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(𝟏) 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

ও rating. explicit

ও summary. you get your first caller, and can't tell why he sounds so familiar...until you do. | wc. 2k+

cw/ tw. college au. nerd!reader, volleyball player Atsumu, phone sex, dirty talk, praise kink, reader wears glasses (but it’s only mentioned in one line), pet names (ex. sweetheart)

ও featuring. Atsumu x Fem!Reader 

ও an. this is my self-indulgent birthday fic, enjoy:) | series m. list

Being the class tutor is pretty straightforward. The only problem is trying not to fall asleep in the middle of Professor Akbar’s monotone voice going over the lesson. 

Most of the time, you simply have to sit there and listen instead of rushing to copy the notes on the slides that he only keeps on the screen for a split second.

Except, recently, all your attention shifts from the screen to the blonde head of wavy hair (slightly tousled from a hand running through it, you think) sitting three seats in front of you.

It’s almost habitual now how your eyes travel up from your notebook every time you hear him walking into the lecture hall—always talking or laughing loudly with the guy beside him. 

Bokuto…? You can’t remember.

But. Still.

You’re not the only one that notices either because it’s the Atsumu Miya—local all-star volleyball player and resident of the most popular fraternity on campus. 

His presence practically demands an audience anytime he’s in the room with his too-long legs that barely fit under his desk and broad shoulders that seem to fill out all of his tops. Sometimes you wonder if he purposefully buys them smaller.

The girls in front of him turn in their seats, their girlish giggles traveling up the risers when he asks for a pencil. A crooked smile curls the corners of his mouth, one that softens around his eyes, and you wonder if he’d ever do the same to you.

Not that it matters.

He’d have to talk to you first for that to happen.

There’s this constant urge to keep glancing from your textbook to your phone, almost like you expect it to light up on reflex, but instead, it lays there black-screened and silent. Sighing, you flop back onto your bed and tiredly cover your face with your hands.

What your best friend, Kay, told you that morning still riggles at the back of your mind, an opportunity to make some extra money, she’d said—and part of you is still reeling that she talked you into doing something so…crazy. Because it definitely is.

And not quite what you had in mind.

Thankfully it’s legal. Well, that’s what Kay told you, and she usually doesn’t lie.

“All you have to do is talk to them. Dirty talk your way into a cushy paycheck. Just, ya know, don’t give them your name.”

You had rolled your eyes at the lack of further explanation, not that you expected her to spell out how to have phone sex with total strangers, but you can’t deny that it’s an easy job—especially with your tutoring hours. And you do need the extra money. 

All you have to do is get people off with your voice and then…and then hang up? 

Easy.

You hope.

What if they don’t like how you sound?

God. When was the last time you even had spontaneous phone sex with somebody?

A computer science major, Brad…maybe? The memory is a little fuzzy—not that you believe there was anything memorable about that night or Brad…

Your phone vibrates against your bed, squashing that pitiful thought to dust, and your stomach lurches up into your throat. You swallow around the lump, staring at the bright, cracked screen and unknown number for a moment longer than you need to before you finally answer.

It’s not until you bring your phone up to your ear that you realize you don’t know how to start what is bound to be the oddest exchange of your life—all of the hours spent pep-talking yourself into doing this, that you can get someone to cum from your voice, now reduced to white noise. 

And maybe a slightly choked sound that you hope they didn’t hear.

Just when you’re about to open your mouth to say something (anything), they, or rather, he, speaks first, stifling the words on the back of your tongue. And for a split moment, you can’t help but think that you know that voice, or (if nothing else) it sounds familiar. 

"Is this real?" 

“Um,” you clear your throat, unsure if you heard him correctly. "Excuse me?" 

"I just wondered if this would be automated or real." 

"Uh, no. I'm…I’m real," you tell him slowly. “Breathing and very much human or whatever.”

The laugh that comes through your speaker is breathy and low—a pleasant sound that lingers in your ear and makes you feel warm. "Nice to know,” he says. “So, what should I call you?" 

Right, no names; you forgot about that part.

You think for a moment. "Call me whatever you want." 

"Okay…sweetheart. Is that okay?" 

“Yeah, that’s—” your voice squeaks embarrassingly “—that’s okay.”

“Good, good,” he pauses, “so…what’re you wearing?”

You can’t help but laugh lightly. “I thought I’m the one who’s supposed to ask you that?”

“Yeah, but something tells me I’m going to like your answer.”

Oh…well, that’s—

You bite your lip, glancing down at your faded t-shirt, and consider lying. It’s not like he’d know. 

And yet you indulge him anyway.

“A t-shirt.”

He hums. “That’s it?”

“And underwear.”

“Good girl.” You can hear the smile in his voice, how pleased he is, which does nothing to slow down your racing heart, already beating a steady staccato against your chest because you don’t think anyone has ever called you good. 

At least not like this.

And you’re compelled to find out what it’ll take for him to say it again.

On Monday morning, you won’t pretend that you don’t try to pick out who could be the mystery caller and hope you just might come across him—even though the odds of that ever happening are low because it can be anyone. The campus is pretty big, after all.

Plus, what would you do if you did happen to find out who it is? Thank him? He’d probably think you’re crazy. 

As if the situation couldn’t get any more humiliating.

Money gets sent into your cash app later that day while you’re in the middle of browsing the meager selection of microwavable foods at the convenience store—because your landlord refuses to fix your broken oven until you meet him in his office to discuss your lease, apparently. 

He’s kind of slimy like that, and you can’t wait for the day you can finally move out.

The numbers that glare back at you are big and bold, enough to get someone to fix your oven and maybe buy lunch from that new cafe you always walk past on your way home. At first, you feel like it’s a mistake, perhaps a glitch with the app, but nope, the cut that Kay promised stays on your screen. Bright and promising.

Okay, maybe this odd job isn’t that humiliating, you think as you leave the convenience store to get dinner that’s not bland and soggy for once.

He calls back again later that week. And again. And again. 

For awhile, it’s only once a week until it becomes every Monday and Friday, precisely fifteen minutes after nine. You’re more than ready for him now that you know what will come after, that he’ll make you cum—even if the concept of doing so with a stranger is still pretty daunting. 

But you think you've found a rhythm: one where he leads, and you’re more than eager to follow. 

You almost thought he’d be bored of you by now. After all, you’re supposed to be the one giving, not benefiting. Still, it doesn’t deter the fact that he sounds so good when he’s telling you what to do—what he wants to do to you.

And you think you’d let him.

If only.

“—come on, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

“It feels good,” your breath hitches in your throat with the swipe of your finger over the slick bundle of nerves between your thighs. 

“Yeah?” he sighs. “That little clit is pretty sensitive, huh? I bet your needy cunt is making a mess.”

You gulp, squirming slightly. “Mhm.”

“Lemme hear it.”

It’s hard not to get flustered about how he likes hearing how wet you are for him, how it must be loud and clear against his ear. And yet, he asks you to do it, begs, really. Every. Single. Time. So that he knows you’re feeling good.

That’s what he tells you anyway.

You move your phone close to where your hand works aimlessly against your cunt, skin slippery beneath your fingers. The sounds are so filthy that you blush and hide your face in the crook of your arm even though he can’t see you.

“You sound so hot when you play with yourself,” he says, his voice dropping to something that makes your stomach do a series of somersaults. “You’re probably aching, huh?”

You have to swallow twice just to hiss out a pitiful “yeah.”

“Fuck,” he growls, and if you strain hard enough, you think you can hear the sound of skin on skin as he strokes his cock. 

But you don’t get to ask because he’s talking again.

“I wish I could see how you look when you do. I bet you look so fucking pretty sprawled out on your bed, thighs trembling from all the times I’ve made you cum,” his breath shudders, and you can tell he’s close. “What I would give to lick your pussy right now. You’re probably sweet.”

His admission should scare you because just imagining him in your room, watching, would make this more real than it’s supposed to be.

It doesn’t.

Instead, you cum harder than you have in weeks.

“So, how are you liking the job?” Kay asks one weekend, a limp french fry hanging between her fingers.

You leave out all the dirty details and settle with “it’s fine.”

You’re not sure why, but it feels almost…private?

It’s probably the safer thing to say anyway, not how you’ve been fantasizing about a faceless stranger on the nights you need to take the edge off. She’s a little too nosy for that, eventually piecing things together and asking questions you don’t feel like answering.

And honestly, you don’t really want to talk about the phone sex business you work for while sitting in the middle of a family restaurant.

You take a loud sip of your milkshake through your colorful bendy straw, listening as Kay changes the topic to the cute guy in her Literature Arts class who asked her out on a date.

“Can you believe that his parents are both celebrity surgeons?”

“Nope,” you tell her before stealing one of her fries.

It’s on a regular, rather boring, Thursday lecture that you discover why his voice sounded so familiar, where your center of gravity shifts and everything seems to tilt on its head. 

You’re in the middle of talking to Professor Akbar about midterms when Atsumu Miya accidentally bumps into you as he’s leaving the classroom, barely taking a moment to say, “oh shit, sorry,” before running down the crowded hallway towards the athletics building. 

There’s a split moment where you think you stop breathing, your vision growing hazy around the edges, and your lungs burning.

You can only blink through your now crooked glasses, standing in the way of the students trying to get to class, because you know how the words “oh shit” sound after he cums. How he grunts filthy praises under his breath to help push you over the edge, how a shiver races up your spine when he tells you you’re a good girl—

And it’s that crucial moment that you decide you’re fucked.

tagging. @kyouyasangel @anxious-cherry-pie @oomiya @weebaboobs @mostlyhornyandsad @chaoskrakenuwu @omisemi @docufanfic @natriae @bear-likes-mushrooms @privthemis @chocolatearcadeanchor @mvrclynn @bah1e @the-crane-wives @crisdamoon @kais-e

sfw, mutual pining, childhood friends to ???

"rin, have you ever been in love?"

your question takes him aback, of course. it comes out of seemingly nowhere.

to you, however, it doesn't; it's a curiosity you've had about him for almost as long as you've known him.

almost as long as you've held feelings for him.

you aren't sure what prompts you to blurt it out at this particular moment. maybe it's the blissful aura of summer, how every moment feels infinite, carefree, how much better it is to do these mundane, trivial things when you're with him. how handsome and utterly breathtaking he looks when his hair and eyes and skin are bathed in sunlight, practically glowing beneath it.

there's a long pause in which you lay silently in the grass at your favorite park that's equal distance between your houses, shaded by the tree you've been meeting under since you were children. maybe it was the nostalgia that had made you say it, the safety and familiarity of the leaves swaying gently in the wind, the breaks in them dotting sunlight over you both, coccooning you in your own little world where it seems like nothing can hurt you.

not even his possible answer.

you expect suna to chastise you, like he always does, almost incessantly so, to the point of annoyance. you know he loves getting a rise out of you, and you can't help but fight back when he instigates, just as stubborn.

but the question is honest, painfully genuine, and he must sense that somehow, staring up at the sky between the branches and gnawing absently on his bottom lip.

you just hope he doesn't turn to see that your heart is laid bare before him, open and ready to be plucked like one of the leaves above you.

his eyes don't stray from the sky when he finally answers. "i think so, i'm not sure."

you wonder if he can hear how hard your heart is beating, hammering away in your chest and making it hard to breathe. there is little you don't know about him, and yet-

you're amazed he still surprises you after all this time.

"would you tell me about it?" you ask cautiously, trying too hard to sound casual. there are countless questions on the tip of your tongue. you tamp them down with the same stubbornness you reserve for all things to do with suna rintarou in your life.

suna turns his head to look at you then, but you don't notice because you're busy tearing at the blades of grass in your hands. terrified of what you may or may not see in his eyes.

he smirks to himself, in that irritatingly charming way he does, and turns back up to the sky, closing his eyes against the beam of sunlight that's shifted between the leaves. "maybe someday," he says, conspirational.

you don't know whether to be disappointed or grateful.

before you can think too hard on it, he's sitting up and brushing his palms over his pants. "it's hot. i want ice cream."

you don't have the strength to press him on avoiding your question. maybe someday, you can't help but think, like a prayer, or a curse, you aren't sure either.

suna gets to his feet and holds his hand out to you, and you take it without a second thought, the warmth and familiarity of his hand in yours distracting you from the fact that he makes no move to let go even after you've gotten to your feet and started walking together.

suna chuckles to himself as he leads you to the nearest convenience store, the gentle breeze sweeping your hair and making you smile up at the sun. it's hot, but he doesn't want to let go of your hand. he grins like someone who's undoubtedly gotten away with a little lie, who's kept a secret for a little too long and is on the verge of revealing it.

because, in fact, he doesn't think so, he isn't unsure.

he knows he's been in love.

NSFW!!

sakusa eats pussy messily. you never thought it would be something you’d experience with the way he is, but the quiet ones are always full of surprises.

sakusa takes extra precautions with everything. he can’t even do skin-to-skin contact for too long, so you assumed that’s how your sex life would be when you started dating him. 

you were pleasantly mistaken, nonetheless. 

this man is absolutely in awe when you spread your legs wide for him, pussy practically glistening, and he’s trying his best not to go completely feral. it starts with little licks up and down your slit, but when you start to whimper, whine, and rock your hips against his face. he can’t help it.

he spits directly onto your clit before licking it eagerly, ensuring nothing drips. then he hooks his arms under your thighs, pulling you flush against his mouth till he can’t breathe in anything but your scent. his tongue moves viciously over your bud, stimulating something inside you. he wants to slow down when hearing your breath hitch and feeling your legs begin to shake, but it all makes his cock twitch a little too much. it’s exciting, and he can’t stop now, not when your delicious juices are about to spread all across his face.

when you do cum he doesn’t stop there, he laps up your juices and begins slobbering on your sensitive bud, tongue prodding at your hole, and he’d even occasionally give the lips a little suck. you beg for him to stop, it’s truly too much, but he’s in his own world. you then have to push his head away from your sore cunt for him to get the hint and when he sits up to look and your post-nut figure, he smiles proudly. you, on the other hand, can’t help but laugh. 

a mix of spit and your juices cover his chin, and when your eyes peer down at his sweatpants, you can’t hide the smirk. the little dark spot and pulsing bulge told you more than you needed to know, and you wanted him in your mouth right then and there.

A New Predicament

Pairing: Matsukawa Issei x Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Bondage, teasing—lots of teasing, yk it’s coming… say it with me… BIG DICK MATTSUN, slight orgasm denial, overstimulation, forced orgasms

Kinktober 2022 Day Eight

18+ Only below the cut, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, I’m begging you, please. If your blog is ageless or under 18 do not interact with this.

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no nut november — stray kids edition || masterlist

what’s a little healthy competition between friends?

a collaboration with @sluttywonwoo

part one ~

part two ~

part three ~

part four ~

part five ~

part six ~

part seven ~

part eight ~

⚠️ general series warnings: swearing, no nut november as a bet, references to sex as a need/impulse, ot8 talk about their sexual relationships to the other boys, smut!!!🔞

each chapter will be written by one of us (four each) and released in chronological order of who broke first. place your bets on the winner!!

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