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It starts when Ted sees Trent fling his cat into the couch.
“Uh,” says Ted, unsure if he should question this. Trent sees his mild concern and is apparently unbothered, as if this is an everyday occurrence, even as the cat hops down and circles his feet.
“Oh, don’t worry about him, he loves it,” says Trent, blasé. “Watch this.”
He scoops up the fat, fluffy cat, and then, without fanfare or pause, turns and tosses him onto the bed in a sort of underhanded swing, like a bowling motion.
The cat goes flying, crashing safely into the pillows and then rolling on his back there, squirming happily.
After a moment of this, the cat leaps up and deftly off the bed, landing softly on the floor and padding right back up to Trent, rubbing his little head on Trent’s legs.
Trent gives a fond little sigh. “See?” he says. “He wants me to do it again.”
The cat mrowls pleadingly, firmly pressing a paw to Trent’s calf. When this does nothing, he makes a little huff, then nuzzles his little nose against Trent.
“Absolutely loves being thrown on the bed,” Trent continues. “Not really sure why—” he looks down at the cat now determinedly nuzzling against his leg in a way so firm it’s almost more aggressive headbutting, and says, not without affection, “—stop it, you little whore—”
Ted’s mouth is moving before his brain. He says it before he actually hears the final words Trent’s said, still caught up on he loves being thrown on the bed. “Just like his dad, huh?”
Trent startles, head snapping up to look at him so fast his hair seems to swish, almost flounce.
Ted registers what he just said—or at least implied—right as Trent flushes red.
“…y-yes?” ventures Trent.
Admittedly teasing Trent about how he likes to be manhandled isn’t all that much better from affectionately calling him a whore, but it was still unintentional. On the bright side, Trent hardly seems opposed.
The cat gives a pitiful wail, attempting to get their attention. Their attention is not gotten.
Ted honestly could have just stood there, frozen, staring at Trent, both of them with matching wide eyes and pink faces, but Trent seems to snap out of it and unfreeze and rather abruptly change the subject, bending down to snatch up the cat—Ted should really learn the little fucker’s fuzzball’s name at some point—and give Ted an overwhelmed little smile.
Yeah, fair enough. Ted’s got nothing either.
Later, however, this slip-up will end up paying dividends, because it’s then that Trent—as they’re kissing and quickly sliding down the slippery slope into making out—will half-gasp and half-moan into Ted’s lips something like (and you’ll forgive Ted for not remembering specifics, as all the blood was real busy rushing down south) remember what you said earlier? What was it you called me, handsome? He leans inwards with a teasing little grin, blushing just a little despite himself, and draws it out—a whore?
Okay, that last part was almost a purr. And when Ted basically throws him onto the bed (just how he likes) and climbs on top of him and gets to doing what he does best—talking, in this case the dirty variety, because if a little name-calling will get Trent hot and bothered, why shouldn’t Ted oblige?—he spares a split second to think he’s really gotta get that cat some tuna.
(The cat’s name is Duchess. Trent did not name him, but had grown accustomed to it nonetheless.)
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