#rhysweek2026

[lucychanart]

A small contribution to my little monster's week while I prepare something decent🙏🏻💜🌌

[senu102929]

@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...

(Art base by @tailum4!!)

[popjunkie42]

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!!

Happy Rhys Week and I can't wait to see what everyone has cooking!

[officialrhysweek]

What do YOU think is Rhys's last name?

Night

Archeron

Moonbeam

HighLordoftheNightCourt

Darling

Something else even more terrible (tell us in the comments/reblogs)

Voting ended onMar 5

[rainymorning-writes]

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

Read on AO3

[baenakinskywalker]

long may you reign

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.

What a miracle.

[northisnight]

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

Thank you to the mods for all your hard work!

[rosanna-writer]

the hospital was a drag

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!

"Christ, Rhys, you really are in bad shape."

If the pain radiating through Rhysand's right lower abdomen hadn't been a telltale sign that the situation was dire, Feyre's use of his name certainly was. Not prick or Illyrian baby or bastard for once—just Rhys.

"They're saying it could be appendicitis," Rhys said, pulling a knee up to his chest in an attempt to get comfortable.

Feyre carefully balanced her long, thin easel bag on the chair, and paper crinkled as she she perched herself on the edge of the emergency room bed. Rhys ached to scoot closer, but the slightest movement sent another shooting pain through his gut.

Feyre's fingers, still covered in paint from the class she'd left in a rush, carded through his hair. A shiver of a different kind ran through Rhys—not one related to his fever, but the same awestruck reaction to Feyre's touch that hadn't abated after a year of marriage.

"If it is, I'm so glad they caught it in time."

Rhys didn't disagree, though privately, he doubted his appendix would burst in Feyre's presence. His wife could do anything she put her mind to, and he supposed that included keeping his organs from rupturing through the sheer force of her iron will.

It probably wouldn't get him out of surgery, though.

"I'm not allowed to eat or drink anything," he said, not that he had much of an appetite at the moment.

Feyre frowned. "I didn't see you have breakfast before I left this morning."

She'd threatened to force-feed him porridge if he kept it up; Rhys had called her an overbearing mother hen and kissed away her irritated scowl, and she'd hurried out the door before she was late for her first class of the day.

It had only been a few hours prior, but after a nearly collapsing in his office and dragging himself to the emergency room, it felt like a lifetime ago.

"I should have listened to you." In this, and everything else, honestly.

It was a perfect opening for Feyre to tease him, and in any other circumstances, she would have. But with him curled up in agony, it was obvious he didn't have the energy to banter.

The fingers she carded through his hair switched to gently scratching his scalp. Rhys sighed and relaxed into the touch.

They didn't speak a again for a while. Rhys didn't feel much like talking as he waited for exams and imaging and doses of medication. Feyre kept up the gentle, rhythmic strokes to his hair with one hand, while using the other to pull up poetry on her phone and recite it quietly to him.

She cycled through his favorites—Mary Oliver, ee cummings, John Donne—and Rhys let himself cling to her voice like a lifeline. Even through the haze of pain, he still marveled at how smoothly she read nowadays. It sounded effortless, as if Feyre hadn't once found literacy to be a frustrating, uphill climb.

His pride in all she'd accomplished edged out his misery, just a bit.

The next few days were the worst of his life—a rough surgery and an even rougher recovery. At times, Rhys started to wonder if he'd ever hold down food again. But Feyre was there through all of it, interrogating doctors and reading him more poetry and rubbing dry shampoo into his blue-black hair when he couldn't shower.

But he made it through, and Rhys had never been more grateful to find himself home. Sure, he couldn't lift anything heavier than a potato and his abdomen still ached around the staples, but it was all infinitely easier to bear in the townhouse, where Feyre's art hung from every wall.

He'd just made himself comfortable amid the mountain of pillows she'd arranged on the sofa when she appeared in the doorway. Steam rose from the tray in her hands, the smell of soup making his mouth water.

"Sorry I didn't make it from scratch," Feyre said, as if Rhys didn't know perfectly well that she was utterly hopeless in the kitchen.

He gave her a wan smile. "You have nothing at all to apologize for."

She crossed the room far more slowly than usual—his Feyre was forever rushing headlong into anything and everything—careful not to let the soup slosh. Rhys's stomach growled audibly; they both winced.

"To the chicken and stars that listen," Feyre said, gingerly placing the tray in his lap.

Despite his ravenous hunger, Rhys paused to peck her cheek as soon as Feyre had moved within kissing distance. She gave a half-hearted glare and made an impatient gesture towards the spoon.

Rhys took a sip of broth, letting it warm him from the inside out. After so much jello, the faint taste of chicken and carrots—real food—nearly made him groan in pleasure. It was all he could do not to start shoveling the star-shaped pasta into his mouth with reckless abandon.

Between bites, he continued, "And the dreams that are answered, Feyre darling."