will your old storys ever come back again???? Or is hoping a lost cause?
Hey, sorry for not answering super quick, i only pop up like every 6 months lol.
I'm considering adding them all to ao3 as an orphaned work. I dont want them on this account at the moment due to personal reasons, but I would like to put them back out there at some point, yes. Nothing has been deleted though! As of now its all just been archived as private posts.
hi I’m glad your back and doing ok. I hope all is well is well for you now. I was wondering if you if you still do yandere Vegito stories? I don’t know why but I couldn’t find them anymore
Things are looking up for me, thank you for asking!
To answer your questions, yes, I can still write for him. I've had to temporarily private all of my past posts and basically just start over with stuff going on irl, but they will eventually see their way back onto this account.
In the meantime, if you want some more stuff with him, feel free to send a request!
Can I please ask for one more request? Satosugo x y/n, where y/n feels like a third wheel in the relationship and thinks that they don't love or respect her as much as each other, with lots of angst, heartbreak and smut.
Hi love,
unfortunately this is a yandere-exclusive blog. If thats what you meant and I'm just misreading this, then by all means, I'd love to write it, but I don't do traditional fanfiction on this account
Hey,plz can u write a yandere gigolo Toji x y/n fanfic where y/n don't want to continue their transactional relationship for some reason but toji is not ready to accept her decision.
T h e r e i s a s t a r v e d d o g
g o n e f e r a l i n t h e b a c k
o f h i s t h r o a t .
He had gotten comfortable; that was the problem. Too complacent with the lifestyle.
With the red envelope you slipped into his pocket once every week.
With the air of laziness he seemed all too accustomed to.
It was there in the way he smiled, how his upper lip simply dragged across his face when he greeted you. In the way he dressed and paraded through your home as though he were nothing more than a friend crashing on your couch. Even in the most basic of human needs.
He was starting to fuck like some stray dog in heat, seemingly forgetting why you paid him as much as you did. It was sloppy, fast, and only focused on his own high.
That was it, wasn't it? He was becoming something closer to a pet, something that never really belonged, yet had still grown comfortable with the spoils of their owner, or rather, employer.
You were tired of it.
You were a lawyer; you couldn't afford the time to be in a dedicated relationship. You could, however, afford the funds to hire someone to meet your basic needs. A date once a week, a good fuck every now and then. What you needed was a number to call. You wanted to be able to say a time and date into the receiver and have it be available upon request. It was convenience. It was efficient. And Toji was a near perfect candidate. At least in the beginning.
He sat there in your living room now, spread out on the couch like he paid the bills, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth, a lighter held up next to it. It amazed you how easy he made it to disrespect you– your home, your expectations.
You watched, idly from the doorway that led to the kitchen. The last envelope firm in your pocket. A fair sendoff, you figured– something that would help him swallow his pride. Though most in his occupation likely had very little to begin with. With a shake of your head, you mustered the courage to walk forward.
Toji complained with a grunt when a hand lightly snatched the cigarette from his mouth just as it was lit. You snuffed it quickly in the ashtray that only he used before facing him once more. You had expected annoyance, perhaps resentment, but his initial scowl slowly melted into a smug little simper. The smallest sliver of white showed behind the curl of his lips, black eyes sharp and narrowed as they looked up at you with contentment. But at least he was looking at you.
“I’m done with this,” You said, almost breathless, tired, urgent. Your hand dug into your pocket, fingers wrapping around the packet of bills, eager to pull it out. “You’ve overstayed your welcome, Toji. I won’t be needing you or your services anymore.”
His eyes didn’t leave you, though his grin twisted, lips pursing at your words. A moment passed, silence, he didn’t speak, neither did you. Then, without missing a beat, his hand dipped into his sweatpants, digging until he fished out another cigarette with a satisfied grin. As if he hadn’t heard you.
“Are you serious?” The tone in your voice should have been more than enough for him to stop, to put the rolled tobacco away and to respond; But he didn’t. He continued to light the cigarette before even considering whether or not you were worth his attention.
“Bad day at work?” Toji exhaled a drag of smoke, half of his focus on the tv in front of him; It wafted towards you, and your nose wrinkled at the smell. His tone was light, unserious, in total disregard for your plight. As though this were nothing more than a small lapse in judgement because you were in a sour mood. He leaned back further, arms stretching along the back of your couch, mouth twisting into something too relaxed for your comfort with that damned cigarette hanging from his lips.
You sighed– what else had you expected? For him to suddenly be as attentive as you were hoping? He took another drag and let the silence build.
“How long you been planning that little speech?” The tone made your ears go red.
‘Little.’
Belittling; Sneering; Insulting.
You didn’t bother to entertain his question, only dropping the red slip in his lap unceremoniously. The man glanced up with intrigue now, finally sitting forward to open the envelope. His finger paged through the thick folds of money from within. It was nearly triple what you usually paid per session. No one in their right mind had any reason to complain about the offer.
"So you're done then?" His voice dropped low, quiet. There was another moment where nothing was said; He took another drag of his cigarette. You felt the payout was enough of an answer, so you only crossed your arms. He tossed the envelope onto the little coffee table, and you watched the money slide across the wood surface. You felt a shadow, or more specifically, an object blocking the room’s light from reaching you. When you turned, you were met with steely eyes, his face only a few inches away. "What makes you think I'll lie down and take this?"
There was a scowl that distorted his sharp features. The question hung in the air like more of a challenge.
“What makes you think I want out?” His voice was low, tired, and a little amused, like you’d offered him a bad joke and he was too polite to say so outright. “You think I stuck around for the money?”
He shifted his weight, not back — not away — but further in. A step that wasn’t aggressive so much as natural. You could smell the smoke on his breath, the salt of his skin. The faint oil of his unwashed clothes. His posture never changed, but somehow the room shrank all the same.
“That stopped mattering weeks ago.”
The worst part was how flat his tone stayed. There was no blame in it. No cruelty, no fire. Just fact. Just the kind of calm you couldn’t argue with, because it wasn’t seeking a reaction. He didn’t need you to agree; he was only stating the obvious. His gaze flicked down to your crossed arms, your shoulders tight with restraint. He smirked then, barely. A twitch of movement at the corner of his mouth, like watching a small crack form in porcelain.
“What are you talking about?” As annoyed as they were, your words fell on deaf ears, he didn’t even seem to acknowledge that you’d said anything.
“You're tired,” he carried on, tone almost sympathetic. He stepped away, giving you a sense of space that felt alien. “I get it.”
Toji circled around your tense body slowly, eyes focused on every inch of your body but your face, as though already undressing you in his mind. You felt his body, felt its familiar proximity against your back, close enough that you felt if you breathed deep enough, your back would brush against his chest.
“Long day in court, longer night coming up.” His breath was near your temple now, his air brushing the skin of your neck; The smell of smoke made your stomach queasy, though it wasn’t just the smoke. His chin rested itself on your shoulder, one arm absentmindedly brushed against your body as he reached over you to put out his half-used cigarette. He used the opportunity to press himself more against your backside.“Maybe your client is just a bitch. I’m not gonna try to guess whatever’s bothering you; This conversation doesn’t need to happen right now.”
His hand slid up your spine, slow, steady. You flinched, spine arching to evade his light fingers, though it didn’t stop the wave of chills from spreading across your body. That was the trick — he always moved slow enough that by the time you noticed, he was already there. A palm settled just above your hip, fingers wrapped around the curve of your waist.
He didn’t move his hand, didn’t try to undress you — just pressed his palm flat against your waist, like grounding you. Like anchoring a storm. The warmth of his hand bled through the fabric of your button-up shirt, and you tried to ignore it in vain.
The envelope still lay between you on the coffee table, but his eyes didn’t drift toward it again. He hadn’t looked at it since he tossed it. As if the payout was already spent, already old. Something irrelevant.
“You don’t have to think,” he murmured. “You don’t even have to talk. Just…let me take care of it tonight. Like I always do.”
A pause, breath thick between you.
“We don’t need to do this now, yeah?” His mouth hovered at the edge of your ear, itching for you to give him the green light. You knew that this would be hard, but you really hadn’t considered why. He had a way with things, if not with his words or manners, then certainly with action.
Something about him made it easy to give in, to let him have his way. His entitlement and laziness nearly made up for how good of a job he did when he actually tried.
The way his hand, warm and steady at your waist, could feel so familiar. Like gravity. Like something you weren’t supposed to fight. He had a way with things. Not kindness, not charm — not even the decency to ask. But with his body, with the pace of his hands, with the exact weight of his hips when they pinned yours to the mattress — there, he knew what he was doing.
Every time.
It was annoying, almost. How sharp his instincts were in that one context. How precisely he could draw it out of you — the shaking, the stuttering, the silence. He always started lazy. Always made you think you had time to resist. Then somewhere between his mouth on your collar and his fingers slipping beneath your thighs, you’d find your voice gone. Your rationale hollowed out. And he never gloated. That was the worst part. There was no smirk, no told-you-so. Just the low satisfaction of someone who knew the ending before it started; Who’d seen it play out too many times to be surprised.
His hand shifted — not down, not obscene. Just firmer at your waist now, thumb grazing slowly across the seam of your shirt, a rhythm you recognized. One that said: you’ve let me do this before. One that reminded you he didn’t need force. He just needed silence long enough to close the distance.
“We’re not doing this,” you muttered. It was weak. Something rehearsed and spoken too late. Something not even you were sure of.
“Sure,” he said. “We’re not.”
But he kept touching you. And you kept letting him.
His mouth brushed your collarbone now, slow and idle. He wasn’t aroused. Not yet. Just patient. He always was. And that made it worse. He didn’t take — he waited for you to open.
“Toji,” you tried again, sharper this time.
“I’m listening.” He didn’t stop. His mouth skimmed your throat, the tip of his tongue following the thrum of your pulse. You hated that it hit just the right spot. The one that made your knees tense, your stomach twist, the back of your throat dry out.
“We’re done. I told you.” It was strained, the words half-way forced.
“Mm.” His teeth grazed the skin of your collarbone. “You also said Friday at nine. I was here. You let me in.”
“That was before—”
“And now,” he cut in, voice hushed, deliberate, “you’re still letting me touch you.”
And you were. That was the worst part. His voice filled the silence, his mouth ghosting your skin, and your hands didn’t move. Not toward him, not away. They stayed at your sides, fingers curled into fists you didn’t throw.
You focused on the weight of his hand on your side. The brush of his knee between yours — all of it familiar enough to soften you without asking. And he was so warm. So stupidly, maddeningly warm.
He didn’t gloat when you leaned back. He just moved with you, like the two of you had never stopped. Like the weeks of resentment, the red envelope, the arguments — all of it was background noise to the thing that really ruled the space between you.
And when he pushed your blouse off your shoulder and kissed the skin underneath, he didn’t say anything at all. He just smiled like he’d known the outcome from the start.
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