Chapter Text
Over the past- uh- probably twenty years or so, Tayū had been fading from popularity, slowly becoming less sensational as their clients got tired of the latest fad. It’s a shame, really, because Douma loved those girls. They were charming, witty, and trained in conversation — a source of entertainment for him in an increasingly pitiful world. Better than that, they seemed to love him too, adore him even. What can he say? He’s charming, witty, and trained in tender-hearted compassion — a source of comfort for them in their floating world of depraved patrons. He knows that girls in the Entertainment Districts have a habit of slipping chemicals up their sleeves or down their collars; it’s a sure-fire method of faking tears, a way to stir sympathy within the hearts of their clients before they extract it in the form of cash. But he’s never one to judge them for it, from Hashi to Tayū, the girls do what they must to survive, and it’d be rich for someone like him to turn up his nose at feigning emotion.
Still, he can always tell that when they come crying to him there’s no alum sewn into their sleeves. It’s real.
For women as well trained as Tayū it takes a bit to get the full picture, but it always ends up happening, especially when he speaks in such a way that inspires them to it. Their lips shiver and their faces crack, drawn to his comfort like moths to open fire, and like beautiful little angels falling from grace, they tumble right into his waiting arms. They kiss him on the mouth and cling to his robes and beg him to take them away from all of it.
And he does. That’s his job.
He kills them as quickly as possible and swallows them whole, leaving the scene with a renewed sense of purpose and the knowledge that he’d just brought another poor thing to salvation. No more suffering, no more fear, no more bruises. Those pitiful girls never had a chance at meaningful lives.
The lower ranking girls live in such miserable conditions that their suffering could be seen from a mile away. With girls like that, he doesn’t bother letting it get to the point of tears before he eats them. Most of the time he does it as soon as he’s sure no one’s looking. Tayū, however, turn him slightly selfish. He can’t deny the entertainment he gets from their conversation games and practiced ceremonies, and he absolutely can’t deny how gorgeous they are to look at, their bruises covered up with decadent silk and perfectly painted makeup that the other girls simply can’t afford. He’s seen the tears a thousand times before in a thousand different forms, so sad that it’s borderline boring. At least with Tayū the build-up is as fun as it can be, filled with song and dance and showstopping smiles.
It’s such a shame to see them fading off the map; imagine his excitement when he heard of their emerging successors, Oiran.
He’s only heard of them by mouth, only observed them through paintings, and each thing he learns only furthers his intrigue, culminating into a curiosity so unbearable he could break. They’re women of the night, performing refinement while dedicated to depravity, trained in the arts and highly educated just like Tayū, but from everything he’s heard, they’re gaudier. Bigger hair pinned up with shinier ornaments than their out-of-style counterparts, kimonos sewn with finer silks and flashier designs, the way they walk their procession oozes sex appeal — girls so decadent they live on the line between refinement and outright hedonism. He’d even read one poem referring to them as Castle Destroyers, armed with enough beauty and wit to bring a samurai to his knees. Aside from the obscene price of even sitting in silence next to one, their exclusivity is solidified by the fact that they can only be found in Yoshiwara; no other Entertainment District has girls such as these.
One woman in particular has captured the public’s interest. You. Allegedly, you’ve held Edo’s cultural scene in the palm of your hand for the past couple of years, and if the rumors are true, you’ve even got a Daimyō on a leash.
Douma’s determined to see you for himself tonight, even just a glance during the procession before he puts himself in the months-long queue it takes to earn a meeting with a woman of your status. For the first time in however long, he’s looking forward to something, an excitement bubbling so low beneath his surface that he can hardly feel it, but it’s the most he’s gotten in a while, and that in itself is thrilling. He can’t remember the last time he’d seen something he hasn’t already.
He arrives late into the night when the sun is well out of sight and the stars canopy over a near moonless sky, but the bustle of lantern-lit streets give the district the illusion of daytime. While he feasts his eyes on bright colors and well-dressed patrons, joyous music and excited chatter fill his ears from every avenue as the heavy scent of tobacco makes him wish he’d brought his kiseru along with him. The lampshades glow with all sorts of colors, illuminating even the alleyways, every building promises its own experience through artistic advertisements pasted to the doors, and the walls erected to confine the district serve to remind him of what this place really is — a gilded cage.
A gust of wind blows his ivory hair sideways, swept over his shoulders with strands dancing over his wide, curious eyes. The chill it brings embraces him, comforting and familiar. He copies the crowd around him and pulls his clothes tighter, feigning a shiver just to appear more human than he really is, but geez. Is it really that cold already?
“Pardon me,” he calls out to the stranger next to him, his voice in perfect harmony with itself as he lays a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. He’s always been overly friendly.
The man jerks his arm, a sour look on his face that sputters into wide-eyed surprise as he turns to take in the sight of Douma before him. It’s no shock, people have been caught off-guard in awe of his appearance since the day he was born, with his kaleidoscope eyes and moon-kissed skin. The man shrinks back like the astonished shepherds of Bethlehem, and Douma flashes him a smile that says be not afraid.
“What’s today's date? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Despite the nervous glint that’s still behind his eyes, he relaxes into Douma’s touch, responding to the question like a stray cat accepting food from a rescuing hand. Timid, “Sōkō, twelfth day.”
Wow! Already? It explains the brisk air and early nights, the way the sun seems to hide further behind the horizon with every passing day now. In less than a week it’ll be winter, tree withering winds will sweep the mountains, and it’s only a matter of time until snow blankets Douma’s home and sets him free.
His grin widens, “And the year?”
Any tension Douma unwound from the man’s body tightens back up at the question. His brows furrow as confused eyes dart across Douma’s cheerfully empty expression, “... Tenmei, seven.”
That’s good, that’s what he thought, but it never hurts to ask. Douma is really bad at keeping track of time, and he’s been off by a year or two before, “Thank you!” He lets go of the man’s arm, releasing him like a hooked fish back into the sea of people that surround them.
Douma proceeds through the streets, finding his way by following the crowd, mimicking where people go and how they walk too. One after another, things catch his attention: off-duty performers still in their masks, men in women’s clothing, ladies dressed as lords, gold and silver fans so glamorous they rival his own, shoes, jewelry, the scent of smoke and the scent of sex. The sound of approaching drums cuts through it all. Douma perks his head above the crowd to spot a procession approaching from the distance, so far down the street that the kitsune-masked dancers are just barely coming into view.
His heightened senses mean he picks up on it about ten seconds before anybody else does, giving him the advantage of weaving towards the front of the crowd before the mass of people quickly surges towards the street. Eyes open and ears perked, some men even push and shove at each other for a better look, but his view is perfect from right up front. The roaring chatter of the crowd dies down into faint murmurs, allowing the procession’s ecstatic music to swell the cleared pathway with anticipation. It’s not unlike what he hears at his temple; metal rings shake to keep time with thumping drums, lovely girls play ecstatic melodies on their carved wooden flutes as dancers sway forward to the rhythm with their fans, but there aren’t any chanted prayers, and nothing about this spectacle is holy. If Douma could have his way, he’d separate from the crowd and join their fun. How interesting would that be?
It’s similar to the processions he’s seen before, the ones with Tayū at their centers, but it’s still new, and even the subtle differences excite him enough that he stops blinking. More people gather to watch by the moment, stuffing up next to one another like sardines in a can as Douma keeps himself anchored to his place, immovable by any human force as his eyes glitter in anticipation when the next part of the parade comes into clear view. Lines of elegant ladies carry paper lanterns that burn in red and orange hues to match the autumn leaves, each one marked with the same expertly painted kanji that spells out your name.
He cocks his head to the side as he rolls the name around in his thoughts, and he strains his neck trying to see past your young servants with their red clothes and bob-cut hair as they follow after the lanterns. People begin to grow more restless around him as your approaching silhouette tantalizes the crowd with slow, swaying steps forward, your face still too obscured to behold at this distance beneath the shadow of the umbrella carried over you.
You take one, two, three steps forward, the umbrella shifts, and Douma’s eyes turn wide as saucers, the gears in his head oiled and whirring like they’d been rusting for months. Every rumor, whisper, and poem was exactly right, but even then he couldn’t have imagined you. You’re like nothing he’s ever seen — the crown jewel of Yoshiwara. Like a gift, you’re delicately wrapped in layers upon layers of brilliant jewel colored silk that’s been embroidered to breathtaking excess, complete with a scarlet uchikake and golden obi so large you drape it over your arm. Your figure is indiscernible beneath the wealth of fabric, making the thought of seeing something so hidden all the more tantalizing, perfect kindling for the indiscriminate fire that is Douma’s curiosity. You tease the secrets of your beauty to the crowd with the parts of yourself that you do show. Revealing graceful fingers and expensively manicured nails, one of your hands pokes from the bundle of your sleeve so you can steady herself on the shoulder of the man walking beside you. There’s a square cloth laid between your hand and the man’s shoulder, preventing you from sullying yourself by even touching him. Forbade from looking at you, the man’s eyes are trained on the ground in front of him as he follows your pace.
Lucky guy, and Douma knows most members of the crowd would kill for even a chance in that man’s position, the pressure of your hand against him as you lightly drag your platformed sandals over the ground in an elegant figure eight, sensually rocking your body back with every step. The way you move your feet in that pattern is practiced to precision. Like a delicate artist, you carve across the street as you move over it, and in watching, Douma notices yet another part of you that teases onlookers to what’s hidden under those graceful clothes — you don’t have any socks on. The noblewomen you’re dressed as wouldn’t ever do something as shameless as go out with their feet exposed like that, let alone to a gawking crowd. When you poke your leg out for the arch of the pattern, the fabrics of your kimono slip to reveal your lithe ankle, painted in makeup just like your foot is; every bit of yourself that you expose, you do so with full intention, and Douma drinks it in like some sort of sick voyeur, like every other man packed in the streets against him.
His eyes flicker back up from your feet to feast upon the graceful length of your neck, equally exposed and even more scandalous to behold than your ankles. It’s just like that of a swan, beautiful and so soft, like he could sink his teeth right into it.
You’re close enough now that he can clearly behold your face — every stunning detail. Your makeup is flawless, with hair that’s been oiled up into a dramatic style adorned with several extravagant ornaments, two of which dangle down to frame your face and glitter like stars with every step you take. Your lips sparkle like rubies and they’re painted like poppies, a brilliant red intoxicating enough to overdose on. Just above your rogued cheeks, that same red hue is dusted at the corners of your eyes in little ovals overlapping the black paint that’s winged outwards to give you the appearance of a fox, cunning and playful, an absolute tease. You burst with colors that rival the scrolls on his temple walls, painted white and pink and red, and through it all Douma’s attention is quickly drawn to the one part of you that can’t be done-up with any sort of wax or cosmetics, the lovely color of your eyes. For the first time in a long time, he isn’t totally bored while looking at someone.
You’re nearly right in front of him now, chin held up in perfect posture with all the confidence of a High Priestess and all the allure of The Devil. Douma swears he sees those eyes shoot over like bullets to land right on him. You pass by him before he can think to confirm, flashing the audience with your exposed upper back, the layered kimonos you wear dipped so far down that the contours of your shoulderblades tease over the edges.
Unbelievable. Douma’s grin turns wide and wolfish, his fangs glistening with spit as he makes up his mind. What did that poem refer to you as again? Temple destroyer? Something like that…
He stands in place while the crowd slowly disperses, eerily still and entirely unblinking as he replays your image over in his head, trying to commit every feature to his memory so that when he goes back home, he can shove his finger in his skull and dig it back out. You passed by too quickly, he didn’t get a good enough look, and some of the details were lost on him — he'll just have to see you up close.
He means to go straight to your house, he really does, but Yoishiwara is like a candy store for someone as materialistic as him, and with his inability to care about anything, he gets distracted easily. The people here can practically smell the money on him, making him an extremely susceptible target to their aggressive advertising. Besides, he’s never one to say no to anything. First he’s pulled into a recitation where three women stand and practically sing linked verse poetry, their voices melodic and kept in time with the soft beating of a taiko drum. Waka went out of fashion ages ago; renku is the fad now. With its vulgar wit and coarse, humorous edge, Douma much prefers this sort of poetry, so much so that he sits amidst the small crowd and watches them go at it for a half hour, or- uhm- maybe two hours? It doesn’t take much for him to lose track, and he only knows when to laugh by following the flow of the audience.
But, as always, he gets bored. Their inflection gets repetitive, the taiko starts to sound like an incessant alarm, and really, their beauty doesn’t hold a candle to that Oiran he saw earlier.
That’s right! He remembers where he was headed in the first place. You! He needs to arrange a meeting with you.
He leaves the building, turns the corner, and a shop with shunga scrolls hung all over the walls immediately catches his wandering eye. He roams in without a second thought, like a bee drowned in honey as he drinks in the abundant erotica around him, mentally noting which depicted positions he’s tried and which he hasn’t. The sale of these things has been outlawed for years now, but Yoshiwara has a habit of outright ignoring obscenity laws, and he’s always looking to expand his collection. He’s already got a couple of these, but this shop has one featuring two women in stock, not something he sees often and certainly worth buying, although he’ll have to keep that in one of his private rooms- ah!
As if magnetized, he zips over to a different scroll hung in the far coroner. The color scheme is different from most of the others, brighter, and he’d recognize that style anywhere. This isn’t Japanese at all, in fact, one look and he knows that it’s straight from Xizang. He leans in, his mouth in a curious o while his irises twitch and adjust like camera lenses so that he can fully appreciate the art piece before him, copulating deities. A pale-skinned bodhisattva sits at the center of a lotus flower, black and gold crown adorning his holy head like a halo, ceremonial robes draped over his shoulders that signal him as symbolic of ultimate compassion, and in his lap, with her legs wrapped around his waist, sits his consort, the image of his own wisdom. Aside from her golden crown, she’s naked as she embraces him, their lips pressed upon each other and their hips slotted against one another in perfect sexual union. She, too, is a deity, equally holy as he, and their love-making the divine perfection of compassion through wisdom, wisdom through compassion.
It’s all symbolic. This isn’t pornographic, it’s religious. And it’s the perfect sort of thing to display for his followers; it’s common within tantric aesthetics, he supposes even the cellibate find themselves fascinated with sex.
The female deity depicted is beautiful, graceful legs bent around the hips of her lover as he embraces her, her waist perfectly curved for him to hold, she’s almost as beautiful as-
That’s right! You!
He pays the shopkeep for both of the pieces that caught his eye. It’s an obscene amount of money that he hands over like pocketchange, not batting an eye as he takes his new scrolls and dives back into the sea of people that flood the streets. He tilts his head back back to gaze at the sky, the only way he can even begin to guess the hour on busy nights like these. His eyes dart across constellations until he lands on the-
Oh man! The moon’s already over the arch of the sky, sinking. How long was he in that poetry reading? How long did he sit there staring at that art? He isn’t sure, but he does know that he ought to hurry, if he gets distracted again, the sun may come up before he can make that appointment. He weaves through the crowd with expert precision now, so eager for his destination that he has to consciously fetter himself from moving at a blatantly inhuman pace as he brushes past the patrons until he finds himself looking up at the sprawling building he knows to be Yoshiwara’s top pleasure house. He’s eaten here before back when Tayū were still on the menu, but it’s undergone some renovations since then, brighter paints and brand new windowshades that catch his eye. He stands stuck in his place and gawks at the architecture until girls start to poke their heads from their windows, painfully fake smiles on their faces as they wave out to him, trying their best to catch his attention.
One girl does. As she waves to him, her kimono slips above the part of her hand that’s covered in white make-up, revealing a wrist dotted in reddish, painful looking sores. Bruises? Or-
No. Plum Poison. Syphilis.
He returns her smile, charming and knightly as he waves back up to her. The poor thing’ll be dead within a month. Maybe he ought to-
The sound of someone pulling the front doors open pulls him back to the present. He needs to see you. That’s right.
He doesn’t even remember what he was thinking about just moments ago as he strolls through the front doors, the scent of sex wrinkling up his nose and faint whiffs of blood causing saliva to pool under his tongue. Still, his face remains perfectly intact, like a marble statue that he’s carved through observation with his very own hand. No expression ever crosses his features unless he wills it, and he doesn’t have to try to earn the stares of girls and their patrons alike as he makes his way down the hall. It’s in his impressive stature, his long lily hair and lavish clothing — he attracts attention. And he responds to it with all the pleasantry of a false prophet, with smiles tailored to please and an understanding sparkle in those eyes made to dazzle. Whether it be before prostrate devotees or passing prostitutes, he does it all perfectly, just how he was created to, just how his mother taught him.
He’s so good at it, and he’s been doing it so long that it comes without thought, as easy as breathing is for humans.
So he doesn’t mind being gawked at. In fact, he welcomes it. He was born for it, and he basks in the attention as he passes through the house, entertained by expressions that range from enthrallment to astonishment to curious mixtures of both. The older girls are more subtle about it, curious glances over their shoulders that bashfully divert as soon as he meets their eyes, but the younger ones don’t have that self control. They openly stare with a wide childlike wonder, even more amazed when he meets their eyes with the gemstones in his own.
Wow, some of these girls are small, baby-fat still on their faces and awkward little gaits that can’t be trained out of them quite yet; they’re far too young to be in a place like this. Within the confines of his temple they wouldn’t even be eligible for their coming of age rites, and yet he watches as they go off with men that must be four times their age.
What an abhorrent thing to do. He knows his right from wrong like he knows his rituals, no emotion behind the sentiment, but a fact of existence nonetheless. And this case is almost as clear cut as it can get.
He should kill everybody in this building.
He should swallow the girls whole and leave their patrons’ corpses in the river near his temple, the one that’s slowly becoming a mass grave for people like them. He should bring everyone here to salvation.
But a display that bloody would get him in trouble, it would be horrible for his image and-
“Can I help you with something?” a voice cuts through his contemplation. He turns his head and greets the middle-aged woman behind the desk with a flattering smile, one she doesn’t return.
Yeesh! She looks so grouchy!
She must be one of the people who actually runs this place, it would explain her impatience with the standing around and distracting the girls with his presence. Besides, girls who actually work here never live to be as old as her.
“Yes!,” he responds to her scowling with an even wider grin, as if trying to seduce her into returning his kindness, “I’m here to request a meeting with your Oiran.”
She looks him up and down, “Do you have the money?”
He can tell she knows that he does. She’s being rude for sport now, “Yes,” He keeps that happy go-lucky expression plastered on his face.
“Half the payment is in advance. Do you have it on you now?”
“I do,” He nods.
She narrows her eyes for a moment, looking for a crack in his expression that he doesn’t give her, “Very well then, sit down,” she picks up a stack of papers, wets her finger with her tongue, and begins to flip through them as she absentmindedly mumbles, “Let me find her next opening. She’s a real commodity, you know?”
He takes his seat on the cushion across from her desk, but before he can say anything back, the sound of opening doors and chattering girls takes his attention elsewhere, his head like a pinball being whacked around by the promise of stimulation. He twists his upper body around to the sight of beauty incarnate — you stand in the doorway, your platform shoes carried by one of your young servants as the other takes your manicured hand to help you through the hall.
“Good evening!” the girls in the hallway call out to you in near unison, their liquid eyes looking toward you with utmost admiration, flattered by your mere presence.
You lower the fan from your face with a pleasant giggle, folding it back into itself with one precise flick of your hand, “Good evening,” your voice is like music, dramatic and lilting like a drawn out violin with a pitch so perfect you must have practiced it.
As you make your way through the building, you attract even more attention than he did. Patrons turn to idiots, gawking at you wide-eyed and slack jawed while the girls seem to have no reservations in running right over to you, and responses to them are so saccharine they might just rival his own. You greet the older girls with respectful interest, and the younger with cooing or gentle strokes to their hair, your expression like the cloud-filtered sun, soft and warm throughout. Douma tilts his head, the angle a little awkward and his eyes like an owl’s as his own curiosity distracts him from coming off as completely human; he knew you’d be stunning, but he didn’t expect you to be this kind. He knows you’re coveted, the way those men leered as you walked the streets was proof of that, but the way your children crowd your feet and relax under your hands tells him you’re adored too. This is turning out to be far more interesting than he anticipated, and he leans in to get a better look.
Those eyes land on him again. This time he knows he isn’t seeing things, because the way your expression shifts from a comforting smile to a sly grin is too perfect to be accidental. He copies you, serving you the look like he’s returning a tennis strike, swift and all part of the game.
“Excuse me? Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” The desk-woman’s voice snaps like a rubberband, she’s gone from irritated to irate. Was she talking this whole time? She must have been, “There’s a five month waiting period. Is that alright with you?”
Ugh, damn, “Perfect!”
By the time that comes around, he’ll probably have forgotten about you already. Maybe he’ll ask one of his devotees to remind him, and just hope he won’t have lost interest in the idea all-together by then.
“You need to sit in the tea-room for a while then. Go prove to us with your patronage that you can afford her. As for the payment, you’ll give me the first half of it tonight after your tea to reserve your slot, a failsafe to keep men like you from being flaky, and then the second half you’ll pay right before the meeting, a failsafe to keep men like you from being thieves,” she rambles on with a certain venom behind her voice, and he wonders what about him irritates her this bad, “As for the rules, upon the first meeting there is absolutely no touching, and she…” her voice trails off along with her eyes as they wander up from Douma’s face to stare at something above him, a puzzled furrow knitting up her brow.
Douma feels a soft hand on his shoulder, elegant fingers gently drumming against the fabric of his clothes. He turns his chin to look and- oh. He recognizes that manicured hand.
“No need for five months,” he recognizes that voice too, melodic and now right behind him, so much clearer than before as you sing against his now perked ears, “Let him up now. It’s alright.”
The woman’s face twists into an ugly mixture of shock and irritation as her eyes dart back and forth between you and Douma. He almost wants to giggle at her for it.
“Why?” She sputters, confused and clearly on the verge of losing her professionalism.
“Why?” You speak again, and Douma twists himself over his shoulder to behold you above him. The light from the lanterns surrounds you like a halo, and he can smell your perfume, spring flowers despite the oncoming winter. Your lipstick is kissed halfway off and your clothes loosened from whoever just had his way with you, but he barely registers the thought when faced with the full brunt of your beauty like this. You’re even more stunning now that you’re this close, your legs pressed against his back and your thumb stroking circles over his shoulder-
You look right at him, a mischievous glint like an ember in those eyes and a smile like you could eat him, “Because this is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, that’s why.”
Now this is interesting.
You don’t wait for a response from the desk-woman; you’re speaking to Douma now, your eyes still trained on his, “Come on,” you remove your hand from his shoulder and hold out your open palm, “don’t be shy.”
He takes your hand without a second thought, without any thought actually. As he follows you down the hallway, his clawed hand wrapped in yours, only one thing runs through his head.
You’re soft.
He vaguely registers the way your girls squeal and giggle at the sight of you two headed towards your bedroom, skin against skin even if it’s only your hands. Oirans aren’t even supposed to touch their clients during a first meeting, let alone some random man who circumvented the line. This is vulgar.
And still, the fleeting thought of all that passes right by him like a distorted dream, he can only focus on what he can see, what he can touch — the back of your bejeweled head and the length of your tender neck, that same gentle skin he marveled at from a distance now closer than ever.
Even as he marvels at the spectacle, you don’t look back at him while you walk. Your footsteps are so quiet, quick and graceful as you avoid every creak in the floor like you know exactly where they are. Douma blinks when he realizes how loud his feet are in comparison, and he copies you to match the volume.
You take him up a staircase, then another, and another. The thought of what might come next teases Douma’s curiosity like a mouse does a cat.
What are you doing? And did you say he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen?
It doesn’t matter. He’s already intrigued and grinning at the prospect of experiencing something new for once. He wonders how long it’ll take until he needs to eat you. You’re soft, and he wonders how you’ll taste.
“We’re here,” you hum as you reach the very top floor, all yours due to your status. The stairs lead into a beautifully decorated room; there are bonsai trees in gilded pots, ornate fans hung on display, and a chabudai surrounded by silken cushions, but the first thing that catches his eye is the artwork decorating the walls.
“Sukenobu?” He blurts, his voice an interested chirping as he lets go of your hand, slips off his shoes, and crosses the room to get a closer look. He’s never seen this one.
“Mhm,” you follow close behind him, the breath of your voice tickling his ear as you both study the scroll, a lovely depiction of three noble women engaged in various art forms, sitting so close together that their garments look like one entangled sea of fabric, “I favor him highly when it comes to shunga, I’ve got both volumes of his Appreciating One Hundred Women.”
“Me too!” He announces like a riled-up child as he snaps his attention away from the painting to look at you. You’re close, and he can pick up on details of your beauty he couldn’t before.
“Oh?” You don’t move your face away despite the intimate lack of distance. Your eyes flit to his mouth, then back up to meet his gaze, and a knowing smile stretches your lips like you wanted him to notice.
You’re flirting.
It’s pleasant, but Douma’s never been flustered, and no amount of beauty can change that. Still, you’re quite the sight to behold, and a little back and forth is always good fun.
He keeps on talking like nothing happened and makes sure you see the way his eyes linger on your lips, “It was a real pain to get my hands on the first one, for the longest time I only had the second. I wish he’d move to Edo.”
“Well if the beauties in Kyoto are what inspires his art, I think he should stay,” you turn to look at the hanging scroll again, “you looked like you hadn’t seen this one before.”
“What gave me away?” There’s a soft, playful chuckle to his voice as he copies your movement.
“I’ve got a knack for it,” you hum, matching his sing-song pitch, so charming and sweet it’s almost eerie.
In the presence of something so gorgeous, he can’t help but want it.
“Can I buy it off you?” He turns to look at you again with that grin that never fails him.
“No,” your answer is immediate, decisive, and your voice still sounds so smooth despite it, “The color scheme compliments my bonsai.”
“Awwww,” He slumps his shoulders and curls his lips into an over dramatic pout, “Well it was worth a shot! Do you have any others?” he chatters on, talkative and always so friendly, “Do you like any other artists? I like seeing things I haven’t seen before.”
You turn your head and smile at him, your expression like it’d been sculpted from wax, so tender and life-like that for once in his life Douma is having trouble discerning where the act ends.
“I keep some of the more explicit ones inside my bedroom,” you gesture with a nod to the shut door behind him before you shift your expression on a whim, taking up a more contemplative look as you breath a dramatic sigh, “But it’d be so vulgar to invite a man whose name I don’t even know into my bedroom.”
“Forgive me,” he meets your gaze as a knowing smile creeps across his mouth, “my name’s Douma.”
You keep your expression steady but quirk your head a little, curious like a kitten and so cute, “Just Douma? Don’t you have a family name?”
It’s a question he gets frequently, one with different answers depending on where he is or who he’s talking to, and he’s rehearsed all of them time and time again. He tells his followers it’s his dharma name which seems to satisfy them, but when it comes to the secular…
“I prefer not to give that away, I’ve got a high ranking position at my job,” he delivers the line the same way he does when he talks to the mirror, everything down to the timing of his blinking practiced to perfection, “It’ll be bad for my reputation if people find out I’m here.”
It’s only a half-lie, but your eyes still narrow as you study him in dead silence.
Uh oh.
You definitely know he’s not telling truth, and if you press him-
“Well it’s lovely to meet you Douma,” you bow to him for the sake of proper formality, the gentle smile on your face reaching your eyes in a way that makes him doubt what he just saw.
So you don’t suspect? Or- wait- maybe you do?
Ugh. What does it matter anyways? He can’t tell, and that in itself interests him enough to want to follow you into the bedroom.
“And it’s lovely to meet you,” he returns the bow, a little deeper than hers to make himself sweeter as greets you by your family name.
“You can call me by my given name, no honorific needed,” you take his hand again, and he’s thankful that the weather outside explains the slight chill of his skin.
You’re so warm in comparison. All humans are, and he wraps his fingers around yours like a snake coiled around a sunned rock. Calling you by your given name without any honorific attached to it is outright improper, it’s intimate, and it rolls off his tongue like honey as he tests it out, decedent and indulgent.
Pleased with the response, you nod before taking him to the bedroom, your lavish uchikake trailing behind you as you walk. The lack of honorifics, the fact that the two of you are about to be alone in your bedroom, the fact that you invited him up here in the first place, it all makes him wonder:
Do you want sex?
The answer would be obvious if it weren’t for your occupation. But the flirting, the special treatment, all of it could be explained away by the fact that he reeks of luxury, his grooming and clothing a bright red bullseye painted on his forehead.
Part of him hopes that you do, hopes that you go for the hem of his shirt or the buckle of his belt as soon as you shut the doors behind you; the idea of it makes him curious, because now that he takes a moment to actually think, he realizes he’s never made love to a courtesan before, not even the Tayū. By the time any of those women had expressed sincere desire for him, there were already tears, and by then he felt such pity that he’d swallow them whole.
His uncertainty is exacerbated by the fact that clients aren’t permitted physical contact with an Oiran until at least their third meeting — the feeling of you gingerly running your thumb across the back of his hand as he steps into the threshold of your room reminds him you’ve already shattered that rule.
The line between job description and desire is blurrier than he’s ever seen it, and you haven’t even shut the door yet.
Like a crow entranced by shiny objects, he’s distracted from the question at the sight of your bedroom’s decor. Everything about it screams opulence, from the extravagant futon to the various carved wooden chests to keep what must be your myriad of luxurious possessions, and damn, you weren’t lying about that explicit artwork. Your walls are adorned with breathtaking nature scenes intermittently broken up by graphic erotica, some depicting situations so exaggerated they’re almost funny.
“I’ve tried that one,” he points with a little giggle, thinking out loud, “It didn’t work.”
“I know, right?” You hide your mouth with your hand as all ladies are trained to when they laugh, but your grin shows through the creases in your eyes, “I could only hold the position for five minutes before my whole leg cramped up. Were you copying this one when you did it or did you manage to come up with that yourself?”
“I copied it,” he waves his hand and scratches at the back of his neck, “It was plenty of fun trying but maybe I should have known better, it is a little ridiculous.”
“I’ll show you something ridiculous.”
Before he can respond, you’re on your knees beside him.
Holy shit!
You lean forward to drag a storage case out from under one of your chests.
Oh!
He sinks to his knees next to you, and part of him wonders if that little display was on purpose. He’s too curious to see what’s in the box to dwell on the question; he eagerly peeks over your shoulder as you begin unfurling another shunga scroll, his eyes wide and always starved for something new.
You display it to him with a knowing smile on the edges of your mouth, a mischievous expression that he matches upon seeing the scroll. It’s two women entangled in sexual embrace atop a mess of fabrics, cheek to cheek, entwined legs, and in place of a strap-on, the woman on top is wearing-
“Is that a tengu mask?!” he hollers, pointing right at it, and for the first time in a while he really laughs. It’s like wind whipping through singing chimes, jovial and childish and rolling right out of his throat without any effort, “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he howls.
“I told you it’s ridiculous!” You laugh too, and with the scroll held in both hands, you can’t cover your smile.
“Who painted that?” His laughter dies into a pleasant chuckling, the moment gone as fast as it had come, passing through the both of you so quickly he doesn’t even register it as having been real.
“Artist unknown,” you close your giggling with a satisfied sigh, “but it must have been some wild-minded virgin, I mean, look,” you tap your polished nail against the scroll where the woman is being penetrated.
Douma moves in a little, squinting his eyes and taking the opportunity to lean the side of his body further against yours, “Yeah, no way,” he pulls back with an amused hmph once he sees what you’re referring to, “It looks like it’s stabbing her right in the clit,” suddenly, he lights up like a Christmas tree as he remembers his earlier trip to the store and reaches for his bag, always eager to show off his new shiny things, “Here, I just bought one actually!”
As he unfurls it, for some reason he hopes you haven't seen it before, hopes you’re impressed with his things.
“That’s from the shop down the street, isn’t it? I saw it a few days ago, I think they just got it imported.”
Damn, “Yup!”
Even still, the fact that you’ve seen it already, been to that shop before and tried the same things as him, it makes him want to talk to you more. He wonders about everything else you’ve seen, what you haven't, intrigued to learn what makes you tick. Saliva wets his tongue at the sight of your exposed neck, so close to him now as you lean over him to study the shunga in his hands. His curiosity for your words is at war with his hunger for your flesh, and all of it drowns out his urge to play savior, even just for a moment.
The gentle, appreciative look on your face crumbles off as soon as you’re done marveling over his art, leaving a blank sort of nothingness in its wake for only a millisecond as he observes you shift gears. How strange. When you catch him staring, he responds with a sweet, carefree smile, the kind that works on most people, but he can’t be sure that you’ve bought it.
Your expression melts into elegance again as your eyes wander down his chest and over his hips to land on his bag sitting next to him, “What’s this one?” With a nod of your head, you gesture to the still-rolled scroll poking from his bag, too lady-like in your performance to do something as rude as point, although Douma wouldn’t mind.
“Ah,” he sings like a loon-bird as he reaches for it, his voice lilting and echoing off of itself, almost haunting if it weren't so lovely, “It’s from Xizang!”
You lean in as he unfurls it for you, your eyes glinting with instant recognition, “Mikkyō Buddhism?” you quip, and Douma wonders if there’s anything you don't know, “You didn’t strike me as someone who believes in all that.”
He doesn’t give himself time to think before the next words fly from his mouth, “I don’t,” he confesses with a chuckle. When was the last time he admitted that to anyone? “How’d you know it was Mikkyō? Have you seen this one too?”
“No,” you hum, your eyes still glued to the brightly colored parchment, and Douma can’t help that internal inkling of triumph, “But you said Xizang, and I recognize the style. Plus, they’re having sex.”
That’s right, he remembers your education, something he ought to stop underestimating, “Good to know there are things even you haven’t seen,” he flashes you a flirtatious smile, the same sort of generic charm he uses to flatter just about everybody who crosses his path.
“The number dwindles by the day,” you return his expression as you look up from the painting, pressing the scroll back into his hand, and Douma is all too aware of the fact that your skin is once again on his, “I can go ahead and check off the box for beautiful man with rainbows in his eyes.”
He reaches up to trace the outline of his own eyes as you speak, needing to remind himself not to actually go and stroke his eyeball. Humans find that creepy, “They were given to me by the gods,” the explanation falls from his mouth out of sheer habit. Having rehearsed it so many times that it’s become second-nature, he lies to you just like he lies to everybody else.
And you laugh at him. There’s no wonder or reverence in your eyes as the sound nearly explodes from your mouth in the form of a strangled choke before you quickly reel yourself back in, “Forgive me,” you hide your mouth again, any authenticity now suffocated in sugar, “How rude of me. It’s just, I thought you said you didn’t believe.”
He doesn’t, “It’s a birth defect,” he tells you the truth, “I got lucky.”
“I thought so,” you smile as you lean back on your hands, the arch of your body accentuating the curve of your chest, “Of all the defects you could have gotten, at least it’s one that gave you pretty eyes.”
“Why don’t you get a closer look?” he beckons you with a sultry voice and provocative smirk, still wondering what specific combination of words and gestures might undo you.
You take the bait with molten eyes and a smile that promises heat, your body arched like a cat’s as you lean forward and quite literally crawl closer to him, “If you insist,” you purr, planting your palms on the floor beside each of his hips, effectively boxing him in as you lean your body over his. He keeps his eyes open and fixed right on yours as you study their hues like luxury jewels. He swallows the spit rapidly accumulating in his mouth, and with the feeling of your breath on his lips and your chest only inches from colliding against his own, he can hardly focus. He’s too caught up in the hedonistic enjoyment of you now closer to him than ever, and that question from earlier rattles around in his head.
Sex?
Yet he doesn’t close the gap between you despite the increasingly intoxicating temptation of it; he still can’t tell if you’re faking it, if you really want it.
“The prettiest eyes I’ve seen before yours were blue,” you pull away from him with a coquettish smile, breaking the moment like a bone, “He said his grandfather was a Jesuit.”
Easily distracted and just as easily reminded, the word blue illuminates in his head like a lightbulb as he remembers that right, he’s got a job to do! He’s never been any good at detective work, too aloof to follow one trail for long, but he can at least try.
“Since you’ve seen so many things, have you ever seen a blue spider lily?”
If you’re taken off guard by the sudden subject change, you mask it well, only raising your eyebrow and chuckling at the silliness of it, “Who told you to ask me that?”
He pauses, blinking at you with a wide eyed stare and hollow smile, the expression only pasted there because for once, he’s not sure how to react. How did you know someone else asked him to look for those?
Douma ought to watch it, or He’ll pull his guts out through his ass.
“Nobody,” he lies, smooth as silk, and he seriously can’t tell if you’re buying it or not, “I saw them in a painting once.”
“No, I haven’t seen a blue spider lily,” you inform him with a polite smile before your expression narrows into something a little more smug, “But if you ask me, I don’t think they exist. I would have heard about them.”
Oh well! At least he can tell Him that he tried. If you caught his lie, you aren't pushing it, and that’s all that matters to him. He’s always been perfectly content with not thinking about things too hard.
“Do you smoke?” You change the subject for him, already rummaging through one of your drawers.
“Yes!” He claps his hands together, childishly excited at the prospect of one of the few things he can still enjoy without question, “I forgot my kiseru when I came here though… and my tobacco,” he pouts a little, looking at you wide eyed and expectant.
You receive his puppy-dog plea with a giggle, dismissing him with a playful wave, “It’d be cruel of me to ask if you smoke and then give you no tobacco. I’ve got plenty.”
“Yayyyyy!”
“I’ve got this one,” you hold out your kiseru, a long black pipe accented with gold designs in the shape of lotus flowers, “But there’s a shisha in the other room if you’d prefer that.”
“Shisha!” He announces, clapping again and nodding his head side to side along with some made up rhythm.
“Good choice,” you say with a wink, “Go get it for us, will you? It’s in the corner if you look to the left when you walk out the door.”
He springs to his feet, so eager he almost forgets to watch his own speed as he heads through the door. As soon as he leaves, he lets his expression melt right off his features, dull-faced and unblinking as he scans the room for your shisha. His eyes land on that painting he tried to buy earlier, and he realizes that he could steal it now that he’s unattended, but his attention quickly shifts over to the tall glass pipe in the corner. He really does want to smoke, even if the emotions to match it evade him — stealing would ruin it.
He picks it up and heads back to your door, knocking on the frame to be polite before waiting until you call out in that lovely sing-song tone, “Come in.”
He slides the door open and freezes before he can cross the frame, a wide eyed, thoughtless smile plastered to his face, born from his own surprise as he’s met with the sight of you standing in a pool of freshly removed garments, stripped all the way down to your juban. He’s seen plenty of women in various stages of undress before, but there's something about the way you turn it into a game that makes him want to play, and on a physical level, you’re exquisite. The only thing between him and the full portrait of your bare flesh is one measly layer of clothing, so short sleeved that your forearms are completely exposed, and so thin that he can make out intimate details of your figure. It’s loose around your hips, enlightening him to the way your thighs freely jiggle as you move, tight around your waist, with fabric so light-weight that he can see the outline of your nipples perked at attention and shit- he’s salivating like a dog.
It hits him now that he hasn’t eaten all night. Hunger swirls in his stomach, sticky and entwined with oncoming arousal as that question from earlier keeps him cemented in his spot, gawking at you with that surprised grin still glued to his face.
Are you two about to have sex?
The way you meet his gaze with smooth, knowing eyes tells him yes.
The way you turn that lavish look back to ladylike within the blink of an eye makes him question his own judgment.
“Bring the shisha over here,” you step out of your puddle of garments, your voice steady and casual as if you aren't one pulled-string away from being completely nude, “I haven’t smoked all night.”
“Me neither!” he wipes the look off of his face as easily as you had, not having to make too much effort to ignore your state of undress now that he’s over the initial surprise. He’s seen naked women before, and as lovely as they are, he can handle himself just fine.
Still, he can’t help but wonder just what you’re getting at. Maybe the layers of clothes were just uncomfortable, they do look awfully suffocating.
He moves on from the thought quickly and effortlessly as his mind occupies itself with bringing you the shisha. Sex or not, smoking out a window with a beautiful half-clothed woman sounds like one hell of a good time, and he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t smoked all night.
He approaches you where you sit near the window, sets the shisha down, and takes his spot on the floor right beside you, the side of his arm pressed to yours; he’s never been big on personal space. You lean into his contact as you open your little sack of shredded tobacco, your eyes focused on your fingers as you pinch through the bag, “Be a dear and hand me the bowl, would you?”
He plucks the bowl piece off the shisha, “Is there water in it?” He asks as he hands it over.
“I have my girls fill it before I get back,” without looking up, you hum as you take it from him and begin filling it with tobacco. He watches on as you delicately arrange it with your fingers, taking care not to drop even a single strand of it, shredded so fine it resembles hair.
You finish the set up, light the charcoal, and press the mouthpiece between your lips as you inhale. Somehow, you make even that look elegant, your half-undressed body leaned against the window frame and a far-off look on your face as you gaze out into the street. Like the dazzling subject of a portrait, you look like brushstrokes breathed to life as your chest rises with your inhale. You take in an impressive amount before breathing it all out again, plumes of smoke falling past your delicate mouth like clouds of ice, right out the window and into the brisk night air.
Your shoulders relax as you turn to him with a gentle smile, clearly satisfied; whether that’s from the smoke or his staring, he’s unsure.
“All without coughing too,” his voice teeters on a tease, “impressive.”
“Oirans don’t gag,” you wink as you hand the mouthpiece to him, lipstick now smeared over it. If he had his way, he’d satiate his curiosity for how you taste by licking it right off.
“I don’t either,” he takes it from you with a giggle, making sure his hand brushes against yours as he does, “at least not on smoke.”
He puts the mouthpiece between his lips and inhales, long and slow as smoke fills his lungs and unwinds his muscles. With his eyes fluttered shut, he fully embraces the taste of tobacco on his tongue mixed with the faint floral undertones of your leftover lipstick, and he lets the sensation consume him the best he can. It’s a pleasant buzz, leaving him slightly lightheaded and loose, but it doesn’t last long enough, it never does. In this enhanced body of his, he metabolizes intoxicants way too fast; by the time he goes to exhale, the feeling is already gone, and he’s itching for another hit.
“Don’t stick your head out the window, just blow it into the room, I don’t mind,” your voice reminds him of the present as he puffs the smoke back out through a nod, “Patrons hate to see me in the company of other men.”
“Come on now, are they stupid?” He pouts with wide eyes, already knowing the answer, “They know what your job is, don’t they?”
“It’d be improper for me to speak poorly of my clients,” the amused lilt in your voice as you take the mouthpiece back tells him all he needs to know on what you think of their intelligence, “But let’s just say these men are really in love with me.”
“Well,” his voice liquifies, decedent and always just on the edge of laughter as he leans back on his palms to watch the way your lips wrap around the tip of it, “then they should want you to take more lovers, yeah? So you could feel good as often as you want.”
You keep your sly gaze locked on his as you exhale, not bothering to turn your cheek to the window this time, “I like the way you think, Douma.”
The smirk he wears stretches into a grin, so full that his fangs gleam from where they poke over his lips, “Do you?”
As your eyes wander to his mouth, you move towards him again, extending your hand to his face, “You’ve got my lipstick on you, here…”
You swipe the pad of your thumb against his lower lip with slow intention, your soft finger so close to the inside of his mouth that he can almost taste you.
The hunger in his belly rears its ugly head again — he wants to bite you. He wants to draw the blood from your fingertip and lap it up until you’ve got nothing more to offer, he wants to swallow you whole, starved and reduced to his most basic instincts.
The thought blows right past him as he thanks you with a gentle smile on his face and accepts the shisha when you offer it again. He lets the nicotine dull his hunger and the conversation feed his need for stimulation as you pass the piece back and forth, your finger wiping the lipstick from his mouth each time he gets more of it on him. The two of you bounce from topic to topic — art, music, then theatre and politics, and back to art again — until the bowl runs empty and you refill it again. With the way you speak, colorful and witty like storybooks composed on the fly, it’s even easier for him to lose track of time as your one-man audience. Captivating.
The whole room is hazy by the time the second bowl is through, golden light from your lanterns dancing off the smoke as it swirls and strings around.
“Snuff out the charcoal, will you?” You ask as you collect your little bag of tobacco.
As soon as you get up and turn your back, he does it with his bare hand. He makes his palms so cold that the heat dies instantly, like it had been pressed to dry ice, only so that you won't catch him. If he were on his own he would have made his hands as warm as possible and let the thing scald through his flesh — because it feels good. It feels like something.
Just like that, he recalls why he comes to this district in the first place, remembers exactly who and what he is. He’s been acting so childish, ornery and mischievous, he almost forgot that he should be pitying you. Perhaps it was your willingness to so boldly break the rules of your profession that inspired him to do the same.
Or it could just be the way your ass is at perfect eye level as you arch down to put the tobacco away, the insinuation of sex that tempts him like the apples of Eden.
Who cares what it is.
Even if he can’t help but flirt, he’s not here to fuck. He’s here to save you.
But first, he needs you to open up.
He coos your name as he stands up, his voice like an angel’s, all encompassing and compassionate, “You don’t have to have sex with me if you don’t want to.”
That usually serves to catch the girls off guard, get them wide eyed and bashful as they measure the contrast between him and their other clients. It tells them that he cares.
They can trust him.
They can trust him and tell him anything. And he’ll listen. And he’ll cradle them in his arms and he’ll dry their tears and he’ll save them.
You’re such a lovely woman, you’re certainly worth it.
“I’m aware of that, thanks,” you say with nothing in your voice aside from a faint amusement still buried beneath a proper exterior that keeps you from being too facetious. You don't tense or turn to look at him, you don't even stop what you’re doing.
Damn!
“Well, that’s good,” he hums, doing what he can to roll with the punches, swinging back with a more direct approach, “Do you ever wish you could run away from all this?”
“Not really, no,” you shut the drawer and turn around, your eyes narrowed at him for a moment before an ornery grin paints your expression, “Aww, are you trying to get me to open up?”
Well, yeah, “I just thought I’d get to know you better, that’s all.”
You sway closer to him, your hands held behind your back and a seductive gleam in your eye, “I enjoy my job just fine, Douma. I get to spend all day acting like a hedonist. And I don’t like getting bored.”
You’re being difficult — it excites him — and you’re close enough now, so beautiful with that look on your face, that he can’t help but flirt again. For the millionth time tonight, he gets distracted from his goal, those compassionate eyes folding upward into mischievous crescents as he smiles, “You’re interesting.”
Really, that’s the highest compliment he could bestow upon somebody; he doesn’t like getting bored either.
“I could say the same about you,” you hum, your eyes undressing him in a way that makes him wish you’d just do it with your hands, “I mean, look at you. You’re so beautiful it’s inhuman.”
The sensation of you taking his hand in both of yours is enough to distract him from dwelling on what you mean by that. With your flesh on his again, the question of salvation once more gives way to the question of sex.
You inspect his fingers like delicacies, “You’ve even been manicured. I don’t see that on a man every day.”
They’re claws, but people comment on them often enough, and the lie of painted fingernails practically writes itself.
“And your clothes,” you continue, your voice a low purr, your hands curious as a kitten’s as you let go of his fingers and run your palms over his chest to inspect the fabric of his shirt.
Seriously, are you guys about to have sex!
His dick is even more eager than his train of thought; it twitches in his pants as your hands grace from his chest to his abdomen.
“They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen, they’re so western,” the sultry hum to your voice only fuels his arousal. You stop your hands right above his waist, but you don't pull away, “Where’d you get them?”
He’s not wearing anything special, just the default bright red compression shirt and loose, striped pants. Technically, they’re made of him, but the lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly, “I’m acquainted with a Dutchman.”
“Did he give you the belt too?”
Your eyes still trained on his, you dip your fingers below his waist and effortlessly undo his belt, the sound of metal as the buckle unclasps being the only thing that breaks the sexually-charged silence.
There’s no question about it anymore.
He swoops down and closes the gap between you like a hawk to its prey, the talons on his hand reaching upward to gently cup your jaw as he kisses you. He tries his best not to come off as ravenous, but god, you've been starving him all night.
You lean into it, he swears you do, pressing your lips back against his and-
And pushing him off of you.
Huh?
No ordinary human can actually move him, but he stumbles back in accordance with your shove, his belt hung undone, a trail of spit roping down over his chin and a big, stupid smile plastered on his face in his confusion.
Seriously, what the hell? He could have sworn that you wanted-
“And here I thought you had a sense of refinement,” there’s a cut to your voice as you stare at him through harsh eyes, but the slight amused upturn on the corners of your mouth serves as a willing reveal of your hand, somehow cold and playful all at once, “Don’t you know? An Oiran isn’t to be touched until the third meeting. What is wrong with you?”
“Come onnnnnnnnn,” he whines like a child, high pitched and drawn out as he dramatically slumps his shoulders in a full body pout, “You stripped down to your underwear and undid my belt, what was I supposed to think?”
“None of that means anything,” you sneer.
Are you serious right now?
He bats his eyelashes at you, playing off your tone with a tease of his own, “Not even for the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen?”
Unless that too was just you toying with him.
“All that pretty talking of yours had me thinking you were classier,” you pout back, and he still can’t quite pinpoint if you’re joking, “but I guess not… you can go ahead and see yourself out.”
Damn. Maybe you really did just invite him up here for the money.
With a soft, carefree chuckle, he smiles again, a gentle expression softening his face all the way to his eyes as he fixes his belt, “My apologies then,” he bows and collects his bag, reaching for a wad of cash as he moves towards the door. He doesn’t check exactly how much he’s got in his hand, but it feels heavy enough to be at least double what you charge, “Thank you for your time,” he presses the absurd amount of money into your hands, lightly squeezing them in his own as he does.
You push the money back to him, a smile on your face so charming it rivals his own, “You can keep your life savings.”
He almost insists, but something tells him that’ll end the same way this whole interaction has — another back and forth only for you to refuse him at the end.
“Well then,” he bows his head again and slips the money back in the bag, right up against the bodhisattva and his consort, “Bye bye!”
He gives you a jolly wave as he moves around you towards the door, laughter light like bell-chimes bubbling from his chest; the fact of his confusion has made this all the more fun.
“Oh, and Douma?” You call him just as he’s about to slide the door shut behind himself.
“Hm?” He perks up to be met with your fox-like expression staring back at him, a wide, shit-eating grin on your face.
“Next time you come around,” you say it like you’re certain he will, “Tell the woman at the front to let me know. I’ll let you in without notice again.”
A wolfish grin spreads across his face like butter over hot bread as he realizes what game you’re playing, and the ball is in his court, “Lovely.”
“Goodbye now,” you shut the door for him, and he descends back into the night still curious for you, wondering if you really will open it for him the next time he knocks.
Whenever that may be.