Fairy Lights and Frantic Exit

The fairy lights were hands down Atsumu’s favorite purchase of the month. Pink, battery-operated, and tacky as hell, they zigzagged across his headboard like a cheap carnival prize, casting a rosy glow over the bedroom chaos. A pile of volleyball jerseys sat crumpled beside his nightstand. Three empty Gatorade bottles formed a tiny pyramid on the floor. His laptop, propped on a pillow, showed the waiting screen of a video call.

“Alright, alright,” Atsumu muttered, propping his phone on a stack of textbooks on his dresser. He angled it just so—fairy lights behind him, shoulders framed perfectly in the center. He squinted at the playback. The lacy black bra he’d bought online last week clung to his chest, cups barely containing him, the edges digging in. Sexy, hopefully. He’d spent an hour on his nails: glossy black, filed into perfect almonds. He wiggled his fingers in front of the lens.

“Yeah. That’s the stuff.”

He hit the call button on his laptop. After three rings, Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face appeared on the screen.

Sakusa was in his Tokyo apartment, predictably pristine. A white mask hung loose around his neck—he’d probably just taken it off. His hair was slightly damp, curling at the ends. He wore a dark gray hoodie that made Atsumu’s stomach flip.

“You’re late,” Sakusa said, flat.

“I was makin’ myself pretty for ya,” Atsumu purred, leaning closer. The fairy lights caught on the sheer fabric. Sakusa’s eyes flickered down—barely a second, but Atsumu caught it.

“Those lights are hideous.”

“They’re romantic.”

“They’re a fire hazard.”

“You love ‘em.”

Sakusa didn’t confirm or deny. He just tilted his head, dark curls falling across his forehead, and said, “You’re wearing that for me?”

Atsumu grinned, wide and wolfish. “Got a whole show planned, Omi-Omi. You ready?”

“I’m always ready for you to make a fool of yourself.”

“Rude.”

Atsumu shifted back on his bed, letting the blanket fall away. He was naked from the waist down, legs spread, already wet. He watched Sakusa’s face on the laptop screen—stoic, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Good.

He dragged his nails across his own stomach, slow. “You like watchin’ me, don’t ya?”

“I like reminding you who you belong to.”

Atsumu shivered. “Yeah. That too.”

He dipped his fingers lower, spreading himself open. The wet sound carried through the laptop mic. Sakusa’s gaze locked on, breathing steady but shallow. Atsumu moaned—not his usual low groan, but a high, breathy sound. He wanted Sakusa to hear everything. He wanted to be a mess on camera for him.

“Omi,” he breathed, fingers working faster, “look at me. Look what you do to me.”

Sakusa’s voice came through, low and controlled. “Keep going.”

Atsumu obeyed, rocking into his own hand, quick and desperate. His moans pitched higher—ahh, ahh, aaah—as he pushed toward the edge. The fairy lights blazed, the room too hot, and Sakusa’s dark eyes were all that kept him grounded. He didn’t care about the mess. Just the coil tightening in his gut.

“Omi,” he gasped, “I’m— I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” Sakusa said.

And Atsumu did. His back arched off the bed, heels digging in, and the orgasm hit him—hot, wet, intense. He cried out, high-pitched and rapid—aaah-aaah-aaah—as his body pulsed, cum gushing from him, soaking the bed, dripping down his thighs, splashing onto his stomach and the bra cups. His eyes rolled back. Nails clawed at the mattress.

For a long moment, nothing but his own panting and the hum of the fairy lights.

Then the door slammed open.

“Tsumu! We’re startin’ the movie without ya if ya don’t— WHAT THE HELL?!”

Atsumu’s eyes snapped open. Osamu stood in the doorway, a bag of chips in one hand, his face frozen in horror. Behind him, Suna Rintarou peered over his shoulder, phone in hand, expression shifting from boredom to wide-eyed shock in less than a second.

The three of them stared. White liquid still dripped from between his legs, pooling on the dark sheets. His bra askew, one nipple exposed. Face flushed, mouth open, a thin string of saliva from his lip to his chin. Suna’s eyes went wide. Then, with the speed of a man who had seen too much, he turned around. His face was red, ears practically glowing.

“I’m not looking,” Suna said, strained. “I’m not looking. I’m not— I’m facing the wall.”

“TSUMU, WHAT THE EVER-LOVIN’ FUCK?!” Osamu’s voice cracked, pitching higher than Atsumu had heard since they were teenagers. He yanked Suna back by the hood of his jacket, shielding him as if he was the one in danger of being traumatized. “WHAT ARE YA DOIN’?!”

“I’M OBVIOUSLY BUSY!” Atsumu shrieked, scrambling to cover himself with the blanket, which was useless because everything was soaked. He grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his lap, his face burning like he could fry an egg on his cheekbones.

“WE WERE GONNA WATCH THE MOVIE! YA SAID SEVEN!”

“IT’S SEVEN-FIFTEEN!”

“SO YA DECIDED TO— TO— THAT?!”

“I LOST TRACK OF TIME!”

Osamu made a strangled noise, somewhere between a scream and a dry heave. “YA COULDA LOCKED THE DOOR!”

“YA COULDA KNOCKED!”

“WE NEVER KNOCK!”

“MAYBE YA SHOULD START!”

Suna, still facing the wall, raised one hand and gave a thumbs-up dripping with sarcasm. “Great conversation. Really productive. Can I leave now?”

“NO!” both twins shouted simultaneously.

From the laptop, Sakusa’s voice cut through the chaos, dry as bone. “So. They saw you.”

Atsumu whipped his head toward the screen. Sakusa was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a single eyebrow raised. He looked… amused. Annoyingly, hopelessly amused.

“Uhh,” Atsumu said, still breathless. “Maybe we should reschedule.”

“Probably wise.”

“I’ll text ya.”

“Please do. And lock your door next time.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Sakusa’s lips twitched—the faintest hint of a smile. “Goodnight, Atsumu.”

“G’night, Omi.”

The call ended. The screen went dark.

The silence was suffocating.

Atsumu sat in his soaked bed, pillow pressed over his lap, lacy bra damp with sweat and other fluids. Osamu was still standing in the doorway, hand over his eyes, breathing like he’d sprinted a mile. Suna was still facing the wall, but his shoulders were shaking.

“If you’re laughing,” Atsumu said flatly, “I will end you.”

“I’m not laughing,” Suna said, voice cracking. “I’m horrified. Deeply, deeply horrified.”

“Your shoulders are shakin’.”

“That’s trauma. It’s a physical response.”

Osamu finally lowered his hand, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling. “I’m gonna pretend this never happened. I’m gonna bleach my brain. I’m gonna—”

“Can ya both just leave so I can clean up?!” Atsumu’s voice had gone high and strained, his composure crumbling. “Please?!”

Osamu grabbed Suna’s arm and yanked him out into the hallway. “We’re goin’! We’re goin’! But we’re talkin’ about this later, Tsumu!”

“NO WE’RE NOT!”

The door slammed shut.

Atsumu sat alone in the pink glow of the fairy lights, covered in his own mess, with his brother’s horrified face seared into his memory forever. He let his head fall back against the headboard and groaned.

---

Twenty minutes later, Atsumu emerged. He’d showered, changed into an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, and scrubbed the sheets as best he could with a damp towel. The bra was balled up at the bottom of his laundry basket—there it would stay until he could burn it without witnesses. He shuffled into the living room. Osamu and Suna sat on opposite ends of the couch, TV paused on the main menu of some action movie. Neither looked at him. He cleared his throat.

Osamu picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV, not pressing anything. “The bra was a new one.”

“Don’t.”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“Osamu, I swear to god—”

“Was it for a special occasion? Or do ya just keep lacy lingerie on hand?”

“IT WAS FOR OM— FOR SOMEONE. OKAY? IT WAS FOR SOMEONE.”

Suna, still not looking at him, said in a deadpan voice, “The fairy lights were a nice touch. Very romantic. Very trust-fund-tiktok-aesthetic.”

“I’m goin’ back to my room.”

“Sit down, Tsumu.” Osamu’s voice softened, just a little. He patted the cushion between him and Suna. “We’re not gonna make it weird.”

“Ya literally caught me mid-orgasm.”

“And we’re gonna move past it.”

Atsumu hesitated, then shuffled over and dropped onto the couch. He sat stiffly, arms crossed, staring at the TV menu like it had personally offended him.

The silence stretched.

Then Suna said, very quietly, “For the record, I didn’t see anything.”

“I know. Thanks for turnin’ around.”

“I have boundaries.”

“Unlike SOME people,” Osamu said, glaring at his brother.

“I LOST TRACK OF TIME! YA EVER THOUGHT ABOUT KNOCKING?!”

“WE NEVER KNOCK! IT’S BEEN LIKE THAT FOR TWENTY YEARS! WHY WOULD YA PICK NOW TO START— TO— DOIN’ THAT?!”

“BECAUSE I’M IN A RELATIONSHIP!”

“WITH WHO?!”

“WITH— Y’KNOW WHAT? I’M NOT TELLIN’ YA. YA DON’T DESERVE TO KNOW.”

“IS IT THE GUY WITH THE MASK?”

Atsumu’s face went red. “NO.”

“It’s totally the guy with the mask.”

“SHUT UP, SUNA.”

Suna shrugged, a ghost