Tengen takes pleasure in the way you writhe under him, struggling to take his thick fingers in your cunt.
"Unghh–" you moan, your body arching off his body. Tengen forces your legs apart with his thicker ones, splaying you open.
He tuts, shaking his head in disappointment. "Come on, darling. I know you can do better than that!"
And you try. Try your best to welcome his thick digits inside you. Your pussy gushes around his hand, his fingers curling inside you. "s' too much, 'Teng," you gasp, nails digging into his forearm. But you're too weak to push him away. And the man revels in that.
Pushing a third finger to your already stretched hole, he bites on the skin of your neck hard enough to leave a bruise, kissing and licking the spot as he plunges his fingers in and out of you with skilled precision.
"If you can't take my fingers, how can my dick fit in this tight little cunt, dolly?"
There aren't enough stories about Tengen, Makio, Hinatsuru and Suma.
I have a need for soft Tengen with his wives when they're sad, protective Tengen when the ladies are in danger, angry Suma when Makio burns the food, heartbreak for the whole family as it takes a while for any of the ladies to get pregnant, confident Tengen when his wives openly oogle him, Hinatsuru's guilt as she, Suma and Makio wake Tengen from a nightmare of his comrades being slaughtered because he's not there and he tries to assure them he would rather be there with them, newly married Tengen and wives being super awkward and overly polite with one another, Makio turning from the no nonsense, assertive woman she is to a complete puddle of goo as she holds the first baby of the family, jealous Tengen when his wives get hit on -
Summary: With tuition overdue and your future hanging by a thread, you make one impossible decision to keep your dream alive. One client. One payout. One night to forget. But Tengen Uzui isn’t a man who settles for masks and performances.
Modern AU Tengen Uzui x F! Reader
Warnings: Mentions of sex work/sex. Minors DNI. 18+
Word count~ 3.9k
Illustration created with the assistance of AI (I don't wanna hear it, I wrote the story myself, AI created the cover art. I'm a writer, not an illustrator)
Green
Your favorite color.
Sage green to be exact.
The color of new beginnings. Of growth. Of quiet things that survived harsh winters.
Tonight resembled nothing of the sort.
You tug the sage-green bodysuit over your hips, the spandex snapping against your skin with a sharp slap!
Too tight. Too short. Too expensive-looking for something with so little fabric.
You stare at yourself in the mirror. The woman looking back almost resembles you.
Almost.
Pale fingers settle around your waist from behind, their warmth grounding you before panic can pull you under.
Mitsuri joins you in the mirror, large adoring eyes holding your own worried stare in the reflection.
“See?”
Mitsuri beams from behind you, smoothing a wrinkle that doesn’t exist. “The green is perfect on you. Here–wear this over it until you’re inside.”
She drapes a long cardigan over your shoulders like armor. The fabric is soft, grounding against your bare skin, which has become prickled in overwhelming anxiety.
“First clients are always scary,” she says softly, her smile gentler now. “Just breathe.”
You try to breathe.
In through your nose, out through your mouth.
Simple.
You’d done it a hundred times before exams.
Before interviews.
Before presentations.
But tonight, your lungs refuse to cooperate.
Every inhale snagged somewhere beneath your ribs, coming back out as a shaky humiliating gasp.
Mitsuri presses two fingers lightly against your sternum.
“With me,” she whispers.
She inhales.
You follow, fixing your eyes on hers, feeling the expansion of your chest as you breathe in deep.
She exhales.
You almost manage it.
“Oh! That reminds me,” she reaches on the bed covered in soft pink throws and pale gray and green plush pillows to fish something out of her purse, notably, a very expensive purse.
She moves to dab her fingers around your eyes.
Tiny dots of fine holographic silver glitter line your eyes and smudge in with your lipgloss.
Your gaze holds the reflection in the mirror.
Yeah, definitely unrecognizable.
How you got to this point, you didn’t know.
Six months ago, your biggest concern had been making it to your 8 AM lecture after working a closing shift.
Then corporate announced “restructuring.”
You remembered the fluorescent lights in the breakroom and the slight slosh of stale coffee in the outdated coffeemaker.
The HR representative smiling way too much. The rehearsed apology.
40 hours quickly became 20.
20 turned into per diem to “We’ll call if we need you.”
Your name quietly disappeared off of the already ghostly schedule, once live with numerous brightly color-coded names with shifts that spanned from part-time to full-time to over-time.
Savings depleted first. Then the emergency fund. Then the credit cards.
Tuition notices kept arriving whether you could afford them or not, not to mention rent, auto bills, and your other monthly expenses.
Now it’s 2 weeks before the next semester starts and that hefty tuition balance hasn’t moved, and you’re dangerously close to not being able to register for classes at all.
So here you are.
Standing in front of the elaborate vanity in the room Mitsuri had called hers, wearing a skimpy borrowed outfit underneath a cardigan that felt too warm and too settling.
“Everyone who’s been here awhile gets one,” she’d told you with a laugh when she’d first shown you around.
It wasn’t quite a bedroom. It wasn’t quite a hotel room either.
Just a place to breathe before becoming someone else.
Mitsuri, your best friend since kindergarten, knew about your financial troubles from the beginning. She had been there for all of it and offered help multiple times.
But pride got in the way, as it always does.
Until you called her one night, crying about how the shitty corporation finally let you go and that you had no other options.
For the first time, your dream of becoming a neonatal nurse seemed so far from reach.
All because of finances.
Mitsuri put her foot down that night, sending her boyfriend, Obanai, home and coming to pick you up. When you asked where she was going she only responded with “To see a lady who will change everything for you.”
That night, Mitsuri took you to meet Lady Kochō, who greeted you with tea and smiled through every question she asked.
Somehow, that made her even more intimidating.
There wasn’t a wasted movement in her body, nor a wasted word.
By the time she’d finished listening to your situation, you had the unsettling feeling she’d already decided whether you belonged there before you’d even sat down.
Did you really want to do it?
No.
Did you trust your friend Mitsuri?
Yes.
So you agreed.
And that’s what led to today.
You look at the pink kitten clock silently ticking on a far wall.
9:04 PM.
It’s getting late.
Your first client’s instructions to Lady Kochō read bluntly in a curt text.
9:10 PM. Have them ready for me. I don’t wait.
Why such a specific time? You didn’t know. But for the money he’s agreed to spend you’d lay on the floor and let him walk on your back if you had to.
Maybe a little extreme, but you needed the funds.
Mitsuri, trying to avoid furthering your anxiety, frantically but lovingly touches up your lipgloss for the third time, fluffs up your curls, and adjusts your breasts in the outfit.
She goes to spritz some perfume unknown to you from a golden bottle onto the sides of your neck, wrists, ankles, and over your body.
She takes a step back, and with a firm nod and warm smile she deems you ready.
You gaze at your reflection one last time. A stranger stares back.
The woman in the mirror was a living doll, polished into something ornamental, not the silently pretty science nerd who stuffed her curls in a sloppy bun and sported hoodies most of the day.
Fine silver glitter catches beneath her eyes every time she blinks. Big curls frame carefully glossy painted lips. A sage-green bodysuit that leaves little to the imagination hugs every curve you’d spent years trying to ignore, hidden beneath a borrowed cardigan that Mitsuri insists you keep until the very last second.
The woman in the mirror looks expensive.
Desired.
Beautiful.
Like the kind of woman people paid to spend time with.
She just didn’t look like you.
With a sigh you turn to your friend, whose eyes never leave you.
You reach for her, and without hesitation she wraps you in a warm embrace, pulling back to land a tender kiss on your cheek.
You both eye the clock that reads 9:06 PM
“Ready?”
You weren’t. But time spared no one. Not even a senseless novice like you.
The hallway suddenly felt longer than it had only moments ago, and unnaturally quiet.
Cream-colored walls stretch toward a staircase at the far end, broken only by antique sconces that paint everything in warm amber light. Fresh lilies sit atop narrow console tables.
The scent of vanilla candles lit somewhere in the distance mingles with expensive perfume until you can't tell where one scent ends and the other begins.
A door opens somewhere behind you. A woman around your age steps into the hallway laughing softly, fixing the cufflinks on a man’s sleeve before gently, almost lovingly, guiding him toward the room.
He kisses the back of her hand.
She smiles.
Then both disappear.
The door shuts and silence returns. Your stomach twists, painfully aware that this was normal here.
Every step toward the stairs made the heels beneath your feet click against polished hardwood.
Too loud, too deliberate, and too final.
Somewhere below, muted jazz drifts throughout the house. Glasses clink. Someone laughs. Then silence.
Your client has arrived.
You and Mitsuri reach the top of the staircase, hand in hand. Sweaty, trembling palm against steady warmth.
Mitsuri turns to look at you, precious green orbs never leaving your frantic gaze.
“Listen.” She says, hushed but sincere.
“Nobody downstairs expects perfection.”
You say nothing, searching her eyes for any hint that you should run and never look back, but only finding sincerity and love for you and you alone.
“Lady Kochō chose you because she believed you’d be okay.”
You hang onto every word as if your life depends on it.
“And if you want to walk away…”
She squeezes your hand reassuringly.
“...we’ll walk away together.”
For the first time since this entire ordeal, your face stretches into a bright sunny smile.
Together, you descend.
The lounge reveals itself one step at a time. With its dark wood, soft amber light, crystal chandelier suspended above the bar, and rhythmical melodies that drift through hidden speakers, smooth enough to disguise the nervous beat of your heart.
A man’s voice reaches you before his face does.
“Flashy things are worth waiting for.”
Warm.
Amused.
Certain of himself.
Lady Kochō sits across from him, one slender hand resting beside a bottle of wine. Her smile remains perfectly composed.
“Let’s hope you still feel that way in 3 minutes.”
Mitsuri’s fingers tighten around yours.
Your attention settles on the man across from Lady Kochō. You notice his hands first.
Long fingers curl loosely around the stem of a champagne glass, jeweled rings catching the light whenever he moves. A tailored jacket stretches over broad shoulders. White hair, neatly tucked behind his ears, spills across his nape in a way that should have looked artificial but somehow only makes him appear more striking.
Expensive. Everything about him looks expensive, and flashy—explains Mitsuri’s insistence on big hair and extra glitter for the night.
Then he turns toward the staircase.
Fuschia eyes find yours.
Your breath catches in your throat, mind going somewhat blank.
Mitsuri never lets go of your hand as she quietly leads you before them, giving you one final glance that says, tell me you don’t want to do this and we’ll go.
You look at her, then turn your attention to Lady Kochō, whose sharp eyes scan your appearance and demeanor, satisfied with only one.
You can feel his eyes on you. Your grip on Mitsuri’s hand tightens even more, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.
“Shinobu, you neglected to mention that she’d be terrified.”
His tone is curt, with only a hint of amusement.
Lady Kocho’s gaze swiftly moves to the massive man sitting across from her, “She isn’t afraid of you specifically. You requested someone new. This one is new. Very new.”
He leans back in his seat, eyes never leaving you. You refuse to hold his gaze, fearing you may go unconscious.
“I see.”
Lady Kochō rises first, not letting the moment linger any longer.
No wrinkles dare to disturb the silk of her dress as she smooths an invisible crease from the front of it.
“Room 3 is prepared.” She says with the sternness and poise of someone who was presumed to have been in business for some time. The four words settle over the room with surprising weight.
Her large violet eyes find yours.
“If you need anything—”
She pauses, letting her words punctuate.
“—you know where to find me.”
The reassurance eased something tight and unyielding in your chest, a simple reminder that the door was never locked from your side.
Lady Kochō turns toward your friend, dismissing her with a subtle command.
“You may go.”
Mitsuri looks at you before she looks anywhere else.
“You still have a choice,” she whispers. You nod, though you aren’t entirely sure you believe yourself. You still haven’t fully grasped that you were here at all.
You step closer, fidgeting with the collar of the cardigan, suddenly feeling suffocated.
“I’ll be waiting when you’re done.” she says reassuringly, though hidden worry dances in the corner of her eyes.
Her hand slips from yours. Only then did the silence become unbearable and the room began to feel cold.
You waited.
Surely this was the part where he would lead. Or touch you. Or say something smooth enough to make your knees weak. Instead…nothing.
He stands gracefully, adjusting one of his jeweled rings around his finger. He looks toward the hallway, hand outstretched.
“Well?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Are we walking, or are we planning to re-decorate Shinobu’s lounge?”
You blink, heat crawling up your neck in embarrassment at the realization that you hadn’t moved.
“Oh.” you mumble low as you begin to walk, one foot in front of the other, letting the click! of your heels overshadow the thrum of your heart.
His laugh is quiet, amused.
The room at the end of the hallway surprises you. You expected velvety reds and dramatic decor, instead you’re greeted by inviting ivory walls with dark chestnut furnishings. A fireplace flickers softly against polished stone. Fresh flowers rest near an oversized window overlooking glittering city lights.
It looks less like a fantasy and more like somewhere someone would actually live in.
You linger near the door. Unsure where to put your hands, unsure where to put yourself.
Tengen crosses the room without a hint of urgency. He loosens his cufflinks, sets his watch carefully on the dresser.
You watch in silent awe.
He pours himself a glass of water, looking over his shoulder.
“You thirsty?”
“..what?”
“I asked if you’re thirsty.”
You give him a doe-eye stare. “A little.”
He slides a glass across the counter toward you. You catch it with slightly trembling fingers, taking a careful sip. A faint print of pink lip gloss blooms along the rim. When you chance a glance up, you find him watching you, quietly taking your measure.
The silence stretches.
He leans one shoulder against the dresser, a single ash-fallen strand dangles at the arch of his eyebrow. Your breath hitches and your heartbeat quickens. Despite your nerves and the sheer taboo of the situation, the man really was gorgeous, breathtaking in a way that could only be described as otherworldly.
“So.”
Violet eyes meet yours.
“What are you studying?”
You’re caught off guard, answering before you can analyze the question.
“Neonatal nursing.”
His brow rises.
“Really? Babies huh?”
You nod.
“I start clinicals next semester.”
“If…” you correct yourself with a weak laugh. “If I can afford to.”
He listens, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t pity you or immediately rush to offer a monetary solution.
“You’ve been rehearsing this evening in your head all day, haven’t you?”
Your fingers curl tighter around the glass.
“Is it that obvious?”
“I’ve met enough people to know the difference between confidence and survival.”
His tone isn’t mocking, it’s more matter-of-fact.
You look away. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”
He sets down his glass.
“I figured.”
Silence.
Then, with surprising gentleness, “You don’t have to impress me.”
For the first time this evening, your shoulders felt safe enough to relax.
Just a little.
You move to set the glass on a nearby side table, the click! of your heels less imposing on the rug-adorned floors.
The room remained quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the hum of an undying city beyond the windows.
When you finally reach for him, it isn’t because you believe you have to, it’s because for the first time since this entire ordeal, you want to stop pretending.
Stop pretending you didn’t lose your job. Stop pretending your back was against the wall. Stop pretending that your dreams were about to slip through your fingers.
Stop pretending that you had agreed to selling yourself to keep your world steady.
Was there no other way?
Quieting your mind, you stretch to plant your lips on his.
This is how it starts, right?
You weren’t a virgin, but you by far weren’t an expert.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t lean into the kiss nor pull away, instead letting you lead.
You hadn’t planned on that.
Your lips leave a trail down his jaw, leading to the skin next to his Adam's apple, enjoying the restrained swallow and tick of his mandible, as you suckle lightly, careful not to leave any remnants of tonight.
You look up at him nervously, feeling a bit foolish and out of your element.
He raises an eyebrow, smirking down at you in perceived amusement.
“May I?”
His fingers tug at the gifted cardigan. You nod, drawing in a breath as your safety net falls to the floor around your feet.
Bare.
The warm air feels electric against your exposed skin. The tiny bits of skin covered by the skimpy outfit didn’t feel covered at all.
A strong hand cups the base of your neck, holding your gaze.
“You’re beautiful.”
Your lips part. Your heartbeat quickens.
Surely, he isn’t talking about you. He’s talking to the character. The living Barbie painted and prostrated into the lady of the night.
That’s right, get into character.
You lean in, he captures your lips in a kiss where he leads.
Gods he’s a good kisser.
You try to remind yourself that you’re supposed to be his lady of the evening. That you were supposed to please him for a price.
But who were you kidding? You’re a novice in a costume.
You feel your knees start to weaken as you lean into the kiss further. His hands are careful with you, slowly snaking their way down your body, deliberately letting you feel him. Silently reminding you that you have control.
Your body fully melds into him against the wall, legs going completely weak as his lips leave a hot trail down your neck, unconcerned with whether he left remnants of your time together.
A soft whimper escapes your lips.
He hooks an arm under your thigh, encouraging you to hold on as you’re suspended in the air, carrying you to the large bed, decorated in subtle but rich refinery, in the center of the room.
Your back sinks into the soft comforter with surprising gentleness.
He looms over you, drinking in your visage.
Burning you into memory.
His fingers lift to unbutton his shirt.
Is this the first time you’ve noticed his nails are painted?
A subtle lavender, opposite to the sharp fuschia of his eyes.
The next few moments were a blur of tangled limbs, and fiery kisses. Soft praises and breathy moans.
Until you’re naked, crying out from under his skilled and deliberate tongue, working you from the inside with precise fingers until your release is torn from you.
Your orgasm is loud, trembling, and—to Tengen—very flashy.
He lifts to kiss your forehead, your temple, your cheek.
Whispers of “You did so well for me” between every peck.
Your head swims with so many thoughts, feelings, emotions, all under the haze of euphoria as you come down from your high.
Large hands cup your face.
“You still here with me, beautiful?”
You blink through wet lashes, nodding as weak arms outstretch, clumsy fingers fumbling with the buckle to his pants.
He gently swats your hands away with a chuckle, holding your gaze through your now heavy lids.
“Aht aht pretty girl, tonight it’s about what you want.”
“B-but–”
“Talk to me, tell me what you want.”
“Please Tengen.”
His eyes visibly darken as his name falls from your lips.
“Tell me.”
“P-please. Please fuck me.”
The words sound foreign coming from your mouth. Filthy, so unlike you.
The smirk that stirs the butterflies below returns.
His eyes never leave yours. He lifts up to free himself, lightly stroking the heavy bulge that had been grazing at your thigh. Exposed in all of its massive glory.
A strangled sound rumbles low in your throat at the sight.
Your ankles wrap their way around his back, forcing him to lean over you again. He chuckles, his dazzling smile lighting up the space.
You felt you were in a dream, chasing a high with an Adonis who may or may not actually exist.
You were oblivious to the whiny moans you were emitting, or Tengen’s clenched fists and forced restraint as he let you grind against him, allowing you to explore every inch.
“Tengenn”
You plead.
“Yes love.”
He says, teeth only slightly clenched. You had no idea how much restraint he’s imposed on himself for your benefit.
Little did you know, he wanted you to want him.
“Please T-Tengen. Inside. Need you inside.”
Before you realize it, the fat tip is grazing at your entrance.
A guttural moan rumbles low in your chest.
Your hips wriggle for more. The sound of your slick squelching audibly and lewd as you work to take in more of him.
Finally, his hips grind into you. Testing. Seating himself fully before giving into ecstasy completely.
Once you had gotten use to the colossal weight in your warmth, you grip his shoulders, steadying yourself, readying for what’s next.
Him. All of him.
You look into his eyes. Your lips stretch into a warm smile.
“Please Tengen. I want you. I want all of you.”
The room is quieter afterward.
Not because anything had changed outside, but because something inside you had.
You stand before the mirror fastening the borrowed cardigan around yourself. The glitter still caught beneath your eyes, only slightly smudged. Your curls were still full, only slightly fallen around your shoulders.
You smile despite yourself.
Not because life had suddenly become easier. Your tuition balance still existed, your bills were still overdue with looming threats of eviction, repossession, and shut offs.
You are painfully aware that the future had not rewritten itself in the span of one evening.
But the woman staring back at you no longer felt borrowed.
She felt like you.
Tengen joins you in the mirror, seemingly slipping the tiny buttons of his shirt through the slits with practiced precision.
But his eyes are on you.
You turn to face him. Feet shifting nervously as your fingers play at your sides.
“Sorry if I…”
He picks up a tiny piece of silver glitter resting on your shoulder, observing it with a signature smirk.
“You know—-”
He flicks the tiny particle off to the side, shifting his gaze to your face, holding the same intensity as if it was the first time he’s laid his eyes on you.
“Next time—”
Your heart flutters, anxiously beating in your ears at the sheer sound of him speaking to you.
“Lose the glitter.”
You blink, mouth slightly agape.
“...W-what?”
He eyes the cardigan, the curls, the outfit, the remnants of lipgloss that stain your lips.
His gaze softens.
“Bring the nursing student instead.”
He offers one last smile before stepping toward the door.
“Goodnight.”
The door clicks softly behind him.
The thrum of your heartbeat quiets only slightly.
Silence.
Outside the room, soft footsteps approach. The door opens just enough for Mitsuri to peek inside.
Green eyes search your face, “You okay?”
You rack your brain for the answer, only coming up with enough sensibility to respond, “...I think…I will be.”
Your voice came as a whisper.
She crosses the room and wraps you in another hug, just like before, warm and loving—just like her.
You hold her just a little tighter, clutching selfishly at her warmth.
Somewhere down the hallway, footsteps fade until they’re swallowed by the quiet.
Next time.
The words settle deep in your chest. There wasn’t supposed to be a next time.
Tonight was supposed to be a means to an end, not the beginning of a trap.
One stranger. One payout. One impossible choice.
As Mitsuri leads you toward the front door with the intent to take you home, your fingers curl absentmindedly around the sleeve to the oversized cardigan still draped over your shoulders.
You had originally agreed to wear it as a means to hide.
But somehow, after everything, it no longer felt like armor.
~
A/N: hey guys! Forgive me this is not thoroughly proofread since I sacrificed sleep to get this out before my 7 am shift 😭
Let’s talk! So I’m actually not that big of a Mitsuri fan (Mitsuri warriors I’m ready for you ⚔️) but through writing this, she’s grown on me…a little.
Can you believe this fic started out as reader x Sanemi😱 hence the green reference (also it is one of my favorite colors!)
I hope readers enjoy my newer writing style, I’m trying to slowly inch my way from amateur to someone who knows how to convey conviction in a more concise way…
Also forgive me again…I think my chronically stressed and overworked brain has completely lost the ability to write smut. It’s just not in me at this time 💔
