misstree "so, can i sleep here tonight?" it was becoming a habit, something that was beginning to chafe and dig and rub, dangerous dealings for those so ready to snarl and snap and destroy.

"i don't know, what are you going to do for me?" utterly impassive, always. it boggled me that i had so much of his time; i never sensed his presence on my pinkie, and with him, i keenly felt the label of "intelligent monkey."

"what can i do?" i was never quite sure where he was leading--the path was dark and very, very twisted.

"you tell me. it has to be something you won't like."

the second drew me up short. there was little that i could think of to offer that i would not enjoy; that was perhaps why he kept me around, a convenient and enjoyable meat toy that happened to have head enough to entertain. but what could be offered that was fitting? i scrolled my mind; nothing came.

time passed. i knew that he would not bend on the price; i knew that at that hour, i had little hope of securing alternate lodgings. "tell ya what, you can owe me one. my choice." he rescued me with dubious offer.

i contemplated. i knew not to trust this creature to act in my best interest unless it coincided with his own. i knew that he delighted in little cruelties. i knew that, for the time being, i was in his thrall; he knew too much that i did not, that i was desperate to scent.


later that night, he took a red_token. i still wonder what price i paid.
misstree "what am i getting out of this?"

i can't stop asking myself. sometimes when he comes padding in, he brings tokens, mice and rabbits and very nearly a deer (though it wasn't quite dead, and he scared the poor thing off). but why the waiting and wondering?

i tick off possibilities. it's not sex; we enjoy eachother in that way just enough that it's a night off for masturbation. the company in my bed is nice, but with weather chilling, my piles of pillows are more certain to be enjoyable embrace than he. the conversations are interesting, but half the time we're at different ends of the spectrum, either deep or shallow, and we watch eachother bewildered.

i keep returning to the art of him, this sleek feline. in meat, he is larger than life, six and a half feet and every inch owned, movement supple and muscular. the skin that clothes it is crawling with lines and runes and symbols, meanings shifting as they intertwine. a bright and broad nordic face is set with four lines, animating every expression tenfold as it dances through bright blue eyes.

and like much other art, there are parts to him that remain mystery. his past is far more sordid than mine in some ways, but he is absolutely innocent in others. i see the echoes of a two-year gone addiction in him, notes still humming after all this time, but many of the other habits fallen away. i can see some of the threads that have led to both his feline narcissism and his subtle self-hate, but his overall inner workings are so different from mine as to be unreasonably intriguing.

that may be the reason that i allow it, but it isn't what i get out of it, the old "what's in it for me?"

it's nice to be the one with the can opener, for once. more than nice; somewhere between nice and need, far enough that i keep an ear tuned to the sound of scratching at the door. i worry, because despite our differences we are undeniably brethren in Weird ways, and because i am his occasional caretaker, giving space and shower and rest for brief times, each of us offering and sharing as we can. this is no single-sided exchange; my belly has been filled and mind addled and adventure engaged many times by his sharings.

but to have one who is without, and to be able to provide... it is not need but so very important, a bed to sleep in, a soul to speak to, and i get plenty out of seeing that i can help.
what's it to you?
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