SO.

This morning I went through a literal urge to write, and I wrote THREE WHOLE CHAPTERS YOU GUYS! I wanted to share my joy with you, so I'll share chapter 10 today, and chapter 11 in just a few days (probably Monday or Thursday according to when I have time to edit it).

Also, little heads up for Chapter 11, it's going to be totally nsfw (basically they'll just "Netflix and Chill" for the whole chapter hahaha), so if you're not interested in this one, you'll just be able to skip to chapter 12 and you won't miss anything of the plot.

Anyway, here we go ! I really hope you enjoy this one because I personally loved writing it :)

It had happened so naturally. She'd woken up against his shoulder, and the proximity of his body had felt so familiar, she hadn't wanted him to go. And now they were laying under her covers, all the lights out, talking quietly, their fingers intertwined together, squeezing and caressing. They were facing each other, heads rested on the pillows, so close that Feyre was able to breath in his scent of citrus as if it were her own.

"So you actually painted over this piece of art your mother had had made?" His voice sounded incredulous and amused at the story of how her mother had realized that Feyre liked to paint only when she had destroyed a very pricey mural on their living-room. Feyre laughed and answered:

"I did. It looked so awful, and it scared me so much every time I'd walk in front of it, one day I just snapped and spent two hours covering it with watercolor. My mother was so mad when she found me, my hands drenched in paint and smiling at her, I think that was the longest I was grounded in my entire life! I didn't go to a birthday party for like two years after that."

"Oh you little rebel, painting over pricey murals because you don't like them."

"Hey, I was five, okay? I didn't analyze the art, I just knew it was creepy and I wanted to change it!"

"You were five?!" He laughed even harder at that comment, and she scowled at him. He continued: "So what did you paint to improve it?"

"I painted the night sky. I covered half the wall with midnight blue and light yellow to create the stars."

"Why the night sky?"

"I don't exactly know. I mean, I do know but I was five when it happened so I can't remember if I chose consciously. I always liked watching the sky, looking up at the stars. It calmed me down when I was a kid and I think painting the sky helped me get over the fright that mural always gave me."

He stared at her, smiling, for a few seconds, before saying:

"I'm sure the result was beautiful."

"I don't think my mom would agree with you!"

They laughed and she said:

"So what about you? Any big punishment in your childhood?"

"Well I wasn't a rebel at five years old like some people," she chuckled, "but when I was fifteen, I was forbidden to go anywhere but at school for a year after I got my tattoos."

"Wait, you got your tattoos when you were fifteen?"

She had a very hard time believing it.

"Yeah, I got them after an Illyrian ceremony called the Rite. Historically, it's something every boy did before they were considered a warrior, and it's still happening today, although now it doesn't have the same importance as it used to."

"So what is the Rite? What happens, I mean?"

"You're lead into the forest with no food or supply, and you have to retrieve one of the Illyrian blades hidden in a secret temple before going back to the camp, and for the Rite to be fully completed, you have to come back in less than a week. You can get the tattoos if you complete the Rite, and the size of your tattoos depends on how long you took to come back. They usually tell the story of your journey as a warrior in the camps, so everyone is unique."

She was watching said tattoos peering out of his t-shirt, so many questions fusing in her head about Illyrian traditions, but she settled for:

"How long did it take you to come back?"

"Three days. Cassian, Azriel and I found each other the first night and we completed it together."

"So they also have tattoos?"

"They do. The three of us got tattooed over the summer, it was long and painful so I was glad to do it with them."

"How long did it take?"

"Six hours every four days, for two months. They were inked with traditional tools so it took… a while. I don't think I've ever seen my dad so mad as when he saw the ink on me at the end of the summer. He grounded us three for the entire school year, and sent us in different high schools so that we would spend less time together."

"And your mother? What did she make of it?"

"She acted as if she was mad, but I think that she was happy deep down, to see me embracing her culture that much."

They fell silent for a full minute after that, their hands still caressing each other, before Feyre whispered:

"Can I… Can I see them?"

He smiled at her and let go of her hand to pull his t-shirt off him and settle it on top of the covers. He turned to her again, and she took in the entirety of his chest, his arms, all of it covered in intricate black design.

"It's beautiful," she said, not resisting the urge to trace the lines slowly with her fingers. He went still under her touch, but didn't protest as she ran her hand up his arm and across his shoulder, before laying her palm flat on top of his thundering heart. When she looked up from his chest, she found his eyes on her, and felt herself burning, a low fire, unhurried, satisfied by the feeling of his heartbeat under her touch. For now.

She slid closer to him and brushed her lips against the tattoos on his chest. He seemed to tremble under her palm, and she felt his hand plunge into her hair and clutching softly a handful of them, turning her face to his. He was biting his lip and smiling at her, in a sweet but ravenous look that took away the breath from her. He inclined his head and captured her mouth with his, kissing her very gently as his hand still ruffled her hair. After a while of slow-burning movements, she let her tongue run against his lips, and he opened for her, deepening their kiss. She felt his hand come down from her hair to stroke her back, and she arched under the touch. She wanted to feel more of him, she wanted to take off the rest of his clothes, she wanted his hands on her bare skin, into her hair. And she wanted to touch him too, to run her fingers on his broad shoulders and down his abdomen, she wanted to explore the entirety of his tattoos, not only with her hand, but with her mouth too. She felt heat creep up her cheeks at this thought only, and laughed into his mouth, imagining his undoubtedly smug expression if he knew what she was thinking of doing to him. He took his lips off her and murmured in a low, playful voice:

"What?"

The interruption helped her calm down a bit. She chewed on her lower lip and just uttered a soft and amused "nothing" before nestling her head on his shoulder. He kissed her temple and settled against her, taking in deep breaths into her hair. She felt her heart slowly go back to a more normal pace, at the same time his did under her palm. They didn't move, didn't talk, for a good five minutes, and Feyre was content with just enjoying the warmth of his body for the rest of the night, but she felt his chest rise in rapid movements, as if…

"Why are you laughing?"

His movements stopped immediately, although when she looked at his face, he was clearly fighting off chuckles. She wriggled away to see him better and continued: "What's going on? Why are you laughing?"

He let out another laugh before answering:

"You really won't tell me?"

"What?"

"What made you stop."

Her finally calmed heart went mad again, and she blushed. He wasn't going to let it go.

"Well technically, you stopped."

"Oh, but I stopped only because you were laughing, my lady. I'd be glad to take it up again…"

She looked away from his piercing eyes and swallowed before answering his question:

"I laughed because I was thinking of… stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" But his smirk and raised eyebrows said enough about what kind of stuff he knew she had been thinking about. She batted his arm away and frowned at him but didn't answer, her reaction only making his smirk wider.

"You're insufferable!" She hissed, before turning her back to him. He barked out a laugh, and a second later, he passed an arm around her waist and she felt his warm breath against her ear.

"Oh I'm sorry, Darling, I'll try to dial down the insufferable from now on."

Against her will, she felt herself smile and rest her arm on top of his, settling closer to his front and enjoying this situation way too much. He continued:

"So what do you want to talk about?"

They resumed their conversation in that position, both of them reluctant to move away, and after about half an hour, Feyre felt her eyelids grow heavier at the same time his breathing steadied behind her.

It took Rhys a moment to process his surroundings when he woke up. He didn't open his eyes, but he knew it was still night, and he wasn't in his bed. The world was full of unfamiliar, yet not entirely foreign scents. And his face was buried in… hair. Now that he felt the hair, he started to feel other things too. A warm, smaller body against his chest, his arm laying flat on a stomach that wasn't his own, slim fingers interlaced with his. He opened his eyes slowly and the golden brown sea of hair that surrounded him had his mind invaded by one thought only: Feyre.

They had fallen asleep in that position, he remembered, a thought that had a smile forming on his face. She had wanted to see his tattoos, so he'd taken out his shirt and then they… Oh, he could still feel her hand on his body, he could still feel her lips on his chest... He stopped his thoughts at that. He was sleeping very close to her and her feeling him go hard against her back wasn't at all how he wanted her to wake up. He tightened his arm around her and let sleep find him again.

Feyre woke up to the dim October light, warm and cozy under her covers. She smiled as she felt Rhys' arm around her waist, his breathing steady on her neck. She lay against him for a few minutes, enjoying the sensation of his solid body beside hers, before slowly moving away from him. He didn't stir as she sat up and grabbed a sweater to fight off the chill of the morning. With one last look at Rhys' sleeping face on her bed, she got up, went quickly to the bathroom and then filled up the kettle to make tea. After a few minutes of watching the kettle silently, she heard the bed squeak slightly, and a few footsteps on her direction, before Rhys encircled her with his arms and whispered:

"Hey."

She turned around in his arms, rested her hands on his chest and kissed him.

"Hey. Did you sleep well?"

"I did. You?"

"Very well. Do you want some tea? Or coffee?"

"Tea would be good, thanks."

"I don't have a lot to eat… I can go buy some things if you want," she said, starting to get out of his embrace to grab some money. He stopped her and sat on the bed to put his shoes and sweater on, as he said:

"Oh no you stay here, I'll go to the store. What do you think, is bacon and eggs okay with you?"

"Yeah sure."

"I'll be right back then," he said, and he was out the door. Feyre stayed leaning against the counter for a bit, before turning back to her kettle to stop the boiling water. It was strange, the way things were unfolding with Rhys. If she looked at it rationally, everything was happening very fast between them, they had know each other for less than two weeks, and they had just spent an entire night together. The fact that they hadn't had sex yet didn't change anything, sex didn't matter to determine how close they were. She had had adventures in the past, before Tamlin, and she knew very well that she didn't define the depth of her relationships by how quickly she slept with a guy. No, with Rhys, it seemed that they had a connection, strong and unyielding, something she couldn't - and maybe didn't want to - fight against. She was extremely attracted to him, both physically and intellectually, she wanted to open up to him, talk about everything and anything with him. Last night proved it enough. She had talked more freely about her life, and the night with him… sleeping in his arms had felt so simple and intimate, she already missed him. The night before, she had been curled up in her bed, torturing her mind about not acting on this attraction for Rhysand. But now, after their evening and their night together, she felt differently, and maybe, just maybe, she was willing to try and build some kind of … relationship with him.

Rhys came back with eggs and bacon moments later, and they prepared breakfast together, laughing and chatting easily.