#oiran

[jareckiworld]

Manami Koike — Oiran (oil, chalk, ground, cotton, wood panel, 2008)

[the-spirited-one]

@aychama Forgive me for the mewing shit take oiran Narinder as a prize for your troubles 😅😂

(This is absolutely a redraw of that one scene from the first comic, I had to, it was too PERFECT)

[circus-sonata]

花魁 濃紫 新吉原 稲本楼、大正期 Oiran, Koimurasaki Inamoto-Ro, Shin-Yoshiwara, Taisho era (1912-1926)

x

[joyfulcowboycandy]

The Oiran and Her Thief

Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader

❥one shot

Trigger warning: chilhood sexual assault implied, obvious power imbalance, possessive behavior, unhealthy relationship and dependent reader... Reader is emotionally dependent on Chrollo. Hinted prostitution (Not Y/n)

Content warning: Reader has albinism. She's an Oiran, and is pretty mentally messed up. I wrote this because I didn't know how else to deal with pent up emotions, If you've seen a similar plotline on AO3 That's my friend and I gave her permission to take heavy inspiration from me.

Note: This is the first part of multiple, but I still don't know if I want to post more than this part... This is pretty different from how HxH oneshots usually are so Idk if I wanna post more of this, it's preeetty niche? We'll see how this goes

fem Y/n

I dreamed of living in a cabin nestled beside a field bursting with wildflowers, each bloom more colorful than the last. My lover would be there, always by my side, never leaving me. I clung to this dream every night as I fell asleep on the rotting, paper-thin mattress in my mother’s cold, damp apartment. My white hair fanned out in every direction, and my mother’s frail, wrinkled fingers would comb through it absentmindedly. Her touch lacked warmth, her smell was sharp and unpleasant—not floral or soft like the field I dreamed of. Her body was sickly thin, too weak to shield me from the cruel winter chill, but I found solace in her presence regardless.

It was those very imperfections, the qualities others might find repellent, that made her my mother. I loved her for them, even when her fingers would tighten painfully in my hair or her nails would dig into my scalp, forcing my red eyes to lock with her furious e/c ones. I loved her even as she trembled from the aftermath of her work, chanting incoherent words into my ears while the stench of cheap cologne clung to her skin.

She protected me—at least, I believed she did. I was forbidden to leave the house unsupervised, and even then, my hair and face had to remain hidden. I hated it. I wanted to run outside, to play and laugh with the other children.

But that life was gone now.

I stared into my reflection, my crimson eyes fixed on the smooth layer of white I painted over my face. My kamuro, Momoka, held the palette steady for me, her small frame nearly trembling with excitement. To my right, my other kamuro, Hinagi, gazed at my reflection with a silent admiration that warmed my heart.

I had already spent nearly two hours being dressed in my heavy silks and fabrics. My elaborate hairstyle and the ornaments—most of them gifts from Chrollo—had taken an additional thirty minutes. The weight of it all pressed against my body, yet it was a sensation I’d grown used to after years of training.

“You are so beautiful, Y/n-sama,” Hinagi whispered, almost in awe. Her voice was soft, reverent, as though she spoke to a goddess.

My eyes shifted to her reflection. She was smiling now.

“I think so too, Y/n-sama!” Momoka chirped, her voice brighter, still holding the palette diligently.

A small smile graced my lips, careful not to disturb the meticulous makeup I had just applied. “Thank you, my dears,” I said, my tone gentle. “Hinagi, will you check to ensure I’m not late for my client?”

“Yes, of course!” she replied eagerly, bowing her head quickly before darting out of the room. The faint patter of her hurried footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, followed by the soft sound of the sliding door closing behind her.

As an oiran, I had the privilege of choosing my clients based on the gifts they presented. Over the years, I’d honed the ability to discern which of them could be useful to me—and by extension, the troupe. Beneath the guise of artful flirtation and polite conversation, I gathered the information Chrollo needed.

Still, my position was not without risk. My red eyes, left uncovered within the safety of the teahouse, marked me as rare and valuable—traits that could easily make me a target for trafficking or worse. But I was always under careful protection. The teahouse itself was impenetrable, and my proximity to other people at all times made it difficult for any would-be assailants. Of course, there were still attempts, but Feitan and Shalnark made sure those were swiftly dealt with.

In this country, I was the last oiran, a figure of mystery and allure—but to the Phantom Troupe, I was far more. I was their information gatherer, their key to unraveling secrets from the most dangerous and corrupt individuals who sought my company.

And all of this… was for Chrollo.

For the distorted version of the dream we once had together.

The click of the wooden sandals beneath my feet seemed louder than usual as I made my way through the corridors. Every step I took was accompanied by the gentle chime of the ornaments in my hair and the soft rustle of the heavy silks that adorned my body. I moved with precision, my movements a delicate balance of grace and restraint. Even the smallest misstep could crack the illusion I’d perfected over the years.

My ornaments consisted of a few pins, a delicate comb, and a ribbon. Small tokens that tethered me to him, even as he left me to navigate this world alone. I told myself the silence he left behind didn’t ache as much as it did. That I didn’t long for him, waiting for the rare nights when his voice would pull me back from the edge, only for him to disappear again. But it wasn’t my place to demand more.

I was his treasure, after all. A gem meant to shine quietly where he placed me.

I adjusted my sleeves as I reached the room, carefully pulling them back so that the intricate embroidery on the silk caught the flickering light. Hinagi stood at the door, her small hands clasped tightly in front of her as she awaited my signal. Momoka hovered just behind me, holding the small tray that carried the sake I would offer to my guest. The soft weight of her presence reminded me of the years I had spent in training—learning how to serve, how to charm, how to survive.

“Y/n-sama,” Hinagi whispered, bowing low. “Shall I announce you?”

“Please,” I murmured, my voice even and calm, the way it always was when I stepped into these rooms.

Hinagi slid the door open, stepping inside first to bow to my client and announce my arrival. The scent of incense wafted out, mingling with the faint musk of sake. I stepped inside a moment later, lowering myself into a graceful bow, just deep enough to honor his position without sacrificing my own.

“Y/n-sama,” he greeted, his tone eager but restrained. His gaze lingered as I rose slowly, meeting his eyes with my own crimson ones. They widened, as they always did, as if he were caught in the pull of some spell.

“Goro-sama,” I said softly, my voice smooth as the sake I was about to offer him. “Thank you for your patience. I hope I did not keep you waiting too long.”

“Not at all,” he said quickly, motioning for me to sit. “Your presence is more than worth the wait.”

I settled down gracefully, arranging the layers of my kimono so they pooled around me like the petals of a flower.��

“Shall we drink?” I asked, reaching for the porcelain sake flask on the tray. Momoka had handed it to me moments before retreating silently. “It’s a fine night for it, don’t you think?”

His lips curved into a smile, and he nodded eagerly. “Of course.”

Pouring sake was an art form in itself, and I performed it with care, tilting the flask just enough for the stream to flow smoothly into his cup. I did not fill it to the brim—leaving room, as custom dictated, for the exchange to continue throughout the evening. When his cup was full, I lifted my own, though I knew it would remain untouched.

“To your health, Goro-sama,” I said, lifting the cup toward him in a toast.

He raised his in return, his eyes never leaving mine. “And to your beauty, Y/n-sama.”

I smiled softly, lowering my gaze just enough to give him the illusion of modesty. When I brought the cup to my lips, I tilted it carefully, letting the liquid touch the rim without drinking a single drop. Years of practice had made the motion seamless, and no client had ever questioned it.

As the sake began to take its hold, loosening Goro's tongue, I listened intently, offering soft words of encouragement whenever he hesitated. My role was not to interrogate but to guide—gently, subtly, until he revealed what I needed to know.

“Ah, you wouldn’t believe the treasures they talk about in the mountains,” he said, leaning closer as his voice dropped conspiratorially. “A relic of the heavens, they say. Cursed, too. Superstitious nonsense, of course.”

My hands rested lightly on my lap, my posture still perfect as my heart quickened. “How intriguing,” I said softly, tilting my head slightly. The ornaments in my hair chimed with the movement. “Such treasures must attract great interest, don’t they?”

He laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Of course, of course. But only fools would risk such danger.”

I nodded, my eyes soft but calculating. Every word he spoke was another thread I could weave into the tapestry Chrollo sought. Every scrap of information was another step closer to his goals.

The thought of him lingered, unbidden. I imagined him seated here instead, his eyes dark and piercing as he unraveled my carefully constructed mask. He would see through it, as he always did, and for a fleeting moment, I would feel free. But he wasn’t here. He never was, not until I was at my breaking point. And when he left again, the cycle would start anew.

I pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the man in front of me. My performance was flawless, as it always was. No one could see the cracks beneath the surface—not my clients, not my kamuro, not even myself if I worked hard enough.

I smiled, pouring him another cup of sake as the conversation drifted back to more mundane topics. Every moment I spent here was for Chrollo, for the Phantom Troupe. It was the role I had chosen, the role he had given me.

The night was a haze of laughter, sake, and secrets—an endless dance of pouring, smiling, and listening. Each client blurred into the next, their voices slurring together, their hands gesturing wildly as they rambled about power, wealth, and forbidden treasures. I smiled through it all, my painted face unchanging, my posture flawless, my voice as sweet and measured as the first sip of sake they took. It was what they paid for, after all. A beautiful, elegant oiran who would hang onto their every word as though each one was a revelation.

Tonight’s guest was no different. He sat cross-legged across from me, cheeks flushed with drink, leaning forward as he recounted some grand scheme to obtain an ancient artifact. His words slurred as he spoke, and the faint sour smell of alcohol filled the space between us. I poured him another drink, tilting the flask just enough to fill his cup to perfection, my hands steady despite the tension coiling in my chest.

“Y/n-sama,” he said, his voice thick with intoxication, “you’re truly a treasure. I could sit here forever just talking to you and looking into your beautiful, crimson eyes.”

My smile didn’t waver. “You flatter me, Kozui-sama. But surely, there are more exciting things to dream about than me.”

His laughter was loud and coarse, ringing out in stark contrast to the delicate chime of the ornaments in my hair. I resisted the urge to flinch. It wasn’t the worst thing I’d endured tonight—not by far.

“Nothing more exciting than this!” he declared, raising his cup in a toast to me. His words tumbled out in a jumble of admiration and incoherence, and I nodded along, letting him believe I cared.

But I didn’t. Not about him, not about his words, not about any of this.

What I cared about—what kept me anchored here, night after night—was the thought of Chrollo. Of his rare, fleeting smiles when I’d done something that pleased him. Of the way his voice softened when he spoke to me, even though it was never enough to fill the void he left behind. I endured this for him. For the troupe. For the promise we made when we were children.

The memory came unbidden, sharp and bittersweet.

"We’ll leave this place together," Chrollo had whispered, his voice filled with conviction. We were huddled beneath the ruins of some long-abandoned building in Meteor City, the scent of rust and decay all around us. "We’ll find somewhere better. Somewhere we can be happy."

I had believed him. I had clung to that promise like a lifeline, dreaming of the day we’d escape the filth and despair of that cursed city. But we hadn’t left. Not together, not in the way we imagined.

And now, here I was, far from Meteor City but no closer to happiness.

I excused myself from the room once the client had passed out, his drunken stupor rendering him useless for any further conversation. The kamuro would deal with him now, ensuring he was escorted out with the illusion of grace and dignity.

The hallway was empty as I made my way back to my quarters. The ornaments in my hair felt like weights dragging me down, their beauty a cruel reminder of the life I led.

When I reached my room, I slid the door shut behind me with a deliberate slowness. The air inside was thick with the scent of incense—sweet and cloying, an oppressive presence I couldn’t escape. My gaze swept across the room, landing on the gifts Chrollo had left for me over the years. They were everywhere. Hairpins, combs, silks, jewelry, books. Trinkets meant to fill the void of his absence.

But they didn’t.

They only made it worse.

My hands trembled as I reached up to remove the ornaments from my hair, one by one. The first clattered to the floor, then the next, and the next, until they lay scattered around me like the pieces of my carefully crafted facade.

The silk obi came next, its intricate folds unwinding as I tugged at it, the fabric slipping through my fingers like water. I yanked at the layers of my kimono, ripping them free in a frenzy until I stood there in my undergarments, shivering despite the warmth of the room.

My breathing was ragged, my chest heaving as I stared at the pile of silk and ornaments around me.

And then the tears came.

They spilled down my painted cheeks, smearing the carefully applied makeup as sobs tore from my throat. The sound was raw, guttural, a wretched cry that echoed in the empty room. I sank to my knees, clutching at the fabric strewn around me, my fingers tangling in the fine silks as though they could somehow ground me.

It wasn’t enough.

I needed him.

Why wasn’t he here?

The question burned in my mind, a relentless refrain that only fueled the storm inside me. He always showed up when I was at my worst, didn’t he? Always there to pick up the pieces, to hold me close and whisper words that felt like promises even if they weren’t.

But he wasn’t here now.

I curled in on myself, trembling as the sobs subsided into quiet hiccups. My mind retreated to a safer place, somewhere far from the crushing weight of reality. I thought of simpler times, of the games we played as children, of the laughter and warmth we shared. Of the way Chrollo used to look at me, back when we were just two kids dreaming of a better life.

I clung to those memories, letting them wrap around me like a fragile cocoon. But deep down, I knew they wouldn’t hold forever.

He tells me he loves me. He tells me he loves me He tells me he loves me He tells me he loves me

The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of my breathing. The air feels heavier than before, pressing down on me, though I can’t say why. I sit motionless, staring at nothing, my hands limp in my lap.

Then, I feel it—a shift in the atmosphere. It’s subtle, like the faintest ripple in still water, but it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A presence.

I don’t move, unsure if I’m imagining things. My fingers twitch slightly, the only sign of my unease, but the feeling doesn’t go away. Instead, it grows, drawing nearer.

And then I know.

It’s him.

I don’t hear him approach, but I feel the weight of his gaze before I even turn. Slowly, as though time itself has slowed, I stand up and twist to face him.

Chrollo stands there, close enough to touch but impossibly distant, the dim light catching on the sharp angles of his face. His dark coat brushes his thighs, and his hands rest at his sides, one gloved, one bare. His eyes are fathomless, quiet yet intense, as if they hold all the answers I’ll never have the courage to ask for.

I can’t speak. Neither can he.

He steps forward, deliberate but unhurried, until he’s within reach. His gloved hand lifts first, the cool leather brushing against my cheek, and I flinch ever so slightly at the touch. The other hand, warm and bare, settles at my waist, the pressure gentle yet firm, guiding me closer.

My hands move on their own, gripping his coat tightly as if to tether myself to him. My fingers curl into the fabric. My eyes trace his face—his sharp jaw, the faint shadow of stubble that catches the light, the way his lips remain parted, as though he’s about to speak but chooses not to.

I move forward without thinking, my body seeking his, pressing myself against him like a child reaching for something comforting. My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as I rise onto my toes. His shoulder becomes my sanctuary, my forehead pressing against the rough fabric of his coat.

His arms shift, wrapping around me with a quiet tenderness. One hand rests against the small of my back, steady and anchoring, while the other brushes lightly against my hair. It’s not a tight hold—he isn’t clinging the way I am. His touch is measured, restrained, but he stays close, allowing me to bury myself in him.

I clutch him harder, fingers trembling as I tighten my grip. The fear that he’ll vanish seeps into me, and my chest aches with the weight of it. His presence is the only thing holding me together, even as he remains an enigma I can never fully grasp.

We sink down onto the futon, his movements slow and deliberate as he guides me to sit beside him. I don’t let go, my arms wrapped around him as though I can trap him here, keep him tethered to this moment.

His hands stay gentle, one resting lightly on my back, the other brushing over my arm. The contrast between his composure and my desperation gnaws at me, but I can’t bring myself to loosen my grip.

The room feels warmer now, his presence soaking into the air around us. Yet even with him here, the space between us feels vast, his silence an unspoken reminder of the things I can never understand about him.

I keep holding on, my face pressed against his shoulder, breathing in the faint, clean scent of him. My grip tightens further, my hands small and trembling against his broad frame. He doesn’t move to pull me away, but he doesn’t hold me as fiercely as I want him to.

Time slips past without meaning. My thoughts grow hazy, heavy, until exhaustion drags my eyelids shut.

And when I open them again, he’s gone.

[tanuki-kimono]

A few years ago, I came across this powerful art by Miki Katoh entiltled [Crushing Evil]:

Miki Katoh has realeased with Kimono Heart a sleek furisode version of her design available for rental. A powerfull outfit not for the dainty ones for sure!

[fleurdemaiko]

The Written Face (1995), featuring Bandō Tamasaburō V (五代目 坂東 玉三郎)

[gyutaro-truther]

[anime093se]

[theyanderespecialist]

Kokushibo's Oiran (Headcanons) Yandere Kokushibo X Female Oiran Reader (Demon Slayer)

[Hello, My Sexy Muffins! I am back, back at last, here we go, with some ass, I am back, I am back, I am back~ So I am back and this time it is a request off of Tumblr and it is yandere Kokushibo x Female Oiran Listener, headcanons of these two and him as he is in obsessive love with her.] 

(Disclaimer: Kokushibo is Not Yandere in canon! This is just for fun and not to be taken seriously at all! Simping for fictional characters and yanderes is fine! Just do not be illegal or gross about it! You know who you are! You Dirty, Flaky, Biscuits! Yanderes are not ideal partners to have in real life, also remember to separate fiction from reality and headcanon from canon! Thank you!  Disclaimer: this takes place in the 1920s pretty much in Japan so women could still be more or less bought when working as ladies of the night! I do not support anyone buying ANYONE else ever!) 

[Anyways, I hope that you all enjoy this chapter here, my muffins!]  

-Headcanons With Yandere Kokushibo X Female Oirna Reader-

 

.Kokushibo was a man who did not often go for the sins of the flesh, but he did have the urge to lay with a woman. 

.With working for Lord Muzan he did not have time to court a woman into his bed. Or a man for that matter. 

.So when Daki told him there were plenty of beautiful women in the red light district he decided to go and see for himself. 

.Since he is Muzan's business partner he had plenty of money to spend on one of the working women. 

.He went in his more human looks, just like Dak could appear human, so could he.  .He had come in looking over all the girls but none of them caught his interest. 

.That was until you came out, a beautiful Oiran who walked with grace. 

.You were out to see a client and he stepped right in front of you. 

.He knew by the clothes you wore you were an Oiran. He told the owner of the house that he would pay triple what the other man was paying. 

.Of course, the owner could not deny this. So you were escorted out by Kokushibo.  .You Wonder if this man was a Nobel, with the way he carried himself. 

.Kokushibo took you to the best hotel and he would remove your clothes and examine your body, with his hands and his mouth. 

.He had never felt such lust for anyone in all his days. 

.He would ravish you completely. Making sure to mark you with his mouth. 

.He would have been so tempted to taste your blood, but he would not do so right away. 

.Every night he has off her comes to see you and ravish you, part of him wants your body to be molded to him. 

.To pleasure you so you only crave him~ So that you crave him as much as he craves you. 

.He of course knows the nights he is not with you that you have another client. 

.So he makes arrangements with the owner of the house, to pay double every night he was not there. But he would only pay when he came back. 

.If you had been touched the nights he was gone, well those men would be killed and their heads would make the way to the owner's room. 

.It is not just to punish the vile worthless unworthy men who think they were allowed to touch you. 

But also it was to send a message that if he is paying double then no one was to touch you by him. 

.Soon almost everyone would know the risk of having you in their bed. 

.Everyone would know that you were a claimed woman. 

.Rumors that he was a demon would start to spread. 

.He would deal with any rivals that tried to hire your services and try to fuck you, they would lose their heads. 

.He would not blame you, as he knows that it is just your job.  .Of course, he would remind you that in your time off you are to be with no man, woman, or anyone else in a sexual, romantic, or anyway like that. 

.He would one day buy you from the house you were Oiran of. 

.He would not let you ever escape him and when he did buy you he would take you with him. 

.Confessing his love to you. 

.It did not matter if you accepted his love, but if you did it would make things go smoother for you both. 

.It would also make him pleased with you that you accepted him as your soon-to-be husband. 

.If you turn down his love he would tell you that it did not matter that he bought out your debts and you simply belonged to him. 

.You would have no say in the matter of marrying him or not. 

.He once again would marry you and wait to turn you into a demon or try at least, so that he can make you love him. 

.If you fall to sickness or are almost killed he will then turn you into a demon. 

.He may want you to love him first and to be loyal to him, but he would never let you escape him. 

.You are His, and that means that death is not allowed to have you either. 

.When you lose your memories he will be "Honest" with you and say you are his wife, and he is your husband. 

.That you always loved him and that he was the only man you wanted to be with. 

.He made this up but played it off as the truth because he can take advantage of you losing your memories. 

.He can manipulate the situation and make you love him. 

.This way you will never want to leave him and he can control you more~ You are his Oiran, and one day you will be his wife~ 

.It is just a matter of time until you belong to him and him alone. 

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS finally got this done, I hope you all enjoyed this, and stay sexy, all of my sexy muffins! Will make a YouTube video of this, that also has a bonus scenario! Once again please stay sexy, all of my sexy muffins!] 

[666love666gaming]

Take Me After Twilight Story Event

Prologue

Vlad's Story: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Ch 3 Sweet / Ch 3 Premium / Premium Epilogue

[thoraeth]

Lineart is done, off to color! 🐉✨

[eroartworks]

Do you love looking at her from below?😍

[noticiasarquelogicasjaponesas]

Capítulo 1: Diferencias entre Geisha y una Oiran Introducción. Sean bienvenidos japonistasarqueologicos una nueva entrega resumen, en esta ocasión os contaré que es una Oiran (おいらん) dicho esto comencemos. - Las Oiran son prostitutas que surgieron en el siglo XVII en el período Edo. No debemos confundirlas con las Geishas(げいしゃ). - En la segunda imagen os enseño una Oiran (おいらん) del anime Kimetsu no Yaiba(los guardianes de la noche) - Espero que os haya gustado y nos vemos en próximas publicaciones de Historia, arqueología, geografía nipona, entre otros temas, Que pasen una feliz semana. - Chapter 1: Differences between Geisha and an Oiran Introduction. Japonistasarqueologicos are welcome to a new summary installment, this time I will tell you that it is an Oiran (おいらん) having said that, let's start. - The Oiran are prostitutes that emerged in the 17th century in the Edo period. We should not confuse them with Geishas(げいしゃ). - In the second image I show you an Oiran (おいらん) from the anime Kimetsu no Yaiba (the guardians of the night) - I hope you liked it and see you in future publications of History, archaeology, Japanese geography, among other topics, Have a happy week. - 第1章 芸者と花魁の違い紹介。 Japonistasarqueologicos は、新しい総集編へようこそ、今回はおいらん (おいらん) ということで、始めましょう。 - 花魁は、江戸時代の17世紀に登場した売春婦です。 芸者（げいしゃ）と混同してはいけません。 - 2 番目の画像では、アニメ鬼滅の刃 (夜��守護者) の花魁 (おいらん) を示しています。 - あなたがそれを気に入ってくれて、歴史、考古学、日本の地理、その他のトピックの今後の出版物でお会いできることを願っています。

[rennebright]

花魁 by Kosmos β [Twitter/X] ※Illustration shared with permission from the artist. If you like this artwork please support the artist by visiting the source.

[fleurdemaiko]

Yatsuhashi (Bandō Tamasaburō V) glances back at a smitten Jirozaemon in Kagotsurube Sato no Eizame

[tsir-la]