The Setter's Cycle

The gym stank of sweat and rubber. Shoes squeaked, the ball cracked off the floor, and the air had that weird charge like everyone was waiting for a fight. Inarizaki’s second-string was running drills against the first-string reserves, but nobody’s heart was in it. Every pass felt a little too sharp. Every set a little too aggressive. And it all funneled back to the setter with the bleached-blond hair.

Miya Atsumu was having a shit day.

His lower abdomen kept twisting—sharp, dull, then sharp again. A cramp that radiated into his lower back and made every jump feel like a mistake. He’d downed ibuprofen before practice, but it wasn’t hitting. Or maybe it was and his body just didn’t care. He overset a quick to the left, then snapped at the wing spiker for missing the timing. His fault. He knew it.

“Atsumu-san, you okay?” the libero asked, hesitant.

“Fine.” The word came out like a slap. Atsumu wiped sweat off his temple, but the pain was a hot wire in his gut. And that damp slickness between his legs? He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

From across the net, Suna Rintarou watched with hooded eyes. He’d been watching all afternoon. Noticed the way Atsumu’s jaw tightened during serves, how he pressed a hand to his stomach when he thought nobody was looking. Suna said nothing. Just filed it away. He knew what was happening. He always did.

Atsumu served. The ball sailed long. He cursed under his breath.

Coach called water. As the team shuffled to the sidelines, Osamu—who’d been playing opposite—walked past his twin and muttered, “You’re gonna get benched if you keep playin’ like this. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothin’.” But Atsumu’s voice cracked.

Osamu’s eyes narrowed. He was about to say something else when his gaze dropped—just for a second—to the back of Atsumu’s shorts. Gray fabric. A dark patch near the hem. Small, but unmistakable.

Osamu grabbed Atsumu’s arm, pulled him aside. Dropped his voice to a whisper. “Oi. You bleedin’ through.”

The world stopped.

Atsumu’s face went pale, then red. He jerked away, heart hammering. “What? No, I’m not—”

“Check your shorts,” Osamu said flatly. “Go clean up before anyone else sees.”

Atsumu’s hand flew to the back of his shorts. Fingers brushed damp fabric. The truth hit him like a slap. Without a word, he turned and bolted for the locker room, his footsteps too loud.

He barely made it to the bathroom before his vision blurred. Locked himself in a stall, sat on the toilet, pressed his forehead against the cool metal door. His body throbbed. His pride was shredded. He wanted to disappear.

A few minutes later, the locker room door creaked open.

“Atsumu.”

Suna’s voice—low, calm. Atsumu didn’t answer. Soft footsteps stopped just outside the stall.

“I know you’re in there. Open up.”

“Go away.” His voice was thick.

“I’m not going away.”

A pause. Then a quiet click as Suna slid a coin into the lock. The door swung open. Suna stood there, lean and composed, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He looked at Atsumu—hunched over, face tear-streaked, hands gripping his knees—and something soft flickered in his eyes.

“You’re in pain.” Not a question.

“I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

Suna stepped into the stall, closed the door behind him, locked it again. He knelt in front of Atsumu, long fingers gently prying Atsumu’s hands off his knees. “You’re not fine. I can see it in how you move. The cramps are bad.”

Atsumu’s lower lip trembled. “I hate this. I hate that Osamu saw. I hate that everyone’s gonna know.”

“No one’s gonna know except me and him. And I don’t care about a little blood.” Suna’s voice was steady, almost hypnotic. He reached into his bag and pulled out a clean pair of shorts and a small pouch. “Brought you these. And painkillers. And a pad.”

Atsumu stared at the items, then at Suna. “You… you brought a pad?”

“I keep one in my bag. For emergencies.” Suna’s lips quirked into the ghost of a smile. “Now change. Then we’ll talk.”

Atsumu changed with shaking hands, Suna turning his back. When he was done, Suna handed him the painkillers and a bottle of water. Atsumu swallowed them gratefully. The cool water soothed his raw throat.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Suna turned back, gaze traveling slowly over Atsumu’s body. He reached out and cupped Atsumu’s cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You don’t have to thank me. I want to take care of you.”

The words sent a shiver down Atsumu’s spine. He leaned into the touch, closed his eyes. “I still feel awful. And I’m embarrassing.”

“You’re not embarrassing. You’re in pain.” Suna’s hand slid down to his neck, then his shoulder. “I can help with that. If you’ll let me.”

Atsumu’s eyes flew open. “Here? Now?”

“Why not? The team’s still playing. We have about twenty minutes before anyone checks on us.” Suna’s voice was soft, but his eyes were intense. “I know what you need. You need to forget the pain for a while. You need to feel good.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. The cramps were still there—a dull throb—but the idea of Suna’s hands on him was a powerful distraction. He nodded. Barely.

Suna moved closer, his long body pressing Atsumu back against the stall wall. He kissed him—slow, deliberate, tasting of salt and something sweet. Atsumu melted into it, hands finding Suna’s waist. Suna’s fingers trailed down his stomach, careful to avoid the sensitive area, but the touch was electric.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Suna murmured against his lips.

“Just… be gentle. My lower belly’s real sore.”

“I know.” Suna’s hand slid lower, palm flat against Atsumu’s abdomen, applying light pressure over the cramps. The warmth felt good. Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of the fresh shorts, pulling them down just enough.

What followed was quiet but not silent. Atsumu gasped, bit his lip, tried to muffle the sounds. Suna was methodical, patient, focused entirely on Atsumu’s pleasure and relief. He used his mouth and his hands, avoiding anything that might cause discomfort, instead drawing out long, slow waves of sensation that made Atsumu’s head fall back against the tile.

Suna didn’t care about the blood. He’d said so, and he meant it. To him, Atsumu was beautiful like this—vulnerable, trusting, letting himself be cherished. He whispered praise between kisses, telling Atsumu he was perfect, brave, that no one else mattered.

Atsumu’s whimpers grew louder. He gripped Suna’s shoulders, nails digging in, as the pressure built inside him—not the painful kind, but the sweet, coiling tension that promised release. He forgot the cramps. Forgot the humiliation. There was only Suna’s breath on his skin, Suna’s rhythm, Suna’s steady devotion.

The climax hit him hard—a shuddering cry he couldn’t suppress. Suna held him through it, kissing his collarbone, murmuring endearments.

Outside the stall, Osamu had come looking for his twin after the break ended and neither setter had returned. He heard the muffled sounds—the gasps, the soft moans—and his face went through a rapid series of expressions: confusion, realization, disgust, and finally, molten fury.

He slammed his fist against the door. “Oi! The hell are you two doin’ in there?”

The sounds stopped. Atsumu’s head snapped up, eyes wide with panic. Suna didn’t flinch. He calmly pulled Atsumu’s shorts back up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and unlocked the door.

Osamu stood there, face red. “Suna, you—that’s my brother! In the locker room, while we’re practicin’? Are you sick?”

“No,” Suna said flatly. “I’m taking care of him. He needed it.”

“He needed—what, a damn orgasm? He’s on his period, you pervert!”

Atsumu pushed past Suna, legs shaky but voice steadier than before. “Osamu, shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Atsumu’s eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. “Suna helped me. I was in pain, I was humiliated, and he made me feel better. That’s more than you did. So don’t come in here actin’ like you got a right to judge.”

Osamu stared at him, mouth open. He looked at Suna—arms crossed, completely unrepentant. Then he looked back at Atsumu: the set of his jaw, the quiet strength in his posture despite the lingering pallor.

Slowly, Osamu’s shoulders sagged. “Fine. Whatever. Just… don’t do it in the locker room again. And wipe down the sink, it’s disgusting.”

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Okay.”

Suna pulled Atsumu into a quick hug, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Let’s get cleaned up. I’ll walk you back to the gym.”

As they moved past Osamu, Suna paused. “For the record, I’d take care of him anywhere. But I’ll try to be more discreet next time.”

Osamu made a gagging noise, but there was no heat in it.

Later, back on the court, Atsumu’s cramps had eased to a dull background ache. He played better—not brilliant, but controlled. Every time he looked at Suna across the net, he felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with exertion.

He still hated his period. But having someone love him through it? That part wasn’t so bad.