The Golden Light of Relief

The afternoon sun cut through Inarizaki’s high windows, throwing long gold rectangles across the polished floor. The gym smelled like sweat and rubber, filled with the squeak of shoes and the thud of balls. Just a routine practice match—first-years against second-years, nothing official. Shake off the summer rust.

Miya Atsumu was bombing hard.

His signature jump serve sailed three feet past the baseline. He swore, kicking the floor. His sets were all over the place—too high, too low, too fast. Receivers scrambled. His tosses felt like sandpaper.

“Atsumu-san, watch your angle!”

He snapped his head around. “Shut up and just hit the damn ball when I give it to ya!”

The first-year went quiet. Even Aran gave him a look.

Across the net, Suna Rintarou watched with half-closed eyes. He’d been watching all afternoon—the way Atsumu pressed a hand to his lower back, the tension in his jaw, the way he snapped like a cornered cat. Suna knew what day it was. Had it marked on his phone for three months.

Osamu was getting annoyed. He pulled his twin aside during a water break, grabbing his arm.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Osamu hissed. “You’re playin’ like crap and pissin’ everyone off.”

“Nothin’,” Atsumu muttered, not meeting his eyes. He shifted, and something flickered across his face—a wince, barely there.

Osamu narrowed his eyes. He knew his twin. Irritable, sure. But this was different. This had a specific, biological cause.

“You’re on your period, aren’t ya?”

Atsumu’s face went red. “Shut the hell up, Samu.”

“Then sit down. Coach won’t bench ya for takin’ a break.”

“I said I’m fine.” Atsumu yanked his arm free and stalked back.

Practice resumed, tension thick.

It happened in the third set. Atsumu twisted for a quick set, and a cramp lanced through his abdomen. He gasped. Landed awkwardly. The ball went wide.

“Time out!”

As Atsumu turned to the sideline, Osamu saw it—a patch of red on the back of his white practice shorts. Spreading. Unmistakable. A big, damp stain that must have been growing for minutes.

Osamu’s stomach dropped. He moved fast, blocking the view with his shoulders.

“Atsumu,” he said low. “Ya got a problem.”

“What?”

“Your shorts. Blood. Big stain. Get outta here now.”

Atsumu’s face went pale, then red. His hands flew to the back of his shorts, felt the dampness. Horror spread across his face like a building collapsing. Without a word, he bolted for the locker room.

Everyone stared. Murmurs rippled.

“He ain’t feelin’ well,” Osamu said, tone flat. “Give him a minute.”

Suna put down his water bottle. “I’ll check on him.”

Osamu’s head snapped around. “No, ya won’t.”

But Suna was already walking, long strides purposeful. Osamu grabbed his wrist.

“Rintarou. Don’t.”

Suna looked back, those pale eyes settling on Osamu’s face. Something knowing in his gaze that made Osamu’s skin crawl.

“I’ll take care of him.” Suna pulled his wrist free, smooth and effortless.

Osamu watched him disappear through the locker room doors, jaw tight. He wanted to follow, to drag Suna back by the collar. But he couldn’t make a scene. The team was already suspicious. He’d have to let it go.

Didn’t mean he had to like it.

---

The locker room was cold and quiet. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Atsumu stood gripping the edge of the sink, shoulders heaving. Breath ragged. Whole body trembling with pain and humiliation.

The stain. Everyone saw it. They were out there whispering, laughing behind his back. The great Miya Atsumu, bleeding through his shorts like a damn rookie.

A cramp curled through his abdomen. He doubled over, a low moan escaping. Sharp today. Deep, wrenching ache wrapping around his lower back. Felt like he might throw up.

The door creaked open.

“Go away, Samu.”

“It’s not Samu.”

Atsumu’s breath hitched. He turned his head—Suna’s reflection in the mirror, leaning against the door frame, hands in pockets. Calm. Almost detached. But heat in his eyes that Atsumu knew.

“What the hell are you doin’ here? Get out.”

Suna didn’t move. He pushed off and walked closer, footsteps soft. Stopped a few feet away, head tilted.

“You’re in pain.”

“No shit.” But the venom was gone, replaced by raw desperation. “Just go. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Suna stepped closer—close enough Atsumu could smell his sweat, the clean scent of his deodorant. “You’re cramping. Humiliated. Bleeding through your shorts, and you don’t have anything to change into.”

Atsumu’s eyes burned. “Thanks for the recap, asshole.”

Suna’s hand came up, fingers brushing Atsumu’s arm. Atsumu flinched. Suna didn’t pull away, just let his hand rest there, thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle.

“I can make it better,” Suna murmured, voice low and intimate. “You know I can.”

Atsumu’s breath caught. He knew exactly what Suna meant. The first time was an accident—a clumsy fumble in a storage closet during a tournament. Atsumu in agony, Suna pulling him aside, pressing him against the wall, whispering something dirty. Atsumu agreed, half out of his mind with pain, and it worked. The cramps faded to a dull ache. Replaced by something else.

But this wasn’t a storage closet. This was the locker room. Whole team on the other side of the door. And Atsumu was bleeding all over his shorts.

“No,” he said weakly.

Suna’s hand slid from his arm to his waist, pulling him closer. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” But his body betrayed him, leaning into Suna’s warmth. Pain coiled in his gut. Suna’s presence was the only thing promising relief.

“You’re in so much pain, Atsumu,” Suna whispered, lips brushing his ear. “I can feel it. I can see it. Let me help. You know I love it when you’re like this.”

Atsumu’s face burned. That was the part he couldn’t wrap his head around. Suna liked it. The blood, the mess, the vulnerability. Turned him on in a way Atsumu found both disgusting and intoxicating. Every month, right before his period started, Suna would get that look. Predatory hunger. Atsumu pretended not to notice. But he always noticed.

“Someone’s gonna hear.”

“No one’s gonna walk in,” Suna murmured. He pulled back to look into Atsumu’s eyes, thumb tracing his jaw. “They’re all practicing. And even if they did… you think I’d care?”

Atsumu swallowed. The next cramp hit him like a punch. He groaned, doubling over against Suna’s chest. Suna’s arms wrapped around him, solid and steady. For a moment, Atsumu let himself be held.

“Okay.” His voice was muffled against Suna’s shoulder. “Okay.”

Suna’s smile was slow, satisfied. He steered Atsumu backward toward the bench, pushed him down onto the wooden seat. Atsumu gripped the edge, knuckles white.

Suna knelt in front of him, hands on his knees. “You okay?”

“Just get on with it.”

Suna’s hands slid up Atsumu’s thighs, pushing them apart. He leaned in, pressed a kiss to the inside of Atsumu’s knee. Then another, higher. Atsumu’s breath hitched.

“Rintarou—”

“Shh.” Suna’s voice was soft against his skin. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers found the waistband of Atsumu’s shorts, pulled them down slowly. The soaked fabric peeled away with a wet sound. Atsumu squeezed his eyes shut. Mortified. Suna didn’t seem to mind. He looked at the rust-colored stains on the inside of the shorts, at the streak of blood painting Atsumu’s inner thigh. His pupils dilated.

“Beautiful.”

Atsumu’s eyes snapped open. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Plenty.” Suna grinned, then leaned in.

The first touch of his tongue against Atsumu’s thigh made him gasp. Gentle. Almost reverent. A slow, deliberate path up the curve of his leg. The blood was fresh and warm. Atsumu could feel the rough texture of his tongue, the soft press of his lips. Obscene and wrong. He should have stopped it. But the pain was already ebbing, replaced by a low, building heat.

“You taste so good, Atsumu.” Suna’s voice was a murmur against his skin. “I could drink you dry.”

“Don’t say stuff like that.” But Atsumu’s hand tangled in Suna’s hair, holding him there.

Suna hummed in approval, mouth working higher. When he reached the juncture of Atsumu’s thigh, he paused, looked up with a question. Atsumu nodded. Barely. Suna smiled.

His tongue dipped between Atsumu’s legs. Atsumu’s back arched off the bench. Overwhelming—the wet heat of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his tongue, the slick slide of blood and saliva. Atsumu gripped Suna’s hair tighter, bit his lip to keep from crying out.

But Suna pulled back, chin smeared with red, eyes dark and hungry.

“I want to hear you. Don’t hold back.”

“Someone’ll hear.”

“Let them.” Suna pressed a finger inside him, slow and deliberate. Atsumu let out a strangled moan. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Suna added a second finger, curling them just right. Atsumu’s hips bucked. The pain in his abdomen had transformed into something else—a deep, aching pressure screaming for release. Suna’s mouth returned, his tongue circling and pressing. Atsumu’s world narrowed to that point of contact.

“Rintarou.” His voice broke. “Please, I’m gonna—I’m—”

“Not yet.” Suna pulled back. Atsumu whimpered. “Not until I’m inside you.”

Suna stood, fumbling with his own shorts. Atsumu watched through half-lidded eyes as he freed himself, hard and slick with precome. Suna leaned over, bracing one hand on the bench beside his hip.

“You ready?”

Atsumu nodded. Suna pushed inside him in one smooth motion. Atsumu’s back arched, a sharp cry escaping his throat. Suna pressed a hand over his mouth.

“Shh.” His forehead pressed against Atsumu’s. “I know, baby. I know.”

The rhythm was fast and punishing. Exactly what Atsumu needed. Each thrust drove the air from his lungs. Friction and pressure building to an unbearable peak. Suna’s hand moved between them, pressing against Atsumu’s clit in time with his thrusts.

Atsumu’s vision went white.

The orgasm hit him like a wave, crashing through his body. Trembling. Breathless. He cried out into Suna’s palm, hips jerking, walls clenching around him. Suna groaned, thrusts becoming erratic. He buried his face in Atsumu’s neck as he came, body shuddering.

For a long moment, only ragged breathing echoed in the quiet locker room. Suna’s weight pressed Atsumu into the bench, warm and grounding. Atsumu’s fingers slid from his hair to cup the back of his neck.

“You okay?” Suna murmured against his skin.

Atsumu took a shaky breath. The cramps were gone. Completely. Replaced by a deep, bone-tired satisfaction, a pleasant ache that made him want to curl up and sleep.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Suna pulled out slowly. Atsumu winced. Suna kissed his shoulder, then stood and walked to his gym bag. He pulled out a clean towel, a pair of black shorts, and a thin pad.

“I brought these. Had ‘em in my bag since morning.”

Atsumu stared. “You planned this?”

Suna gave him a half-smile. “I always plan, Atsumu.”

Atsumu took the shorts and the pad, shaking his head. He cleaned himself up as best he could, wincing at the mess. Suna helped, hands gentle and sure. When Atsumu was dressed again, he felt almost human.

“How do I look?” He met Suna’s eyes in the mirror.

“Good. Better than before, anyway.”

Atsumu snorted. “High praise.”

Suna stepped up behind him, wrapped his arms around Atsumu’s waist, rested his chin on his shoulder. They stood there a moment, looking at their reflection.

“Thank you,” Atsumu said quietly.

Suna kissed his cheek. “Anytime.”

---

They walked back to the gym together, side by side. Practice had resumed. The noise of the court washed over them as they pushed through the doors. A few heads turned, but most were too focused on the game.

Osamu noticed immediately. His eyes flicked from Atsumu’s clean shorts to Suna’s calm expression. Jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything, but his glare was sharp enough to cut glass.

Atsumu avoided his brother’s gaze, walked past him to the sideline. Picked up his water bottle, took a long drink. Cool liquid soothed his raw throat.

“Feeling better?” Aran asked, tossing him a towel.

“Yeah.” For the first time that afternoon, he meant it. “Much better.”

Suna settled onto the bench, stretching his long legs out. He caught Osamu’s eye and held it, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. Osamu’s face darkened, but he turned away, hands balled into fists.

The match resumed. Atsumu played like a demon. Crisp sets, accurate serves, sharp and decisive moves. The team rallied around him. The tension of the afternoon dissolved into the rhythm of the game.

No one mentioned the stain. No one asked where Suna had gone. But as the afternoon wore on, whispers rippled through the team—low and speculative. Impossible to confirm. Impossible to ignore.

Suna heard them and didn’t care. Atsumu heard them and pretended not to.

And Osamu heard them, and for the first time in his life, he seriously considered quitting volleyball just to avoid having to witness whatever the hell had just happened between his twin and the team’s resident unhinged middle blocker.

But the game went on. The sun sank lower, casting the gym in golden light. And Atsumu played on, calm and focused, the pain gone and the memory of Suna’s mouth still warm on his skin.