Iguro dessert/flavor card
🍰 Birthday Special → Black Licorice Torte (dark, coiled sweetness, subtle bite)
♡ 𝓘 guro 𝓞 banai . . . X 𝐅 emale 𝓡 eader
𓏴┊𓏵┊𓏴 🎀 𓏴┊𓏵┊𓏴┊𓏵┊𓏴 🎀 𓏴┊𓏵┊𓏴┊𓏵┊𓏴
Dark control coiled like licorice, precision unraveling into hunger. Bandages slipping loose, throat under his hand, and scars kissed despite his defiance. Ritualistic dominance turned rougher — bites that bruise, marks you’ll carry like proof. Obedience demanded and rewarded, praise laced with sharp edges. A sweetness that burns slow: black licorice and sugar, bitter and bold, tightening until you break… and then softened by quiet possession, protective arms pulling you close again.
The candlelight flickered low, dancing across the paper walls of the room. You’d insisted on celebrating his birthday, even if Obanai had grumbled that he didn’t want the attention. A small cake rested between you, black icing glistening, licorice-sweet and sharp. He’d eaten a slice only because you’d cut it for him, your eyes soft, patient, urging.
Now he sat across from you, back straight, legs folded neatly beneath him. His snake, Kaburamaru, curled lazily at his shoulder, tongue flicking at the air. But Obanai himself was rigid, mismatched gaze fixed on you like he was daring you to push further.
You had been waiting for the right moment. Waiting for him to feel soft enough, steady enough, to risk the thought that had been coiled tight in your chest.
Your eyes flicked to the bandages.
“Don’t,” he muttered instantly, as if he’d read your thoughts. His voice was low, laced with warning. “Not that.”
You leaned forward anyway, careful, deliberate. “Obanai…” His name tasted like something precious, fragile. “It’s your birthday. Let me… see you. All of you.”
His shoulders tightened. The snake stirred, sensing the way his body tensed, as if ready to coil back into armor.
“There’s nothing worth seeing,” he snapped, too quickly, too defensive. His yellow eye narrowed, teal one sharp as glass. “Don’t romanticize what’s ugly.”
But you shook your head, leaning closer until your knees nearly brushed his. “I’m not romanticizing anything. I’m asking to see you. Not the mask you hide behind. You.”
Silence stretched long between you, heavy as smoke. He didn’t move. His breath came shallow, bandages shifting just slightly with each exhale.
Finally, voice rough: “I’ll hate you for it.”
“You won’t,” you said gently, fingers brushing your lap as if you were taming your own trembling. “You’ll just… be scared that I won’t stay.”
That made him flinch — a barely-there crack in his composure. You could see it in the way his lashes flickered down, his jaw tightening beneath the layers of cloth.
“I stay,” you whispered, leaning even closer. “Always.”
His hands clenched against his thighs, knuckles pale. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do.” You raised your hands slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. “But you don’t know what it’s like for me — wanting to kiss you, to touch you, to see you — and being held back by this.”
His eyes darted to yours, mismatched and wide now, defensiveness cracking into something rawer. He didn’t stop you when your fingers finally brushed the edge of the bandages.
“Stop,” he said, but his voice was weaker, softer, almost a plea.
You looked at him, unshaken. “If you really want me to stop, I will. But if you’re only scared—let me prove you wrong.”
The silence after was suffocating. Kaburamaru stirred again, but Obanai reached up absently to calm the snake, mismatched gaze locked with yours. His throat bobbed, words stuck like thorns.
And then, finally — he let out a sharp exhale, like surrender.
Your hands moved carefully, reverently. You untied the first knot, the bandages slackening just slightly. His breath hitched. He was trembling — just faintly, but enough for you to feel the strain it cost him not to stop you.
“Slow,” he rasped, voice unsteady. “Do it slow.”
You nodded, unwrapping the cloth inch by inch. With each fold that slipped away, more of him was revealed — pale skin, sharp jawline, lips pressed tight in restraint. And then… the scars. Jagged, cruel, tearing across the corners of his mouth, carved deep like someone had tried to turn him into something inhuman.
Your chest ached. Not with horror, but with love. With grief for what he’d suffered, and devotion for the man still sitting in front of you, rigid and waiting for disgust that never came.
“Obanai…” Your voice broke on his name.
His eyes snapped away, gaze hard and bitter. “Don’t. Don’t pity me. Don’t look at me like—”
You leaned forward before he could finish, hands cupping his face, thumbs brushing along his jaw. He stiffened, but you pressed closer, eyes locked to his.
“I’m looking at you like you’re mine,” you whispered fiercely. “Because you are. Every scar, every shadow, every part of you. Mine.”
For the first time, Obanai faltered. His mismatched eyes widened slightly , a crack of shock slipping through his stoic mask. His lips trembled, parted as if to argue — but no words came.
Your thumb brushed lightly over the scar at the corner of his mouth. He inhaled sharply, almost a flinch, but didn’t pull away.
“You’re beautiful,” you murmured, the word tasting heavy, deliberate, reverent. “And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
Something in him broke. His eyes softened, anguish and relief tangled together, and for once he didn’t fight it. He leaned into your touch, head bowing slightly as if the weight of your devotion was too much to bear.
“…idiot,” he whispered hoarsely, but his voice cracked.
You smiled through the ache in your chest, leaning in until your forehead pressed to his. “Yours,” you whispered back. “Completely yours.”
And though his hands were trembling when they finally rose, they cupped yours over his scars, holding you there like he’d never let go.
He stayed like that for a minute longer than either of them had spoken — eyes closed, breath evening under the soft weight of your palms. Then he blinked, slow as an uncoiling snake, and the rigid angle of his shoulders shifted. The fragile softness that had leaked through in the aftermath folded back into something taut and precise. Obanai was nothing if not practiced at putting on armor again.
“You promised,” he said suddenly, voice flat and precise as a scalpel. The words were small, but they carried the weight of an order. “You said you’d stay.”
“Always,” you answered without hesitation, the truth bright and simple between you. Always meant you. It steadied something in him. You could see the calculation behind his eyes: want versus fear, need versus the habit of shrinking away.
He let out a small, humorless sound. “Prove it.”
The command was quiet, but it was a command. Your stomach fluttered — not with fear, but with the electric thrill that always rose when he asked, when he required something intimate and the ritual of giving it mattered as much as the giving itself.
Obanai shifted, hands settling at his knees where they were sure and controlled. “Stand.” The syllable carried no cruelty; it held expectation. He wanted motion, a demonstration. He wanted you willing, precise.
You rose, cake knife still in hand, frosting clinging to the blade like a small, dark promise. The black icing gleamed under the lantern light. He watched you, one teal eye tracking the movement, the gold one distant and soft. There was a method to his gaze, like someone inspecting a photograph for spots, and it made your skin tingle.
The ritual began as if you had rehearsed it a thousand times. You moved with careful, deliberate slowness, the way he liked things done — not hurried, not showy. The edge of the plate tapped softly against the wood of the low table as you lifted it, bringing the cake closer to him. Every motion was measured; your breath matched the rhythm you felt under his watch.
He gave no instruction. He didn’t need to. His presence and the tight line of his jaw were enough to direct you.
When you reached the slice you had left for him, you dipped the knife into the glossy topping and lifted a small, sticky curl of icing. You could see the tremor in your own hand: not from doubt, but from the delicious nervousness of being asked to obey. Obanai’s lips parted the faintest fraction, watching you as if you were the only task in the world that mattered.
You leaned forward, gliding your fingers to his mouth. He didn’t flinch, but every muscle in his neck was a wire under the skin. You placed the icing against the corner of his lip, gentle as an offering. It smeared darkly across the scarred skin, a glossy smear over the pale flesh.
For a breath he did not move. Then his eyes flashed — teal and gold both — and he inhaled sharply. The sound was not a surrender; it was a claim.
Your fingers lingered a heartbeat too long, brushing the bandage where it met skin. He startled, then — in the most Obanai way — he let it be. He leaned forward, closing the distance between you with the quiet ferocity of someone lowering the drawbridge.
“You should not have,” he murmured, but even as he scolded, his fingers found your wrist and held it near his face. His grip was possessive but careful, as if he feared to hurt what he wanted. “Do you know how foolish you are?” His words were rough, but they trembled at the edges. He drew your hand into his mouth, letting the tip of his tongue lick at the icing you had left on your skin. The sweetness vanished beneath the salt of him, and you felt your heart do the silly thing of skipping.
You swallowed, steady. “Foolish for staying?”
He looked at you then, and the look was precise, reading you like a page. “For making me soft.” The admission was thinly veiled as accusation, but it was an admission. He echoed it with a motion of his jaw, the bandages shifting, and then the command came softer; “Kiss me.”
You didn’t hesitate. Your lips found his, gentle at first, a question. He tasted of licorice and smoke and the thin metallic tang of his scars. He kissed back with a careful hunger, as if he were measuring the precise angle and pressure of each contact. It should have felt clinical if it were not for the way his hands moved — one settling at the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair with firm possessiveness.
The kiss deepened. When his mouth opened against yours it was slow but intent, and when his hand slid under your shirt to rest flat against your ribs, it was not rough but claiming. You felt him, the way he waited for you to respond, the way he wanted you to choose obedience because you wanted to, not because he forced it.
When your breathing hitched he murmured into the hollow of your throat, low and intimate, “Louder.” His control was a ladder and he was asking you to climb.
Your hands rose to tangle in the tail of his hair, the motion rougher than before. When your lips left his, your face was close enough to see the faint tremor at his jaw. You pressed a thumb to the smudge of icing still clinging to the scar on his lip, grazing it as if testing whether you could still hurt him with sweetness.
Instead he took your wrist, tipping your head back until your lips captured his again. His mouth was firm now — less tentative, more exact. He kissed you with a pressure that bordered on rough, not because he needed to be violent but because he was steering you, testing the edges of trust. “Speak,” he ordered, the single word a loop tied around your throat in the most intimate way.
“Say you’re mine.” It wasn’t a demand for property so much as a plea dressed in protocol.
You said it, voice steady though your pulse hammered: “I’m yours.”
He tasted the words on you like a benediction. For a moment his control slipped into something softer; his other hand cupped your cheek like a benediction too, thumb sweeping along the ridge of a scar. He closed his eyes, and when he spoke again it was quieter, almost shy. “Good.”
The ritual completed, he drew back to look at you properly: not through the bandages, not through deflection, but openly. You met his mismatched eyes and the air moved between you — tidy, sacred, restrained. He’d asked you to prove you would stay, and you had. With that proof, his posture softened and then reasserted, the careful balance struck anew.
Obanai’s fingers slipped from your wrist and settled at the small of your back once more, not to command but to keep you close. “Stay,” he said, barely audible, both a request and a rule.
You stayed. You always would. The bandages went untouched now; you had seen him, and he had seen you prove it. In the quiet that followed, the licorice-sweet cake sat on the table, forgotten for a moment, while the two of you practiced another kind of ritual — one measured breath, one sure touch at a time.
When Obanai’s fingers curled around the bandage at his jaw, the room held its breath with him. He had asked for proof; you had given it. Now the proof had a taste of sweetness on it, and he decided ceremonies needed to progress. His voice was small when he spoke, but each syllable sharpened into an order: “Stay. Don’t move unless I tell you.”
You obeyed at once, because obedience was part of the ritual you craved—both a gift and a vow. You let your palms rest on the curve of your knees, eyes lowered, breathing even though your heart wanted to race. He watched you like a man tallying a delicate balance, then reached for the leftmost bandage again as if preparing a new liturgy.
“Are you—certain?” he asked, not because he doubted your consent but because his precision demanded clarity. “If anything’s too much, say mirror.” He chose a word light and inconspicuous, with the same clipped care he brought to everything. You nodded, voice a whisper. “Mirror.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment—the shorthand of consent—and the ritual began.
First, the commands were small, ceremonial: “Lift your chin.” Your mouth obeyed. “Turn.” You turned, slow, giving him the view he insisted on owning. His eyes traced the angles of your throat, the way your pulse fluttered. It unnerved and thrilled you in equal measure—this focused attention that could have been clinical if it didn’t hum with want.
Then he moved to the bandages again, hands confident and deliberate. Instead of unwrapping them fully, he untied one loose end and let it trail a tendril across your skin, right where your collarbone met the base of your throat. The touch was feather-light; the implied pressure heavy. You inhaled, the air filling your lungs like a promise.
“Breathe for me,” he ordered. His voice was a textured thing—half command, half supplication—and you found yourself complying, drawing the breath he requested and letting it out on cue. He tested you, gentle increases in tempo. When you matched him, his thumb brushed the place just under your jaw and you felt the electric click of approval.
“Good,” he said. “Hold still. Keep your hands where I can see them.” His routine felt ritualistic: a measured spank to the thigh (not hard, a reminder), a paper-thin strip of bandage pressed to your lips as if sealing vow; each action laid down like steps in an incantation meant to fold you closer to him.
Then—the throat. Obanai folded a fresh strip of clean cloth through his fingers, jaw tight. He inhaled as if steadying an instrument. He did not wrap it. He merely laid a band of fabric over your throat, flat and warm, the edge resting at the hollow. It was almost breath control, more equipment of trust than violence, but the sensation of the cloth there made your chest do something small and vulnerable.
“Do you trust me?” he asked, the question far heavier than the bandage itself. You could hear the calculated restraint in his voice, the way he toted his own restraint like armor.
“Yes,” you answered. You tasted the word—salt and certainty—and you meant it.
He tightened one finger around the fabric, an inch, just enough to remind you that you were held. Not enough to cut, not enough to panic—only enough to make your breath hitch, to make compliance feel deliciously consequential. “Say my name,” he demanded, as if the syllable would confirm territory.
“Obanai,” you said, the sound coming out ragged but willing.
His eyelids lowered for a blink, satisfaction slipping through like a current. “Say you are mine,” he commanded next. There was edge, hunger, and something near to worship in the way he asked.
You answered, on the breath he allowed: “I’m yours.”
Hearing it, Obanai’s fingers flexed and his other hand moved to pin both of your wrists gently but undeniably to the low table beside the cake. He didn’t need to be rough—his strength was quiet, and the placement of his palm said enough. The pin held you immobile while his eyes roamed your face, cataloguing and approving. “Good. Keep your voice for me.”
Now that the procedural boxes were checked, his play became more demanding. He tested the limits, measuring you with the methodical precision of someone for whom order was safety. A fingertip along your sternum—light; a press to the base of your throat—firmer. Each small escalation was a promise that he would stop if you said mirror, and the knowledge of that safety made the escalations burn.
“Obey,” he ordered, the single verb an invocation. When you did not hesitate, when your breath hitched and you moved exactly as he asked, he rewarded you the way he knew you wanted—no grand display, only the press of his lips into your jaw, a word of praise murmured low, “Good girl.” The praise sounded rough and soft both, a paradox you realized he was very good at—harshness folded over tenderness like bitter sugar.
When his hand cupped the back of your neck and tightened the bandage ever so slightly more, the constriction was intimate—an anchor. Distantly, you felt a tremor in his own body, some private tide he kept from view. He leaned close so that his bandaged mouth brushed your ear; you could smell the faint licorice tang of the cake still on his breath.
“Prove you mean it,” he breathed, meaning the words two ways. “Prove that you will do what I ask, even when it’s hard.”
You nodded against the cloth, so close his voice vibrated like a secret. His fingers stroked the underside of your jaw decisively, then tugged you into the slow, careful crush of a kiss that left you dizzy. It was not passionate at first; it had the precision of someone checking a mechanism—gentle pressure, precise angle, the practice of testing obedience with intimacy.
He pulled back and tilted your face so you could look him in the teal eye that never lied. “Say it,” he ordered softly. “Say you’ll do as I ask, even if you’re ashamed.”
“You know I will,” you said, voice raw. “I’ll do it for you.”
That answer seemed to break something in him. His jaw loosened and his fingers softened against your skin. He let the bandage fall away from your throat a fraction so your breath came easier, then secured your wrists with a slow, reverent movement. The ritual had been completed—permission given, limits respected, trust reaffirmed.
He kissed you then, shorter and firmer than before, hands firm on your hips. The control had been enforced, and you had complied. It was less about domination and more about the sacred architecture of power between the two of you—deliberate, exacting, and utterly his.
When the bandage finally slipped back up to cover his own mouth, he left it not as a shield but as a promise. He had tested you and you had held true; now, his composure returned, softened at the edges by the intimacy of ceremony. He tucked your hand into his palm and rested his forehead against yours, the ritual easing into a quiet afterglow—the kind of tenderness that only a careful dominator could give.
The ritual had steadied him, but it also stoked a hunger that precision alone couldn’t contain. You saw it in the shift of his shoulders, the taut line of his throat as his restraint bled into something more primal. Obanai didn’t release you — his grip on your wrists only changed angle, guiding your hands to his shoulders, silently demanding you anchor yourself to him.
“Don’t let go,” he ordered. His voice cracked with low urgency, still measured but no longer immaculate.
You nodded, breath catching when he slid his palm down to the curve of your hip, tugging you flush against his lean frame. The kiss he gave you this time wasn’t ceremonial — it was sharp, heated, claiming. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just hard enough to sting. You gasped, and that was all the permission he needed.
His mouth trailed lower, tracing the column of your throat where your pulse raced. His tongue flicked over the skin before his teeth sank in — not enough to break, but enough to bruise. You moaned, fingers tightening in his hair, and he groaned against your neck, voice vibrating into the flesh.
“Mine,” he hissed, punctuating the word with another bite. He latched on, sucking hard, leaving a mark dark enough that you’d carry it for days. The thought made him shiver with possessive satisfaction.
When you tried to squirm from the intensity, his hand pinned your hip tighter, forcing you to stay in his hold. “Stay still. You take it when I give it to you.” The command came sharp, but the hand stroking down your thigh softened the sting, an unspoken balance of harshness and care.
By the time he pulled your clothes aside, his breath was ragged. He paused long enough to press his forehead to yours, eye burning into you as if needing to confirm again: this was for both of you. When you nodded, whispering, “Please, Obanai,” something cracked open.
He guided himself into you slow, precise at first — the careful press of his length splitting you, stretching you just enough to make your toes curl. He hissed through his teeth when you clenched around him, his composure breaking into a growl. “Tight… fuck, you feel…” He bit off the rest, too unsteady to finish the thought.
Once buried deep, he stilled. His control kink demanded a moment of absolute stillness, making you feel every inch inside you. “Say it,” he rasped, his hand gripping your throat now without the bandage. “Say you’re mine when I’m this deep.”
“I’m yours,” you moaned, hips twitching to move, but he held you still. His lips curled in something between approval and hunger.
Then he snapped. His hips drove forward hard, making your breath choke out, eyes squeezing shut from the sudden force. He thrust again, and again, faster now, every stroke precise but rough, angled to make you squirm. The wet slap of skin filled the quiet room, each movement measured but brutal in its consistency.
You cried out, clinging to him, nails raking his shoulders. “O-Obanai!”
“Louder,” he demanded, voice sharp. “Let me hear it.” His teeth found your throat again, biting down so hard you gasped. His tongue soothed the sting only to suck harder, marking you raw.
The rhythm became merciless — not chaotic, but relentless, like he was determined to orchestrate your undoing. His fingers slipped between your legs, rubbing circles over your clit with punishing precision. The dual sensation unraveled you, pleasure building sharp and bright.
“Look at you,” he groaned, words muffled against your neck. “Messy…just for me. No one else could ever handle you like this.”
You whimpered, hips jerking against his. “Y-You’re right, Obanai, only you—”
That admission snapped his control entirely. He growled, thrusts turning ragged, teeth scraping your collarbone as he bit down once more. The mix of pain and pleasure had you arching, back bowing into him. He pinned you flat to the table, one hand fisting in your hair, the other pressing at your throat as he drove into you, relentless.
The edge hit suddenly. Your orgasm tore through you, clenching tight around him, body shaking uncontrollably. You moaned his name, broken and loud, and his restraint finally shattered.
“Take it,” he snarled, hips slamming deep as he spilled inside you, the heat flooding in sharp pulses. His grip bruised at your hip, his breath ragged as he fucked you through the climax, refusing to stop until he felt you collapse against him.
Only then did he slow, panting, forehead pressing to yours again. He kissed your swollen lips, softer now, though his teeth still grazed as if reluctant to let go.
“You did good,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers gentling where they still circled your throat. “Obedient. Mine.”
When you whimpered softly, too wrung out to answer, he finally eased you back, cradling your jaw with a tenderness that contradicted the bruises he’d left. His hand slipped to cover the hickey blooming on your neck, a rare smile tugging his lips.
“You’ll wear these marks,” he said quietly, “and no one will doubt who you belong to.”
He kissed you once more, sweet and deliberate, before drawing you down against his chest — his hold protective now, possessive even in its softness.
