i miss the old you

“Don’t be a bitch,” he starts, and there’s a darker edge to his tone, “I bought you a fuckin’ drink.” He grabs your waist and pulls you off the barstool, but then he stumbles back from you. 

“Embarrassing.” You hear someone say softly. “Can’t get a woman on your own?” A man, with dark eyes and light hair stands next to you. “I asked you a question,” the man steps forward, he’s wearing a suit but it’s disheveled, the collar is askew, and one of the cuffs is unbuttoned. You watch him draw a hand back and shove the man hard, he tumbles back and hits the wood floor. 

“I’m Mikey,” He says, glancing at you, rolling up a sleeve before looking at the man on the ground, like he’s thinking about swinging at him. But, to your shock, the much larger man gets up and moves backwards quickly, bowing his head. 

“S-sano,” he gets out, “I didn’t mean to-” 

“Get out of my sight.” Mikey says, sounding bored. He turns back to you, a few tendrils of blonde hair falling in his eyes. He looks a little lost, a touch unsober, and one corner of his mouth twitches upwards as he flicks his eyes over your form, as if something about you is the first interesting thing he’s seen in a long time. “I would like to make sure you get home safely.” You swallow and nod, letting him take your hand. He leads you out of the restaurant, stopping at the doorway to tuck your scarf into your jacket. 

You wait for him to call a taxi, but he digs some keys out of his pocket and a sleek black car lights up at the touch of a button. Two men who were smoking outside stomp out their cigs and one rushes to open the door for you. Their suits are unmussed, and you wonder what Mikey could have been up to that’s got him so disheveled. 

“Thank you.” You say softly and he shrugs, following you into the backseat as one of them starts the car, the other settles into the passenger seat. He still hasn’t let go of your hand, feeling your pulse race under your skin. 

“You okay?” He asks, and you think about it. 

“I um, I haven’t given them directions to my place.” You say, realizing, and Mikey nods, as if he’s giving you permission. “I live um, I live downtown, by the river.” He squeezes your hand, and speaks again, this time so quietly that only you can hear, it’s dark out, and panels of light move over both of your faces as you drive past street lamps. 

“You’re shaking.” He says, and you can feel his breath on your skin. 

“I was afraid.” You respond, matching his secretive tone, and he moves slowly, you realize, giving you a chance to say no, to shy away, but he rests his free hand on your knee. “But I was thinking,” you say, barely able to hold his gaze, he’s so handsome up close, and oozing a dark charisma you’ve never experienced before. “I was thinking I might feel better if you came up. To my apartment, I mean.” He pretends to consider, just to watch you squirm a little. 

“And what,” he says, leaning even farther forward, “Would we do up there?” You feel your face warm as his hand creeps up  your thigh. 

“I um,” you fidget, your pupils dilating at his touch. “Whatever you want.” He breaks into a wide smile. 

“Right answer.” He waves to the man in the front seat. “Go faster.” The engine revs and you lean into him as you speed across the city. Because, sure, Mikey had been unusually patient with you, almost convincing himself not to follow you home when he’d first spotted you late night at a convenience store. He’d almost slipped up, of course his men knew where you lived, of course he didn’t need to give them directions, not when he’d been watching you every night since the first time he saw you pay for the woman in front of you when she’d forgotten her wallet. You were a nice girl, he realized, and bad things could happen to nice girls. 

He’s thinking about those bad things as he leans in to kiss you, you’re so soft, so sweet, the way you melt under his touch is driving him insane. He’d keep you close, he decides, yanking you into his lap and locking his arms around your body. You straddle him, he slips your jacket off your shoulders, feeling you grind down into his thighs. Bad things happened to nice girls all the time, but thanks to him, not to you.  Never to you. 

Draken - 1.7K words

“Are you fucking serious,” You cross your arms, “Ren, you can’t just show up at my job like this.” Your ex boyfriend scowls, you’re both standing outside the diner you’re a waitress at. “I have customers waiting, what do you want?” 

“I gotta talk to you,” he pleads, desperation evident in his tone. You glance back inside the restaurant. Your only customers were a group of rough looking men, you catch one of their eyes, and interestingly, he doesn’t look away. You swallow nervously, and direct your attention back to your ex. 

“Okay, so talk. You have five minutes.” You press your lips together. It’s freezing, your words are made solid by your breath, silver in the street light. He shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“I don’t get what I did wrong,” he says, avoiding eye contact, shifting his weight, “I just, I love you so much, baby, so much and I-” 

“That was the problem,”  you protest, “You cut off your friends, I felt isolated and strange. It was really intense, and um, you know I care about you but I don’t think you’re stable enough to be in a romantic relationship right now.” He perks up at that. 

“Right now?” 

“Ren I-” 

“So if I got stable, you’d be down to get back together?” He says so quickly the words slur together, “If I uh, if I go back to therapy I-” 

“No.” You say firmly, and he deflates again. “I think um, I need some space.” As if he literally can’t hear you he takes another step towards you, and you shy away instinctively. You make eye contact with the man in the booth again, who’s watching, face unreadable. “Please, Ren I,” you take a deep breath, the man stands up from the booth. Your ex grabs your arm roughly, 

“Are you seriously fucking looking at someone else right now?” He snaps, half anger half pain, he yanks you closer to him and holds you tightly, “What the fuck is wrong with you, I’m fucking pouring my goddamn heart out to you, you cold fuckin’ b-” He only gets the first syllable of the word out. There’s a sickening crunch as someone’s fist collides with Ren’s face, his eyes roll in his head and he crumples to the ground. You’re shaking, trying to get control of your breathing, as the man from the booth puts his bloody knuckles in his pocket, fumbling for a box of cigarettes. He takes one out and lights one up while you hyperventilate, offering you one. You shake your head. 

“We could use s’more coffee.” He says, jerking his head back to the table. “Why don’tcha get us some while I take out the trash?” His voice is deep and round, and the tip of his cig glows orange as he takes a drag. You nod and step around Ren mindlessly, hands shaking so badly it takes you a few tries to get the door to the diner open again. You step back inside, nearly in a trance as you walk back to your only table. 

“H-he said you wanted some coffee?” The two men left in the booth, one taller with long waving dark hair, one shorter with long blonde hair look mildly amused at your terrified demeanor. 

“You gonna give Draken your number so we don’t have to keep comin’ to this dump after midnight?” The dark haired one says in response. “He’s been real worried aboutcha.” You calm your trembling hands and cock your head at the man. 

“I, I’m not sure what you mean?” 

“Draken,” The dark haired man points out the window to where you and your ex had been standing, “He’s not droppin’ by because the cherry pie’s the best in the city, get the picture?” You swallow. 

“Yes sir.” 

“Yes sir,” He repeats, crowing and kicking the blonde under the table, “He’s gonna be real happy with you.” 

“Ken-chin should come inside.” The blonde says, and then glances at you. “You have chicken tenders, right? I want those. And a gyro, and um,” he pauses, “And also fries, cheese fries, and if you have those little plastic swords that-” He stops when Draken, you suppose, walks back into the diner, resting a hand on the small of your back before sitting down in the booth. 

“W-we do have those swords, I can, do you have a color preference?” The blond lights up but you feel the weight of Drakens gaze. 

“Whatever color you have is fine.” Draken says, “Mikey’ll take whatever color you have.” 

“Ken-chin,” He whines, but Draken just taps his mug. 

“And more coffee.” 

“Coming right up.” They stay to the end of your shift, and you shut the restaurant down while they wait outside, laughing. You put your coat on over your little dress, and when you lock the door he comes and stands next to you, smoking again. 

“Sorry if I scared ya.” He says, and you detect actual contrition in his voice. “Just can’t abide that shit, men puttin’ their hands on women.” 

“No um, thank you.” In his huge black coat he looks almost monstrously large, standing well over six feet, blond hair gathered into a bun at the back of his head, a few tendrils falling in his face. “Would you maybe, walk me home?” He nods, putting the cig out under his boot, waving goodbye to his friends as he slips an arm around your waist. 

“Who was the asshole to ya? Your boyfriend?” He asks, it’s so late that the streets are empty. 

“An ex. Who would like to no longer be an ex.” Draken nods, steering you around a pothole. “I’m sorry, I’m still so shaken that he would grab me like that,” you look down at your trembling hands in the moonlight, “I nearly spilled your coffee all over the table.” He shrugs. 

“S’not your fault, he shouldn’ta grabbed ya.” He pulls you a little closer to him. “You got roommates?” 

“No.” You say softly. “Just me and my cat.” You think about it, he’s handsome, in a genuinely terrifying way, but he’s been so polite. “Would you um, would you wanna come up?” Draken nods. 

“Sure, sweetheart.” He stretches a little. “You want me to come up and crash on your couch in case he comes back, or were you thinkin’ you needed help forgettin’ the asshole?” He stops, you’re still about a block from your building. 

“Ah, um, I mean if you think you could help me relax?” You say shyly, and he grins, leaning down and brushing some hair from your face. 

“Yeah, I think I got a few ways of chillin’ you out.” You take his hand, and lead him down the street to your building, not noticing his eyes on you as you punch in the code to your front door, the way his attention flicks to the creaky stairs, the way your apartment door could easily be ripped off its hinges. “S’a bad neighborhood,” he says, as you unlock it and pull him inside. “You’d be safer somewhere else.” You shrug, taking your coat off. 

“I can’t afford somewhere else.” Draken thinks about the money coming through their gang, surely he could find you a place, a place together, with no interruptions, where he could have you all to himself. For now he just nods, taking his coat off and sitting on  your couch, patting his thighs. 

“C’mere,” he orders, and you obey, straddling him as his hands come to rest on your hips. “That’s a good girl,” he growls, “Gonna do everything daddy tells you?” You nod quickly, feeling his hands ghost your thighs, brush your panties. “I wanna hear you say it.” he pushes, slipping your panties to the side. “And lose the dress.” 

“I’m,” you pull your work dress up and off, over your head, letting it crumple on the floor. “I’m gonna do everything daddy says.” He pushes two fingers inside you, and you feel him curl them gently, your mouth dropping open at the sensation. 

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he grins, “You like me or somethin’?” You nod, speechless as he fingers you, “You know why I gotta do this?” he says, tugging his shirt over his head with his free hand, “Because otherwise you won’t be able to take it.” You whimper at his words, his chest is chiseled muscle, a thin silver chain around his neck catches in the low light of your apartment. “And I wouldn’t wanna see a pretty girl like you,” he scissors his fingers inside you, you gasp, doubling forward. “Wouldn’t wanna see a pretty girl like you cry, would I?” You shake your head and your next words, in your soft, sweet voice, drain all the self control from his body. 

“Y-yes, daddy.” You choke out and he grabs you, laying you down firmly on your couch, climbing on top of you impossibly fast. He folds your legs into your chest, letting your ankles dangle over his shoulders. “Fuck,” you feel the way it’s a stretch even with all the prep as he nudges the head of his cock into your cunt. “Fuck, daddy, oh my god,” 

“Shhh,” he breathes, leaning over you, groaning softly, “You can take it, honey, know you can,” you nod, despite his words tears are forming in your eyes. He bullies his cock inside you a little further, “You can do it princess, I believe in ya.” You nod again, and feel him pin your hands to the couch but hold them tightly, rubbing comforting circles in the back of your them before kissing you tenderly. As he starts to move it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, he’s hitting your g-spot effortlessly, every little movement sends waves of pleasure through your body. “Atta girl,” he says, feeling you relax a little, “That’s my fuckin’ girl.” He sets a gentle pace, fucking you deep and slow. You’re so wet your thighs get sticky, and he’s drinking up your moans, kissing you deeply, it’s been weeks he’s been patient, he fucking deserves this, deserves you. 

“Birth control?” He asks, and you nod quickly. We’ll work on that, he thinks, he’s not about to share you with anyone, maybe ever again, and what better way to lock  you the fuck down. 

“Please,” you beg, and pull him out of his plotting, “Can I cum, daddy?” 

“Yeah, princess, come f’daddy,” he grunts, and the two of you hit your highs at nearly the 

same moment. He groans loudly, leaning down to kiss you again, lying down and tucking you into his body. He traces circles into your back, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “That’s my girl.” He says, hoping he doesn’t give away how much he means it. 

Ran - 1.1K words

“This is embarrassing.” You dig through your purse. “I, I had my wallet when I left, I,” you glance over your shoulder, there are several people in line behind you, each looking varying degrees of annoyed. “I’m so sorry,” You say, first to the grocery story cashier, then to the people behind you, “So, so sorry, I,” you look at your groceries. “Please I just-” 

“If you can’t pay, then you gotta get out.” The cashier says, looking bored, when a tall man pushes his way to the front and pushes a sleek black card into the chip reader. 

“It’s on me.” He says, and you feel your face burn. 

“Th-thank you,” you manage, and he shoots you a predatory grin. He’s got longer than average canine teeth, they glint in the fluorescents of the store. He’s both tall and broad, though not overly muscular, with candy colored hair and a simple pastel suit. It’s pale blue, but he’s not wearing a tie, just a white mostly unbuttoned shirt and a thin silver chain. He’s got a tattoo on his adams apple, and a couple rings that distort your reflection. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He says, standing behind you as you place the groceries in bags as quickly as possible, ignoring the looks from the other patrons. “Can ya carry all that?” He asks, and you nod. He ignores you, though, taking one of the bags from you. “Don’t be a martyr,” he smiles at you again, it’s wolfish but you calm down your anxieties. Would a bad man really have paid for your groceries?” 

“I really appreciate it, but I walked here.” You explain, “So I can’t ask you to carry my groceries across town, I was gonna take the bus, but um, my bus card is in my wallet.” He shrugs. 

“I can give you a ride?” 

“I really shouldn’t get in the car with someone I barely know, I mean I don’t even know your name.” He considers, as if this challenge was something he hadn’t anticipated. He rubs his chin and then extends a hand, his nails are manicured with black varnish. 

“Haitani Ran. I’ve got a brother. I work in finance.” He thinks for a second. “Scorpio, 32.” You take his hand, and even the slightest warmth from your shy smile makes his heart flutter in his chest. 

“Y/n. I’ve got a brother, and I’m in grad school.” I know, I know, I know, the monster in his chest chants. I know you work too much, I know you take your coffee black and your martini’s dirty, “Y/sign, 25.” He returns your smile, and his eyes are such an odd color, a periwinkle blue purple, accentuated by the golden light of the sinking sun. As if he can read your mind, he shields them with a huge hand. 

“What would you need to know about me to accept the ride?” He says, still holding your groceries. You think about it. 

“How about, um,” you reach for something impossible. “How about your credit card pin?” He rolls his eyes. Easy. 

“9842.” He says. “But I sense you’re not convinced.” 

“I’m not.” You reach for the bag. 

“How about we take an uber together, on me? I’ll have one of my uh, people pick up my car.” You raise your eyebrows. “What’sa matter, never met a gentleman before?” 

“Are you a gentleman?” You ask, cocking your head to the side, “The traditional definition of one doesn’t usually include neck tattoos.” He smirks, pulling his phone out and ordering an uber, handing it to you. 

“Put your address in.” You obey, grateful for the free ride, but afraid to show it. “Ah,” he says, “You’ve got a little fuzz in your hair?” Your hands fly to your head, 

“Oh shoot, do I-’ 

“I got it.” He cuts you off, taking the opportunity to hold your chin steady with one hand, removing a nonexistent speck of fuzz with the other. He feels your cheeks warm under his touch and the smirk widens. “All better.” You swallow and he takes the other bag from you as a sleek black car pulls up. “Here we are!” He says brightly, opening the door for you, consolidating his hold on your bags. You climb up on the seat and scoot in, he follows. You let out a long breath. “Can’t believe you know my star sign and you’re still nervous,” He teases. 

“Can you blame me if you seem too good to be true?” You volley with him and he shakes his head, a few tendrils of his hair escaping their carefully coiffed place and landing on his forehead. 

“Thought you didn’t like my tattoo.” 

“I didn’t say that,” you protest, “I just said neck tattoos are ungentlemanly, I mean, Mr. Darcy would never have one.” Ran wracks his brain through his short lived academic career and comes up short. 

“I have no idea who that is.” He comes clean with a little shrug of his shoulders. 

“Neck tattoo,” You hold up a finger, “Strike one, being generally unfamiliar with literature is strike two.” He signs dramatically. 

“Is strike three being far too handsome for my own good?” Fuck, finally, that pulls a giggle out of your lips, a sweet musical sound. He takes a risk and puts a hand on your knee, you don’t shy awa  y from the touch. 

“Strike three might be how confident  you are,” You cock your head at him, “You really thought I’d just get in your car-” 

“What kind of a man would I be if I let you walk home after losing your wallet!” He protests, “You’re far too pretty to be doing things like that.” 

“Things like what?” You tease, “Walking?” Yes. He wants to say, this was far too easy. Things like walking, going to the grocery store, things like working late every night, trying to balance a job on top of grad school, falling asleep at your computer where he could see you from his table at the bar across the street from your apartment. He doesn’t say that, though. 

“Maybe,” he reaches over and boops the tip of your nose. “Can I take you to dinner?” You pretend to consider. 

“Hmmmm,” there’s still a part of you that’s spooked, the animal part of your body signaling to you that if he’s a predator, you’re prey. “You can have my number.” He holds a palm out and you place your phone in it. He puts his number in, and texts himself a meaningless string of emojis. Your heart quickens a little at the little brush of your hands, and fuck it, it’s been months, you deserve a little fun. “There’s a bar across the street, if you want to grab a drink?” He relaxes a little. 

“What’s up?” he says, heart hammering in his chest because he knows, he knows, he knows, you’re-

“I’m pregnant,” you choke out, “And I’m so sorry, I don’t know how this happened, we were so careful.”

“Oh baby,” he says, sitting on the floor in his expensive suit, whatever, fuck it, he could throw it out. “Oh, sweetheart.” You sniff, and he digs a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to you. You blow your nose and wipe your face. “It’s alright,” he says softly, “We’ll figure it out.”

“Like you want a baby.” Your voice is thick and hoarse, like you’ve been crying for hours. “You stay out late, you’re always coming and going unpredictable, Ran we’ve only been together for six months, you can’t tell me you want to raise a child with me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he says, barely containing himself. “Listen if the baby’s anything like you, I want it. I do, I’ll uh.” He looks away, but it’s calculated, he has to fight every instinct in his body to keep from bringing his attention back to you, but for this to work he needs you to ask, needs you to say-

“What?” You sound a little more like yourself, “What’ll you do?”

“I’ll,” he brings his gaze back to yours, taking both your hands in his. “I’ll marry you.” He watches your mouth drop open, your eyes widen. “I’m serious,” he says quickly, squeezing your hand. “I mean, that was always the goal.”

“Was it?” You whisper, and oh you sweet, simple girl, yes obviously that was always the goal, to keep you forever, to mark you as his own, but better not, better act shy. He scratches the back of his neck, feigning sheepishness.

“What would you say if I told you I bought a ring like, a month ago?” An explosive giggle tears from your lips and Ran commits the sound to memory.

“I’d say you were crazy,” you give him a weak smile, “But fuck, are we, are we gonna do this? You really want to do this with me?”

“I love you,” he breathes, and it’s the truth. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone, or anything, and I want,” he realizes what he’s about to say before it comes out, but he can’t stop it. “I want you all to myself.” You laugh lightly.

“Ran,” you shake your head. “There’s no competition. Not for you.” He smirks then, standing quickly and lifting you off the floor to your feet. You squeal as he drags you down the hallway to your bedroom. “What are you-”

“We have to celebrate,” he grins at you devilishly, before pushing you gently down on your bed, moving your body so that your head is up by your pillows. “C’mere,” he hums, as if he’d let you move at all, make a single decision, he kicks off his loafers and tears his suit off, throwing it haphazardly around your bedroom. His shirt lands on a lampshade, his pants puddle on the floor before he leaps on top of you, catlike. He positions a thigh expertly between your own, and leans down to kiss you. “What’s with all those tears, huh?” He hums, kissing down your jawline, soft little gasps spilling from your lips. “Don’t you know daddy’s always gonna take care of you?”

“F-fuck,” you choke out, feeling him tug you out of your shirt, tossing your clothes on the ground. “Ran I-”

“Uh, uh,” he says, and you meet his violet eyes. “Daddy.” You roll your eyes and he catches your face so fast your cheeks squish under his fingers.

“D-daddy,” you manage and he smiles at you, his canines catching the light.

“That’s a good girl,” he says, slight mocking in his tone. You feel his hands trace down your body, reaching under the elastic of your panties, parting your folds. “You want daddy to make you feel good?” You whimper in response, arching your back up off the bed as he brings little bursts of pleasure to your body, prepping you carefully and rubbing your clit just enough to bring you to the edge, make you squirm. He watches tears form in your eyes and his smirk widens, you were so pretty when you were powerless. When you were his, completely. After this, he’d have a good reason to tell Koko to fuck off when he looked at you, to tell any of his men if they even looked at you wrong he’d put a goddamn bullet in their head. You’d finally be his, body and soul.

It’s that thought that carries him as he moves on top of you, throwing your legs over his shoulder, it’s that thought that makes him pick up the pace, fucking you hard even as you rake your nails down his back, as your eyes roll in your head. It’s that thought, the thought of marking you, owning you, that’s the thing that makes him groan loudly, pinning you to the bed so he can fuck you harder.

“Who’s pussy is this?” He snarls, patient boyfriend forgotten, animal set lose, “I said whos fuckin’ pussy is this?”

“Yours,” you chant, a prayer, an ecstasy. “Yours, daddy, yours,”