- Trent knows damn well that you take care of him. It's one hell of a job, and he appreciates you so much for doing it; he probably couldn't tell you the number of times you've forced him to eat or drink or to 'stop playing with those noise machines and come to bed, dammit.' 

As much as he would like to return the favor, there hardly ever seems to be a need for it. You're pretty self-sufficient in general, not to mention selfless. Most of the times he's tried to help you, you've turned him down, shaking your head. 

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it," you'd tease, reaching out to ruffle his hair in a way that was much more loving than condescending. "You just focus on learning to take care of yourself, Reznor. I'm fine."

- But sometimes he gets the feeling that you're not one-hundred percent fine; you're at least a little stressed, if nothing else.  You spend hours, relentlessly slaving over things that he knows can be done later, becoming more and more dead to the world around you. He knows he has it figured out when you snap at him, and he hadn't done anything to deserve it for once. 

You feel bad about it afterwards, of course. The regret soon shows on your face; your eyes grow wide as you stammer out an apology. "Oh God, babe, I am so sorry," you say. "I'm just-- I didn't mean it--" 

"Shh. It's fine." He pulls you to him. You sigh as you rest your head on his shoulder, and for a moment, he thinks he's finally gotten you where he wants you, that you'll finally relax for once. 

He kisses you gently on the forehead before pulling away ever-so-slightly. "How about you sit down while I clean--" 

Just like that, all his progress is lost, -- you squirm, breaking free from his grip. "Oh my God, shut up," you huff. "I can do the dishes. I'm not an invalid." 

...and you're right back in your state of overworked bitchiness. 

That just won't do, Trent thinks as he watches you storm across the kitchen, turning on the sink and beginning to scrub at a plate as if your life depended on it.

He's gonna have to do something, he decides. He's going to get you to rest, or die trying. 

- When you come back from work the next afternoon, you already have the feeling that something's up as soon as you walk through the door. It's not the few-thousand candles that are lit around various areas of the house, -- no, that's normal, considering that you live with the actual modern-day embodiment of Dracula. 

What tips you off to the fact that you've just walked into a trap is your boyfriend himself. As soon as the door closes behind you, he appears from around the corner, proceeding to halfway-tackle you, much like you had seen him do to so many of his other victims onstage. The difference is that, even if he isn't quite gentle, he's at least a bit more loving with you, -- in the very same instant, he presses his lips to yours, tenderly brushing a strand of your hair from your face before all-too-casually running a finger down the side of your neck. 

Smooth, you note, a slight smile forming on your lips as goosebumps break out across your skin. 

Finally, he pulls his mouth away from yours, -- though he keeps you pinned to the wall, nonetheless. Even with his eyes hidden in shadow, the sky grin on his face tells you all you need to know. 

That's his strategy: get you into the bed, by getting you in bed with him.

A compelling idea, but you have no plans to relent.

You sigh, pretending to be utterly unamused. "Take it easy, Romeo," you say. "I have things to do--"

- "Like hell, you do."

You're surprised by his insistence, -- not to mention somewhere between extremely pleased and very displeased. 

Regardless, you're going to put up a fight. You test your limits, squirming against the wall. "Seriously, Trent--" 

"No can do, angel." He smiles at you like that again, a look of premature satisfaction on his pretty face. That look scares you, really. What the hell is he planning to do? 

You get the answer to your unasked question when he grabs you around the waist, proceeding to haphazardly carry you bridal style towards the living room. 

- You squeal and scream in protest the entire time, fruitlessly begging for him to put you down, for God's sakes, has he lost his damn mind? 

He finally ends up dropping you on the couch, just before practically collapsing on top of you, smiling playfully as you pout.

"Jesus," you say. "How do you even do it? You only weigh, like, what, -- a hundred pounds?" You shoot him a pointed glare. "Which means that I could totally push you off of me, by the way, so I suggest you--"

"No." 

He loops one, -- indeed, rather skinny, -- arm around you, pulling you back into him as he sits up. "You're stuck with me, babe."

You continue to huff and puff at him. "God, you're an ass!" you say. "If you don't let me go do whatever it is I planned on doing right now, I swear I'll... mmm." 

Dammit, you think bitterly. He's found your weakness. 

-- You can't see Trent's face as he massages your shoulders with those freaking graceful hands of his, but you imagine that he's pretty darn proud of himself. And God if he can't work you just like he works the piano, alternating between firm and gentle touch so very well. Just like that, you feel the stress, -- and thus, the willpower, -- melt away from you. 

Defeated, you melt back into him. "Fine," you say. "You win." 

- He knows he did, but now's not the time to worry about that. He's just gonna focus on you for now, on making you feel better, on giving back to you what you've given to him so many times. It would seem that you're enjoying it. 

Your eyes are closed in bliss when he gently kisses you, just before making the move to get up. "Now, if you don't mind being alone for a bit, I'm gonna go start--"

You catch him by his shirtsleeve. "Don't you dare." 

He turns around. Sure enough, you're starting at him pleadingly, eyes much less harsh than your voice. "I haven't lost it enough to let you into the kitchen yet," you say softly. "Just stay with me. We can order pizza or something."

He grins as he settles back down next to you, grabbing your hand and pulling it to his lips. "As you wish, my dear."

- In the end, you wind up a tangled mess of limbs on the couch, pizza box still open in front of you. Your eyes are growing heavy, and, though it vaguely occurs to you that you should probably get to bed soon, the thought of getting up is just too unappealing to you. Rather than doing that, you bury your face in your boyfriend's chest. 

Cheek pressed against his steadily-beating heart, you smile lazily up at Trent, admiring him. He's so beautiful, really, -- even more so when he does things like this for you. He practically lights up, seeing you happy. 

"I love you," you finally tell him, quiet and sincere. "Thank you so much for putting up with me. You're the best, really."

"It's no problem at all, angel." Your eyes flutter shut as his lips brush your temple, content. "All in a day's work, right?"

You groan, swatting at him. Though it's easy to pretend to be pissed off, your heart swells upon hearing him laugh.

Still, you roll your eyes. "Cocky bastard," you mumble.