Chapter Text
Daan hid in the woods, nude and panting. His legs were scratched up from the brush and he was still wearing his bunny mask. It was an awfully hot day, and he was so very thirsty, and there wasn’t a drop to drink anywhere. Distantly, he could hear the sound of worship. Skin slapping against skin, rapid, wet. These were not sounds a normal child might hear so early in life, but Daan was a special boy. He covered his ears with his hands, bowing his head and trying to make himself so small he ceased to exist. Daan’s hate was infinite.
He was the loneliest boy in the whole world, but that was alright, because Daan had his boundless imagination. He thought very hard about what he would want in a friend. Well, he would want someone charming, someone dapper. He imagined this friend to look like the men he’d seen at the opera in their tailcoats and their top hats. Yes, he would want a refined friend. Daan then thought he would like someone tall, tall enough that he could scare away anything. He wanted a protector.
Lastly, but most importantly, he wanted to be loved.
Truly loved.
His heart’s desire rang in the dark, and something promptly answered.
And when he lifted his head, there an elegant stranger was, bowing as if the boy were the King of Rondon. His new friend purred, glowing eyes fixing upon him, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do hope I’m not too late.”
And it was as tall as Daan wanted, and it was as charming as Daan wanted, and the boy was happy for the first time in his life.
And when he asked what to call the creature, it held out its hand, because in a civilized world, two gentlemen simply must shake hands upon coming to an agreement.
“Sweetest Daniël,” it began, its smile permanently fixed to the rubbery mask of its face, “You may call me Pocketcat, and I will be your friend forever, so long as you are good to me. This I swear on all four of my whiskers. Or do I have six? Oh, dear, I’m always forgetting.”
Its glassy eyes snapped around in its mask as if to count them and the boy laughed at how silly it was.
Daan shook its hand, and the deal was made.
So, Pocketcat removed its fine coat and wrapped the boy in it, for modesty. It then hoisted him up in its arms and carried him through the woods, whispering tall tales all the while. It kept Daan perfectly entertained, for Pocketcat was nothing if not a fantastic storyteller. And how tightly Pocketcat held him, like it never wanted to let him go.
Ah, the boy’s delight was delicious.
Daan was dreadfully young, and so he had little power. Pocketcat was assuredly powerful in contrast, and he liked that very much about his new friend. The creature would leave him catnip on the doorsteps to any of the new homes his parents moved him to. Sylvian worshipers were always moving after all, migrating as often as birds and just as efficiently. Though they would throw away Pocketcat’s presents, though they would warn young Daan not to speak to any strange things that lurked in the woods, he always did.
And why wouldn’t he?
Pocketcat’s company was preferable to the company of a man and a woman that would sacrifice him to a God, even if this sacrifice was one of love. Though Pocketcat preferred its young friends unspoiled, there was something magnetic about the boy’s melancholy. What a sad thing he was.
Today, Pocketcat would be teaching him good manners at his request. Daan despised his roots, despised his backwater accent and his backwater heritage.
It sat tall across from Daan. They were not far from reality, sitting in only a slightly distant dimension. It was not the safest place for a child, full of all manner of beings, but Pocketcat told him, “You need only stay by my side, Daniël. Nothing can harm you when we are together.”
And so Daan did not look around him anymore at the colorful characters that jerked in the dark, but focused on Pocketcat and the oil lamp between them. The tablecloth was clean, white, and spotless. Their teacups were empty, as well as the sugar dish, as well as the kettle. Pocketcat gave its lap a pat and the boy left his chair and ambled over to sit in it, wooden floorboards creaking with every hesitant step.
Daan was maybe surprised to find that his new friend had such a drafty home, where there were no walls and there were no windows and even no sky. It seemed that the wind whistled on and and on, never stopping.
“A gentleman says ‘please’ Daniël, this is important.”
And the boy said “please,” and Pocketcat shivered, pushing up against him, gripping at his hips with hands that were really much more like claws than paws. It hissed, “Again, again, be a good lad. You can do better, I just know it.”
Daan carried on. Please, please, please. He seemed to chant it, and with every plea, Pocketcat forgot the point of the exercise a little more until it forgot it completely. Its mind began to drift to a terrible, terrible place. Pocketcat’s head lolled back as its serpentine body relaxed into the rickety old chair, shifting the boy to and fro, just so. Just like that. The shadows throbbed about them, full of wet eyes, none of them blinking in sync.
Daan was absolute poison.
Pocketcat made the smallest, stickiest mess.
It did not mean to get so carried away, and just look at the time. It let the boy down, took him by the hand, and led him to the exit, taking great long strides in its embarrassment, saying, “I hope I haven’t frightened you. I haven’t, have I? You’ll call me tomorrow?”
It was unusual for Pocketcat to let its friends leave this place.
But, it happily bent the rules for Daan.
Daan was in yet another new town, peering out his window. The moon was massive in the sky; it seemed to pulse as if it were alive. He waited, and he waited, but he really did not wait too terribly long in the end.
Pocketcat came to him.
Pocketcat rapped on the window to his bedroom with a pale fist, purring, “May I come in?”
And Daan tugged the latch and pushed up his window and Pocketcat praised,
“What a good boy you are. There is simply no one better.”
And it crept inside and took his hands and danced him around the room, shushing him because though it loved to hear Daan laugh, it would be a shame for their evening to be interrupted. Parents, even especially bad parents, would likely not want to find something as large and as curious as Pocketcat in their child’s bedroom. It was a rotten hour, far too late for a soiree of any sort.
And when teaching him to dance grew tired, it led him to his bed and climbed on top of him and took it upon itself to begin stripping him of his pajamas. To bathe him, you understand.
Daan knew so much about worship he actually began to fear Pocketcat was doing something improper! His unblinking friend assured him,
“Why, this is how we cats bathe, Daniël. You’ve offended me. My heart aches. Tell me you love me, and I’ll forgive you.”
Pocketcat was a gentleman, and had never worshipped Sylvian, not once, not ever. But, it would worship every inch of Daan. It lifted its thick, rubbery mask as much as it could, most of the material fused directly to flesh. It lifted it far enough so that a second mouth could appear. It was large, with too many teeth and all of them a little too sharp. It began with licking the boy’s left ankle, then lifted it to lick the soft underside, the inside of his knee, where he was wonderfully ticklish.
Pocketcat’s breathing was an awful rasp, and what ghastly veins it had running up its neck and along its jaw. Such a sickly complexion, paler than the moon itself. Well, it did not so often lift its mask. But, for sweetest Daniël, it would make an exception.
From his leg it drifted up to his inner thigh. Meaty and full and fleshy, it licked and sucked him there most, panting like something hungry. And while yes, it did nip him there, it was hardly hard enough to warrant the squirming.
“Be still, be still. I am your dearest friend, aren’t I? Why, I’ve barely even begun!”
Pocketcat’s hand was stuffed so deep in its pocket, shifting so vigorously. It could not help but groan. Then it rasped, “Pardon me, I hadn’t even thought to ask. Would you prefer to bathe me instead?”
Daan was filthy, used, ruined, but. There were uses for filthy boys with filthy tongues.
The boy shook his head. What a frightful expression he was making.
Well, Daan was not a cat, so this was understandable.
“Perhaps another time?”
But, the sun was coming now, and Pocketcat really preferred to taste its friends in the evenings. So, it gave the boy’s soft belly a parting kiss, fixed its friendly mask into place, and slithered out of his bed. And what a queer stain at the front of its trousers, as dark as it was damp. Daan had left Pocketcat in such a state.
“Goodbye, Daniël. Please do call me tomorrow.”
The cat seemed to disappear the minute it stepped outside. Though Daan had been the one to call for it, he realized he was relieved to see it go. He decided that he would not call Pocketcat, not ever again.
Daan found himself alone some years later. His parents had abandoned him for their faith. They would never leave the fields; they would never discard their masks.
Daan had nothing and no one.
Well. He did have one thing.
Pocketcat found him in the room of an inn. Daan had only a little money, and what was he to do to make more? How would he survive? He’d starve if he didn’t think of something, and soon.
Pocketcat rapped on the window. Well, it was the second story of the inn, but Pocketcat could make itself taller or shorter to suit its needs. Daan did hesitate; it had been such a long time since he’d last seen his one and only friend. Pocketcat was a little hurt by that, but it would not ruin their evening with bitter accusations.
The creature purred, “I was so worried you’d forgotten me. Here I am, Daniël. Please invite me in.”
But, Daan did not open the window. He spoke through it, which was perhaps even more hurtful than almost being forgotten. Daan asked for guidance, for advice, for opinions. He was a little older now, old enough to realize Pocketcat was maybe something grander than a mere figment of a lonely boy’s imagination.
It did so hate when children grew up; they completely lost their sense of wonder.
“I will tell you anything, Daniël. I will tell you everything. But, it is far too cold tonight. I will freeze if you don’t let me in, Daniël. Please, darling, the window.”
Pocketcat’s permanent smile did not betray its true feelings. It was agitated now, seething under its waistcoat and tights. It thought it might even punish Daan to show him how unacceptable this treatment was. It had not come this far to be treated like a leper.
Daan opened the window with much reluctance.
Pocketcat partly did not even wish to enter, it was so offended on the matter. But, the boy had lost his parents, so it was entirely possible he was not thinking clearly.
The room was small and sparse. The boy sat on the edge of his bed, going on about his fears, his worries. Who else would listen to an abandoned child? The townspeople had grown tired of the street urchins, orphans or not. Pocketcat so badly wanted to taste him, but it would listen to him first. Friendship was about give and take.
Pocketcat grew long, long arms, and wrapped the boy in them as it sat beside him. It held him as he babbled on and on, tears budding in his eyes. It gave his back three gentle pats.
As for ideas,
“You’re far too respectable for theft. I won’t have you stealing anything, not even bread.” Pocketcat unraveled its arms and stood to pace the room, so tall that it had to bow its head lest it bump against the ceiling. It held its hands behind its back, whiskers twitching. “Let’s see, let’s see. Don’t worry old boy, I’ll think of something.”
There was knocking on the boy’s door, but what a late hour for a visitor (a visitor other than the likes of Pocketcat). It lowly advised, “I wouldn’t open that. No, best we ignore it, Daniël.”
But the boy pushed and shoved Pocketcat into a wardrobe, folding its body and stuffing all of its long limbs inside. The indignities it would suffer for the boy: hellfire, and wardrobes.
The boy unwisely answered the door.
Pocketcat could hear a discussion on the matter of payment.
A man, a much, much older man, was extorting poor Daan for more money. Humans were a despicable lot.
The doors to the wardrobe creaked on their hinges. Pocketcat’s eyes seemed to glow the eeriest shade of yellow.
How quickly Daan had ended up on his back again. He attracted such unsavory characters with what Pocketcat felt was a haunting beauty. The bedsprings creaked as the boy struggled beneath the innkeeper. How upsetting to see its young friend cry beneath such a fat, heavy man. He was plump enough to chop and put into a stew.
Pocketcat was practically salivating.
Its shadow inched along the wall as it unfolded its spidery limbs and crawled out of the wardrobe.
And when the man paused to turn his head at the softest sound of purring, he nearly shrieked. Nearly, but Pocketcat was too fast and too clever for that. It lifted its mask and with its very large mouth it—
Daan, God, dearest Daan.
He was absolutely terrified of Pocketcat, and all because of a simple misunderstanding. Pocketcat was not some beastly horror, and it knew the names and functions of every fork, every spoon. It was a perfect host and an even better guest.
Pocketcat spent many nights waiting for him to call so that it could apologize for losing its temper. It had other business to attend to, other children to befriend, but it often thought of its lost love, and wept.
It was dusk the next time Daan summoned it.
“Summoned” was a word with far too many implications, however, and so Pocketcat preferred the term “invited.”
Now this was a surprisingly extravagant home.
Daan had left his window open. He was closer to a man now, having a cigarette on a divan, waiting so patiently in his silk pajamas. Pocketcat climbed into his bedroom, and thought itself incredibly dashing for doing so. How it yearned for him. Even as old as he had gotten, to Pocketcat, Daan would never be the least bit rotten.
“You shut me out for so awfully long, dear, but I forgive you, I'll always forgive you.”
Daan made an unpleasant face. Turned his head and shook it, like he was uncertain about this decision, like he had not really wanted to see Pocketcat at all.
Daan asked to forget.
He seemed certain Pocketcat had the ability to do that, to remove memories. He wished to simply be normal. He wanted to have a family, but could not possibly be a woman's husband knowing all the things he knew about the Gods. Daan felt that his very existence was blasphemous, that he could not stand in the church of All-Mer and be wed to her when he was mentally and physically and spiritually constrained by a marriage to Sylvian.
And, to a lesser extent he admitted, wed to Rher, or at least a servant of Rher.
There was a book on the low table before him, and if Pocketcat could blush, it would've. There in front of the young man sat The Tales of Pocketcat. It was quick to bound over, to sit beside him and shut that nasty tome of lies. Oh, how it shuddered!
What a perverse and unseemly thing humans made Pocketcat out to be. Beyond blushing, maybe it would sweat. It was really not as indecent of character as the stories would suggest. What libel. To burn every copy on Earth would not have been enough to please it.
“Oh, I see, you've invited me here to humiliate me. This is rather rude.”
Daan put out his cigarette in the ashtray balancing on several books on the occult. He'd been studying. Daan suggested they be honest with each other, and dipped his hand into its pocket, rubbing his dear friend's—
Pocketcat stood and cleared its throat and clumsily stumbled back and tripped onto the bed. And what an unsightly mess it was already making in its trousers, as leaky as a faucet. Daan trailed after it, climbed on top of it. Pocketcat squirmed, long legs spilling onto the wooden floors, breath coming in fast, rough heaves.
Daan had gotten so much bigger. It was hard to believe he was tiny enough just a few years ago that Pocketcat could've swallowed him whole. Daan was being horribly naughty, flattened palm petting the cat between its sporadically twitching legs.
Daan promised to be a good boy. For a price.
“You want to make a deal, do you? Memories are tr…icky.”
Pocketcat was having trouble keeping its composure. A low purr rumbled in its chest as Daan squeezed at the swollen lump in its trousers. He stroked the thick outline of it with such care. Pocketcat felt so very starved of affection. It loved frequently, but did not often find the favor returned, and certainly not like this. Pocketcat craved this.
“It is better to accept oneself, and you are perfect as you are. No, I don't suppose I will make you forget.”
And just like that, Daan removed his dirty little hand and pulled away from him and wandered back to the couch, lighting another cigarette.
Pocketcat groaned as it slid from the bed and crawled to him, becoming more man-sized as it ached, ached everywhere. It was a groveling mass of want, fine suit rumpled, drool creeping down its pale exposed neck and soaking its pearly cravat. It climbed onto the divan beside him, leaning into him, panting fiercely.
“Daniël, please. Ah, you must help me, or I will surely perish.”
It begged as it shoved him down, as it fell between his spread legs and shamelessly began grinding against his rump. How good it felt to be pressed this close to a friend, a lover. The trembling creature would lose its head if it could not have him. It did not care if it was improper.
Daan insinuated that Pocketcat was not a gentleman at all, but a desperate parasite. He smoked and watched the creature unravel and rut against him with blind abandon. With every gasp, the glassy eyes of its mask fogged just a little more, until it could not even properly see out of them.
Daan's mouth dripped with all manner of obscenities. He accused Pocketcat of many things. Namely, of wanting to do unspeakable things to him for ages. It wasn't true, as it had known him since he was just a boy, and what an atrocity it would've been guilty of to want him then, to need him. But, Pocketcat was too far gone to argue.
Daan rolled onto his stomach, slipping his pajama bottoms down so tantalizingly slowly, and requested once more to forget everything he knew.
And Pocketcat fell on top of him and groaned and unbuckled its belt and promised,
“Alright, alright, whatever you so desire, my love, anything at all.”
Pocketcat would give him the moon itself were it not its employer. To take was fine and well, but to be given something was superior in every right. Daan was giving him a most precious gift, and Pocketcat would cherish it.
Wrapping a hand around the man's mouth and shushing him so that they were not interrupted, Pocketcat loved him. And, as Daan would not remember it come morning . . . Pocketcat decided to love him just a touch roughly.
Anyhow, Pocketcat did not see him again after that. It supposed its Daan had married and fathered children that were beautiful but not nearly as beautiful as him. Pocketcat mourned this loss often.
There were other boys and girls to drag into the wood, to take to a land of nightmares, but none that called Pocketcat so directly, none that wanted to be loved like Daan had wanted to be loved. Pocketcat was so sorry to have made that deal. Though, on some evenings under the moon, it found itself with its hand deep in its pocket, daydreaming about Daan's body and the muffled sounds of his wet moans into the divan. No, it had been a fine deal. Pocketcat was simply too greedy.
It was by chance that Pocketcat ran into him on a late-night stroll. There was a celebration of sorts, a festival. Pocketcat was not presentable, was struggling with a squirming sack, crouched there in the dark, and when it peeked over its shoulder it saw Him. Though he was missing exactly one eye and had grown even older, Pocketcat recognized him immediately.
Sweetest Daniël.
Like an old lover come to reminisce, though there could be no reminiscing.
And how embarrassing to be seen like this, struggling to subdue such a scrawny catch. Pocketcat’s smile, as usual, betrayed nothing. It beat the sack still and cocked its head. Pocketcat purred,
"Oh, my. Please excuse me.”
It then carried on, standing to its full height, casting its long shadow over the man.
“You have one of those familiar faces. I feel like we've met somewhere before. Perhaps in a past life?”
Daan, of course, tragically replied,
“You’re mistaking me with someone else.”
It could never regain what it had lost, but even just the sight of Daan brought the creature great pleasure.
Pocketcat would be his friend forever.