riki was tall, his black hair falling over his shoulders in messy waves, tattoos peeking out from his sleeves. he had piercings in places you didn’t even know existed, and the neck tattoo? it screamed bad boy rockstar. people always looked at him and assumed he was all sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. they were half right (about the rock and roll part), but the other half? he was a soft, silly duckling who loved nothing more than to spoil you with affection.

it was a quiet afternoon when you and riki were lounging on the couch, the hum of the tv in the background as he leaned his head on your lap. his long hair tickled your fingers as you absentmindedly ran them through his strands, and you could feel the smile spreading across his face. people always assumed he was intimidating, but in moments like these, it was obvious: riki was obsessed with you. he adored you in a way that felt both innocent and intense.

"you know," he said, voice playful, "if i was a rockstar, i would write songs just about you. probably a whole album. you’re that special."

you laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that melted into warmth, because you knew he meant it. riki might rock a leather jacket and play bass in a band, but he was always full of those little, heartfelt moments only you got to see.

as the evening went on, riki kept sneaking little kisses, each one more exaggerated than the last. you swore he was trying to outdo himself with each peck. he was a handful, but he was your handful, and no one else could pull off being so effortlessly himself, the bad boy with a heart full of silly love.