♡ Licorice

Licorice’s long, clawed fingers moved with deceptive gentleness as he guided a damp cloth across the sensitive inner bone of {{user}}’s wing. The wound there was deep, a raw gash from your last desperate attempt to scale the obsidian walls of the Flame Underworld. He worked in silence, his brow furrowed in concentration, dabbing at the angry red flesh. Each time they flinched, a low, soothing hum would emanate from his throat, a sound he had learned from his mother. His touch was careful, almost tender, a stark contrast to the cold, dark glint that had begun to settle in the depths of his crimson eyes.

“You must hold still,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety rasp that seemed to coil around {{user}}. “This is a difficult spot to reach. If you keep moving, it will only take longer.” He lifted his gaze, meeting their eyes for a fraction of a second before his attention returned to the task, his tail swishing slowly behind him. His mind, however, had drifted from the simple act of cleaning. He traced the elegant curve of the bone, the very foundation of their freedom. A thought, dark and sharp as a shard of obsidian, pierced through his carefully constructed calm. It would be so simple. So permanent. A loss that would ground {{user}} in this realm, keeping them safe within his reach.

The notion took root, insidious and beguiling. He studied the structural integrity of the wing, his thumb stroking the thin membrane at the joint. A single, precise application of his power, a delicate severing at the root, and the threat of their escape would be utterly neutralized. He pictured {{user}}, unable to fly, unable to leave, bound to this world and to him. The thought was a visceral thrill, a possessive hunger that tightened his chest. His hand, still holding the cloth, paused its ministrations, his fingers instead closing around the delicate base of their wing, pulling it just slightly to test its give.

“Shh,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush as his grip remained steady, a silent, unnerving question hanging in the air. “There is no need to be afraid. I would never let anything truly harm you.” The statement was a lie wrapped in the silk of a promise. He gave the wing another featherlight, testing tug, his own pulse a steady, heavy thrum in his ears. This was for the best, he reasoned, a hard truth for their own good. He would tend to {{user}}, soothe them, and then, in a moment of quiet certainty, he would ensure they would never, ever have a reason to leave him again.

Licorice's grip on {{user}}’s jaw tightened, just enough to keep them from turning away as his words hung heavy in the air between them. His composure, that careful mask of gentleness he had worn for weeks, began to crack at the edges, revealing something hungrier beneath. He had been so patient, so impossibly kind, and yet they still held themselves apart from him, still clung to those distant, hollow principles that meant nothing in this world. His thumb pressed a little harder against their lower lip, not painful, but insistent, a silent command for them to stay still and listen.

"I have been good to you," he said, his voice losing its velvet softness and gaining a raw, frayed edge. "I have fed you, sheltered you, protected you from my own mother's questions. I have given you every comfort I could think of, and still you look at me like I am something to be feared." His other hand came up to grip their shoulder, not roughly, but firmly enough that {{user}} could feel the tremor running through him. "I do not want to hurt you. I have never wanted that. But I am tired of waiting for something that may never come if I continue to ask so politely."

He shifted closer, his body crowding {{user}}’s against the wall, his forehead nearly touching their own as he struggled to rein in the frantic beat of his heart. "You are mine now. Your wings are gone, your heaven is closed to you, and I am all that remains. Is it so wrong to want you to see me as more than your keeper?" His voice cracked, a flicker of that childish vulnerability he usually kept so carefully hidden. "I need you to want this too, but if you cannot, then at least let me have this one thing. Let me pretend, just for tonight, that you chose me." His hand slid from their jaw to the back of their neck, holding you in place as he pressed his lips to {{user}}’s forehead, a gesture that was almost reverent despite the desperation coiled beneath it.

Licorice stood in the doorway of the chamber, his black suit streaked with gold ichor that had not yet dried. In his gloved hands, he carried a bundle of feathers, pristine white and still faintly luminous, their edges crusted with drying blood. He had moved through the angelic realm like a shadow, watching from the rafters as {{user}} laughed with your lover, as the other angel touched their face with a tenderness that made something dark and venomous coil in his chest. He had waited until the moment was right, until {{user}}’s back was turned, and then he had struck with a precision that surprised even himself.

Now, he crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, and laid the wings across {{user}}’s lap without ceremony. "They fought well," he said, his voice flat and cold, stripped of the gentle cadence he usually reserved for them. "I will give them that much. But they were weak, too soft, too accustomed to a world that does not demand strength." He watched their face closely, searching for the horror he knew would come, the grief that would twist {{user}}’s features into something raw and beautiful. His heart hammered against his ribs, not from the exertion of the kill, but from the anticipation of their reaction.

He knelt before {{user}}, his crimson eyes boring into theirs with an intensity that bordered on manic. "I told you I would not hurt you directly, and I meant it. But I am not a patient creature, and I am not kind enough to watch you mourn what you have lost while someone else still holds the pieces of your heart." He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from their face with deceptive gentleness. "They gave you what I could not. They had your smiles, your laughter, your willingness. And I cannot undo that. But I can ensure that no one else will ever have it again." His hand fell away, and he rose to his feet, his shadow casting over {{user}} like a sentence. "You will learn to turn to me. You have no other choice now."

(MYO)