Lace and Locked Doors

The overhead light in Atsumu’s bedroom was off, but the ring lamp threw honey-colored shadows across the walls. He’d spent the better part of an hour messing with the angle—kneeling on the bed, sheets a wreck behind him, phone propped against a stack of manga on the nightstand. The viewfinder showed him from the chest up, but he’d tilted it lower so the lace of the bra was the first thing you’d see. Black lace. Delicate. The kind that cost more than a week’s worth of convenience store onigiri.

He traced the edge where the fabric cupped his pecs. Not his first time wearing something like this, but definitely the first time he’d gone all out. Balconette style, underwired, a little bow between the cups. He’d bought it online two weeks ago, along with a matching thong, and waited for the right moment to debut it.

That moment was now.

Sakusa had been in a mood all week. Short texts, delayed replies, that clipped tone that meant training camp paperwork was eating him alive. Atsumu knew the signs. He also knew nothing snapped Sakusa out of a funk quite like a well-timed, slightly obscene surprise.

“Alright, pretty boy,” he muttered to himself, checking his reflection in the phone’s dark screen. Hair tousled just right, a few strands falling over his forehead. He’d dabbed on the cologne Sakusa once said smelled “acceptable.” Lips glossed from a balm he’d swiped from Osamu’s bathroom. “Let’s give ‘im somethin’ to smile about.”

He pressed record.

First minute was just posing—tilting his chin, wetting his lips, letting his fingers trail from his collarbone down to the lace. He hummed a breathy melody from some pop song and rolled his hips against the mattress. The camera caught the shift of his spine, the way his shoulder blades pressed together when he arched his back.

“Hey, Omi,” he whispered, like Sakusa was already watching. “Missed ya. Been thinkin’ about ya all day.”

Hand slid lower, past his stomach, to where the waistband of the thong sat low on his hips. He hooked his thumb under the elastic and tugged, just a little, exposing the trail of hair beneath his navel.

“You’re workin’ too hard,” he went on, voice dropping into that low, honeyed register he knew Sakusa liked. “Lemme help ya relax.”

He shifted onto his back, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out. Propped himself up on his elbows and let his head fall back, throat exposed. His hand traveled down until his fingers brushed the front of the thong. Didn’t touch himself yet—not really—just rested his palm there, warm, while he breathed deep and slow, letting the camera catch every rise and fall of his chest.

Ten minutes total. By the end, he was flushed, breathless, half-hard. The video ended with him biting his bottom lip and whispering, “Call me when you’re alone, Omi. I’ll make it worth your while.”

He stopped recording, watched it back three times. Cringed at a moment where the lighting caught his forehead looking shiny, but overall? Solid. Very solid. The lace looked expensive, his voice was sultry, and the way he’d let his hand rest on his hip at the end was downright cinematic.

He sent the video through the encrypted messaging app—the one Sakusa insisted on because he claimed others “weren’t secure enough.” Then he waited.

Five minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Sakusa: That bra. Did you get it from the place I sent you?

Atsumu grinned so wide his cheeks hurt.

Miya Atsumu: maybe ;)

Sakusa: The lace looks right. Good.

Miya Atsumu: just the lace? :P

Sakusa: The whole thing. Call you in ten.

Atsumu tossed his phone onto the bed and did a little shimmy of victory. Then he jumped up, adjusted the ring lamp so it hit his torso at the perfect angle, and arranged himself on the bed in a pose that looked effortless but had taken three tries to master: one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, legs slightly apart, chin lifted.

The video call rang exactly ten minutes later.

He answered with a slow, lazy smile. “Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”

Sakusa’s face appeared—pixelated for a moment before the connection stabilized. He was in his apartment in Tokyo, the familiar minimalist bedroom behind him. Loose black t-shirt, hair slightly damp like he’d just showered. His dark eyes flicked down to Atsumu’s chest, then back up to his face.

“You look ridiculous,” Sakusa said flatly.

Atsumu preened. “You love it.”

Sakusa’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say ya didn’t.”

Sakusa exhaled through his nose, half sigh, half laugh. He leaned back against his headboard, and Atsumu watched his hand disappear below the frame of the camera.

“You owe me for making me wait all week,” Atsumu said, letting his voice drop. He dragged his fingers down his chest, tracing the edge of the lace. “Had to buy myself a little present to keep me company.”

Sakusa’s eyes tracked the movement. “It looks better on you than on the model.”

“Flatterer.”

“I don’t flatter. I state facts.”

Atsumu felt warmth bloom in his chest—not just from the compliment, but from the way Sakusa said it. Like it was obvious. Like of course the lace would look better on Atsumu, because Atsumu was the one wearing it.

He let his hand slide lower, palming himself through the thong. Already half-hard from the anticipation, from the way Sakusa’s voice had gone just a little rough.

“Show me what you’re wearin’,” Atsumu said.

Sakusa shifted, angling his phone down. Just his boxers, plain black, nothing special. But the way his thighs tensed, the way his stomach tightened as he adjusted his grip—that was special. Atsumu bit his lip.

“Nice,” he breathed.

“Yours is nicer.”

“I know.”

They fell into a rhythm, trading low murmurs and sharp breaths, each watching the other’s hand move. Atsumu let his head fall back, fingers working faster. He could hear Sakusa’s breathing through the speaker, rough and uneven, driving him wild.

“You like that, Omi?” he gasped. “You like seein’ me like this?”

Sakusa’s reply was a choked, “Shut up.”

Atsumu laughed, breathless. “Make me.”

His hand was slick, friction perfect. He was close—so close—hips rocking up into his own touch, vision starting to blur at the edges. He heard Sakusa’s voice through the static, a strained string of curses, and it pushed him higher.

“I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” Sakusa said, commanding despite the brokenness of his voice. “Now.”

Atsumu’s back arched off the mattress. His hand moved once, twice, and then—

The door swung open.

“Oi, Atsumu, Suna and I are gonna grab dinner, you wanna—”

Atsumu’s brain didn’t register the words. Not at first. Because his body was in the middle of a full-body release, muscles locked, mouth open in a silent gasp, hand still wrapped around himself. The sensation crested, and he felt the warm wetness spurt across his fingers, his stomach, the lace of the bra.

And then he heard the click of the door hitting the wall, and his brain finally caught up.

He froze.

Osamu stood in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob. Behind him, Suna peaked over his shoulder, phone already half-raised.

The room went utterly silent.

Atsumu was still mid-arch, his body suspended in that terrible, frozen moment of climax. His hand was wet. The bed beneath him was wet. The lace of the bra was wet, and so was his stomach, and his thighs, and the sheet underneath him.

He couldn’t move.

Osamu’s expression was… blank. Completely, terrifyingly blank. His eyes traveled from Atsumu’s face, down his chest, to his hand, to the puddle on the bed, and back up again.

Suna, meanwhile, was very visibly fighting a grin. His lips pressed together in a thin line, eyebrows raised, and his phone was definitely angled toward the scene.

“I—” Atsumu’s voice cracked. He tried to pull his hand away, but his arm felt like jelly. He settled for dropping it to his side, which only made the mess more obvious. “I can explain.”

Osamu blinked. Once. Twice.

“You’re wearing a bra,” he said.

“It’s—it’s a—it’s lingerie, actually.”

“A bra,” Osamu repeated, deadpan.

“With lace,” Suna added, his voice light and dangerous.

Atsumu felt his face ignite. He scrambled for the sheet, trying to cover himself, but only succeeded in dragging the wet fabric across his lap. “It’s not—it’s for a—I was on a—there’s a call—”

He pointed wildly at his phone, which had fallen face-down on the pillow. A faint crackling sound from the speaker.

Osamu’s eyes followed the gesture. “There’s someone on the phone.”

“No—no, I mean yes, but it’s—it’s private—”

“We can see that,” Suna said, and he didn’t bother hiding the smirk anymore. “Very private.”

Atsumu lunged for the phone, nearly falling off the bed. He grabbed it and flipped it over, and there was Sakusa’s face, still on the screen. Cheeks flushed, hair even messier than before, hand frozen just below the frame.

He was staring at the ceiling, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Omi!” Atsumu hissed. “Say somethin’!”

Sakusa let out a breath that was definitely a choked laugh. “I… don’t think I can help you here.”

“You’re supposed to be the cool one!”

“I am the cool one. This isn’t my disaster.”

Osamu cleared his throat. Loudly.

Atsumu whipped around, still clutching the phone, still half-naked, still dripping. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

“It looks like you just made a mess of your bed while wearin’ a bra and talkin’ to your boyfriend,” Osamu said flatly. “So yeah, it is what it looks like.”

“He’s not my—okay, he is, but—that’s not—the bra is new!”

“I can tell.”

Suna lifted his phone and tapped the screen.

A click.

Atsumu’s heart stopped. “Did you just take a photo?!”

“Evidence,” Suna said, pocketing the phone. “For future reference.”

“Delete it!”

“No.”

Osamu reached back and grabbed the edge of the door. “We were gonna ask if you wanted udon,” he said, tone as flat as a week-old soda. “But I think you’ve had enough to eat already.”

Suna snorted. Osamu’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes glinted with the smallest hint of amusement.

Atsumu wanted to die. He wanted the bed to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to crawl into the phone and hide behind Sakusa, who was now very obviously shaking with silent laughter.

“We’ll come back later,” Osamu said.

He pulled the door shut.

It clicked.

Silence.

Atsumu stared at the closed door. Then down at himself. Then at the phone.

Sakusa had his hand over his mouth, shoulders trembling.

“Don’t,” Atsumu warned.

Sakusa lost it. A full, wheezing laugh escaped him, eyes crinkled, head thrown back. “Oh my god.”

“It’s not funny!”

“It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” Sakusa wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “The look on his face. And yours. You looked like a deer in headlights. A deer in a bra, covered in—in—”

“Stop.”

“—in your own—”

“Omi, I swear to god—”

Sakusa laughed again, and Atsumu couldn’t help it—he started laughing too. A high, hysterical laugh that bubbled up from his chest, fueled by pure mortification. He dropped the phone onto the pillow and covered his face with both hands.

“This is the worst day of my life,” he said, voice muffled.

“You’re going to be fine,” Sakusa said, still thick with amusement. “Just… change the sheets. And burn the bra.”

“It was expensive!”

“Then wash it thoroughly.”

Atsumu groaned. He rolled onto his side, pulling a dry corner of the sheet over his lap. “Suna took a picture. He’s gonna blackmail me forever.”

“You deserve it.”

“You’re s’posed to defend my honor!”

“Your honor vanished the moment your brother walked in. I’m just a witness now.”

Atsumu grabbed the phone again and glared at Sakusa’s grinning face. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Debatable.”

Sakusa’s smile softened. “Clean up. We can talk later. And, Atsumu?”

“What?”

“The video was good. Really good.”

Atsumu felt his cheeks warm for a completely different reason. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just… lock the door next time.”

Atsumu snorted. “Yeah, yeah. You too. Don’t get caught by your roommates.”

“I live alone.”

“Lucky.”

They said their goodbyes—awkward and rushed and still tinged with laughter—and Atsumu ended the call. He sat in the dim light of the ring lamp, staring at his reflection in the black screen of the phone.

Still wearing the bra. Lace damp and sticking to his skin. He was a mess.

He laughed again, shaking his head.

He’d never live this down.

Thirty minutes later, after showering and changing and stripping the bed, he padded into the living room. Osamu and Suna were on the couch, a bowl of takeout udon between them.

Osamu looked up. “You clean?”

“Shut up.”

“Suna already sent the photo to the group chat.”

Atsumu lunged for Suna’s phone. Suna held it above his head, smirking.

“Don’t worry,” Suna said. “I only sent it to the one with just the three of us.”

“That’s still a crime!”

“It’s called insurance.”

Osamu slurped his noodles loudly. “You owe me for walkin’ in on that. I’m traumatized.”

“You’re not traumatized, you’re just an asshole.”

“Same thing.”

Atsumu flopped onto the other end of the couch, defeated. Suna nudged the udon bowl toward him.

“Here. You probably need the calories.”

“I hate both of you.”

“We know,” they said in unison.

Atsumu grabbed a pair of chopsticks and dug in. The noodles were hot and salty and exactly what he needed. He ate in silence for a minute, letting the embarrassment slowly fade into something more bearable.

“Hey,” Osamu said finally, his voice softer. “For what it’s worth? He’s a good guy. The whole call thing is weird, but… you seem happy.”

Atsumu looked up, surprised.

Osamu shrugged and went back to his soup. “Just sayin’.”

Suna nodded. “Yeah. And the bra? You actually looked good in it.”

“Suna.”

“What? It’s true.”

Atsumu threw a pillow at him.

But he was smiling.

And later that night, when his phone buzzed with a text from Sakusa—Goodnight. Next time, double-check the door lock—he smiled even wider.

He still hadn’t locked the door. But maybe that was the point.

Some memories were meant to be shared. Even the ones that made you want to crawl into a hole.

Especially those ones.