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diejager · 7 months

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Hello, may please ask for nsfw headcanons for the Oni please?

NSFW headcanons

Pairing: The Oni | Kazan Yamaska x fem!reader

Cw: NSFW, breeding kink, biting, marking, aftercare, possessive behaviour, size kink, tradition, scent/musk kink, worshiping, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.1k

Kazan is a proud man, honouring his family name to the point of committing blasphemy. He cherished the things that belonged to him, taking care of his kanabo with the careful swipe of his towel and as much love as he has for you, his little human. His big hands came to hold you before him, a supporting gesture while you stared up at him in the mirror, his piercing, red eyes meeting yours.

Under the protective shield of his armour, those ritualistic shoulder guards with curved Oni horns, chest armour, sleeves and thigh protections secured by thick ropes rounding the mass of his body; and the bloodied cloth of his shirt, shin guard, skirt and pants held with strong string sewing them together to become a piece; Kazan was a soft lover, caring and soft-spoken with his feelings for you. Under that scary Oni mask, Kazan is scarily human, even with the added height and broad shoulders.

Size played a lot to his kinks, his body looming over your smaller one, his hands holding your curved hips as he bullied his cock into you, watching the skin of your navel bulge with his enormous size. You cried when he pressed a palm over the bulge, pushing it as he plotted through your wet and tight cunt, milking and clamping his thick shaft. Kazan enjoyed watching you take him by yourself, using his chest as support as you sink onto him, mewling and whining about how big he was and how your cunny was too small when you’d taken him over and over before, getting all his length in you. You shook and trembled, legs weak and useless, depending on Kazan to move you up and down, his big hands holding your hips.

However gentle he tried to be, his strength and pleasure always got the better of his self-control, leaving bruises on your hips and waist, purples and blues the size of his fingers on your arms and thighs. Leaving marks on your soft, pliant flesh was a guilty pleasure of his, he liked sinking his jagged teeth into your shoulders and thighs. The sensuality of seeing the swollen bites on your skin and the sensitive news to it when he pressed a kiss on it. The ferality he felt surging in his body when red rolled down your thighs and shoulders, a single drop that painted your skin in a beautiful shade of crimson.

He’d be ploughing you with his veiny cock while he leaves traces of his presence on your being, a show of possession on you that he revelled in with pride and sheer, unbridled joy. He was bound to be possessive of what he loved, he held great value and high respect for anything that deserved it, and you were at the top of his list. Forgoing his need to value and respect, being a killer naturally made him more possessive, the need to own and show the others he owned you. Perhaps it made you feel like an object, an item of his obsession, but you’ve never voiced your concerns and fears so he kept going on. If he can show to the others - either killer or survivor - that you were his, he could live happily.

Kazan, as the Oni, had a potency to his being. He had a name, had a reputation, had skill and had needs. He knew, like him, a lot of killers had forsaken their humanity - their souls - to their monsters. Most killers had better noses, their enhanced sense made sniffing out survivors easier and, in his case, helped let the others know you were his. The smell of his mark on you would cling onto you like a cloud of musk, the scent of his cum inside of you screaming about your branding. He would cum in you, spurting rope after rope of potent cum, staining your slick walls.

He left it inside of you, dripping from your cunt and leaving the musk of his cum and your shared sex as a show of ownership. He spent time pumping you with his loads, he won’t stop until he’s overstimulated, because he can’t stop coming at the thought of breeding you. Building a family was a cultural tradition in his time, and to raise his descendants into honourable people, it was a dream of his, wishful thinking. He knew that within the Entity’s realm, all time stopped, he never aged, he never changed and he would never become a father, but the temptation of knocking you up was simply too much for him not to fuck his cum deeper.

Even while he bullied his load deeper and deeper, cock still as hard and leaky as when he first started, he’d kiss your lips so gently, muffling your mewls and cries. His hands cradled your face, placing sweet, worshipping kisses all over your face, hips rutting into you with your legs swinging over his shoulders. He rolled his hips steadily, making sure that you wouldn’t end up overstimulated like he was, all as he worshipped you. You were like a goddess to him, his little goddess that he could claim with his scent and mark. He kissed the ground you walked on, he kissed your hands when you held it towards him, and he would do anything you would want, all you have to do is ask.

After everything, the hours-long marathon in bed, he would take care of you. He’s amazing at aftercare. He would do every whim of yours, if you wanted a cup of water, he’d have it in seconds, if you wanted to shower, he’d bathe you; if you wanted to sleep; he’d cuddle you from the back. His attention was spent on you and you alone after every session, he cleaned you, he fed you, he watched your back when you slept. He spooned you, his bigger body shadowing you in a comfortable and safe embrace, an arm under your head and another over your waist.

If you didn’t want to sleep, wanting to feel pretty and clean as his, Kazan’s little goddess bride, he would dress you up prettily. Kazan was also a man who saw the beauty in tradition, painting you in the colours of his country, the powerful red and its innocent white. He painted your face in those shades with soft pink and yellow on your eyes, tried your hair in high loops and used beads to decorate your locks. Dressed in the beautiful robes that told stories and legends of his empire, you looked like those elegant geishas he remembered seeing years ago. You would dance and sing, he’d twirl you around him and make the ends of your sleeves flutter.

Kazan, for all his worth and pain, finally had something good in his life, something he could be proud of loving. Perhaps The Entity wasn’t as cold and unfeeling as She portrayed herself.

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diejager · 21 days

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OMG FINALLY!! *muach muach* oh my actually I'm a bit nervous and excited now lolol. Uhm—well since your request is open can I have Pyra head and Michael Myers (separately) chasing survivor!reader in trial but they just ignore the other survivors, solely chasing reader till the end of game. Something dark and lustful lingers around those two killers and you just don't know why! By the end of the game, the other survivors manage to escape to the campfire safely, however reader got stuck alone with the killer. When they finally catch you, oh shall you know all your hopes may shatter to pieces. You think this is the end, in the hands of ruthless killer chosen by Entity. But why their face (in pyra head's case it's his helmet) getting closer to your face and what make it's more confusing something comes out of that mask (i.e. a long tendril similar to tongue). Breath kink but instead of hand choking or strangulation, you choked on their tongue 👅

Feel free to ignore this if you still don't open req for dbd fandom

☀️

You are feeding me ambrosia with this sunnie!!! I have a weak spot for both of them, but-but- the Unknown??? Any thoughts????

Cw: DARKFIC?(it’s dbd, what do you expect??), DUB-CON/NON-CON, predator/prey, implied death, obsessive behaviour, choking?, super long tongue??, size kink/difference, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.5k

You were… unlucky. The Entity seemed to rejoiced in your pain more than any other survivor, feeding on your dashed hope for an escape from the perpetual cycle death and sacrifice, the painful sting on being slashed, the horrifying fate of being killed by the killer’s weapon of choice or the terrifying agony of being hooked. It was a painful affair, being the subject of her perverse protection, locked away in her universe to feed and be fed, blood for blood —quid pro quo.

But at times, your moments in her dark world was warm and charming like the people who gathered at the campfire, sharing their skills and abilities to keep the others alive throughout the…trials. The small moments stolen within the fog to keep yourself up and going, and happy, little smiles and bubbly laughs. It made trials easier, to know that the people who were screaming and working had your back in and out of them, to know what they would do made working in teams better and reassuring.

And yet- and yet it was all for nought, the killer had eyes for you only, stalking and following you with his arm raised despite the others coming between you two to stop him from maiming you. Unfortunately, The Shape - Micheal Myers - in all his ghostly glory and dirty suit, was a creature of obsession, of predatory possession that gave him a one track mind, tunnelling the person who he chose as his obsession; and you happened to be his choice of madness these last round, even when Laurie was with you.

There were some pros and cons with his constant stalking, the quiet steps echoing not so far behind you while they worked on the generators, unbothered and safe fro Myers, but you were stuck kitting him, running away from him by jumping over windows and dropping palettes wherever you could stun him to give you just a few more seconds of distance. He grew so, so close on multiple occasions, you felt his breath and his dark and imposing figure behind you, but he never once struck you down with his big knife.

It wasn’t so bad as long as he didn’t hit you, letting you run around and avoid the other three until they finished all five generators and opened the gates, the bell ringing loudly over your head, and even then, he ignored everyone for you. He, somehow, managed to corner you, to far from both gates and your teammates who you - in a desperate plea for a win - had yelled out to leave and let you find the hatch or run to a gate if things got didn’t worsen. Which had left you alone, ears ringing and head beating against your cage, cornered and afraid of the giant who stared you down with a red gleam in the dark pits of his eyes.

Every step he took backed you up further against the rugged wall of a house - his childhood home - and pressed himself against you, the rough texture of his suit irritating your skin as he dropped the knife to touch you, running over his course fingers down your shoulders. Myers was scarily touchy, pads digging into the fat of your hips, groaning and grunting as he ground against you, drinking in your whimpers and hisses, fists hitting his chest without any result. Was it so surprising? He was a monster, a devil’s spawn, who had you in hands, a uselessly struggling victim that was too weak to stop him.

His game of cat and mouse came to an end, where you forgot what you were initially doing, choking around his thick fingers, the filthy taste hitting you harshly as his jabs. He pressed his fingers down the back of your throat, panting loudly at your gags and rutting his fattening cock on your navel. You shuddered at the feel of it, the thick bulge threatening to pop a button off his jumpsuit, and you feared, you were terrified at your wandering thoughts, the implication of it when faced with a beast like Myers.

Ding

Then the final call rang, a long and echoing sound that called the end of the trial. It was quiet for a few seconds, and all you felt was pain, agony ripping through you as The Entity swallowed you up with her many arms. The last thing you saw was Myers bulge, pushed to your bloodied lips and filling your dying nose with a thick and heady musk, a metallic and dusty smell that would linger on your tongue.

You had hoped that she would give you a second, let you bask in the worry and affection the other survivors gave you, her whispers summoning you elsewhere in a drowning cloud of black fog and sent into your next match, placed somewhere in Midwich Elementary School. The many winding halls and rusted metal worked to confuse the survivors and killers alike, leaving only a selected few who were familiar with this realm. You crossed path with James a few times, but you knew he wouldn’t have given an offering for this, it was a sore memory for him, a reminder of his sins and regrets. So that left a single open left: Pyramid Head, the wandering executioner in the halls of Midwich, sentient and brutal in his ways.

He was a monster everyone feared, something created from the mind of a tortured man rather than a human turned monster, he was born a nightmare and would perish as one. That’s why you hid whenever you heard the telltale sound of his rusted great sword drag across the floor, knowing he had chosen you as his obsession and was actively turning a blind eye to the other survivors. You heard a few screams here and there, but he hadn’t downed anyone, seemingly to prefer leaving them half dead and limping to the next generator or survivor to heal.

You were doing well, working with Jane on the third machine, smiling to each other and sending encouraging glances while you looked over your shoulders from time to time, but your luck had run out. Pyramid Head stumbled your way, his head bobbing over the thick cords of his shoulders and chest, sinewy muscles bulging with every move. You both ran, Jane up the stairs and you down the hall, and he followed you. It was a familiar feeling, being the chased obsession of a killer, singled out by him to be the victim of his choosing.

Unfortunately, The Executioner never truly relished in the hunt, prowling fast and hard, ready to kill whoever he crossed, yet, strangely, he hadn’t raised his great sword, chasing you down a hall and into a dead end. You were fucked. Oh so terribly fucked if your assumptions were right. You turned to face Pyramid Head, fearfully glaring at him, eyes scouring the open space around him for a small point to slip away. You felt your small star of hope extinguish when he suddenly appeared before you, moving faster than he usually would, blocking your way with his body.

He was hard and warm under your palms, his laboured breathing resting on your shoulder in his dazed wandering, his ripped and bloody and filthy arms brushing against yours and feeling you up. You closed your eyes in terror, trying your best to snuff out your thoughts and the feeling of his touches, his fingers pinching and kneading the skin of your hips and thighs, slipping behind to occasionally feel your ass bend under his strong hands. You whimpered, raking your nails down his arms, trying and failing to stop him from going forward with his wants, turning your head away from him.

It seemed like he didn’t like that, forcing a gasp out of you when a wet appendage lapped at your cheek, leaving a slimy trail of drool until you reacted to him, gaping and hissing at him; and he took your shock and disgust to his advantage, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You retched, throat closing around his tongue, thrusting slowly to the back of your throat and up to spread over your palate. He lathered your mouth in his drool, willing your smaller and less nimble tongue to push at him, choking down any cries or gags from the sheer disgust that filled your guts (despite the small spike of arousal in your guts).

You wanted to scream about your situation, this fucked up situation you keep finding yourself with monsters like The Shape and The Executioner. Why you? Why you out of everyone else? You weren’t as significant or strong and determined as other survivors, so it confused and worried you, if they would force themselves onto you again and again until they either broke you or moved onto another poor survivor. But perhaps- just perhaps you could make something of it, seeing the thick pole that poked at your stomach, poking from under his loose loincloth and wetting it with a dark spot at the tip.

You loathed The Entity and her plans.

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