𑣲⋆ ⌗ (🚬) You’re the kind of girl who gets peonies for breakfast, so Riki Nishimura would really like to know why you’re buying weed from him.
西村 力 riki nishimura x cheer captain! reader
˗ˏˋ riki as a plug, i promise its not as bad as it sounds, romcom, fluff, crack, profanity, homewrecking but not really, cheating (not really) but not on riki dw, explicit content, smut, oral sex, m receiving, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dom ni-ki, size kink lowk, weed, toxic, mdni !
wc: 20 766
p: d.a.m. - fetty wap ; homewrecker - sombr ; i get lonely - drake ; lowkey - niki (fcking hilarious)
Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means possible, and even prides himself as a law-abiding citizen to the normalized standards.
He does think some fractions of the government system can totally be tweaked, but he isn’t some reformist that would go out of his way — he actually really likes the stability of society and how it’s structured. He’s comfortable with the status quo.
That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts.
Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed.
He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little.
Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.
So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.
You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him:
you:
hi
you sell right
The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.
Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.
This was not how the structure worked. Nope.
He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this.
Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.
riki:
????
is this a test loll
you:
?
its a question
riki:
u fr????
you:
js tell me if its a no
i have money
riki:
3pm behind the science building
you:
ok thanks
But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.
And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.
You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.
Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”
The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.
You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”
Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.
“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”
Your mouth opens. Then closes.
“What kind.” he repeats.
You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”
A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says.
You bristle. “So?”
“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”
Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”
This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.
Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“
“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”
When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.
And it makes it worse.
You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention.
He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”
You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.
His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.
Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years.
But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.
And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy.
Also, he’s 6’1.
“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.”
He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that.
Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say too fast.
He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”
He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.
“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount.
You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”
That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.
“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.
He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.
“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”
For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.
“Oh,” you say.
Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”
Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.
“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”
Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”
He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”
You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.
You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.
The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings.
He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.
Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.
He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —
Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”
Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.
He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.
Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.
“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.
“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.
“Mhm.”
Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them.
Until he bumps into someone.
For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.
But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing.
“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.
His name on your mouth does something stupid to him.
“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.
You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”
You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.
“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say.
He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.
“You don’t usually look,” he says.
It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.
Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”
Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”
You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him.
“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.
His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.
When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”
“Specific.”
“He’s with his friends.”
Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.
Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.
You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”
Riki blinks. “The stuff?”
You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.
For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”
Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”
Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”
You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.
He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”
You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”
Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching.
Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now.
“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”
You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.
He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.
He really, really knows better.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.
He shouldn’t do this.
He really shouldn’t.
Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.
You:
bathroom upstairs
The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.
“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”
He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”
You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.
He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.
“Like this?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”
You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”
“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”
You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.
You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.
“Sorry,” you say, breathless.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”
You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.
“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”
Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”
You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”
He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.
He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.
Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”
He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”
Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.
You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.
You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.
Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”
“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”
“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.
“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.
He quickly looks away, trying not to smile.
“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.
He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”
You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.
“Is that so bad?”
The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”
“Why not?”
Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet.
For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.”
You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”
He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”
The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.
You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”
“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable.
“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”
That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.
He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.
“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”
He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.
Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”
Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”
“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.
You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”
He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.
You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.
You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.
You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.
You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.
He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.
“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.
He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.
He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall.
Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.
You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.
“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.
He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.
Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”
He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.
“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.
But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.
Riki exhales, then lifts it.
He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.
He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.
He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.
After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks.
That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.
He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after.
Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.
It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.
You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.
No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.
“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”
Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”
Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.
“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.
“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”
Riki blinks. “No.”
“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”
Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”
Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”
Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”
“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”
Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught.
Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”
Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.
Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”
Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”
Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”
Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”
It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.
You’re where you’re supposed to be.
You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.
Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.
Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.
You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.
Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.
The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.
“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”
You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.
You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.
Well, you push the door open.
Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.
For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”
His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”
This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.
“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”
Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”
You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”
That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint.
“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.
You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap.
“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”
He tilts his head. “Should we?”
“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.”
He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”
“Probably.”
“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”
“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.
You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.
He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.
Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”
Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”
When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s.
You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.
-
McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.
“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.
Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.
He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.
Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”
“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.
Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”
“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.
“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.
Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”
He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all.
Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.
Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall.
Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.
Your boyfriend is cheating on you.
What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution.
He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.
“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.
He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”
While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.
“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”
You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.
“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.
“Outside,” he says easily.
The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.
He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too?
Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”
Your smile falters. “What about him?”
“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”
You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something.
Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.
What the fuck is happening?
It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.
No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.
Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”
You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”
Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.
That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.
He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”
You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.
That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.
“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”
He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”
You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”
“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”
You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.
Because this is new information.
Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.
You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.
“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.
Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?) cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.
It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.
So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”
“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”
He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.
You notice. You just don’t say anything.
Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low.
The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.
“Thanks. For caring.”
He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.
Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual.
If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.
Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.
He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”
You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”
He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”
You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.
You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”
Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.”
You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand.
He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”
You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”
“You tell me.”
The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts.
You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”
“No.”
“Just me?”
His mouth twitches. “You asked.”
You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”
“I know.”
Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.
“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”
Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.
You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.
“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”
He looks at you for a moment.
Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”
He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.
You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”
“How?” he snickers.
You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”
He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”
Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.
“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”
You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face.
Your throat tightens.
“With me,” he adds.
He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.
The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out.
You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”
“I just guessed one fucking thing.”
You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”
“With me?”
Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it.
You huff. “You’re so annoying.”
Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.
You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat.
He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.
For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.
So you take control of things you can handle.
You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.
You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”
Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”
You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat.
“Are you a virgin?”
The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.
He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.
“You always ask things like that?”
“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”
You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”
He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.
“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”
Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”
Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.
You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”
He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”
“And?”
“And you look like that.”
For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”
That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.
Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”
You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”
He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.
“Not really,” you agree.
You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.
“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”
Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.
You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.
When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away.
Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt.
“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.
You frown. “Why not?”
He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.
“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.
You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”
He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about.
“This is so fucked,” he mutters.
Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.
His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.
“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.
When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long.
His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.
“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.
You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.
When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.
His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.
“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw.
So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples.
You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.
After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.
From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.
“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.
At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all.
He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”
You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”
His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”
“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”
“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,”
The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.
“You think I’d use you?” you ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.
He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”
You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”
You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.
“Ask me when we’re not high.”
Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”
Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer.
“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.
“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”
You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods, agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.
Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you.
The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.
“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”
Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”
Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.
He looks away first.
PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.
He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.
You’re already looking too.
It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.
Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”
Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”
Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”
“Okay.”
The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.
“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.
“I am.”
“You’re really not.”
Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.
He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.
Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.
You bite back a smile.
When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.
Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.
His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.
Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.
You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.
His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"
You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."
He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."
Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.
And that he’s enjoying the view.
You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."
His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."
The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.
In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board.
You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.
You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.
This is so inconvenient.
“Babe.”
Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.
“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.
You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”
“Yeah, but where?”
You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.
“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.
Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.
He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little.
Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.
Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).
You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.
You just feel tired, especially on the way home.
Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.
Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.
Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth.
Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.
you:
he actually sucks so bad
like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance
You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.
You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you.
Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.
And maybe that makes you painfully average.
Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.
You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.
Until something taps three times against your window.
Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.
Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.
You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame.
You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.
Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.
For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.
“Hi.”
You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.
“You sounded sad.”
“Is that supposed to be an answer?”
“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”
The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.
This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.
Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.
Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”
Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”
He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.
So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.
“I got you these.”
Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.
Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.
You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.
“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”
He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”
You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”
“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.
You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.
“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.
You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”
He raises his brows. “That means yes.”
You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”
Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.
The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.
You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.
You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”
“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”
You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.
Which is not good at all.
He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.
You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.
This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.
You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.
You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume. “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.
Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.
Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”
Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.
You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.
He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was high.”
“And what’s your excuse now?”
Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.
Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.
You are none of those things anymore.
Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses.
Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”
You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”
Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”
The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully.
You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text.
Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?
You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly.
You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.
His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.
Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.
Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.
“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”
His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.
He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”
You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.”
Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck.
For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.
Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.
Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.
That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.
He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”
“I need to do something.”
His brows pull together. “Right now?”
You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.
Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.
He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.
The call rings twice.
Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.
Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”
You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”
There is a pause. “What?”
You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”
Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.”
“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”
You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.
He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.
Your eyes widen. “Riki.”
He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”
On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone.
Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.
That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure.
The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.
Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.
You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours.
“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.
His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.
You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.
Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.
Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you.
"Words, baby," he whispers.
He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.
You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."
Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor.
Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.
He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.
You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.
“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward.
You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.
And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs.
His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.
Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.
You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”
You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him.
“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.
You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?”
You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.
And he’s still too fucking long.
You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.
Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”
You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control.
And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths.
Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.
“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”
He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.
“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.
“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches.
Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”
You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt.
“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.
“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.
Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,”
His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”
Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.
Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears.
“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”
The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.
“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.
He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him.
Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you.
“W-what are you —”
“On your stomach.”
You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”
You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought.
“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.
You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.
“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.
Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.
You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm.
Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.
You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.
Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely.
Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”
“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.
“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder.
You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.
Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.
Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.
“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw.
“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.
You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”
WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.
Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful.
He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.
You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.
He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"
He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.
“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”
You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”
Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”
Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.
Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”
He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.
“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”
You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”
He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you.
You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.
"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.
Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.
“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.
You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.
A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.
award winning actor toru oikawa caught flirting with his biggest hater on twitter? find out more below!
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swearing, ooc characters, oikawa is pathetic, reader is a fake idgaf-er and fake nonchalant, academia (post-grad burnout), horrible writing, idk what this is anymore
love, to lee donghyuck, is not limited to only three words.
it is love when he traces your spine at midnight, drawing invincible circles on your back, etching his affection onto your skin. you've had a hard time falling asleep lately, he knows — he could tell from the toss and turn of your body and the soft sounds of tiktok late at night. so he makes you chamomile tea and rubs your back — the room smells like eucalyptus oil and him. he presses kisses on your shoulder so tender, as though you were porcelain. he rubs your back until you fall asleep, and the first thing he asks in the morning is "did you sleep well?"
love, to lee donghyuck, is his habit of kissing you every morning. hyuck carresses your cheeks with his palms, snickering at the way you blink your eyes to adjust to the sunlight. "baby... missed you while we were asleep..." he kisses you on the forehead, your cheeks, your nose, then your lips. he doesn't miss a single step, maybe adds a few extra kisses on your lips — as though a superstitious routine. he has to do it or else his day will feel terrible. and in a slight chance that he forgot... well, expect multiple messages of apologies and sobbing emojis.
donghyuck tells you he loves you by physically latching onto you every chance he gets. he always says he hates the clingy type — when in truth, he's often the clingy one. you're watching tv? he's hugging your arm, legs rested on your lap, chin buried into your neck. you could feel his breath against your skin every time he makes a commentary, like "that's literally us," and "you think i'm more handsome than him, right?" you're making coffee? he's hugging your back, littering kisses across your collarbone. you're taking a walk? well... the two of you are! he'll go on that walk with you, lacing your fingers together and swaying your arms.
you never listen, and hyuck's aware. he tells you to bring a jacket and you never do. when you start shivering, rocking your legs under the table, hyuck glances at you and sighs. "i told you it'll be cold, didn't i?" he babbles, "you never listen!" nevertheless, he's quick to take his jacket off and lay it on you. "bring an umbrella, it'll rain!" but of course, you don't. still, he'll rush out of practice and pick you up with his car, sighing to see you drenched. "thank god i have your location, i told you it'll rain, baby. i don't want you getting sick." you never listen, he knows. to be loved is to be known, isn't it?
it is also love when hyuck tells you his secrets. he's always been the oldest in the family, rarely ever shows that he's struggling. but sometimes, behind closed doors, when it's just the two of you, he crawls into your embrace, tucks his head into your neck and cries. "i'm tired," he whispers. his voice is barely there, like it's a sin confession and you're the priest. hyuck lets you comb your fingers through his hair and kiss away his tears. to some, it may be a small thing, but to hyuck, it means everything. after all, a secret's an intimate thing.
love, to lee donghyuck, isn’t the three words whispered to you — but every little action he does with you in mind.
tags: haechan x reader ft maeda riku. best friend's brother trope. fluff. haechan plays the bass and has jet black hair and he's so sexy.
wc: 1.8k words.
note: this was supposed to be way shorter... but idk what happened sorry. pls enjoy hihi! i love band boy haechan.
you’ve always known that riku has an older brother.
he had mentioned it on several occasions, something along the lines of — my jerk brother borrowed my jeans without telling me, or i couldn’t sleep because my prick brother kept playing his stupid bass!
what you didn’t know, is said brother is this hot.
you’re not supposed to be here. you’re supposed to be using the bathroom, but somewhere along the hallway, you lost your way so now you’re here, standing before an open door. his bedroom wall is filled with michael jackson posters — and some bands you’ve only seen from your father’s old cassettes.
sitting in the middle of the room is him. he looks a little like riku, but with rounder features and a constellation of moles decorating his honey skin. he’s sitting on the floor, strumming his bass and bopping his head to the tune, tongue poking against his cheek.
you stand there, awestruck. your hand grips on the door frame, attempting to hide yourself behind the wall but he could see you. he looks up, fingers still orchestrating the instrument, eyeing you from head to toe. you feel your skin burn.
“lost?” he speaks, voice nothing like you’ve ever heard before. you think that you’ll remember the sound forever.
“uhm… the bathroom?”
“last door on the left.”
embarrassed, you walk away, his stare at the back of your head going unnoticed.
…
“what’s your brother’s name?”
“hm? haechan.”
“maeda hae—“
“—lee. different dad.”
“lee haechan…”
the bed dips. riku looks at you, propping his elbow onto the bed, lifting himself slightly to get a proper look. his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes squinted as he scans you. he’s known you for a while now, able to read your every move.
“yn. are you into my brother?”
your face turns to look at him, just slightly. you’re grateful for the dim lights, perhaps, he wouldn’t be able to see the blush creeping up your cheeks. you shake your head.
“no way. i just saw him on my way to the bathroom and was curious.”
you pray he couldn’t see through your lie. he squints his eyes just a little more, for a moment, before resting his head back against the pillows.
“good. he’s a stupid prick.”
you don’t know that. what you know for sure, is that he’s stupidly gorgeous.
…
yn [9:05 AM]: maeda riku i am seriously going to kill you. SERIOUSLY!!!!
rikuri [9:09 AM]: please do NOT i’m sooooo sorry ok!!! yushi needed my help so i had to leave :( pancakes in the microwave love you!
you scoff, tossing the phone to the other side of the bed, sounding a hushed thud. reluctantly, you pick your towel off a chair and make your way to the bathroom, mentally cursing your best friend in your head, planning all the ways you can get back at him. you brush your teeth, back leaned against the wall. you don't notice the door's unlocked until haechan walks in, towel slung over his shoulder.
"what —"
"chill," he mutters, grabbing his toothbrush. there's no urgency in his tone, no shock, as if it's the most mundane thing ever.
haechan brushes, standing close to you, shoulders lightly brushing. he looks into the mirror, meeting your eyes and raising his eyebrow, as if telling you to resume.
and so, you do. a little slower, more flustered than normal.
...
hanging out at riku's become a routine. embedded in your being, you find yourself taking the bus to his neighbourhood after class without thought. his mother claims that you're a maeda now, as you know where the spare keys are, and a designated mug sits in the dishwasher for you.
riku on the other hand, is rarely around. he prefers spending his afternoons at yushi's leaving you alone as you watch an old romcom in his living room.
haechan walks in, wordlessly taking a seat beside you — it has become a frequent occurence. you think that you see haechan even more than riku lately, the way he'd join you for your binge watches, or when you'd bake cookies with riku. sometimes, he'd leave touches that linger —hand on your back as he passes by, or fingertip brushing against your lips as he makes you try a snack.
it's normal, yet it accelerates your heart rate without fail. you find yourself nervous every time he does as little as looking at you.
"pretty woman."
you turn to him, eyes widened. you? pretty? your hands curl around the hem of your shirt, making sense of it all.
"huh?"
haechan raises his eyebrow, tongue poking against his cheek.
"the name of the movie?"
"oh."
he chuckles, shaking his head before turning his attention back to the tv. right, of course he's talking about the damn julia roberts movie, and not you. you clasp a cushion against your face, embarrassed. he taps on your arm, touch burning through your skin.
"are you going to sungchan's party? the one on friday?"
"sungchan? oh, probably not, was not in —"
" — do you want to come with me?"
there's a minute pause as you turn your head towards him, and he's already looking at you. all the jest in his face is replaced with sincerity as he stares down at you, lip pressed against teeth.
"oh, yeah, of course."
"cool. it's a date then. we can get dinner first."
...
when riku said that his brother's a stupid prick, this must be what he means.
the servers must think you're a pathetic little thing, the way you're sitting at the far-right booth with a watered down iced tea and a melted banana split. haechan's an hour late — and with the way that he's not answering any of your calls, he's probably not coming. so, ashamedly, you grab your bag and leave for home, where you quickly flop onto your bed and weep.
no signs of haechan, at least not up until one in the morning.
yn [1:27 AM]: your brother truly is a PRICK. all caps lock btw. BOLDED. UNDERLINED. TIMES NEW ROMAN SIZE 57 AND CENTERED.
rikuri [1:28 AM]: preach mama
rikuri [1:32 AM]: also wat
you're not in the mood to explain, so you shut your phone and sleep, dried tears on your cheeks.
...
it wasn't supposed to last this long.
haechan's had one long day, like it was a karmic debt sent by God which he had to pay in the form of nakamoto yuta and his stupid lies.
"sorry dude, the gig wasn't supposed to last this long. shotaro said they had some sort of technical error," yuta shrugs, shoving his drumsticks into his bag.
haechan glares at him, a full on side-eye as he swings his bass bag over his shoulder.
"you said the gig was supposed to start at 9, but it started at 10. and then you said we were the opener — bro, we were the fucking encore!"
"miscommunication, sorry," the older answers, holding his hands up in surrender.
haechan rolls his eyes, "does anyone have a charger? my phone's fucking dead," he scans the room, grumbling "useless," under his breath when all his band members shake their head, shoving his bass bag into the back of the van.
he bids his goodbye to the members (while scowling, of course), fast-walking to his car when the universe reminds him of whatever karmic debt he had in the form of a flat tire. he bangs his head against the car roof, cussing under his breath.
"i'm taking the fucking van!"
...
you're not at the diner, and you don't seem to be at sungchan's party.
haechan trudges through the crowd, muttering apologies at every bump and spilled alcohol. instead of finding you, he bumps into riku, who’s sitting on the kitchen counter, nursing a drink.
“have you seen yn?”
riku blinks, shaking his head. confusion sits in his eyes for a while until realisation hits.
“wait. is this why she texted me saying you’re a fucking prick? what the fuck did you do to my best friend?”
haechan’s tongue pokes against his cheek, running a hand over his face. he grabs riku’s drink, downing it in one go before grabbing his brother's hand. he pulls his brother through the crowd, earning a couple whines from him.
"dude — where the fuck are we going?"
"you're helping me get yn back."
to riku's dismay, the two brothers arrive at your house — standing in your garden as haechan figures a way to get riku into your bedroom. you won't answer calls, nor will you answer the door. so, he eyes the tree looming over your bedroom window and the gears in his head click.
"riku. you're going to climb up this tree and go through her window."
"the hell? who said i'm doing all that?"
"your dearest older brother, of course."
the younger groans, but he makes no more protest as haechan gives him a boost, and so he climbs up the tree, making his way into your window and turning his head back to shoot haechan the middle finger.
you're jolt awake by the sound of riku falling to the floor with a thud. the blanket is pulled over your body as you screech.
"what the fuck?"
"it's me, it's riku!" he yells back, holding his hands up in surrender. "yn, you have to go downstairs, please."
...
someway, somehow, riku manages to convince you to go downstairs.
"in another life, please find a man better than my brother."
you scoff, opening the door to be greeted by haechan, on his knees, staring up at you. full begging posture. riku runs a hand across his face, shaking his head.
"god, i can't watch this," he mumbles, walking away to disappear into your kitchen.
haechan, on the other hand, is still on his knees, hands clasped together in a prayer. it's a rare sight — he always seems so aloof, and cheeky, poking jokes at you any chance he had, leaving remarks that border on platonic and flirty.
you liked it, though. lee haechan on his knees begging.
"i'm so, so sorry," he says, each word emphasised. "i had a whole thing going on with the band. i swear i planned my time so well, it's just — some things happened, with my car, and then my phone died —"
"haechan. get up."
"no, i really am sorry, please don't be mad —"
your cheeks flush as you look around the neighbourhood, seeing the lady that lives across you peeking through her window only amplifies the redness. you pull him up, "please, just get up, i won't be mad anymore."
"you promise?" he finally gets up, staring at you with hopeful eyes.
you sigh, bringing your hand forward to flick him on the forehead.
"don't ever mess up again."
he blinks, wanting to make a comment on how the flick didn't hurt at all, but he bites his tongue.
"so you forgive me?"
"yes."
"you're not mad at me anymore?"
"no."
"so you'll go on a date with me?"
you roll your eyes, but you can't stop the smile that creeps up your cheeks.
"geez, haechan — yes, i'll go on a date with you."
haechan grins, bringing his pinky up to seal the promise, cheekily kissing your pinky.
"is my brother still on his knees? can i come out now?"
warnings: smut, mdni, mature themes, sex toys (vibrating cock ring, strap on), bdsm (cuffs), anal (m receiving) wlm (haechan x reader) mlm (nahyuck), unprotected sex, doggy, oral with toy?, dirty talk, humiliation, brat tamer!jaemin&reader, sub!haechan, brat!haechan, crybaby!haechan, crying, masturbation (m receiving), orgasm denial, dick slapping, hair pulling… uh i think that’s it??
requested!
a/n: this specific nahyuck moment has caused severe damage to my mental health! :)
haechan was such a brat! and you and jaemin were seriously tired of his attitude today. you were haechans girlfriend of 3 years, and had grown extremely close to his best friend jaemin, and all day he had been updating you about your whiney boyfriend, text after text coming through like “he keeps whining about needing you” “he just tried to skip practice to go jerk off” “ya lil bf is complaining about your job saying you should be home waiting for him when he gets home every day so you can fuck him asap” “i’m seriously going to suck his dick atp just to get him to shut the fuck up” “yn, what are we gonna do with him? he keeps running his mouth” and you and jaemin were both progressively getting more and more irritated by his bratty behaviour and you’re not even there to witness it!
you text jaemin back while you walk to your car after leaving the office, “can you bring him home? i gotta teach him a lesson” “i wanna stay and watch, i wanna see that attitude slip, im sick of him, been touching his dick all day and walking around with a boner” you roll your eyes, just picturing haechan whining and grabbing at his junk around everyone, if he wants to flaunt it at work, you’re gonna give him a real audience tonight. you drive home, already seeing jaemins car parked next to your empty spot, parking and turning your car off you grab your bag and head inside and see them both on the couch. you look haechan up and down, sitting on the couch in just his boxers, man spreading on the couch as jaemin stands behind him, hand in his hair. you look to jaemin, grateful that he had already gotten haechan undressed and asserted some dominance already, speaking to jaemin and looking over your boyfriend who stares at you pathetically from the couch
“hey… thanks for bringing him”
“it’s alright, he’s been waiting for you, everytime he tried to touch himself i’ve been pulling his hair”
“good, he’s lucky if he gets touched at all after all his lip today, isn’t that right?”
you look back down to meet haechans gaze. he gulps, didn’t think jaemin would snitch on him for complaining all day, let alone get involved in your sex life so intimately. sure you have both spoken openly about it with him before, and you’ve sent jaemin pictures of haechan fucked out and subby as punishment, as a humiliation tactic, but he’s not gotten physically involved like this before.
“she asked you a question haechan, answer your girlfriend, stop being rude”
“y-yes… im sorry”
“yeah? you sorry baby bear?”
he nods his head as best he can with jaemins hands still in his hair. you sigh coming closer to him, kicking your shoes off on your way to him.
“what are you sorry for? do you know why you’re even apologising?”
“for… talking bad about your job… saying you should- should be waiting for me at home, being selfish- mmmm… f-for touching myself”
“good, you were being selfish, you know i love my job, you know it’s important to me, why would i give that up? just to pleasure you? i know you talking crazy, were you thinking with this?…”
you tap his head, right by his temple then cup his boner through his boxers, squeezing gently
“or this?”
“im sorry… i didn’t mean it, was just thinking with my dick…”
“yeah, time to stop thinking all together, you know you do stupid things when you think”
you motion for jaemin to move around the couch and take a seat next to him, leaving haechan in the middle of the pair of you
“now your dumb attitude got you in big trouble, gonna get punished not only by me, but jaeminie too, cause he’s the one who had to deal with you all day, jaem, take his underwear off”
haechan looks at you with wide eyes as jaemins hands start moving towards your boyfriends waist band
“don’t give me that look, you brought this on yourself”
jaemin starts tugging on his boxers, bringing them down his thighs and off his legs, leaving him fully exposed to both of you, his raging hard dick bouncing back and slapping against his stomach. pre cum leaking from his deep pink tip. your hand cups the underside of him and he shudders, jaemin watching his every reaction. your hand is slow and featherlight as it softly drags up and down his shaft, tracing his veins with your finger tip.
“keep him here, trap his legs, i’m gonna get a cock ring, don’t let him touch”
jaemin nods as he starts to shift closer to haechan. he starts to protest, pushing jaemin back but you grab his face and turn him to look at you as you stand up, talking through gritted teeth
“do what i say, don’t make me go harder on you, sit in his lap and be a good boy”
he can only whine as jaemin uses his strength to sit him in his lap, legs over haechans to stop him from wriggling too much, his big hands planted firmly around haechans petite waist to keep him grounded in his spot. you head upstairs and root through your toy drawer, bringing back a vibrating cock ring and a pair of cuffs. while your gone haechan starts to wriggle and writhe, feeling jaemins hard on as he sits in his lap.
“stop it, sit still”
“shu-shut up”
haechan can’t take it anymore, his face is flushed red with embarrassment and restraint and his hand starts to gravitate towards his manhood
“i would think twice about that if i was you”
he huffs and forces his hand back down by his side and jaemin hums in approval. neither of them thinking they would enjoy this as much as they are. when you get back downstairs you cuff haechan up first, securing each of the loops around his wrists before locking them behind his back, he tries to twist and pull them apart but jaemin just wraps a hand around his neck and pulls him back flush against his chest as you work on putting the cock ring on, once secured you stand up and look at both men; one naked, pathetic and embarrassed, skin glowing pink, the other calm, secure and fully dressed, much more in control. when you turn the vibe settings on haechan is immediately bucking his hips and letting out whiney moans and squeals and you sit back on your heels in between his legs and hold his legs open and keeping them under jaemins own legs.
“when are you going to learn to shut your mouth? you’re always running those gums, getting under our skin, whining and begging for attention, well you got it now, are you happy?”
he strains a groan and nods his head yes, jaemin swoops his hair back from his eyes, and soothes a hand up and down his torso, stopping at his peck, before rubbing and flicking at haechans sensitive nipple. you hum in approval when he starts to flinch and twitch, hips bucking and body twisting to try and get away from all the stimulation. you laugh softly as your hands grip his hips, mouth hanging wide open above his shaft, letting long hot globs of spit tumble down and coat him before your hand wraps around his shaft and starts to jerk him off. his moans get louder, jaemin holding him upright so he can’t escape. before he can cum you let go of him and he cries out desperately. you motion for jaemin to come and join you in front of him and he slides haechan back onto the couch cushion and joins you on the floor.
“do you want to touch him?”
“yeah…”
“alright, touch him, i’m gonna go grab something else, i’ll be back in a sec, do what you want with him”
haechan whines at how you speak to jaemin like he’s not even there, like he’s just a toy for you both to play with, and before you can evan fully make it to your feet again jaemins hands are fully wrapped around haechans shaft, ripping the cock ring off, before his hand is twisting and pulling, jerking him off. his hips buck into jaemins hand as he squeezes the sensitive tip.
“jaemin… ahh! nghhh…”
“pathetic little slut, look at you, bucking into your best friends hand, you dirty boy”
you come back holding a bottle of lube and your strap on harness with haechans favourite dildo attached. both jaemin and haechans eyes go dark. haechan cannot wait to feel you pound into him, and jaemin can’t wait to watch his best friend fall completely apart at the hands of his girlfriend, he might even step in and take part.
“nana will you help me put this on?”
you have a teasing smile on your face as jaemin stands, abandoning your poor boyfriend who still writhes on the couch, naked. jaemin ensures the harness is secure around your thighs and waist, making a show of gently rubbing over the insides of your thighs and groin to make sure each part of the harness laid flat. haechan huffs through his nose, jealous that jaemins hands were all over his girl, but the jealousy didn’t last long as he felt your hands pushing his legs up to his chest. jaemin walks behind him again, just like his you found them both when you first arrived home, he reaches out and takes hold of the poor boys legs, bringing them further back and in place for you. you squirt a generous amount of lube onto haechans hole, plus his shaft too, you want him as wet and slippery as you can make it. you lube up the silicone before your lining up with his entrance, you take your time, pushing the tip in little by little as haechan cries and whines with all his chest. his voice cracks and breaks as he begs for it, begs to be fucked, his throat strained from just how tight the stretch is. once your past the head, you push all the way down to the base of the toy so your hips are sitting as flush to him as possible, before pulling out completely to watch his hole contract, jaemin speaking up again
“fuck… ass took that dick like a champ baby, hole’s gaping nice and wide for us”
“he always takes it so good, always lets me stretch his little asshole wide open”
tears keep streaming down haechans face, his skin still flushed a deep pink, he usually loves when you fuck him, usually has no shame, but with his best friend right here, talking about his gaping asshole as a result of you fucking him open he has all of a sudden gotten stage fright. he feels you plunge back inside, revelling on the feeling of getting fucked, his favourite thing in the world other than you yourself, but before he can really start to enjoy it, the feeling of you slapping his dick snaps him out of his thoughts. his eyes and mouth snap open as he looks at you, his brows furrowed as you slap his dick as you fuck his ass. jaemin watches intently, listens to haechan crying and whining out loud as he can, his eyes trained on the way haechans legs shake in his hands, the look on his face, the way his head rolls back against the back of the couch and against jaemins stomach. jaemins smile is wicked as he leans down closer to haechans ear, keeping a firm grip on his legs to keep them spread
“taking it so good haechannie, you sound so much better like this instead of all that bitching”
“what do you say to jaemin?”
haechan goes to speak but he’s cut off by his own moans and squeals before you hold his shaft and squeeze tight
“i said, what do you say?”
“s-sorry! agh! i’m sorry!”
“good boy”
you jerk him off again but before he can cum your hands stop and draw back, pulling the strap out of him and jaemin drops his legs. he sobs out hard, lunging forward off the couch to reach for you
“no… please- please i’ll be good, please let me cum”
“that’s up to jaemin, you only get cum if he says”
both sets of eyes turn to you, you give jaemin an inviting look and he walks back round next to you
“you said you wanted to get involved, how’d you want him?”
“on his knees”
you don’t wait for another instruction, just tugging haechan by the hair to bring him fully to his knees and jaemin stands behind him, manoeuvring his body to face the couch
“take a seat yn-ah, as much as he sounds pretty, i need him quiet, and you deserve a break after your long day, sit in front of him”
you do as he says, sitting down on the couch where haechan was just minutes ago, spreading your legs and tapping the tip of the toy at his lips.
“you’re gonna suck that dildo until i tell you to stop, and you’re only gonna cum when i tell you, you understand?”
“mhm”
jaemin leaves a harsh smack across the older boys ass, the impact has him wincing, a pink handprint already starting to glow
“use your words and stop being a brat”
you tug at his hair again making him look up at you
“stop showing off in front of jaemin, you wanted to be a brat and now we’re fucking you like one, and don’t give me that pathetic embarrassed look, you and me both know you’ve always wanted him to fuck you like this, that’s why you tell him all about our sex lives, you want him to know you’re a little cry baby who loves getting stuffed full, so be a good boy, and listen to him, tell him you’ll be good for him”
“i-i’ll be good for you”
jaemin runs a rare soothing hand down haechans spine before gesturing to the lube again, you pass it over and watch as he takes himself out of his pants, pulling them down to his mid thigh and coats himself in a thick layer of the gel before lining himself up with haechans hole, once puckered and tight now gaping and contracting after your previous round. jaemin squats slightly to get the right height and angle before he pushes in completely and before he can cry and scream too much you shove his head down on the toy, choking and gagging him as he starts to suck on the plastic. haechan looks up at you through his wet lashes as tears still streak down his cheeks, eyes red and puffy as his head bobs on its own like second nature. his body jerks as he feels jaemins hand snake around his front and grabs hold of his dick, one hand still firmly held onto the chain of his cuffs keeping him from collapsing fully forward from lack of balance. the stimulation on his shaft and gspot has his mouth watering around the strap, coating the crotch and thighs of your work clothes, but you don’t care, just watching your best friend fuck your boyfriend as he sucks off your strap on is enough to clear your head of any other thoughts. he gags louder and harder, thick layers of white bubbly spit smearing on his chin and nose as he continues to go to town. after bringing your boyfriend as close to the edge as he can get before pulling out, over and over, he can tell by the sounds he’s making, the lack of tension in his shoulders and back that his attitude has fully subsided and is now replaced by a softer and obedient manner, jaemin brings himself to orgasm first, unloading into haechans ass, despite being fucked by you countless times with your strap, he’s never felt the feeling of a dick cumming inside of him and the feeling is so new and different it leaves him shuttering, subconsciously deepthroating the toy as his body freezes and he feels the warm sticky feeling inside of him. haechan can’t help but wonder if this is how good you feel whenever he cums in you. jaemin keeps up a few more thrusts before speaking again, he can feel haechan is on the verge from just how tight he’s clenching
“alright, cum for us baby, keep sucking”
haechan moans into the silicon, the toy muting him as much as it can with it still lodged down his throat, its raspy, strained and broken as he cums into jaemins hand.
“keep sucking, that’s it, good boy”
jaemin gets fully down on his knees beside him, cum coating his fingers and palm, the hand on his cuffs pull him back softly from your strap. his own body language replaced by something more gentle and tentative.
“good, you did so good for me baby, now can you clean me up? lick yourself off my fingers”
jaemin pushes 3 fingers into haechans mouth slowly replacing the plastic and he gets to work sucking and slurping up his own cum as jaemins cum slops out of him from behind. you watch quietly as haechan nuzzles into him as he sucks himself off his fingers, licking his palms. he’s much more relaxed now, not the big attitude from earlier on in their day, no snarky remarks, just haechan fucked out and stretched open on your living room floor, obedient and pliant for you and his best friend, jaemin grabs the key for the cuffs before letting haechans wrists free and they lazily drop to his sides and jaemin pushes his hair back off his face like before as you watch quietly
“what do you say to nana?”
“thank you nana…”
“hmm, it’s okay baby, say thank you to your girlfriend, she did most of the work”
“thank you princess…”
you lean down from the couch to where he sits like a puddle on the floor still completely naked and give him a kiss, your hand gently cupping his face, helping him while he writhes in subspace,
“you did so good for us baby bear, maybe you’ll think twice about mouthing off?”
he nods yes with his big tear filled eyes, but you and both men know, it definitely won’t be long before you have to teach him the same lesson.
SUMMARY — you were a typical college student at Neo City University—known to most as NCU. kind, smart, and always minding your business, you somehow became the campus’s favorite person. everyone adored you. you always lived a quiet, drama-free life—until your obsessive ex-boyfriend started harassing you daily, begging to get back together. cornered and fed up, you blurt out a lie: that you're already seeing someone. that should've shut him down. one tiny problem: you're not dating anyone. but just when things start spiraling, mark comes through with a plan: fake date his best friend, lee haechan.
oh, and did he mention? haechan used to have the biggest crush on you.
PAIRING — loser!haechan x student!reader
CAST — some nct members, ningning aespa, yunjin lesserafim, beomgyu txt, and some more (maybe...?)
FACECLAIM — just for the sake of the fic i'm gonna use malia baker as the fc but you can imagine anyone you want :)
GENRE — fluff, slow burn, comedy, non-idol au, college au
TAGLIST — open (reply or send an ask)
PROFILES : yn's freaks | haechan's freaks
001. let her cook
002. sacrificing yn
003. vomit and shitting
004. i'm gooning
005. she's cute
006. stress freak
007. am i just a pretty face
008.
009.
010.
011.
012.
013.
014.
015.
𝓟airings — idol!riki x influencer!gyaru!fem!reader
𝓒ontent — profanity; explicit language regarding sex; idol x fan themes; catfishing & secret identity; group chat banter & roasting;offensive language; intense infatuation; panic & text typos due to distress; backstage selfie
𝓝ow playing — coconut by sailorr ( ft. Eem triplin )
𝓢ynopsis — During ENHYPEN’s Blood Saga tour stop in Osaka, one specific fan in the crowd catches Ni-ki’s eye. She is exactly his type , a stunning, effortless gyaru girl. He accepts that he'll probably never see her again. Little does he know, she isn’t just a random fan , she’s a massive global influencer with over 30 million followers on Twitter.
𝓝ote — this was requested by @angelbby5 , thank u so much for dropping a request <3
After your relationship went public and the initial attention eventually died down, you decided to start a vlogging channel simply because you were bored. It blew up surprisingly fast—having a boyfriend who happened to be none other than Ni-ki certainly helped but people ended up staying for more than just that. What began as casual vlogs about your daily life soon turned into a never-ending prank war between you and Riki, with each of you constantly trying to outdo the other. Before long, the channel evolved from "I'm Bored asf" into "Riki & Kiyoe," and viewers quickly picked sides, turning the comment section into a battlefield. Half the audience swore Riki was always right, while the other half defended you no matter what happened. The only question left was: Are you #TeamRiki or #TeamKiyoe? 👀
Your online name is Kiyoe!
Taglist is open!
Vlogs Playlist Click here for my Archives
"I'm Y/N, a normal girl with a normal life," You thought.
You were immediately proven wrong when you opened your phone and were practically blown away by the flood of notifications from everyone she knew. Messages, missed calls, mentions, tags—her screen was a complete disaster.
Fuck.
You had forgotten one very small detail. You were dating Ni-ki from ENHYPEN. And apparently some nosy bitch had leaked pictures from their last date. Pictures of the two of tyou hugging. Pictures of you guys kissing.
Pictures that were now spreading across the internet faster than you could process. You stared at the screen for a long moment before letting out the loudest sigh imaginable. So fucking loud. Great. Just great.
Your phone buzzed again.
Mina: Y/N, ANSWER YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW.
Yuna: PLEASE TELL ME THAT ISN'T YOU.
Mom: Call me when you see this.
A dozen more messages arrived before you could even read the first three. You dropped your head against the wall behind yourbed and groaned. This was a nightmare.
The photos were crystal clear too. There was no room for denial, no chance of pretending it was somebody else. One picture showed Ni-ki with his arm wrapped around your shoulders as you both walked out of a café. Another captured the moment you had leaned into him while laughing. The last one the one everyone seemed obsessed with showed you both kissing goodbye before getting into separate cars.
The internet was losing its mind. Your phone suddenly lit up with a familiar contact.
Duckyyyy 🤤🔥🐥
You answered immediately.
"What?" You said flatly.
There was a brief silence.
"Good morning to you too."
You rubbed a hand over her face.
"The entire internet knows we're dating."
"Yeah."
"You sound way too calm about this."
Ni-ki sighed softly on the other end.
"I figured something like this would happen eventually."
And annoyingly enough, he was right.
Dating one of the biggest idols in the world and expecting complete privacy forever had never exactly been realistic. Still. You hadn't expected to wake up to your life exploding overnight.
"What are we supposed to do now?" You asked. There was a pause. Then Ni-ki answered simply.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"We didn't do anything wrong."
You glanced back at the endless stream of notifications pouring in. People were talking. People were judging. People were acting like they personally knew either of them.
Yet somehow his words made you feel a little less overwhelmed. You let out another dramatic groan and flopped backward onto her bed.
This was almost four months back. Your semester had finally ended, and now you were on break. Which sounded amazing in theory. In reality, however, you were incredibly, painfully bored.
The first few days had been fun. Sleeping in. Watching random movies at three in the morning. Rotting in bed without feeling guilty about assignments.
Now, though?
Now you were sprawled across your mattress, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally ruined your life. It didn't help that your boyfriend was practically living in the practice room.
Extra rehearsals, meetings, recordings, more rehearsals.
You missed him. And you were bored. A dangerous combination.
"MINAAA, I'M SO BOREDUHHH!"
You let out a dramatic groan as you flopped face-first onto your bed, phone pressed against your ear. Mina laughed immediately.
"Girl, then do something."
"Like what?" you whined.
"I don't know. Go outside. Learn a hobby. Touch grass."
You gasped.
"The disrespect."
"I'm serious!"
"You're so unsupportive."
"You've called me four times today just to complain."
"And I'll do it again."
Mina sighed dramatically. Then suddenly she snapped her fingers. Or at least you assumed she did.
"Wait."
"What?"
"You should vlog."
You blinked.
"Vlog?"
"Yeah! Like one of those day-in-my-life videos."
You rolled onto your back.
"A vlog..."
Honestly? That didn't sound terrible. It would give you something to do. And maybe stop you from spending another seven hours scrolling through social media… you could instead post on social media! You sat up.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I'll try that."
Mina immediately cheered.
"Oh my God, yes."
"If it's embarrassing I'm blaming you."
"You'll survive."
"We'll see."
With that, you ended the call. The room instantly fell quiet. For a moment, you simply sat there. Then your eyes drifted toward your camera. A smile slowly spread across your face. Maybe this could actually be fun.
It was only eight in the morning. You had an entire day ahead of you.
Why not?
You grabbed your camera and carefully cleaned the lens. The whole thing suddenly felt way more serious than it actually was. It was literally just a vlog. Yet somehow you felt nervous. Like you were about to give a presentation, to nobody.
Taking a deep breath, you pressed record. The tiny red light blinked on. Immediately, you forgot how to act like a normal person. You stared at the camera, the camera stared back, the silence stretched. Then you awkwardly waved.
"Hiii."
A pause. You physically cringed.
"Hiii, I'm uh..."
You laughed at yourself.
"Well, I'm Kiyoe."
Another awkward wave.
"And today I was planning to..."
You trailed off. Actually, you hadn't planned anything. At all.
"...Well, I didn't plan anything."
A sheepish grin appeared on your face.
"But we're just gonna figure it out together."
You nodded confidently. As if that had been your plan the entire time.
"First things first, I gotta get ready."
You picked up the camera and headed toward your closet. The second you opened it, clothes practically exploded out. You sighed.
"Okay."
You pointed at the mountain of clothing.
"Half of this isn't even mine."
A beat.
"Actually that's a lie."
You laughed.
"It's mine now."
You pushed hangers aside while searching for something to wear. A lot of the clothes hanging there had been gifts from Riki. The boy genuinely had a shopping problem. Not that you were complaining.
Eventually, you pulled out a black oversized t-shirt and a pair of dark blue baggy jeans.
You held them up proudly.
"Fashion."
A pause.
"Or whatever."
A little while later, you were sitting at your vanity. The camera was propped against a stack of books while you started doing your makeup. Almost immediately, you began talking. Mostly because the silence felt weird.
"So."
You picked up your foundation.
"I'm twenty now."
A smile tugged at your lips.
"Well..."
You blended carefully.
"I turned twenty on June eighth."
A tiny excited laugh escaped you.
"Hehe."
Your eyes landed on a couple albums displayed beside your mirror. Instantly, you reached for one.
"Oh!"
You held it toward the camera.
"I got this from my boyfriend."
You turned it so the cover was visible.
"I think everybody knows who he is by now."
A laugh slipped out.
"He bought me this Michael Jackson album."
You set it down carefully before grabbing another.
"And this."
You held it up proudly.
"A signed Olivia Rodrigo album."
Your eyes widened dramatically.
"How cool is that?"
You couldn't stop smiling. It was still one of your favorite gifts. As you applied blush, another thought crossed your mind.
"Actually..."
You pointed your makeup brush at the camera.
"I asked him for a Jake photocard collection. He just stared at me. No words."
You pasued.
"Just disappointment."
You shook your head.
"#SoMean."
The serious expression lasted approximately two seconds before you burst into laughter. By the time your makeup was finished, you felt significantly more awake. You stood up and grabbed your camera again.
"Okay!"
You clapped your hands together.
"I was thinking we could go to a café."
Immediately your stomach growled. Loudly. You froze The camera definitely caught that.
"...See?"
You pointed at yourself.
"I'm literally starving."
You slipped your shoes on near the door.
"Oh!"
You remembered something.
"And maybe we can buy a new novel."
Your face lit up.
"I finished my last one two days ago and now I have absolutely nothing to read."
You headed outside. The second the apartment door closed behind you, reality hit. You were filming in public. People could see you. People could watch you talking to a camera. People could watch you being awkward.
"Oh my God."
You lowered your voice immediately.
"This is terrifying."
A woman walking past glanced in your direction. You instantly looked away.
Why was this so embarrassing?
Nobody cared. You knew nobody cared. Yet somehow it felt like the entire world was staring at you.
Still, you forced yourself to keep going. You adjusted your grip on the camera and continued down the street.
"So..."
You cleared your throat.
"Welcome to my very professional vlog." Not even five seconds later, you nearly walked directly into a signpost. You stumbled backward. The camera shook violently. For a moment, you simply stared at the sign. Then at the camera. Then back at the sign.
"...Very professional."
You sighed dramatically before continuing your walk. Honestly? This vlog was already a disaster. But at least you weren't bored anymore.
You eventually made your way to a small café a few blocks away, camera still clutched awkwardly in your hand. The entire walk there had consisted of you pretending you weren't filming while very obviously filming.
It was going great. After ordering your food, you immediately claimed a table tucked away in the corner of the café. The second you sat down, you let out a dramatic sigh of relief.
"Okay, okay."
You pointed the camera at yourself.
"Now I'm safe from the cruel, scary world. Hehe."
You turned the camera toward the table.
"I got some Nutella crepes and orange juice." Your face brightened instantly. "I genuinely love orange juice so much."
You grabbed the glass.
"Like, it makes me feel so fresh for some reason. I don't know why."
You took a sip.
"See?"
Another sip.
"Life-changing."
Then your attention shifted to the plate in front of you.
"And I love crepes too." You clasped your hands dramatically. "They're literally one of humanity's greatest inventions."
For a moment, your eyes wandered around the café. Then they landed on the waitress who had taken your order. Your lips curled into a mischievous grin.
"Oh." You leaned closer to the camera. "The waitress here is pretty cute."
You clapped your hands once. Then smirked. A few moments later, said waitress appeared carrying your food.
She placed the plate and drink down with a smile to the a bit further from yours and head back toward the counter. You watched her leave. Then immediately looked at the camera.
"Could I even bag her?"
You pretended to think deeply.
"Ehhhh. I don't think so."
You nodded seriously.
"My boyfriend would get jealous."
Another pause.
"And my cat, my cat would be devastated." The seriousness lasted all of three seconds before you started laughing. Speaking of your cat...
"My cat is actually very cute."
You cut into your crepe.
"His name is Todd."
A proud smile spread across your face.
"He's orange."
You took a bite.
"And very playful."
Another bite.
"I love him so much."
You pointed your fork toward the camera.
"Yes, Riki."
A pause.
"You have competition."
Satisfied with your declaration, you returned your full attention to your food. The vlog mostly consisted of random rambling after that. Thoughts about books. Thoughts about music. Thoughts about whether crepes were underrated. Thoughts about Todd. A lot of thoughts about Todd, actually. By the time you finished eating, nearly twenty minutes had passed.
You packed your things and headed back outside. The afternoon disappeared surprisingly quickly. One minute you were wandering around aimlessly. The next your phone buzzed.
You paused the video and checked who messaged you. Mina. You immediately pointed the camera at yourself.
"Okay soooo..."
You dragged the word out dramatically.
"My friend called me over to shop."
You shrugged.
"So let's head there."
The next few hours turned into complete chaos. The fun kind. You filmed bits and pieces of your shopping trip with Mina. Trying on ridiculous sunglasses. Arguing over which bags were cute. Getting distracted by random stores neither of you intended to enter.
Buying things you absolutely didn't need. Mina also spent a concerning amount of time making faces directly into your camera. At some point she had stolen it entirely. The footage was probably unusable. But it was funny. And honestly that was more important. By the time you finally headed home, the sky had already gone dark.
It was nearly eight in the evening. You pushed open the door to your apartment with your camera still recording.
"And THEN—"
You kicked off your shoes.
"—Michael Jackson smiled and I swear he's one of the most attractive men to ever exis—"
You stopped. There were footsteps. You frowned.
Then blinked.
A familiar figure appeared from around the corner. Almost immediately, Riki's face lit up.
"Where were youuu?"
The whine in his voice was immediate as he walked straight over to you. Before you could answer, his arms wrapped around your waist. You laughed.
"There he is."
Still recording, you pointed the camera toward him.
"See?"
You patted his arm.
"So clingy."
Riki immediately looked up. Only now realizing there was a camera involved. His eyebrows furrowed.
"What?"
You laughed.
"I'm planning to start a vlog channel."
You pointed dramatically at yourself.
"I'm unemployed."
Then at him.
"And bored."
Understanding immediately dawned across his face.
"Oh."
A smile appeared.
"That's actually cute."
You rolled your eyes.
"I know."
Riki shook his head fondly. Then he noticed the camera angle. Because of course he did. You were significantly shorter than him. Most of the footage only captured his chin. Without a word, he gently took hold of the camera and tilted it upward. Suddenly his entire face was visible.
"Oh."
You stared.
"That's what tall people see."
Riki snorted.
Then looked directly into the lens.
A tiny smile appeared.
"Hi."
The simplicity of it made you laugh immediately.
"That's all you have to say?"
He shrugged.
"Hi."
You turned the camera toward yourself again.
"He's shy."
"I'm not."
"You literally said one word."
"I said two."
You stared.
Riki stared back.
Then a grin slowly spread across his face. And just like that, the camera ended up capturing the two of you bickering for the next twenty minutes. Which, honestly, was probably the most interesting part of the entire vlog.
After spending half the night editing, trimming clips, and arguing with Riki about which moments were "funny enough" to keep, you finally uploaded the vlog. It wasn't anything groundbreaking—just a compilation of your day, your rambling thoughts, a suspicious amount of footage dedicated to Todd, and one very embarrassing encounter with a signpost. You stared at the title box for a solid minute before typing out the only thing that felt appropriate.
I'm bored asf.
Perfect.
With the video finally uploaded, you tossed your phone onto your nightstand and immediately crawled into bed. Riki was already half asleep, sprawled across your mattress like he paid rent there. The moment you settled beside him, he instinctively wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against his chest.
"Clingy," you mumbled.
"You love me."
Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong.
You buried your face into his shirt, muttered a quiet goodnight, and were asleep within minutes.
The next morning, you woke up expecting maybe a couple hundred views at most.
Instead, your phone looked like it was having a meltdown.
Notifications flooded your lockscreen before you'd even fully opened your eyes. Comments. Mentions. New subscribers. Messages from friends asking why your face was suddenly everywhere.
For a second, you genuinely thought something terrible had happened.
Then you opened YouTube.
"...What the fuck?"
The view count was climbing so quickly it barely looked real. You sat upright so abruptly that you nearly knocked Riki off the bed. "What?" he groaned, pulling the blanket over his head.
You didn't answer. You were too busy staring at your screen. The vlog had somehow found its way onto ENGENE Twitter. Which meant you were finished. Absolutely finished. Clips from the vlog were everywhere.
People were posting screenshots of your reactions, quoting random things you'd said, and making edits of moments that you hadn't thought twice about while filming.
A large part of the attention was obviously because of Riki's appearance at the end. It only lasted a few minutes, but that was apparently all ENGENEs needed. The clip of him walking into your apartment and immediately asking "Where were youuu?" was being reposted everywhere. So was the scene where he adjusted the camera because your angle only showed his chin.
And, unfortunately for him, people seemed particularly obsessed with how naturally domestic the whole interaction felt. One post with hundreds of thousands of likes read:
He looks like a puppy waiting for his master to come home I CAN’T
Another said:
The way he fixed the camera angle for her without even thinking about it????
A third simply read:
They're disgustingly cute.
You were never opening Twitter again. At the same time, people genuinely seemed to enjoy the vlog itself. The signpost incident had become a meme. The orange juice rant had somehow developed its own fanbase. Several people were demanding more Todd content.
One comment with thousands of likes read:
I came because she's Ni-ki's girlfriend and thought I could find BF NI-KI MOMENTS. I stayed because she's actually hilarious.
Which was probably the nicest thing you'd read all morning. By the time Riki finally woke up properly, your subscriber count had increased by numbers that made your head hurt. He took one look at the screen and immediately started laughing.
"You went viral."
"I noticed."
"You look terrified."
"I am terrified."
And somehow, between ENGENEs discovering your channel, people clipping every second Riki appeared on camera, and the internet collectively deciding your signpost accident was comedy gold, the first vlog became far bigger than you ever expected.
It was also the beginning of many more to come. Couple vlogs to be exact.
hihihi TT if ur reqs are open, could u write niki dating influencer reader, i think its such a cute concept
grwm: get riki with me ❤︎
anonie this request is so cute!!! i hope u like it hehe
You adjusted your phone on its tripod, hitting record as your new acrylics tapped against the glass “Get ready with me for a girls' shopping trip! So for today’s look, we’re starting with this torriden serum,” you chirped, tilting the bottle toward the camera before dispensing a few drops into your palm. "I've literally been using this every morning."
As you spoke, you gently pressed the serum into your skin, rambling about skincare, answering questions people had left under your last video, and occasionally laughing at yourself whenever you went off on one of your little tangents. You were mid-sentence, explaining the importance of hydration, when your bedroom door creaked open behind you.
Ni-ki padded into the room with sleep-mussed hair and nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, looking like he'd only just rolled out of bed. He didn't spare the phone a single glance—in fact, he seemed completely oblivious to the fact you were filming at all. Instead, he walked straight over to you, slipping his arms around your waist from behind with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. The moment he reached you, he simply melted against your back, resting his chin on your shoulder before burying his face into the crook of your neck with a sleepy little sigh, his eyes already drifting shut again.
You giggled, leaning back into his warmth. “You’re on film, dummy,” you whispered, but made no move to move.
He only hummed in response, his grip tightening ever so slightly like he had absolutely no intention of letting go.
"I know," he mumbled, though it was painfully obvious he didn't.
"You know?"
"Mhm."
"You've been hugging me for like..." You paused to check the timer on your screen. "...almost two minutes."
"Missed you."
You couldn't help but giggle.
"I've literally been in here for ten minutes."
"...Too long."
Only then did his eyes lazily drift toward the vanity mirror, where your phone sat propped up on its tripod with the bright red recording light still flashing. His entire body froze. His gaze flicked from the camera to your reflection and back again before his eyebrows slowly lifted in realisation.
"...Wait."
You looked up at him through the mirror, already trying not to laugh.
"...You're filming."
"I've been filming."
"For... all of that?"
"Mhm."
He stared at the camera for another second before letting out the tiniest groan, immediately hiding his face back against your shoulder.
"...Can you cut it out?"
"You want me to edit out the part where you came in looking for a cuddle?"
"...Yes."
"But you still haven't let go."
"...I know."
"...So... are you going to?"
There was a long pause before he quietly mumbled,
"...I don't want to let go"
That sentence alone was enough to completely derail the comment section. By the time you came back from shopping, the video had racked up millions of views—and not a single person cared about your skincare routine anymore.
HE DIDN'T EVEN SEE THE CAMERA HE JUST WANTED HIS GIRL 😭😭😭
my day ruined at 6:36pm why am i still single
'ive been in here for ten minutes.' '…too long.' I'M SICK.
requested ۶ৎ | keiji akaashi doesn’t like how popular you are.
you’re really popular at fukurōdani academy.
everyone in the school knows your name, and probably what you look like too.
but akaashi doesn’t like it.
sure he’s happy that everyone likes you, or at least almost everyone.
but he doesn’t like that you’re always swarmed by people the second you’re not in any of your classes.
you could step one foot out of your classroom, and there’d already be ten students around you, offering to carry your bag and offering you water.
it’s not because they happen to be at your classroom fast enough, it’s because they ditch the last ten minutes of class to be at your beck and call first.
or you’re at lunch, munching on an apple with people surrounding you, watching really intently how you eat an apple, like they’ve never seen a girl eat an apple before.
he doesn’t get it.
he doesn’t get why people have to be around you all the time, even if it’s just breating the same air as you.
yes you’ve got the whole package, you’re pretty, smart, unbelievably funny, and you’re so nice. you would barely hurt a fly.
but he’s a little blind sided considering he’s your boyfriend of three years. of course you’re the prettiest girl to him, you always have been.
and he knows how lucky he is to have you, considering almost every student at school would kill to date you.
your locker is always filled with love letters, with undying confessions in them that are a little too extra.
‘keiji, catch everything that’s about to fall out of my locker.’ you tell akaashi, taking a breath before opening your locker in a swift move.
you’d been sick at home for the past two days, so the regular amount of letters you get, have tripled.
there are a lot, of envelopes. and akaashi manages to catch most of them with the trash bag he’s holding, no other bag would fit this many letters.
and along with too many letters, there’s also a handful of plushies. ones that you will be keeping, a facemask, and a small pot with medicine in it.
that’s definitely one of the most random items you’ve gotten.
‘this would’ve been useful two days ago,’ you mumble, fetching the things you actually need out of your locker.
‘there’s still a letter in there,’ akaashi says, his hand brushing past yours as he grabs the letter in the corner of your locker.
‘oh, thanks.’ he hands you the letter, and your breath hitches at the handwriting on the envelope.
it’s akaashi’s hand writing.
your name is written in cursive, perfectly centered and neat.
‘a letter?’ your gaze flicks between him and the letter, turning it around to see the stamp being your initials, along with tiny hearts.
‘open it when you’re alone, call me after.’ he smiles softly, tying the trash bag and slinging it over his shoulder, quickly going to the trash bin to throw it out.
the only letters you should read are his, not from some stupid guy who’s only trying to get in your pants.
akaashi would rather you never get any other letters than the ones he writes you, but that’s out of the question.
a/n: i scrambled this together in 20 minutes with christmas music playing, also the end is a little half assed i’m sorry 😢
♫ now playing: radar by lil hero
જ⁀➴
unemployed!hyuck x photographer!yn
synopsis: a tough financial situation burdens haechan and it finally dawns on him that he needs a job. though not willing to find one—or work, really—his slugish attempts to get anywhere led him right into a random photographers studio, and as a result became her muse after many trials and tribulations.
𑣲⋆ chapters:
profiles; pwp but the w is ambiguous…🤤 | #fairs🤷♀️
tropes strangers to lovers, university au, very slowburn, fluff, humour, angst.
ex tra some written parts, profanity and sexual innuendos/comments, kms/kys jokes, suggestive themes, emotional trauma and trust issues, kinda morally gray characters, jay being an unintentional wingman, jayhoon being either the best friends or the worst, mc likes objectifying men (sunghoon), football player jake moments, hints of submissive jake, will add on as proceeding.
💌 ! : hello i am a jake tweaker and this is what the inside of my brain looks like ⬆️ writing this for my own entertainment so i will go into it with vibes and happiness… ❤️🩹 hopefully it’s done by the end of my summer. jake i am in you.
status ongoing. taglist is open !
profiles O1 / O2
1 . have fun dicking them down
2 . PHILOSOPHY or PSYCHOSIS
3 . serious conversations about jake
4 . #simforsale
5 . trying to impress sunghoon community
6 . the sunghoon niche
7 . a compliment a day, keeps jake away
8 . this my brunch spot bro
9 . the lucky jakey exposure therapy
10 . unstoppable force vs immovable object
11 . look at my therapist dawg (W feminist jayhoon)
