Fic: Domestic Short-Hair (J2. PG-13, Crack!fic) 2/?
Does anybody have a picture of Jensen with any kind of cat? Anybody?
More kitty-crack.
Trist hides his face in the crook of Jensen's elbow. Everything is wrong. The couch wouldn’t let him get behind it, and he doesn’t have whiskers so he hit his head as he tried to find the gap. Everything smells flat, like nothing at all. His feet are funny and his fur is gone. The air touches his skin and it’s not nice at all.
He can barely see and that’s the worst thing of all. The only thing that’s the same and good is Jensen.
Trist makes the ‘tummy hurts’ noise, a long mournful “Mowww” of distress.
“Hey,” says Jensen, “Hey, you want a treat?”
Trist considers the offer. He’s not hungry, but treats always make everything better. He looks up at his owner’s face, and Jensen makes the teeth-face (the good one).
Jensen scoots Trist off of his lap and then stands up to walk to the food-place. Trist tries to follow him, but Jensen stops him.
“Okay, dude, two legs good, crawling around naked is just kinda weird.”
Then he does this thing to Trist, pushing him and moving his legs and then pulling on his front paw and suddenly Trist is so high up he doesn’t know what to do. He looks down, and he’s standing up like Jensen. Standing taller than Jensen. He wobbles a little and Jensen steadies him, but it’s not all that hard. He’s a cat. He can manage balance.
“Oh crap,” Jensen says, and brings his hand up between himself and Trist.
Trist looks down at what Jensen's hiding from himself. Hey. He’s got male-parts. He missed those. Every time Jensen takes him to the smell-bad poke-with-needles place he thinks they’re going to take more parts of him off. He tries to lick them hello and almost falls over. No fair. He shouldn’t be not-bendy.
“Here,” says Jensen and pulls the sleep-cloth off of the couch, wrapping Jared’s bottom-half up in it. Jared squirms at the feel of the fabric on his legs, the way it tickles the sparse fur.
Moment by moment, the change becomes less disturbing. Being up high is always good, and Jensen is paying him a lot of attention.
“C’mon,” Jensen calls and walks backward toward the food-place, watching Trist as he goes.
One foot in front of the other is weird, and Trist holds his front paws up against his chest to help his balance.
Jensen snickers and leads him over to the table, and Trist hesitates. The table is Forbidden. The table is where Jensen hisses at him. The table is where water sometimes appears from nowhere and squirts him.
Jensen guides him into the chair, and Jensen wouldn’t make him go where the yucky water is so it must be okay now.
Jensen takes a step away, and Trist is sure he’s gonna take another if something’s not done, and two steps away just won’t do. Trist will be bored then, all on his own by this boring table with the boring chairs and Ooh! Jensen's going to the box with the cold light inside.
Trist catches up with Jensen before he can get too terribly far away. Normally he’d walk between Jensen's feet, because Jensen likes that. He says things like “Trist (blah blah blah) this” and “Trist (blah blah blah) that” and “Am I not giving you enough attention? So neglected.”
Trist tries the nuzzle-thing, and the easiest to nuzzle part of Jensen is the back of his neck, and when Jensen turns, his shoulder. He tries to purr, but it doesn’t come out right and it makes him cough. He’s happy again, because Jensen smells good, like safety and home and love.
Jensen makes a funny choking noise, and Trist wonders if he’s trying to purr too, but then Jensen's hands come up, firm but gentle as they push him away. Trist cocks his head in confusion. Jensen never pushes him away.
“No,” Jensen says, sure and firm.
Trist tries the cute-face, eyebrows up and okay, so his ears won’t perk up, but he makes do with what he has. “MaMow?” he asks, and leans in again.
Jensen's skin is warmer, and his scent has changed, just a little. “Trist,” he tries again, “Trist, no. You can’t--can you even understand a word I’m saying?”
Trist blinks at him. He likes it when Jensen says his name, even if there’s a ‘no’ behind it.
“Trist,” Jensen says again, and he takes Trist’s front paw-thing and puts it on Trist’s chest. “Trist.”
Trist blinks at him again.
“Jensen,” says Jensen, slow and low, and moves Trist’s paw to his own chest. “Jensen.”
Jensen sighs, and Trist looks down. Hands. He doesn’t have paws, he has hands. Like Jensen's.
Jensen moves Trist’s fingers to his lips. “Jensen.”
Trist can feel the sounds, can feel the way Jensen's lips move as he makes them. He tries a noise of his own, a fuzzy little chirp of sound that sounds more like “Zhehn?”
Jensen laughs, a sound like chasing birds or finding the plastic ring or a new shiny toy, like the best things Trist can think of, ever.
He tries the name-sound again, moving his tongue and his lips and his voice all at the same time. “Zhen?” Close, so close. “Jen!” he manages, and the happy-noises come from his throat too, like bubbles that pop as soon as they leave his mouth, bright little barks of noise.
He nuzzles in again and Jensen lets him. He even scritches at the hair on the back of Trist’s neck.
Trist makes a joyful little “Bripp.” Maybe being a people is nice.
More kitty-crack.
Trist hides his face in the crook of Jensen's elbow. Everything is wrong. The couch wouldn’t let him get behind it, and he doesn’t have whiskers so he hit his head as he tried to find the gap. Everything smells flat, like nothing at all. His feet are funny and his fur is gone. The air touches his skin and it’s not nice at all.
He can barely see and that’s the worst thing of all. The only thing that’s the same and good is Jensen.
Trist makes the ‘tummy hurts’ noise, a long mournful “Mowww” of distress.
“Hey,” says Jensen, “Hey, you want a treat?”
Trist considers the offer. He’s not hungry, but treats always make everything better. He looks up at his owner’s face, and Jensen makes the teeth-face (the good one).
Jensen scoots Trist off of his lap and then stands up to walk to the food-place. Trist tries to follow him, but Jensen stops him.
“Okay, dude, two legs good, crawling around naked is just kinda weird.”
Then he does this thing to Trist, pushing him and moving his legs and then pulling on his front paw and suddenly Trist is so high up he doesn’t know what to do. He looks down, and he’s standing up like Jensen. Standing taller than Jensen. He wobbles a little and Jensen steadies him, but it’s not all that hard. He’s a cat. He can manage balance.
“Oh crap,” Jensen says, and brings his hand up between himself and Trist.
Trist looks down at what Jensen's hiding from himself. Hey. He’s got male-parts. He missed those. Every time Jensen takes him to the smell-bad poke-with-needles place he thinks they’re going to take more parts of him off. He tries to lick them hello and almost falls over. No fair. He shouldn’t be not-bendy.
“Here,” says Jensen and pulls the sleep-cloth off of the couch, wrapping Jared’s bottom-half up in it. Jared squirms at the feel of the fabric on his legs, the way it tickles the sparse fur.
Moment by moment, the change becomes less disturbing. Being up high is always good, and Jensen is paying him a lot of attention.
“C’mon,” Jensen calls and walks backward toward the food-place, watching Trist as he goes.
One foot in front of the other is weird, and Trist holds his front paws up against his chest to help his balance.
Jensen snickers and leads him over to the table, and Trist hesitates. The table is Forbidden. The table is where Jensen hisses at him. The table is where water sometimes appears from nowhere and squirts him.
Jensen guides him into the chair, and Jensen wouldn’t make him go where the yucky water is so it must be okay now.
Jensen takes a step away, and Trist is sure he’s gonna take another if something’s not done, and two steps away just won’t do. Trist will be bored then, all on his own by this boring table with the boring chairs and Ooh! Jensen's going to the box with the cold light inside.
Trist catches up with Jensen before he can get too terribly far away. Normally he’d walk between Jensen's feet, because Jensen likes that. He says things like “Trist (blah blah blah) this” and “Trist (blah blah blah) that” and “Am I not giving you enough attention? So neglected.”
Trist tries the nuzzle-thing, and the easiest to nuzzle part of Jensen is the back of his neck, and when Jensen turns, his shoulder. He tries to purr, but it doesn’t come out right and it makes him cough. He’s happy again, because Jensen smells good, like safety and home and love.
Jensen makes a funny choking noise, and Trist wonders if he’s trying to purr too, but then Jensen's hands come up, firm but gentle as they push him away. Trist cocks his head in confusion. Jensen never pushes him away.
“No,” Jensen says, sure and firm.
Trist tries the cute-face, eyebrows up and okay, so his ears won’t perk up, but he makes do with what he has. “MaMow?” he asks, and leans in again.
Jensen's skin is warmer, and his scent has changed, just a little. “Trist,” he tries again, “Trist, no. You can’t--can you even understand a word I’m saying?”
Trist blinks at him. He likes it when Jensen says his name, even if there’s a ‘no’ behind it.
“Trist,” Jensen says again, and he takes Trist’s front paw-thing and puts it on Trist’s chest. “Trist.”
Trist blinks at him again.
“Jensen,” says Jensen, slow and low, and moves Trist’s paw to his own chest. “Jensen.”
Jensen sighs, and Trist looks down. Hands. He doesn’t have paws, he has hands. Like Jensen's.
Jensen moves Trist’s fingers to his lips. “Jensen.”
Trist can feel the sounds, can feel the way Jensen's lips move as he makes them. He tries a noise of his own, a fuzzy little chirp of sound that sounds more like “Zhehn?”
Jensen laughs, a sound like chasing birds or finding the plastic ring or a new shiny toy, like the best things Trist can think of, ever.
He tries the name-sound again, moving his tongue and his lips and his voice all at the same time. “Zhen?” Close, so close. “Jen!” he manages, and the happy-noises come from his throat too, like bubbles that pop as soon as they leave his mouth, bright little barks of noise.
He nuzzles in again and Jensen lets him. He even scritches at the hair on the back of Trist’s neck.
Trist makes a joyful little “Bripp.” Maybe being a people is nice.