I haven't given up on To Touch You Is To Know What Happiness is, but I don't have computer access, so I can't update very much.

ANYWAYS, this got stuck in my head. So here you go.

This is all of it. I encourage you to write something of a reply (even though these are just Misto's thoughts) from Tugger's point of view! Just let me know if you do.

I own nothing.

I live for the nights he comes to me. They are rare but once in a while, for whatever reason, he will seek me out. Maybe Macavity was about, or Etcetera was more energetic than usual, or Bombalurina particularly feisty.

He doesn't show up until very late. He'll just appear by my bed or over by the makeshift window – for one so wont to showboat, he can be extremely quiet. I turn to him some nights and other nights I play harder to get. It depends on my mood, although I'm always willing.

When he touches me, it's like an electrical shock. It's not hard to see why he's so popular. When I'm with him, it's like no one else exists in the world. He just draws me in and then nothing matters but that he touches me, that he keeps on touching me, that his paws, his mouth, never part from me.

They sat that I'm magical, but he's the one who weaves spells with every word, every undulation of his body. He could have any cat he wants – and he does. It makes me wonder, after he leaves, if I'm really the only one he goes looking for.

Of course, I'm the only one who makes him come to me. The others throw themselves at him gladly; he doesn't need to chase them. Oh, I could just as easily join that hoard of fans that follows him around, but that's not my style. I wouldn't be different that way. I wouldn't be special.

He can make anyone feel special, though. With the simplest things.

"Misto." His mouth rests near my ear. One paw rests on my shoulder, the other works its way around my chest or waist. It's not always Misto, though. Sometimes he calls me Mistoffelees or Quaxo. He could call me anything – even by another cat's name or something derogatory – as long as he said it in that way he has.

How is it that I give myself over to him, knowing how he flirts with almost anything that moves? Something about him is just intoxicating. He gets close enough to me and I don't care that he was just wrapped around Bombalurina with Plato slung across his legs. All I care about is being held close to him, my face pressed into his mane.

We were both barely adults when he first came to me. I was soft and quiet; he was quickly gaining his play boy reputation. I never stood a chance. No one does, once he's made up his mind.

I cried afterwards. It was my first time. It was his first time, too, but he wasn't nearly as emotional as me. Perhaps because his first time wasn't with him. Whatever it was, he just ran his paw up and down my spine and let me cry.

Do I love him? Yes. Everyone does, excluding Demeter. How she doesn't, I'll never know. But everyone else loves him.

Am I in love with him? I don't know. When I'm with him, the answer is yes – more in love with him that anyone could possibly fathom. When we're not together, I have no clue. I definitely could be in love with him, but I don't know for sure if I am.

It's not his promiscuity that causes my doubts. If he didn't chase after other cats, he wouldn't be himself. I wouldn't love him so much.

There are so many things to love about him: his confidence, his body, his touch, his words, his jokes, his energy. But I cannot say that I am in love with him without doubting myself.

I don't think it matters, though. As long as we enjoy our time together.

Actually, if he shows up at all this evening, it'll be soon…I hope he does. I feel like being in love tonight.