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Sawamura Daichi.
Just his name was enough to cut your breath short.
You adored him. He was the most amazing young man you have ever met, strong and mature and kind... Girls always giggled about his muscular thighs and his big biceps, but you only wanted his love and attention, because you knew how special he was beneath the strong body.
“Sugawara-san?”
“Hm?” The light-haired teen glanced up from his textbook to see you fidgeting rather uncomfortably in front of him. “Oh! (F/surname)-san! How are you?”
“Honestly?”
“Mm.” He offered an encouraging smile and a nod.
“Seeking romantic advice,” you said, sitting at the desk in front of Suga, turned toward him in the seat, “Could you offer me some?”
“I will certainly do my best,” he replied, closing his book to pay full attention.
You told him everything but your crush’s name. After all, they're best friends.
“Oh, I see,” he said when you finish, “Well… if I was your crush I would want you to tell me your feelings very bluntly, especially since ‘I' seem so oblivious.”
So you gave Daichi a very blunt confession after school that very day.
Daichi then confessed that he had always wanted to ask you out but he was just too shy and he thought that maybe a sweet, clever girl like you wouldn’t even give him a second glance. Why he would believe that, you have no idea.
This was all eight months ago. Now you watch him rambling about volleyball and you can’t help but smile. Here you both are, eating at a very nice little restaurant, you wearing a lovely blouse and a skirt, him wearing a blue dress shirt and khakis and he sits there, animatedly explaining how to read a toss.
“That’s amazing,” you say, completely star-struck, and you watch as he lifts his glass on non-alcoholic wine to his lips.
“Well, it takes a lot of practice,” he says, then he remembers something, undoubtedly a story about an amazing receive, and he jerks in his excitement.
And a wave of faux wine splashes onto you, cold, wet, and bright purple. Through your own shock, you catch a glimpse of the sheer horror on Daichi’s face.
“(F/n)-chan, I'm so sorry.”
That marks the abrupt end of the date and Daichi drives you home, his face beet red with shame as you try, in vain, to lift the dark stain.
He waits awkwardly in the living room of your house as you change and consult your mother about how to get the stain out.
You return to him and he apologizes again.
“Daichi, it’s all right,” you insist for about the eighty-seventh time, “Honestly, I had a really great time.”
He’s still ashamed of himself, so you smack your hands gently to his cheeks, lifting his face so he has to look you in the eye.
“Quit the sulking,” you say, “It doesn’t suit you. At all.”
“Sulking? I'm not really sulking…”
“Well, stop being upset,” you say, just rephrasing, and you plop down in the sofa, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Did it ruin your shirt?”
“Dunno yet.”
Daichi sits beside you. You press a quick kiss to his cheek, grinning happily as he gives you a teasing sideways glare. He lunges for you and you let out a thrilled squeal, giggling madly as he wraps you in his arms and peppers you with gentle kisses.
He places several over your lips and you hastily return them, hardly able to keep the smile off your face.
This is what you’ve always wanted from Sawamura Daichi. Play, comfort, love. You’ve always wanted to see him at peace with you, to have him feel comfortable in his own skin.
Granted, the fiery kiss he gives you next is fully welcome and completely refreshing. His tongue lashes against the seam of your lips, forcing through them to twist itself around your tongue. You hum softly, approving, and he returns the noise, grasping the nape of your neck to keep you close. A sharp nip stings your lower lip, but a luxurious suck soothes it.
He breaks away, panting, and sits up. In the play, he had practically laid on top of you and he, being a truly decent young man, rubs the growing heat on his cheek.
He clears his throat to regain some composure, and your mom walks into the room.
“I don’t think it’ll come out,” she sighs, “But that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” you agree, knowing full well how bright red your face must be. Whether or not your mom actually notices is a mystery to you, for she doesn't show it if she does.
“Sawamura-kun, what’s on your shirt..?” asks your mother, and she rubs the collar of his pale blue shirt between her thumb and forefinger. Then realization dawns and she figures out that it’s your bright lipstick. “Oh,” she says softly, biting down a grin that means she’s totally going to tease you about it later, “Forget I even asked.”