“Nooooo,” you whine mournfully into the pillow. Just the thought of leaving the cozy plushness of your mattress could bring you to tears.

“I know,” Trey tells you with a mixture of sympathy and indulgence. “But you taste tested all those desserts for me, remember? And as delicious as it is, all that sugar will rot your teeth.”

You sniff, turning to peek at him. Trey’s smiling at you, not even bothering to hide his amusement. You pout at him. “You villain... feeding me sugar so I need to brush my teeth.

He laughs at that, his eyebrows furrowed. “You should brush your teeth regardless of what I feed you, you know?” Trey offers his hand to you. “C’mon. I’ll help you.”

You can’t bring yourself to say no to him, and he knows it. Grumbling, you peel yourself away from the thick comforter and fluffed up pillows. The pure agony of it is only soothed by the way Trey caresses your shoulders, gently ushering you onward.

There’s a sort of discipline to the way Trey organizes things. It extends even here, in the domestic recesses of your shared bathroom. The clutter of your skincare being lined up in sequential order. Your matching shower caddies. It’s a lived in environment, but by no means messy.

Trey puts toothpaste on your toothbrush for you. Then, he brings the toothbrush up to your face. “Say ahhh.”

He’s joking, probably. But you’re tired. “Ahhhhh.”

Your boyfriend looks surprised, his gold eyes widening behind his glasses. Then, he smiles. “Really? Well, okay.”

Trey runs the bristles along your teeth with an expert touch and a gentle hand. Even as he pushes the brush deeper into your mouth to get to the back teeth, he’s careful, making sure not to be too rough or pushing too far in. He’s laser focused on the task. Surprisingly, it’s kinda nice. You wouldn't mind doing this more often.

“You’re being so obedient tonight,” he says in a low voice. It nearly makes you choke from shock. He pulls the brush out. “Okay, you can spit.”

Your stomach flips, and you move to spit out the foamy toothpaste into the sink, using it as an opportunity to briefly hide your face. You hadn’t expected him to say that. And he didn’t even mean for it to sound like that, so you can't help but feel a bit ashamed of yourself.

“Open for me?” Helplessly, you do. Trey leans close, inspecting your teeth as if he were your personal dental hygienist. You wonder if he can tell how flustered you are, but if he can, he doesn’t point it out. “Looks good. I won’t make you do my whole routine, but I got some floss picks you can use.”

He hands you one, and you sit on the closed toilet seat as you floss. While you do, you watch as Trey gets to work. You always thought his intensity regarding dental health was a strange quirk. Trey’s always been handsome, but from this angle, it’s especially true. He looks so at ease. You can hear him hum slightly. Cute.

You’re daydreaming for a few minutes before he addresses you again. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. He huffs, amused.

“Guess you really are sleepy.” He ruffles your hair affectionately, and you lean into his hand. You loved when he doted on you. Which you can admit was most of the time. “Well, I’m done. Let’s go to bed.”

He brings you back to your room, and before you know it, you’re tucked into the blankets. Trey slides right beside you, setting his glasses on the bedside table. The lamp is shut off, enveloping the two of you in a comfortable darkness. He mumbles you goodnight. It’s the perfect environment to go to sleep. However...

“Trey?”

“Yes, my love?” He whispers to you. You can hear the sleepy smile on his lips.

You shift a little, feeling shy. You reach out a timid hand, touching his arm. “I think I’m wide awake.”

There’s a pause, and you wonder if he really managed to fall asleep that quickly.

He blinks the sleep from his eyes, and meets yours. You’re wide awake, looking awfully pleased with yourself. In his periphery, he spots your tail swaying from left to right.

“Mm. Morning, kitten.” He palms your head, before petting between your ears. They twitch. “How long have you been awake?”

“Awhile. You sleep like the dead. It’d be scary, if I couldn’t literally feel you breathe.” You prop yourself up higher on his torso, your eyes brightened by sunlight. From this angle, he has a better view of your neck. He can see the hickeys that litter your skin, and knows that’s not all of them. He left more, lower down. On your breasts, waist, thighs. “You snore, by the way.”

“I’m well aware.” You never let him forget, really. Nor did you ever actually complain. He has a feeling that the knowledge pleases you greatly. You poke and prod him about everything, oddly keen about learning his likes and dislikes. Rarely do your tastes align, but Varka knows finding common ground is hardly your concern. Just the knowing is enough for you. Some days, you trail behind him, like his extra little shadow. He can’t understand your fascination with him, but he revels in your fickle attention all the same.

Words are quickly replaced by touch. It’s common for the two of you, in the early morning hours, when your vocal cords are hoarse from sleep and sex and neither of you has much to say. You trail your fingers up his chest, until you stop over a particularly gnarled scar on his bicep. He flexes just a tad, and enjoys the way you purr in response. Your hand pushes against the muscle, sharp nails digging slightly into him. Not enough to hurt. Biscuits, his brain supplies.

He strokes along your back. Your skin is so soft compared to his, his hands calloused and worn from years of experience.

At the start of your relationship, he always handled you so carefully. Like glass. He wasn’t worried about hurting you, he knew how to handle his own strength. There’s pride in that. But scaring you? That would kill him.

It’s not a worry now. If anything, you press into his hands readily, like flower petals between the pages of a book.

It’s only when he drifts lower, reaching the silky smooth insides of your thighs, that you grumble in complaint. “I’m sore.”

“Whoops.” He doesn’t let you go, but lightens his grip.

“You’re a brute,” you say with a scowl that he would call adorable, and you would claim menacing. “You practically mauled me.”

He doesn’t bring up the hypocritical dull stinging of his back. It’s a good memory, the way you yowled as you scratched him. Varka could never resist when you got loud for him, so it only made him go harder on you, uncaring of the way you scored deeper into the skin as you clenched down even tighter.

Battle scars. He earned them fair and square.

“Sorry, sorry.” He apologizes with a glibness he doesn’t expect to get away with. “Want a massage?”

You stare up at him, contemplating his offer. Then, you roll off of him. Varka mourns your warmth, but that period of grief is cut short when you don’t immediately flee the bed. Rather, you turn, your naked back on full display. He can see all of you now. The slope of your spine, all the way down to your bruised hips. His eyes rove over you, appreciatively, and you glance back over your shoulder. “Only if you play nice.”

“Ohhh, I’ll be very, very nice,” he promises as he moves to sit up. It’s cute, the way you try to remain aloof, but as always, your body language betrays you. Your ears are tall, alert, and your tail swishes with clear excitement.