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goldaenkai · 2 years ago

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I am so invested on this fic, sksksks

(𝟏) 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

ও rating. explicit

ও summary. after weeks of phone calls, you get to know Atsumu, which makes pretending a little more difficult. | wc. 2.3k+

cw/ tw. college au. nerd!reader, volleyball player Atsumu, phone sex, video sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, praise kink, reader wears glasses, pet names (ex. sweetheart, baby)

ও featuring. Atsumu x Fem!Reader

ও an. I want to start by saying thank you for the wonderful response to the first chapter and this series! It’s more than I expected for this self-indulgent fic:’) It motivated me to get this chapter out earlier than I anticipated, so enjoy! Also thank you @sookisaurus for brainstorming with me T^T | series m. list

You get absolutely nothing done for the remainder of the afternoon, simply staring blankly at the study sheets you promised Professor Ackbar you’d have finished before Monday—slow-burning mortification only slightly mollified by stress and the lack of sleep.

At least there’s that.

On the bright side, you don’t have to face Atsumu until class next Tuesday, which is enough time to come up with a solution.

Not that he’d even be aware of his pivotal shift in your life.

But he can’t know, for your sake, more than his.

The reasoning behind it is pretty reasonable; at least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself while you’ve been brimming with internal panic. Because what if Atsumu doesn’t like what he sees once he finds out you’re the girl on the other end of the phone? What if you don’t match up to whatever picture he’s painted of you in his head?

Which is equally devastating as it is likely.

Or worse yet.

You don’t believe he would stoop so low, but what if he makes fun of you or tells people you work for a sex hotline on campus?

You’d die, you think. Maybe not literally, but deep-core embarrassment could come relatively close.

Then there’s that small voice in the back of your head that suggests: but what if he does? Like you, that is.

Obviously, that’s only wishful thinking. Nobody goes out of their way to talk to the know-it-all who sits by herself at the back of the class, not unless it’s regarding homework or study hours—including Atsumu, who hasn’t done either.

You groan, head falling into your arms folded over your desk. These study sheets are never getting done.

By the time Atsumu calls again, exactly nine days after the incident (that’s what you’ve called it), you resolve to act like it never happened. Which turns out to be more difficult than you thought because now there's a face to the voice you've been listening to for weeks, and better yet, it's the guy you have a big fat crush on.

So when you answer the phone, you sit there, saying nothing. Jaw working, swallowing around the desert that is now your mouth.

“Hello?”

Again, your lips move, but no sound can be pulled from your throat.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Sorry, I was, um—” you eventually say, barely above a squeak, trying to devise an actually believable excuse “—studying.”

He hums, almost like he isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t question it. “Hey, can we just…talk tonight?”

Your mouth falls open. “Are you sure? That you want to talk, I mean,” you babble. “You wouldn’t be getting your money’s worth and—”

“I want to.”

To say that you’re taken aback by this sudden change of events is putting it lightly, and it’s the second time Atsumu has left your entire being shifted on its axis in the span of a week. Because did he really just pay you (not that his call alone gives you much) solely to talk?

After a moment of hesitation, you relent. “Okay.” And then the sound of car horns on his end makes your brows furrow curiously. “Are you outside?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m walking home.”

“Oh?” You’re unsure how much you can ask, yet he tells you anyway.

“My fraternity is celebrating its fiftieth anniversary or whatever, and I had to go. It’s honestly just an excuse to get shit-faced.”

“Oh,” you say again.

You’re surprised that he would relay this bit of information to someone he shouldn’t. Of course, this isn’t news to you, but still, you covet it like you’re learning about it for the first time.

“Aren’t the parties supposed to be, you know, the best part about a fraternity?”

He huffs out a small laugh. “They start to feel the same after you’ve been to a few. Maybe I’ll take you to one sometime.”

He’s joking, clearly.

Clearly.

Although, your body doesn’t seem to get the memo as your stomach swoops, resembling that feeling you get whenever you go down that first drop on a roller-coaster.

You clear your throat. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

“So, what is your thing?”

“Besides working for a sex hotline?”

You’re pretty sure he’s smiling when he says, “yeah.”

“I don’t know,” you pick at a loose thread on your shirt. “I like to read and work on research projects, I guess.”

Atsumu makes a noise that almost resembles a snort. “I didn’t know I was talking to a little nerd.”

Embarrassment swallows you whole, and suddenly you wish you could eat your words. God, how could you sound so lame? Of course, he wouldn’t find this attractive—

“I think it’s cute,” he offers before you try to take what you said back or sputter out a lie to make yourself sound more interesting.

You purse your lips and huff out a breath to hopefully hide any residual nerves from your voice. “Well, what about you? What do you do for fun?”

“Other than talk to you?”

A furious blush spreads across your face. “Sure.”

“Hm, I like to play sports.”

Volleyball. You know this.

The rest of your conversation goes back and forth like this—him asking random questions and you revealing that you’ve read ‘1984’’ several times, well twice…semantics—until he lets you know he’s home. You think this is probably the part where you should hang up. Only…you don’t. Neither does he, and you faintly hear keys jingling, followed by a door opening and closing.

“You know…” you pause because you shouldn’t say what you’re about to say.

It’s bad enough that you already know who he is. It’s bad enough that you offer anyway.

Your mouth starts moving, and words are spilling out before you can properly think them through. “You don’t have to pay me if you need someone to talk to, er, like regular talking, not…well, you know, what we normally do.”

At his continued silence, you start to panic, your hand shakily gripping your phone a little tighter.

“Only if you want to! I mean, that was stupid to suggest, right? Giving someone your phone number that you hardly know because—”

“I’d like that.”

“...Okay.”

It’s hard to say how long the silly smile stays on your face after he hangs up, but you can’t be bothered in any capacity to know for sure. Just that your cheeks are a little sore right before you go to bed.

You’ve decided that giving Atsumu your phone number doesn’t turn out to be entirely a bad idea.

He’s actually easier to talk to like this. Aside from the side of him you’ve gotten to know quite intimately. But it’s nice, you find, learning about other sides of him too.

The first time he messages you, it’s as you are walking through the supermarket with Kay, looking for something to make for your bi-weekly movie nights.

Pineapple on pizza. Yes or no?

You bite your lip, trying unsuccessfully to hold back a grin.

Yes.

His response is almost immediate.

I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that because I like you.

“Are you smiling at your phone?”

You jerk your head up as Kay makes her way toward you to throw an avocado in your basket.

“No,” you lie, locking your phone before she can see the screen.

She arches a brow, skeptical and nosy in that way Kay can often be, before tossing two limes into your basket—the topic obviously shelved until she can prod you about it later.

Hopefully, she forgets.

He talks to you about random things, innocent things, until one day, he sends you a message with an image attached to it that makes you stumble up the last step to your floor.

Because on your screen is a picture of Atsumu—well, half of him—posing shirtless in front of what is clearly a gym mirror, a sheen of sweat covering long stretches of tan muscle. Worst of all, the hand not holding his phone skims the waistband of his black shorts, as if he’d been about to edge beneath them.

And just below that—

Oh.

You’re still staring at your phone when you accidentally bump into Miss Rosa from the apartment across the hall. The older woman hardly likes you, although you’re pretty sure she doesn’t like anyone, and no amount of apologizing erases the glare from her face until you’re safely inside your apartment.

He still calls you, though it’s no longer through the hotline, and there are no longer nerve-wracking expectations hanging over your head. Not that you think there ever were in the first place.

Except for tonight, it’s different.

He’s more earnest than usual, uninhibited.

"Can we try something? Please—Fuck."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

Surely, he doesn’t mean—

"I really want to see you. Can I?"

"I…I don't know…" you stammer, shocked at what Atsumu obviously feels comfortable suggesting—that he wants more than the phone calls. Where he can see you. Right here, on your bed, surrounded by books and your laptop, with your hand working your sticky-wet clit.

"We don't have to show each other's faces if you don't want to," he tells you hurriedly. "S-shit, I'm sorry if this sounds perverted, but I want to watch you touch yourself. It's all I can think about."

You swallow so loudly that he can probably hear it.

As he said, he doesn’t have to see your face, and you can keep this thing between you anonymous. So it’s fine, really.

Really.

You tell yourself this as you prop your phone against the textbooks lying on your bed, as you shimmy up your sheets, so you’re leaning against your headboard and clutching your t-shirt a little tighter than you need to between your fingers.

Then you turn your camera on, ensuring your face isn’t visible, while your heart flutters wildly.

Though you don’t have to wait long for his screen to turn on, too, and the first thought that flies through your head is that he’s…big. Just like the rest of him.

You actually feel your clit throb watching him wrap a large hand around his cock where it lays heavy and twitching against his stomach—a tiny pearl of pre-cum dripping down the side that he smooths away with his thumb. It’s flushed red from base to tip and roped with angry-looking veins that make it seem almost intimidating.

Almost, if not for how your cunt clenches shamelessly, just thinking about how he’d have to get you all soft and pliant to help make it fit or that there’d be this dull ache you’d feel between your legs after.

And yes, you think, it’s much better than the gym short impression that you swore you merely peeked at the other day.

“Fuck,” he grinds out, his chest heaving as he takes you in. “Fuck. You’re so fucking pretty, just like I knew you’d be.”

The words make your ears burn, your voice hitching in your chest when you whisper, “Yeah?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Spread your little pussy,” he pleads. “Lemme see.”

You move your shirt out of the way before slipping two fingers over your slick folds, sock-covered toes digging into your comforter as you reveal your achy-hot clit to the cool air in your bedroom.

“Just like that. You’re so good, baby.” His fist strokes his cock, stopping with every upstroke to squeeze around the tip. “So good.”

A noise escapes you at the praise, some awful little hiccup that catches on the back of your tongue when you subtly grind against the heel of your palm. It’s unfulfilling, just shy of not enough, your heartbeat throbbing in your pussy.

Maybe if you—

Your fingers start moving before he can tell you to.

“O-oh,” you stammer as you rub quick, right circles into your clit. It’s different from all of the times you’ve done this before. To do it while he’s watching, seeing as his cock jumps in his hand at the soft, breathy moans you can’t hold in with your fingers working desperately between your legs. And you watch Atumu’s adam’s apple bob when he groans, the sound of it making you squirm needily against your hand.

“That’s it, good girl,” his cock slides through his fist a little faster. “Now, stretch that pretty little pussy for me.”

“Shit,” you hiss, “shit,” and your walls tighten around the two fingers you slip inside (easy with how wet you are), fluttering, pulling them deeper, wishing they were thicker.

“Hey, you’re that girl from class, the tutor, right?”

Your eyes instantly flit up from the notes you were working on to find Atsumu leaning against the chair in front of you, and you think your heart starts palpitating.

“Yep,” you squeak, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. “That’s me.”

The smile he gives you is disarming, bright and wide, with a hint of a dimple on one cheek. “I was wondering if you could help me with the test we have on Friday since I have practice all week.”

“Um, yeah,” you manage to say, subconsciously pushing your glasses up that slipped down your nose. “I’m free tomorrow around noon. Does the campus Brew Stop work?”

“Yeah, thanks. I owe ya one.”

You want to tell him that this is your job, that he doesn’t owe you anything. Instead, your gaze is drawn to the book he’s holding while walking away.

‘1984.’

The one you mentioned…It makes something inside you feel warm and fuzzy, and not for the second time will you have to explain to Professor Ackbar why you were late finishing the work he gave you.

#atsumu smut #atsumu #spicy fic

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