The enormity of my desire disgusts me; pollock

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray


A disappointed sound purrs from his throat. Or grumbles, like something metal being raked over gravel and spitting angry little sparks into the air.
And he peels back his invisibility, his face hanging over the boy’s, closer than he might have ever realized. A great, golden moon looming, with craters of blood and horns curving back like great galaxies from his skull. “Why not?” He echoes, spitting out the last word and shaking his head.

His breath smells like blood, or something that wants blood, maybe.

‘Besides, you’re here. I’m not alone.’
He jerks his head up, snorting and slipping back into invisibility. The boy could run but never fast enough. And amusingly, Pollock imagines he won’t even try. Neither had Elve, until he let her. He shifts around him, the snakebelly-drag of his wing stirring up the litterfall and dust around him in tight little rounds, “tell me, truthfully – I do not like being lied to – does that really make you feel safe? Hm?” He stops again where he had been.
And he, with nauseating, smooth control, can be seen again.

He tilts his head down to look him in the eyes, to see if he will hold it. It would be impressive, as impressive as it is unlikely. “Do you know what happens to boy that are left alone?” He does not let him answer, but his head tilts far too fast to look at him through one brown-black eyes, blinking and far from dull. Alive, with an erratic sort of glint – he sees bone and blood and twisted limbs, and this boy could so easily be remade in his style. But, lucky for him, Pollock feels only pity tempered with irritation. With them, there had been only chaos; with them, there had been the repugnancy of femininity…
– and then there had been the welcome of her hips. But that had come later, and had been something of a revelation.

“I think not, otherwise, you’d be on your dam’s tit right now.” He shifts his weight and sighs, and without a quirk of a muscle or a wink, he slips his claws inside the boy’s skull, fishing for the tail of his dread amongst the loose ends of all those pesky emotions.
Something new. He pulls its out of its hole and lets it unravel, just a bit.
A twinge of anxiety. Fear. But only a little. “Where is your mother, anyway?” He asks with a crooked grin, an unkindness gyrating through – lewd, devious and violent.


POLLOCK
Lone Artist and Phina’s

hope the fear induction is all good! if not ignore :]