and smile through a handful of contractions that are starting to come more consistently—she casts her mind out and gently knocks against Mor's gilded mental walls.
I'm ready to head home whenever you have time.
Within moments, Mor is striding through the door, as if she'd been waiting in the hallway for the summons. She just grins at Feyre and links their arms together before winnowing them to the steps of the River House. "Alright, babes, you know how to find me if you need me. And fucking call if you need anything, okay?"
She laughs. "Okay, I got it!"
"Oh," Mor adds, almost as an afterthought. "Maybe also let your mate and son know that they should come home for this?"
"Cauldron forbid a woman finish her workday," Feyre mutters, shooing her friend away as she waddles into the house. Her lack of an actual answer is part lack of need to answer Mor, part stubborn refusal to listen to her advice.
She'll fetch Rhys and Nyx (and Madja) when her contractions are regular.
Sleep is elusive, but she manages to get a few hours in before her labor begins in earnest. The moon is low in the sky when she's awoken by the most painful cramping yet, the pain radiating from her pelvic muscles all the way to her spine. Still, she doesn't summon her mate or a healer. Not until two more intense contractions, just about five minutes apart, have her groaning softly in pain.
Rhys is too far away for her to reach his mind with any reliability, especially as unfocused from her magic as she is. Instead, she gives a sharp, insistent tug on the mating bond. He'll feel that, and like the worrywart he is, will show up as soon as he can.
'As soon as he can' is, apparently, within two minutes.
Nyx looks disoriented and tired, as if Rhys had simply grabbed him and winnowed with no explanation. (Which, Feyre thinks, is probably exactly what had happened.)
"What's going on?"
His fear and anxiety are palpable, flowing across the bond unchecked.
"I'm in labor," she says softly, trying to calm the frenzied emotions she can feel buffeting her. "It's still early, but this is my second, so it might go a bit fast, and I wanted you here."
"You're having our baby," he breathes, practically launching himself at her to wrap her up in his arms. He holds her as if she's something miraculous; something he can't bear to lose. And it's true, she knows, melting in his arms, ignoring all of the aches and complaints of her body at the awkward angle of the hug. "Gods, you're amazing, darling."
When he finally pulls back—only so she can readjust herself to be more comfortable as she breathes through a contraction—Feyre sees that Nyx has awoken, staring at her with awe in his eyes.
"Nyxie," she calls, reaching out a hand for him to take. His dwarfs hers, clutches her tightly. "My darling baby boy."
"Mom," he says, looking and sounding near tears. "You're gonna have a baby."
"I am."
"I love you so much. And I hope everything goes well. But I really don't want to see your v—"
"Don't feel the need to finish that sentence," Feyre cuts him off with a wan laugh, focusing on the fact that she'd really not hear her son, adult though he is, say 'vagina'. "Yeah. You can go. We'll get you when your little sibling has made their way into the world."
"Thank you," he breathes, squeezing her hand one more time before making a quick exit before he sees 'more than necessary'.
Rhys' deep laugh rumbles from above her, and when she looks up, her mate is gazing at her with mirth sparkling in his eyes. "You don't want to hear him say 'vagina', and yet you beg for my dirty talk where I tell you how you have such a pretty little pu—"
"Rhys!"
The hand she slaps over his mouth doesn't deter him in the slightest. He just slips into the antechamber of her mind to finish the thought: such a pretty little pussy. How your tight, wet cunt takes me so well.
"Seriously?" Feyre can't help but laugh looking up at him, unable to be truly annoyed with his debaucherous flirtation. "When I'm in labor?"
His responding grin is all masculine pride. "Well, darling, they do say that sex can help labor progress faster."
"Insatiable."
"For you? Always." A pregnant pause. "So is that a no to the sex, or—"
"No offense, love, but I really don't want to be fucked right now."
"You don't even want my fingers?"
Well. She might be in a little bit of pain, but that hasn't stopped them before, and… he does have talented hands… "As long as you keep them to the outside."
His satisfied purr rumbles in his chest as he settles in bed beside her, pulling her flush to his side.
She won't give him the pleasure of her confirmation, but she knows that Rhys is aware of how correct he was.
It's mere hours later that Madja is perched between Feyre's spread legs, gently coaxing her to push.
Pain tears through her with the next contraction as she bears down, feeling like she's about to crack open. Tears trace their way down her temples, but she ignores them—just as she's been ignoring Rhys' pleas to let him take her pain away. ("I didn't get to go through this the way I should have been able to with Nyxie," she reminds him. "I want to feel it all. The joy and the pain it took to get there.")
"Almost there," Madja soothes.
Feyre takes a shaky inhale, welcoming the short reprieve from the pain, the promise that the end is in sight. "How soon?"
"Two more should deliver the head, and then you're in the home stretch."
Rhys squeezes her hand as if he's the one who needs the anchor to reality.
Maybe he does. They were all in danger when Nyx was born. Without the fear hanging over their heads, it barely seems real.
"Oh gods," she groans, feeling the onset of the next contraction, her body pushing, working more on instinct than any instructions given to her.
"You're doing so well," Rhys murmurs, voice thick. "My beautiful mate. You're so strong, my love. Just a little more, and you'll be able to hold our baby."
She manages to look over at him and offer a grin that probably comes out as more of a grimace.
There's the familiar pain, accompanied by an exacerbated burning sensation, and—a gasp from Rhys, as he peers down at where she's spread open.
Everything is a blur, then. A wail of an infant, soothing praise and instructions from Madja, a flurry of motion from Rhys. All Feyre knows is the weight of a baby—her baby—on her chest.
"Oh," she breathes, staring down at the miraculous creature on her chest. Still covered in the mess of blood and everything else from birth, eyes squeezed tightly shut and face screwed up as they cry, she thinks they're the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. "Oh, my love, my love."
Feyre maneuvers—maneuvers her, the baby is a girl, she has a daughter—so that she can lay her on her bare chest. So that her daughter can feel her heart beating.
"Baby girl," she breathes in awe. Her amazement is so complete that she can't even wrench her gaze away from the dark-haired infant to watch Rhys cut the cord. All she really notices, outside of the baby, is Rhys coming back to her side, cupping the back of their daughter's head.
"You gave us a beautiful baby girl," Rhys sniffs, burying his face in her hair. "A beautiful baby girl who needs a name."
It's not a name they've discussed, but looking down at her, Feyre just thinks it feels right.
"Selene," she murmurs. "I think she's a Selene."
"Indeed she is," Rhys agrees, cupping a large hand to the back of their daughter's—Selene's—head. "A pretty name for a pretty girl."
Summary: When Lord Archeron dies and is survived only by his wife and three daughters, a distant male relative steps in to inherit the estate and the care of the Archeron women.
A contribution to @officialfeysandweek
Read the full story on AO3 or click the links below to find the chapters on tumblr.
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Chapter 1 - Young, Wayward, Lost in the Cold
Chapter 2 - Turn Your Rags Into Gold
Chapter 3 - The Winding Road
Chapter 4 - I Protect the Family
Chapter 5 - I Showed You All The Tricks of the Trade
Summary: When Lord Archeron dies and is survived only by his wife and three daughters, a distant male relative steps in to inherit the estate and the care of the Archeron women.
Happy @officialfeysandweek! This is for Day 7: Family, hope you enjoy!
Read on AO3 or read below on tumblr!
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The mating frenzy, Feyre later learned it was called, kept them under its thrall for over a week.
"Mother probably thinks I'm dead," Feyre said on the first morning when she didn't wake with the ravenous urge to crawl inside his skin.
Rhysand was curled around her, his wing tucked over them like a blanket. "I don't see a need to correct that assumption."
She threw an elbow into his ribs, which he sustained with a chuckle and an apologetic nip to her ear.
"We're going back," she said sternly. "At least until my sisters are each married."
They'd already discussed his—during what little moments of sanity they had in between incessant bouts of fucking. Feyre thought she might have lost weight from the sheer amount of exercise and how little she'd been eating to replenish her strength. They'd only managed just enough to sustain themselves, only for as long as she could stand not having his cock inside her.
"How about we stay for the social season, have our wedding, and then insist we require a newlywed escape to the countryside, hm?"
Feyre could admit that sounded tempting, especially when Rhysand's hand scraped across the valley of her breast, taking one into his proprietary hold. She shivered as his thumb playfully circled one of her peaked nipples. He had a fixation on them, she noticed—but then again, that fixation seemed to extend to everything when it came to her.
"Your mother will have gotten what she wanted," Rhys added. "Next, she'll be insisting we give her grandchildren. And that is a duty I would be happy to fulfill, and the perfect excuse to retire to a private estate."
"But we won't actually be staying in the mortal lands, will we?"
He dipped his head, trailing kisses from her neck to her shoulder. "I'd like to show you my lands in Prythian, if you'll indulge me. I think you'd love the Night Court."
His voice took on a wistful edge, one that made Feyre's chest ache. Try as she might, she couldn't replicate that feeling about anywhere. No place had ever truly felt like home to her, but she had the sense that wasn't the case for Rhys. He spoke of his homeland, his court, with pride.
"We can go," she said. It was hard to tell if the spark of excitement in her chest belonged to her or her mate, their minds so deeply entwined she sometimes had trouble deciphering where she ended and he began. But Feyre had always been curious about the world that awaited beyond the Wall, and she wouldn't mind seeing it for herself. "But—promise nothing will eat me?"
Rhys gave her a positively wicked grin. "Can I be made an exception?"
She snorted. "As if you could stand to put that tongue away for more than a day."
"I couldn't," he said, emphasizing his point by sliding his tongue under her jaw. "I would miss the taste of you too much."
"You're insatiable."
He didn't deny it. If Rhysand had his way, they would have stayed in the cabin for another week—another month, even—dedicating their time to nothing outside of the pleasures of their flesh.
"There is one benefit to returning to the mortal lands," he mused, tracing an invisible pattern down her arm. Black ink appeared in the wake of his fingers, a design that slowly unraveled itself from her elbow to her fingertips. "I'll get to enjoy my own human wedding."
Feyre pulled her arm away with a gasp. "What did you do to me?"
"It's a bargain tattoo," he answered, daring to let his amusement show. "In the Night Court, bargains are permanently marked upon the flesh. I've had it glamored until now. The same way I hide my wings and ears to look human."
Her initial shock wearing off, Feyre was able to admire the design. From a distance, the tattoo looked like a lace glove, but closer to her face, she could see the intricate depictions of flowers and curves. It was art. Etched into her skin, like smears of charcoal that even her governess couldn't wipe off.
It thrilled her, but there was no chance she would be admitting that to him.
"I'm growing tired of your dramatic reveals, Rhysand." She grumbled. "Anything else you'd like to tell me?"
His silence was damning.
Feyre sat up, the warmth and safety of his wing falling away. "Oh my god, there is!"
She watched as he ran a nervous hand through his short, sex-mussed hair while her nerves grew into a tangled mass in her stomach. It had to be truly unspeakable if even Rhysand was having trouble admitting to it.
"Two things," he said finally.
She raised her brows, prompting him to continue.
"The first is the rite—the ritual that will bind your life to mine. I've already begun it without your knowing." Feyre narrowed her eyes. Rhys went on, "It requires mates to exchange their blood during an act of carnal desire. Mine, when you sucked my thumb in the woods. Yours, when I bit you during our frenzy."
Feyre looked down at herself, assessing her body for any change. "So, I'm immortal now?"
"Not yet. The final step is an offering. Similar to how a female must offer food to her mate to accept the mating bond, but this time, the offering is mine. A kernel of my magic." He presented his palm. A glittering teardrop emerged from his skin, rippling with a power that she had to look away from before it seared her eyes. "Once you take this, the threads of our lives will become permanently entwined. When we leave this world…" He swallowed. "We'll leave together."
She thought she understood, then, the magnitude of what he was offering. Not just binding her life to his, but the reverse as well. His powerful, impervious body would forever have a vulnerability in the fragile mortal at his side.
Her eyes began welling with tears. Rhysand's hand was immediately there, chasing them away.
"You're truly willing to take that risk?" She asked him.
"It's no risk. I don't want to live in a world without you," he said fiercely. "Not for a single second."
It wasn't a hard decision to make. Rhys could see the moment she decided, and the smile that spread across his face was one of relief, not fear. It mattered more to him that her life was made longer than that his might be cut short.
No one had ever loved her that much before.
Holding her gaze, Rhysand moved his glowing palm to the space just above her heart. He ducked to kiss her forehead at the same moment the magic made contact, swelling and burning as it wrapped around her heart. She cried out, falling into his arms as he held her, stroking her, murmuring soothing words until the sensation eventually ebbed.
"Do you feel different?" He asked.
Feyre looked down at her body again. Her skin gleamed with a strange light, and her fingers looked longer as she flexed them out along Rhysand's chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath. Feeling it in synch with her own. Forevermore.
"A little," she admitted, blinking in the details of him, which were sharper, clearer. "I feel… stronger, I think."
He smiled. "The true test will be another chase through the snow."
Of course he would suggest something so crude. Feyre snorted, but as the hunger swelled in his gaze, she froze. He smelled… She inhaled, registering the scent of citrus and the sea that had always been present, but now with something rich and masculine beneath it. The back of her mouth began watering.
"I—" She had to lick moisture back into his mouth. "I can smell—"
Rhysand chuckled. "You can smell exactly what you do to me," he filled in. Then he shamelessly leaned closer, skimming his nose along her throat to inhale her scent. "And perhaps now you understand why I'm so addicted to you."
If this was akin to what he could sense all along, then perhaps she could forgive him for his multitude of transgressions.
Except—
"What was the second thing?"
She interrupted him moments from sucking her neck between his teeth. "Hmm?"
Feyre shoved his head away, finding with satisfaction that she was strong enough, now, to actually push him off. "You said there were two things you needed to tell me. You only told me one."
"Oh," he said. "Right, of course. Nothing gets past my cunning little mate."
Another beat of silence.
"Rhysand," Feyre warned.
He took her hand in his. "As I tell you this, I want you to remember that our lives are now bound together. If you kill me, you'll also be killing yourself."
Feyre only offered him a hard stare.
Sheepishly, Rhysand told her, "It might have slipped my mind to mention I'm also High Lord of the Night Court."
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Arhceron Manor was exactly how they left it.
When the carriage pulled up to the flagstone steps, Feyre had the strange sense that she was looking through Rhysand's eyes once again as she stepped out of the carriage to see her mother and sisters waiting, curtsied low to welcome their new Lord home.
But this was not a memory she was reliving. It was a current one. And the new Lord Archeron that stepped out of the carriage did so with Feyre in his hand.
"We're pleased you're home, Lord Archeron," mother said. "Thank you for so diligently looking after my daughter."
Rhysand affectionately chucked his gloved thumb under Feyre's chin. "It was the least I could do to tend to my betrothed through her illness. You're feeling much improved now, aren't you, Feyre?"
She smiled at him, warmed to see the adoration in his eyes and know that not an ounce of it was faked. Her only hope was that he could see her own fondness mirrored back. "I am, thanks to you, my lord."
Mother clapped her hands together. "It's true, then? You've proposed to my youngest daughter, and she's accepted? There will be a wedding?"
Rhysand nodded. "We'd like to honor your mourning period—"
"Oh, posh!" Mother interrupted. "We shouldn't allow death to interfere with young love! We'll begin preparations immediately. I think it would do us all a bit of good to have something positive to focus on."
Dark laughter echoed in the back of her mind. I think she's more excited than you are, Feyre darling.
She hasn't the slightest idea how annoying you can be. I think anyone's excitement would be dulled.
Funny, you didn't seem to find me annoying when you were riding my cock in the carriage.
"That's very considerate of you, Lady Archeron," Rhysand said, acting every bit the respectable gentleman mother assumed he was, even while whispering filth into her daughter's mind. "Now, I do think that Miss Feyre is overdue for some rest after her exhausting journey."
You're a scoundrel, Feyre seethed. Rhys sent her a sideways glance, grinning with his eyes.
"Oh, my darling girl!" Mother exclaimed, coming forward to clap both of Feyre's cheeks between her wrinkly hands. "I am so pleased to see you've recovered. Well done."
It was a curious thing. Feyre knew her mother wouldn't be nearly so pleased by her recovery if she hadn't returned engaged to Rhysand. Before meeting him, that knowledge might have stung her, made her feel that nobody cared whether she lived or died so long as she wasn't a burden.
Now, it was something she could observe as if behind a pane of glass. It made her capable of mustering a smile. Saying, "Thank you, Mother," without feeling bitter.
Because as she walked back into her family manor, she did so with Rhysand by her side.
And Feyre knew she would never feel alone again.
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Bonus Epilogue
"Mother warned me not to let you in here, you know."
Rhysand slinked around her art studio with feline curiosity, studying each of her pieces with a disciple's rigor, like they might hold some deep secret to the world beneath the lines and shadows, and he was intent on uncovering it.
Even her comment hadn't been enough to throw his concentration. His eyes never left the canvas as he murmured, "Why's that?"
It felt strangely intimate, allowing him in here, watching him examine her work. He'd seen her naked and splayed in a hundred vulnerable positions before him, but none felt quite as bare as this.
Feyre nibbled at her bottom lip. "I think she worried you would find it unbecoming."
Perhaps it was the underlying shame thrumming through the bond that prompted his head to turn. His eyes glittered with mischief. "You know what she would find even more unbecoming?"
When Feyre tilted her head in question, his grin widened.
"If you painted me in the nude."
Even as she sighed, she couldn't hide the smile breaking over her lips. "Very well," she said, prepared to call his bluff as she reached for her brush. "Strip, High Lord."
Fortunately for Feyre, her husband was very good at following orders.
“La bohème.”
Feyre couldn’t tell if it was a question or an affirmation. Couldn’t tell if he really knew what this meant or if he was simply repeating a word her artist friends kept saying, over and over.
Didn’t know if even she knew what this meant, exactly.
For her, it was a feeling.
For her, it was a state of mind.
For her, it was this life she was living.
Artistic and free and carefree.
Happy.
Thank you so much to everyone who participated in Day 6 of Feysand Week! Check out the links below to explore all of the amazing contributions that were shared!
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📝Fics, drabbles, and poetry:
I'll Be Your Father Figure by @the-lonelybarricade
All You Had To Do Was Stay (With the High Lord) by @rosanna-writer
Love, travelling at the speed of light by @littedidyouknow
You'll be Sleeping With the Fishes Before You Know You're Drowning by @dogsarethebest312
Lights Will Guide You Home by @amethystficarchive
all the stars in the moonlit sky by @astra-aeterna
🎨Art and moodboards
Family art by @shallyne
The Fate of Ophelia (Feysand's Version) moodboard by @dogsarethebest312
