Nishimura Riki

Based off a ff by Nikittarius on Wattpad (READ IT ITS GOOD ASF)

You and Riki started secretly dating 9 months ago. With you both being idols, either of you could risk everything if you were found out.

He’s 19 and you’re 24. A big age gap, a big difference in maturity — but that’s not your fault. He’s been fixated on you since he was 14 (no, you’re not a predator), and honestly, you’re not much better because you’re dating him anyway.

Lately, you’ve been keeping your distance. Blocking him, dodging his messages, changing your schedule so you wouldn’t cross paths. You told yourself it was for the best — but apparently, he didn’t agree.

The moment his late-night dance practice ends, he storms straight into your practice room without warning. The music cuts off instantly.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” he snaps, his voice echoing in the empty space as he stalks toward you.

You instinctively move away, keeping your eyes on the floor. That just pisses him off more.

“You wanna play the quiet game?” His brow arches, his irritation radiating off him. “Fine. Ignore this, then.”

Before you can react, he grabs you and pulls you down onto the couch, forcing you to lie flat on your stomach.

“Riki, stop,” you protest, trying to push yourself up, but his grip is unyielding.

Without warning, he tugs down your sweatpants — and boxers. Not even yours, you realize. They’re his. Bright red Chrome Hearts. A silent reminder of the nights you’ve spent tangled up in each other, no matter how much you try to erase him from your life.

His hand grips your hip firmly, the heat in the room suddenly feeling suffocating. His breathing is heavier now, and your pulse jumps at the proximity.

“This isn’t gonna fix anything,” you start to say — but his hand slides over your mouth, cutting you off.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low but laced with smugness. “Your mouth has better uses than talking right now.”

You give him a wary look. “Let me live after this. Don’t kill me.”

“Don’t be mad,” he says — and you can hear the faint grin in his tone.

“Huh?” you mumble, confused.

A sharp rip answers you. Your underwear — or rather, his — is torn in two. He could’ve just pulled them down, but apparently that was too reasonable for him.

“My underwear! That wasn’t cheap,” you protest, twisting to glare at him.

“I’ll buy you another one, babe,” he replies smoothly, rings clinking as he loosens the drawstring of his own sweatpants before letting them fall to the floor.