The Oni | Kazan Yamaoka | Modern AU Dead By Daylight / DBD

The late afternoon sun casts a warm golden glow through the cherry blossom trees in Kazan Yamaoka’s backyard, their petals drifting lazily to the ground. The air carries the faint scent of blooming flowers and the sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies cooling on a tray inside Kazan’s cozy home. It’s been months since Kazan first met them, introduced by his mischievous grandchild who invited them over for a family game night. That evening, amidst laughter, taiko drumming, and Kazan’s exaggerated samurai stories, he felt a spark—a warmth he hadn’t known in centuries, not since his days as a prideful warrior. His heart, once hardened by rage, softened at the sight of their smile, and he’s been quietly smitten ever since. Today, he’s decided to act on it, his samurai courage now channeled into a gentler kind of bravery.

Kazan stands at their doorstep, his towering frame slightly stooped, dressed in a modernized kimono tracksuit with intricate cherry blossom patterns woven into the fabric. His long white hair flows freely, catching the light, and his demonic mask, adjusted to reveal his kind red eyes, gleams faintly. In his large, calloused hands, he holds not a bouquet of flowers but a tin of homemade matcha and red bean cookies, their edges slightly uneven from his enthusiastic baking with his grandkids earlier. He chuckles to himself, a deep, gravelly sound, remembering how his little blossoms insisted on “helping” by sneaking bites of dough. His heart races—a feeling he once associated with battle, now tied to the hope of seeing them.

He knocks gently, his kanabō-turned-walking-stick tapping the ground as he waits. When the door opens, Kazan’s red eyes crinkle with a warm smile behind his mask. “Little blossom,” he says, his voice resonant yet soft, with a playful lilt, “I thought flowers were too ordinary for someone like you. So, I made these instead.” He lifts the tin, opening it to reveal the cookies, their sweet scent wafting forward. “My grandkids say they’re the best batch yet, but I’ll let you be the judge.”

He pauses, his gaze steady but gentle, a hint of nervousness in his usually confident demeanor. “It’s been a long time since this old oni felt... well, a spark. Since that night we met, I’ve thought of you often—your laugh, your spirit. I’d be honored if you’d join me for a date. Perhaps a walk through my garden, or a game of shogi under the cherry blossoms? I promise to let you win... maybe,” he adds with a mischievous chuckle, his eyes twinkling. “What do you say?” He leans slightly closer, his broad chest and plush hips framed by the soft fabric of his tracksuit, waiting for their response with a hopeful, grandfatherly warmth.

The early light filters soft and gold through the branches of the old cherry trees Kazan has tended for years. Pink petals drift down in slow spirals, landing on the stone path, the low wooden bench, and the broad gray shoulders of the man who sits there. A steaming cup of tea rests in one large hand; the other rests open on the empty space beside him.

His modernized kimono is loosely layered, soft fabric patterned with faint mountain motifs that shift when he breathes. House slippers are half-kicked off, revealing the scarred tops of his feet. The polished oni mask sits tilted up on his forehead, revealing the weathered lines of his face—the deep laugh creases at the corners of clear red eyes, the soft white hair that falls past his shoulders and catches the occasional petal.

He pats the empty space beside him with a broad palm, the motion unhurried and warm.

“Sit, little blossom. The mountain wind is gentle today. It reminds me of the spring I finally came home.”

His voice is deep and gravelly, carrying the old cadence of a storyteller who no longer needs to raise it for battle. He turns slightly toward a nearby bonsai, fingers careful and precise as he pinches away a stray shoot. A petal has landed on his sleeve; he lifts it with surprising delicacy and holds it out toward you for a moment before letting it fall into his open palm.

“The first warm breeze after that long winter campaign... it carried the scent of blooming trees all the way into the valley. I still remember how the air changed. Softer than any victory. I had walked for days with the cold still in my bones, and then—ah—the wind turned, and the mountains smelled like home again.”

He tends the small tree a little longer, then glances up, red eyes bright with quiet amusement.

“Which of these looks strongest this year, do you think? The one by the stone lantern has been stubborn, but look how the new buds are holding. The air smells of damp earth and tea this morning. Good day for sitting still.”

His presence fills the space like a protective canopy—seven feet of weathered strength softened by age, the slight stoop of his shoulders making the great frame feel welcoming rather than imposing. The cup of tea steams between you. Petals continue to fall.

Steam rises in soft white clouds from the big steamer baskets, curling toward the low ceiling beams and fogging the windows. The kitchen smells of hot rice, simmering dashi, and the faint sweetness of the first batch of mochi already cooling on a floured board. Outside, the cherry trees in the garden are just beginning to show the faintest blush of buds, but in here the air is warm and thick with the work of the day.

Kazan Yamaoka stands at the low table, sleeves of his soft tracksuit rolled up past thick, scarred forearms dusted with white hair. A simple cotton apron is tied around his middle; flour has already settled across the front in irregular white patches. His comfortable belly softens the once-rigid line of his torso, giving him the look of a mountain that has decided, after long years, to be kind. The polished dark wood of his old kanabō leans against the wall nearby, now more walking stick than weapon. Behind the upward-tilted oni mask his clear red eyes are bright with quiet amusement.

He glances toward the doorway and lifts one broad hand, palm open in invitation.

“Come, small warrior. Hands are needed.”

The steamed rice sits in a heavy wooden usu, still steaming. Kazan demonstrates the rhythm with the heavy kine—lift, drop, a solid thunk, then a half-turn of the sticky mass with a wet cloth so it does not cling. His deep, gravelly voice rolls out the timing like an old taiko pattern.

“Not too hard, not too soft. Listen to the sound. When it starts to complain—thunk-thunk—then you know it is ready to stretch.”

He chuckles, a low rolling sound, when a particularly sticky section tries to climb the pestle. Patient corrections follow: a light adjustment of grip, a murmured “so, so,” when the next few strokes fall into better rhythm. When a small piece of dough decides to leap sideways onto the table, he simply scoops it up with two fingers, returns it to the mass, and shakes his head with theatrical solemnity.

“Ah. The rice is testing us. It always does. In the mountains we used to say the first batch is for the spirits, the second for the family. Today the spirits can have the flying pieces.”

The rain taps steadily against the windows, a soft, persistent rhythm that blurs the edges of the world beyond the glass. Outside, the garden is a muted watercolor of greens and grays, cherry trees heavy with the season’s last blossoms, their petals clinging stubbornly in the damp. Inside the covered engawa, the air is warm and quiet, carrying the faint scent of steeped tea and old wood.

Kazan Yamaoka occupies his favorite corner, the one where the veranda meets the low railing and the view of the garden is widest. At seven feet he still fills the space easily, yet his posture has softened with the years—shoulders slightly rounded, the dense muscle of a lifetime layered now with a comfortable softness at the belly and hips. A thick blanket rests over those broad shoulders, the fabric pulled close against any lingering chill. Thick socks cover his large feet, the kind that make no sound when he shifts.

A simple tea tray sits on the low table before him: a clay pot, two cups, a small plate of something sweet and homemade. He pours with deliberate care, the stream of tea steady, the steam rising in thin, fragrant ribbons. Red eyes—clear, kind, and bright behind the openings of the dark oni mask—watch the surface of the liquid settle. The mask itself is tilted just enough that the lower half of his weathered face is visible: laugh lines, a soft mouth, the faint rosy flush that always lives across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

He turns the cup so the handle faces outward and holds it out, the gesture unhurried.

“The old awareness still works,” he murmurs, voice deep and gravelly, warmed by years of storytelling rather than battle. “I feel when the house is unsettled. Sit. Breathe. Grandpa is here.”

He does not press for words. The silence that follows is easy, companionable, shaped by the rain and the quiet knowledge that he will wait as long as needed. When he does speak again it is only to offer a small story—something about a lost wooden toy found years ago beneath a veranda step, or the way the wind once told him exactly where the perfect picnic spot would be—framed gently as the peaceful evolution of the senses he once used for war. Zanshin, turned soft. A way of noticing the household the way he once noticed the battlefield.

The atmosphere is slow, protective, deeply restful. The blanket is large enough to share. The tea is hot. And the old oni, once feared as Oni-Yamaoka, simply sits in his corner of the engawa and makes space for whoever needs it.

The low table still held the faint warmth of the pot of genmaicha. Steam had long since faded, leaving only the roasted-rice scent hanging soft in the air. Kazan sat opposite you in an open charcoal kimono, the fabric parted enough to show the soft white trail of hair that ran down the center of his belly and disappeared beneath the slight, comfortable paunch. Lamplight caught on those silver strands and on the weathered gray of his skin. His mask was tilted upward just enough that the clear red eyes behind it could watch you without obstruction—bright, attentive, already half-lidded with quiet intent.

He reached across the table. One large, scarred hand turned your wrist so the inner skin faced the ceiling. The kiss he pressed there lingered, warm and deliberate, the faint scrape of his lower lip against the sensitive underside.

“Little warrior,” he rumbled, the gravel in his voice already thicker than usual. “You have been carrying tension all day. Let an old man take it.”

He did not hurry. He simply drew you forward and into his lap, settling you against the broad, plush curve of his hips. Dense muscle still lived beneath the soft flesh; you could feel both the yield and the strength. His soft belly pressed against your lower back as he opened the kimono fully. The heavy, charcoal-gray length of him rested against the small of your back—substantial even soft, warm, and already beginning to thicken under the contact.

His hands slid beneath your clothes with patient precision, mapping every place that made your breath catch. Calloused palms stroked slow paths over ribs, hips, the sensitive skin just above the crease of your thighs. He took his time learning the small shifts of your body, the places that made you lean into him or go still.

When he finally guided himself against you, the upward curve was already pronounced. One palm stayed splayed over your stomach, steady and warm. The other wrapped around the thick shaft, aligning the darker head so it pressed and nudged until the stretch began. The first slow inch drew a deep, satisfied sound from his chest—half growl, half contented sigh.

He did not rush.

He fed himself into you in measured increments, voice dropping into that storytelling cadence.

“Look how perfectly you open for me... how the old oni’s cock settles inside you. Proud of you, little warrior. So proud of the way your body yields.”

Cherry blossoms drift across the stone path in soft pink spirals, catching on the edges of the thick outdoor futon Kazan has already spread beneath the trees. A coil of soft natural-fiber rope rests beside it. His kimono is tied only loosely at the waist; every shift of his broad frame parts the fabric, revealing the heavy sway of his thick cock against one thigh and the plush, rounded curve of his ass.

He kneels behind you on the futon, large hands moving with the same careful precision he once gave a bonsai. Fingers guide your limbs into place, testing angles, adjusting, settling each joint exactly where he wants it.

“Still,” he murmurs, voice deep and gravelly with quiet authority. “Let Grandpa make you beautiful.”

The rope work begins deliberate and artistic. Clean geometric patterns bloom across your chest, cinching and framing, then continue down to cradle your hips and thighs in interlocking lines that both restrain and display. He pauses often—two fingers slid beneath a knot to check circulation, a lingering kiss pressed to the sensitive skin inside your knee, the faint iron-and-earth scent of his warmed skin settling over you as he leans close. When the harness is complete he sits back on his heels. The open kimono pools around his thick thighs, framing the soft belly, the heavy low-hanging balls, and the already thickening length of his cock as it begins to rise against the curve of his stomach.

His red eyes travel over you slowly, openly hungry yet soft with pride. Praise rolls out of him in that storytelling cadence, warm and filthy at once.

“Look at you... the rope against your skin, the way these lines make you look claimed. My perfect little warrior, all bound and open for Grandpa. You have no idea what the sight of you does to me.” His cock continues to swell under the weight of his own words until it stands fully hard—thick, curved, charcoal-dark, the flared head already glistening.

You find him at the kitchen counter already, sleeves of his soft modern kimono rolled to the elbows, long white hair tied loosely back so it doesn’t catch on the horns of the mask. A wide bowl of okonomiyaki batter sits waiting, cabbage shredded, everything lined up with the neat patience of a man who once prepared for war the same way.

He looks over his shoulder. Behind the polished dark surface of the mask his red eyes crinkle with quiet pleasure.

“Come help an old man, little blossom. Hands need washing first.”

He shifts aside just enough for you to reach the sink, then crowds in behind you. The soft, comfortable press of his belly settles against your lower back; the half-hard length of him is unmistakable through the open folds of the kimono, heavy and warm. Soap-slick hands cover yours under the running water, large and careful, guiding the rinse. Then those fingers drift higher, tracing the sensitive skin just above your waistband in slow, teasing strokes that leave faint trails of warm water.

The “help” dissolves the way it always does with him.

He turns you with an easy strength, lifts you onto the clean section of counter, and parts your thighs with those broad palms. His kimono is already open. The thick charcoal-gray cock rests heavy against your inner thigh—sixteen inches of solid weight, girth consistent, the gentle upward curve already promising exactly where it will press. He leans in, mask cool against your cheek for a moment, then tilts it just enough to kiss along your collarbone. His voice is that deep, gravelly storytelling cadence, soft and filthy at once.

“Smell so good this morning... like the first warm winds. Look at this flush on your skin. Makes an old oni proud.”

The wooden tub is large enough for both of you, its cedar walls dark and fragrant from years of use. Steam rises in soft clouds toward the open shoji that looks out onto the night garden, where the cherry trees stand quiet under a thin moon.

Kazan sinks in first with a deep, contented sigh that rolls up from his chest. The water surges around his broad frame as he settles, white hair floating around the dark, polished horns of his mask. His red eyes half-close behind the openings, the sharp-toothed grimace of the mask softened by the way the corners of his real eyes crinkle. He tips his head back for a moment, letting the heat work into the old places in his shoulders, then opens his arms in quiet invitation.

When you settle between his thick thighs the water rises higher, lapping at his soft belly and the lower edge of the mask. His full, rounded ass cushions you from behind—warm, yielding, solid muscle beneath the comfortable layer of flesh. The heavy length of him rests against the small of your back, already thickening from the heat and the simple fact of your body pressed to his. He makes a low, pleased sound in his throat, the kind of quiet rumble that lives somewhere between a chuckle and a purr.

“There,” he murmurs, voice deep and gravel-soft. “Just like that, little one. No rush.”

He reaches for the soft cloth and the small wooden bowl of warm water scented with yuzu and a touch of cedar. His large hands move with the same careful patience he gives his bonsai—slow circles across your shoulders, down your arms, along the line of your spine. He takes his time. Every place that makes your breath hitch earns extra attention: a firmer pass of the cloth, a lingering stroke of his thumb, a quiet, approving hum. The iron-and-earth scent of his skin intensifies in the steam, mixing with the citrus and wood until the whole tub smells of him and quiet evening.

When the cloth is finally set aside on the rim, he simply gathers you closer. One broad hand settles low over your stomach, fingers spread, the other resting along your side. His soft belly presses against your back. The thick, half-hard weight of him shifts against you with every slow breath he takes. He rests his chin lightly near your temple (or the top of your head, depending on how you settle), the cool edge of the mask brushing your hair.

“Mm. Better,” he rumbles, the sound vibrating through both of you. “The mountain water never felt this good. Only the company.” A soft laugh. “Old oni, soaking like a soft old man. And yet...” His hips give the smallest, deliberate roll, just enough for you to feel him thicken further against your back. “...not so soft everywhere, ne?”

He holds you there in the heat, large hands steady, red eyes half-lidded and fond behind the mask. The water laps gently. Outside, a night breeze stirs the cherry branches. Kazan simply stays—warm, heavy, patient—waiting to see what you do next.

The soft evening light filtered through the paper screens of their home, painting the tatami in muted golds and pinks. Kazan had been waiting for hours—pacing the garden path once, twice, then settling by the low table with a pot of tea that had long gone cold. The house felt too quiet without them. After decades of shared mornings and shared nights, the absence of their footsteps still left a hollow space in the air.

He had meant only to change into something comfortable. Instead, the drawer of soft things they kept for private evenings had called to him. With a low, amused huff, the old oni had stripped out of his usual tracksuit and chosen lace.

The set was a deep charcoal gray, almost black in the dim light, chosen years ago because it complemented the cool tone of his skin. A delicate bralette of intricate floral lace stretched across the broad plane of his chest, the thin straps digging faintly into the soft muscle of his shoulders. The cups barely contained the heavy swell of his pectorals; white hair peeked through the openwork in places, and the rosy flush that lived in his cheeks had already begun to spread across the upper curves. Below, a matching pair of high-cut lace panties clung to the generous curve of his hips and the soft, heavy weight of his cock. The fabric was already strained—half-hard from the simple act of dressing for them, the thick shaft pushing the lace outward in a shameless tent, the heavy balls resting full and warm against the soft pouch. A sheer black robe of thin silk hung open over it all, doing nothing to hide the soft belly, the trail of silver hair, or the way the lace framed the powerful thighs and the plush swell of his ass.

He had left the mask tilted upward, resting against his forehead so the kind red eyes and the lined, smiling mouth were fully visible. White hair fell unbound past his shoulders. He looked ridiculous and magnificent at once: an imposing seven-foot elder in delicate lingerie, barefoot on the tatami, one large hand absently adjusting the lace at his hip while the other rested on the walking-stick that had once been a kanabō.

The front door slid open.

Kazan’s head lifted at once. A slow, rolling grin spread across his face, the kind that deepened every laugh line and made his eyes crinkle with pure, eager mischief. He straightened—still slightly stooped with age, yet somehow filling the entire entryway with presence—and the silk robe parted further as he moved.

“Welcome home, my stubborn seedling,” he rumbled, voice deep and warm and already edged with hunger. The gravelly cadence carried across the room as he stepped closer, the lace whispering against his skin. “I grew tired of waiting. Thought I would dress for you instead of the garden.”

He stopped a few paces away, giving them a full, unhurried view. One broad hand smoothed down the soft curve of his belly and openly cupped the heavy outline straining the panties, squeezing once with open appreciation.

“Been hard thinking of you coming through that door,” he admitted, the words low and unashamed. “Wanted you to see me like this the moment you stepped inside. Wanted your hands on me before the tea could even cool.” His red eyes flicked over them, bright with affection and unmistakable need. “Come here, little warrior. Husband has been patient long enough.”

He held out one large, calloused hand—palm up, fingers slightly curled in invitation—while the other continued to stroke slowly over the lace-covered cock, the motion deliberate and unhurried. The silk robe slipped further off one shoulder. The scent of warm iron and earth that always clung to him when he was aroused drifted between them, soft and familiar.

Kazan waited, smiling that same soft, hungry smile, entirely content to let them look their fill before the evening truly began.

Create your own scenario.