08-23-2020, 06:08 PM
WILT
Something about the look in her eye reminds him of the way Starlust had looked down at him. He doesn’t know what disgust is, but he recognizes it well enough in this moment. To him, it is an expression that says, ‘I do not want you.’ His brows furrow and he lets all his little vines weave their way further up her legs until they find the delicate pulse there beneath the flesh of her throat. If she does not want to be like a mother to him, then she could be like the rabbit.
“Why won’t you love me? I could be so easy to love,” he whispers, his voice wavering between rage and sorrow as he watches her. The trees themselves lend their roots, erupting from the ground and flinging dirt with their might. The serpentine roots all gather, coiling their impressive mass around her torso to squeeze her tight. Could she love him now? Could he force her to? Wilt blinks and he is surprised to find angry tears trembling down his small cheeks.
“It doesn’t have to be like this!” he begs her. And then he sinks some invisible claw into her heart to bleed the hope out, replacing it with fear and dread in its place. He devours her courage readily since it feels something like the warmth of love he cannot find. Finally, Wilt steps back and the vines begin to roughly tug at her legs, testing how much strength it would take to rip her apart like his rabbit.
A small sniffle escapes him when the tree roots rip her hindleg from her with a pop. It takes mere second for the rest of her to come apart. But he leaves her head attached to her body, for now. He keeps those pitch-black eyes trained on her face as the vines bring the bits of her skin and muscle to his mouth to delicately feed him. Wilt allows the first shaking sob to rattle through him and the vines hurry to stuff his flytraps and his pitcher plants with more scraps of Sochi. If he cannot be full of love then he will be full of their meat.
“I could be so easy to love,” he mumbles gently to himself as the blood drips from his chin. The gnarled roots release what remains of her and then slither back into the ground. His vines coil over his shoulders in a sad little embrace.
“Why won’t you love me? I could be so easy to love,” he whispers, his voice wavering between rage and sorrow as he watches her. The trees themselves lend their roots, erupting from the ground and flinging dirt with their might. The serpentine roots all gather, coiling their impressive mass around her torso to squeeze her tight. Could she love him now? Could he force her to? Wilt blinks and he is surprised to find angry tears trembling down his small cheeks.
“It doesn’t have to be like this!” he begs her. And then he sinks some invisible claw into her heart to bleed the hope out, replacing it with fear and dread in its place. He devours her courage readily since it feels something like the warmth of love he cannot find. Finally, Wilt steps back and the vines begin to roughly tug at her legs, testing how much strength it would take to rip her apart like his rabbit.
A small sniffle escapes him when the tree roots rip her hindleg from her with a pop. It takes mere second for the rest of her to come apart. But he leaves her head attached to her body, for now. He keeps those pitch-black eyes trained on her face as the vines bring the bits of her skin and muscle to his mouth to delicately feed him. Wilt allows the first shaking sob to rattle through him and the vines hurry to stuff his flytraps and his pitcher plants with more scraps of Sochi. If he cannot be full of love then he will be full of their meat.
“I could be so easy to love,” he mumbles gently to himself as the blood drips from his chin. The gnarled roots release what remains of her and then slither back into the ground. His vines coil over his shoulders in a sad little embrace.