#harry styles periods

[kkoct-ik]

finally scratching the skill cabinet itch

[watermelonlovershigh]

another sickfic/period prompt.. living together as friends/housemates and H finds her on the floor in the night feeling really sick from her period and sits with her + helps her out 🥲 changes her sheets for her, rubs her back and just holds her on the floor with a blanket round them. she's absolutely mortified with no choice but to be accepting of his help and all he wants to do is make her feel a little better :(

Period Cramps Are No Fun {part 1.} (housemate!harry series)

AN: thank you for this request. it's not exactly as the request said but i hope it's close enough. and i normally don't write harry as anything other than y/n's lover but made an exception with this story. please share your feedback with me and let me know how you liked it. enjoy. xoxoxoxo

This story contains: small period leak, severe period cramping, puking due to period cramps, crying due to pain and embarrassment, mentions of sex toys, comfort, fluff

{ housemate!harry - friend!harry - softrry - any harry era - au!harry }

word count- 1,956

You wake up in the middle of the night with severe period cramps and when your housemate and friend Harry happens to wake up for a glass of water, he sees you on the bathroom floor crying and has no choice but to be by your side and comfort you.

You were looking to be someones flatmate or housemate. You'd put offer after offer online and one day a guy named Harry accepted your offer. He had a pretty nice townhouse in London and from his brief description of himself, seemed to be an alright guy. You didn't want to move in with some lazy scumbag and you'd come to find Harry is the opposite of that.

He's probably the cleanest guy you've ever met. He enjoys keeping things organized and loves to keep the house smelling fresh with candles on every shelf and table. And you get along quite nicely. You'd even go as far to say over the six months of living in his townhouse that you've become friends.

Doing things friends do such as order take-out food together, watch movies on the couch, paint each others nails, share juicy details about your love lives (or lack thereof). Harry is a very fun guy to be around and if you're being honest with yourself, you'd say you've developed a slight crush on him. I mean how could you not? He has nearly all the characteristics of what every woman's ideal man would have. Physical characteristics and things through the actions he does.

Now even though you've became great friends over the six months of living here, there is still stuff you try to keep private. For instance, your periods. Harry's not dumb and obviously knows you get a period. Mainly from seeing your sanitary products under the bathroom sink or in the bin by the toilet. You don't try to keep your periods a secret, just private.

And though Harry knows you get periods, as do most females, he has yet to see the bad side of your periods. The periods that make you sob on the bathroom floor from the amount of pain your cramps are causing. The periods that make you nausous and throw up. Luckily those periods aren't a monthly thing but they do happen a few times a year for whatever reason and it sucks.

--------------------------

Late last night as you and Harry were watching a movie on his sofa, you began to feel crampy in your lower stomach. You asked if he could pause the film while you went to the bathroom down the hall and he agreed. And that's when you realized your period had came and you'd leaked. It's not a bad leak but it's enough for you to need to change your underwear and your shorts. Which the shorts barely had any blood on them but still called for a fresh pair.

Once you got yourself situated, you returned to the living room where the first thing Harry commented on is your changed clothes. "Did you change your shorts or somethin'?"

Quickly, you answered, "Yeah, my period started and I kinda leaked. Okay, you can press play on the movie."

Harry nodded sympathetically but followed your orders. He would have said something else to try and comfort you but knew you prefered to keep your periods more private. He doesn't understand why though. All women get periods. It's not something you should be ashamed of and he wished you'd understand that.

Now it's four in the morning and you're woken up to what feels like the worst period cramps of your whole life. Fuck, you scream in your head, it's gonna be one of those months. The longer you lay in bed the more nausous you began to feel from how painful your cramps are and that leads to you stumbling out of bed and rushing to the bathroom down the hall.

After what felt like an eternity, you made it to the bathroom and literally crawled on the floor over to the toilet. Now that you're in the bathroom you feel less nauseous but the pain is still in full force. That's when the tears start flowing. With your back against the wall and your knees up to your chest, sobs roll out your body as you fight against the waves of your uterus contracting to release its lining.

Harry is a heavy sleeper and usually don't wake up unless someone outwardly calls his name or pushes him awake. What wakes him up right now though is a dry mouth and a craving for a glass of water. So he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen. But before he can even make it to the kitchen, he hears what sounds like crying coming from the hall bathroom.

Rushing over to the bathroom door, the sight before him breaks his heart. You didn't have the strength to shut the door so from the hall, Harry sees you sobbing in front of the toilet, back against the wall, and a hand clutching your stomach. "Oh, Y/n," he steps inside, "what's the matter?"

You slowly lift your head and the first thought in your mind was you didn't want him to see you like this. This was too embarrassing and you were too vulnerable at the moment. "Harry, go. Don't look at me."

Taken back by your words, Harry retorts in concern, "Not until you tell me what's wrong. Are you sick? Why're cryin'?"

Realising it's no use to deny your housemates help in your condition, you answer through the pain and tears, "My.....my cramps are SO bad. It hurts so much, H...Harry. *sob* It's making me feel so sick."

Harry frowns sympathetically and kneels down beside you in just his boxer briefs, which is his usual sleep attire. He would have covered up a bit more if he'd known this is what he was going to be walking into on his trip for a glass of water. As soon as he kneels down, you get the real urge to puke.

You push yourself off the wall and hang your head over the toilet. A harsh dry heave leaves your mouth that makes him cringe but nothing more, yet. Harry quickly scoots behind you and collects your hair with one hand and runs his other hand over your back. He doesn't know if you want to be touched right now but knows that when he's getting sick he finds that if someone rubs on his back it makes him feel a little better.

"Shhh," Harry whispers gently, "it's okay. You're okay. I've got you." He patiently waits until your feel better or actually get sick. After a few more jarring dry heaves, you end up throwing up in the toilet. And though the act feels like hell and is gross, you hope it will also relive the sickness your belly feels due to your period cramps.

You slowly lift your head up, taking deep breaths, and start crying again. This time not from the pain but from embarrassment. Harry's quick to ask, "Hey, what is it, Y/n? The cramps again?"

A little more coherently then the last time you spoke, you answer, "No. Just embarrassed. I threw up in front of you." That has Harry throwing his head back with a laugh.

"Y/n, I don't give a single fuck about you throwing up in front of me. Everyone gets sick from time to time. Just want to make sure you're alright. I hate that your period cramps are causin' you so much pain."

While subconsciously rubbing circles in your lower tummy, you ask desperately in a near whispered voice, "H, can you please go get me some pain medicine. It's in my bedside table drawer in my bedroom. Once I have that I think I'll feel better. At least for a couple of hours."

"Of course." Harry agrees and gets up off the bathroom floor to head to your bedroom. Once inside, he walks straight to your bedside table and opens the drawer to find your bottle of pain medication. While rummaging through to find the bottle, Harry tries to ignore the assortment of sex toys you have in there; bullet vibrator, dildo, clit sucker. Shit, this is the wrong time for him to get all hot and flustered at the thought of you using those under his roof.

He finally finds the bottle of pills and heads back to the bathroom where you still are. Within the time it took him to grab your medicine, you've stood up off the floor, flushed the toilet of course, and now sit on a closed toilet seat. Harry opens the bottle and asks, "How many? One or Two or....?"

"Two please." Harry hands you two tablets and grabs a paper cup used for rinsing your mouths out by the sink and fills it up with tap water. You carefully grab the small cup from his hands and take the pills with urgency, just wanting to be out of pain as soon as possible.

Once that's over with, Harry annonces, "Well, I'll let you get cleaned up in here and I'll be out there waiting for you."

"Okay, thank you." you respond gratefully. Harry really is the best housemate you could have asked for. While he's gone, you change out your tampon and brush the taste of vomit from your mouth. Then you exit the hall bathroom, ready to try and get a few more hours of sleep.

As you step inside your bedroom, you're taken back. Harry has managed to change your sheets and duvet, claiming a fresh pair will help you relax and hopefully sleep better. He's also set an actual glass of water on your nightstand, as well as plugged in his heating pad for you to use. "Harry....... what's all this?"

Nervously, because he doesn't know if this is all too much to do to someone who is just his housemate and friend, Harry replies, "Um, just wanted to make sure you come back to a comfy room. Hopefully you'll get a few more hours of sleep. And if you get thirsty or need to take more medicine, there's a glass of water there. Then my old heating pad that you can use across your tummy to also help with your cramps. Hope it's not too much."

You turn around with a small smile on your face and reach out to hug him. He's startled at first but soon relaxes and hugs you back. You hug for a minute before you break away first and mutter your appreciation. "No, this is great, Harry. Not too much at all. Thank you for your kindness tonight. And thank you for putting up with me in the bathroom. I know that wasn't a pretty sight. So yeah, just, thank you so much."

Looking down at you, Harry gets the urge to kiss you, but instead, says, "Y/n, it's no big deal, really. I would have helped anyone in that situation. Just want you to feel better s'all. Now get back into bed and around ten I'll wake up and make us a brunch. Sound good?"

"Yeah, sounds perfect." You crawl back into your bed that now has fresh sheets and maneuver the heating pad over your tummy. The pain medicine has begun to work but your uterus is still quite achy. As Harry turns around and heads out your door, you yell out, "Night." even though it's five in the morning by now.

"Night, Y/n." Harry speaks as well before slipping back into his bed across the hall. Now laying in your separate beds, all you can think about is how much you would have loved if Harry was in your bed cuddling you. And all Harry can think about is how much he wishes you were in his bed, so he could cuddle you. Maybe one day that day will come. But for now, you're just silly housemates that's turned into friends.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )

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My Masterlist Masterpost

Arguments and Confessions {part 2.} (housemate!harry series)

[thecuriousbeauty]

You're on your period- Harry Styles Blurb

Word count: 1178

Synopsis: Periods really suck. But not so much when you have a sweet boyfriend to take care of you. (FLUFF!)

You felt like you were going to cry as you opened the freezer and saw that you were out of ice cream. You were looking forward to binge eating that ice cream and watching your favorite show when you get back from work. You had a particularly long day, or maybe you just felt like that because of the piercing pain from your period cramps and your hormones being all over the place. 

You shut the door of the freezer with a sigh, dragging yourself to bed. You curled up, clutching your stomach as another bad wave of pain hits you. You forgot to take some pain meds when you were downstairs, and you were just too tired so you just layed there.Your boyfriend, who you now remember, had helped you finish the last of the ice cream when you had a movie night last week wasn’t home yet, so you phoned him.

“Hey baby! You back home?”, Harry answers and you pout, just wanting to crawl into his arms. “Harry..”

“What’s wrong, darling? Are you okay?” He doesn’t like it when your voice isn’t sounding peppy.

“Nooo..”, you draw out, making Harry frown  as he gets in his car, being done with the studio for the day. “Why is that, baby? Anything I can help with?”

“We ran out of ice cream..can you get some for me please?”, you ask softly, making Harry’s heart melt. He loved when you asked him to get things for you, even if it was something small. 

“Of course, love. You aren’t feeling too good, are you?”, he coos, joining the dots as he remembers the date. He keeps track of your periods too. 

“Nuh uh. I’m having a war with my uterus right now.”, you tell him, making him chuckle softly. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. Anything else you need, baby? Stocked up for the week?”

You really have the sweetest boyfriend. “Yeah, I’m good. Just need you.”

“Aw, I’ll be home soon, my love. You get some rest, yeah?”

You hummed, closing your eyes already. “Love you.”

“I love you too. Oh, what flavor did you want?”

“Flavor?”, you smirk, and Harry laughs. “The ice cream flavor, silly.”

___________________________________

Harry didn’t just buy you ice cream. He got you your favorite packet of chips, some chocolate and some other snacks you liked. He kept it all in the kitchen and went upstairs to find you. You had dozed off while waiting for him, and he smiled as he took you in, walking to you quietly. He leaned down, gently brushing his fingers across your forehead, brushing away strands of your hair that fell onto your face. 

He thought not to wake you up and just slide into bed so he could give you a cuddle, but he spotted a stain on your shorts that would leak into the sheets soon. He didn’t mind, but he knew you would, so he gently kisses you awake with some kisses. 

You wake up to his feather soft kisses on your skin, a contrast to your aching stomach. You open your eyes and Harry gives you a smile. “How’re you doing, love?”

“Not good, it hurts.”, you mumble, sighing as he presses a kiss to your temple. “Oh, baby. You wanna take a warm shower, maybe? You’ve uh, got a bit of blood on your shorts.”

Your eyes widened and you quickly looked down to your shorts and around the bed. “Shit..I’m sorry babe, I fell asleep and didn’t realize-”

“-Hey, hey, it’s okay, sweetheart.”, he says, giving you his hand to help you out of bed. Thankfully, the blood hadn’t seeped into your sheets yet. “See, the sheets are fine. If it wasn’t, I’d change them, nothing to be sorry about.”, Harry tells you, and you smile softly, leaning to his side carefully, giving him a side hug. 

“I’ve got you some snacks too. After you’re feeling all fresh, we can cuddle up on the couch with a movie, hm?”

You nod, pressing your lips to his, giving him a kiss. “That sounds good.”

Harry lets you take care of your business and shower. He also got changed and set up all the food with a movie, bringing your fuzzy blanket to the couch. He got your heating pad and your pain meds ready as well.

You slouched over downstairs in one of Harry’s shirts and another pair of your shorts, making him smile at how cute you looked. Your hair was up in a messy bun, and you had no makeup on your face, but to him, you were gorgeous.

He opens his arms, and you fall into them, crawling onto his lap. “How was your day?”

“Good, good. Got some recording done, but I’ll probably do the same part again tomorrow. I missed you.”, he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, holding you close to him with arm as he leans over to grab the pain meds. “Here, take these, love.”

You swallowed them down with the water he gave you and rested your head on his chest, snuggling up to his warmth. 

While you tell him about your day, he slides the heating pad under your shirt to keep it over your tummy, before adjusting you on his lap and bringing the fuzzy blanket around you. One of his hands slips inside to rub your lower back in firm circles, with just the right amount of pressure, making you feel relaxed. When you told him about your ice cream craving, he immediately grabbed the tub and gave you the spoon so you can start digging in. 

“Thanks for all this, you’re the best.” You kiss him. 

“Only the best for you.”, he says, smiling as he watches you scoop some of the ice cream into your mouth and hum as the cold desert with the luscious chocolate hits just the right spots. “That good, huh?” Harry laughs.

“Yes! Here, I’m willing to share.”, You fed him some too. “Mm, that’s good.”, he agrees. You watch the movie for some time.

“Is the pain going away?”, he asks, pressing kisses to your hair and you smile, kissing his jaw. One of his hands still stayed on your back, and the other was playing with your hair. “Mhmm. You make it better.”

“I’m glad.” He smiles, stroking his thumb over your cheek. “Hate to see my baby in pain.” You blush, looking up at your handsome boyfriend. “I really like you, you know?”

He scoffs out a laugh, pinching your cheek. “You really like me? Give that ice cream back.” He moves his hand to your side, his fingertips dancing over your skin as he looks at with a glint in his eyes. He adores you. 

You giggle, going to grab his hand as it threatens to tickle you. “Correction! I really love you.”

“Hm, you better.” Harry nudges his nose against your cheek, pulling you impossibly closer to him. You laugh, and he takes your chin, giving you a kiss. “Cause I really love you too.”

_______________________________________________

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[stylesonfilms]

Where The Quiet Was - One [h.s]

series summary: In the cold northern kingdom of Alderham, King Harry Styles rules with silence, steel, and a legacy he never asked for. Raised to believe emotion is weakness, he commands with distance—his crown a burden worn without question, his twin brother a shadow he’s long tried to outpace. Far south in the polished courts of Edevane, Margaret Fitzgerald is the daughter no one sees. Quiet, overlooked, and dressed in the remnants of her sister’s life, she exists on the edges of a family that prizes beauty and ambition; neither of which were ever hers. What follows is not a love story. It is a reckoning. A tale of power, silence, and what happens when two people find themselves undone not by war or betrayal, but by the quiet things no one ever dares to say aloud. Based off "Lover, You Should Come Over" by Jeff Buckley. warnings: none, will be posted with each chapter. word count: 6.4k a/n: welcome to chapter 1! sit back and enjoy. forgive me for any mistakes, i've had sleepy brain all day. please don't let me flop!! <3

Margaret woke to the hollow creak of the rafters and the soft clatter of footsteps below. The hour before dawn had always belonged to first light, when the blackened hills surrounding Edevane began to shimmer faintly with the gold of waking lanterns. From her narrow attic window, Margaret could see pinpricks of flame bobbing along the curved roads—the villagers and street workers moving like ghosts across the dark, lifting their torches high to hook them onto the iron posts that lined the sloping hills.

The house was already alive beneath her. Sharp voices floated up through the floorboards—her mother's brisk orders, her sister’s light laughter, the clatter of servants preparing trunks and parcels for the journey ahead. Another maid had mercifully taken the morning shift, sparing Margaret from having to sweep hearths and draw bathwater before she could even think to dress. A small grace, rare enough not to question.

She slipped from her thin mattress, wincing as the creaky bedframe gave a low, protesting groan that seemed far too loud in the stillness of early morning. Her toes met the chill of the attic’s wooden floor, the boards worn smooth with age and dust. The air smelled faintly of moth-eaten linen, old stone, and something else, perhaps something forgotten, like the lingering ghost of candle smoke from nights long past. Here, at the highest point of Briarbourne Hall, it always felt like time had stopped moving.

Margaret gathered the dress she had laid carefully at the foot of her bed the night before, a patchwork of hand-me-downs and salvaged fabrics, lovingly sewn together in the hours no one cared to notice she was missing. The soft square neckline complimented the frill at the bottom. She pressed the bundle of cloth to her chest and tiptoed across the attic, careful to avoid the loudest of the floorboards, until she reached the narrow, rickety stair that led down to the servants’ entrance.

The back door groaned on its hinges as she slipped outside into the pale breath of dawn. The world was still half-asleep; the gardens were blanketed in mist, and the stones of the courtyard were slick with dew. Margaret padded barefoot across the cold, uneven stones to where a fresh bucket of water and clean cloths had been left at the corner by the kitchen maids.

Kneeling beside the bucket, she set her dress safely atop a dry patch of stone and braced herself. The water was bitterly cold, biting at her skin like needles. She splashed her face, her neck, her arms, scrubbing quickly with a coarse linen cloth. The roughness scratched at her skin, leaving it tingling and pink, but it washed away the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.

The world around her stirred to life: the low hum of distant conversation, the rhythmic clink of metal as the lantern lighters worked the hillsides beyond the Hall. She could just make out their tiny figures moving against the horizon, their soft voices carrying on the crisp air as they hooked the last of the night’s lanterns onto tall wooden posts. First light was creeping steadily over Edevane now, spilling pale gold across the fields, catching in the lace of fog still tangled in the hedgerows.

Margaret hurriedly dried herself off, her fingers stiff with cold, and slipped into her homemade dress. It hung loose around her slender frame, the seams slightly crooked where she had sewn them by candlelight. She tied the thin, worn sash around her waist and smoothed the wrinkled fabric with trembling hands, willing it to look presentable—though she knew it never truly would.

For a moment, she lingered outside, drawing in the fresh, damp scent of the morning; the earth, the moss, the faint trace of woodsmoke from distant cottages. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it: the fleeting quiet, the freedom of being unseen.

But there was no time to waste. She turned back to the Hall, pulling open the back door once more, and crept up the narrow servants’ stair to her attic. The air grew thinner with each step, the ceiling slanting sharply until she had to duck to avoid the low beams. The attic was dim and cramped, but it was hers, and that counted for something.

Crossing the tiny room in a few strides, she knelt by the small, battered trunk tucked beneath the eaves. It was her secret trove, the only corner of the world she could call her own. Carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a neatly folded mended shawl, a handful of worn, dog-eared books, and a journal bound in cracked brown leather.

Sitting on the edge of her frail bed, Margaret let the worn journal settle in her lap, the cracked leather cool beneath her fingertips. She opened it carefully, mindful of the fragile spine, and a thin photograph, tucked between the first pages, fluttered free. It drifted down like a falling leaf and landed soundlessly against her skirt.

She stared at it for a moment before picking it up between her trembling fingers.

The photograph was aged nearly to sepia, its edges curling inward, browned and delicate from the slow burn of time. Yet the image it held was stubbornly clear, stubbornly sharp enough to sting. It showed her family standing tall before the pristine façade of Briarbourne Hall in its younger days, when the stone was still new, the paint still bright, the gardens lush and untamed.

There was Nora at the center, poised and regal even then, her hand resting lightly on Thomas’s arm. Thomas stood stiff-backed and unsmiling, a man already heavy with the expectations of legacy. Beatrice was a bright flare beside them, her hair in glossy ringlets, her small face beaming with the easy assurance of someone destined to be adored.

And there—off to the side, almost out of frame—was Margaret.

Three years old, dwarfed by the grandeur around her, her hair a wild tangle that caught the light like spun gold. Her small hand was curled tightly around her mother’s, her round cheeks flushed from play. She looked up toward Nora, wide-eyed, expectant, clinging.

A memory unspooled itself, as fragile as the breath of winter across glass.

They had been running, she and Beatrice, through the tall grasses in the field behind the house, where the earth still smelled sweet and alive and the wind tangled itself in their hair. Margaret remembered the feeling of the grass brushing against her legs, the sun hot on her back, her heart hammering in the way only a child's could—with no fear, only delight.

Beatrice, in a white muslin dress, ran ahead with all the effortless grace that would one day turn heads in every ballroom. Margaret stumbled after her, skirts hiked up awkwardly in both fists, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably from her lips. She could still hear it—the high, shrill giggle of uncontained joy.

Nora had stood by the great oak tree at the edge of the field, skirts gathered in one hand, her other hand shading her eyes as she watched them. There had been no sternness then, no sharp tongue or cutting glance. Only a laugh; light, unguarded, almost girlish.

"Margie, slow down before you topple!" her mother had called, her voice bright with laughter, the smile stretching across her usually severe mouth like a miracle.

‘Margie.’ The name hung in Margaret’s mind like a ghost.

It was a name she hadn’t heard in years, one that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely, a girl who had once been cherished, if only fleetingly. A girl who had once been seen.

The memory trembled like a flame in a breeze, threatening to go out. It felt brittle now, foreign, as though it had been pressed too hard against the waking reality of her life and had cracked under the strain. A dream she wasn't sure had ever truly belonged to her.

Margaret touched the photograph with aching gentleness, her thumb brushing the faded faces. She half-feared that if she looked too long, they might vanish altogether—this brief, golden sliver of a past that had long since been buried beneath years of cold glances and clipped orders.

She closed her eyes and held the photo against her chest, letting herself feel, for just a moment, the ghost of the warmth that had once been hers.

“Margaret Jones!”

Her father's voice, sharp, commanding, and utterly devoid of affection, sliced through the thin attic door like the crack of a whip.

She startled, the photograph slipping from her fingers and landing soundlessly on the worn floorboards. Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Fingers fumbling, she gathered the fragile photograph and journal, tucking them hastily back into the battered trunk as if hiding away a guilty secret.

Below, the house had roused into a flurry of activity. She could hear the heavy thud of trunks being carried down the stairs, the shuffle of hurried feet on stone floors, the clipped farewells of servants they would leave behind. First light was brushing up against the horizon now, gilding the attic windowpanes in a thin, cold silver. The carriage would not wait for her.

Margaret smoothed her dress with quick, trembling hands, feeling the rough weave catch against her calloused fingers. She squared her shoulders, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, and slipped out of the attic.

The air grew colder as she descended the narrow staircase, the grandness of Briarbourne Hall pressing down with every step. The once-warm home of her childhood now loomed with the icy stiffness of a house grown used to her silence.

In the main hall, Beatrice spun before a tall, gilt-framed mirror, her new satin traveling cloak flaring out around her in glossy ripples, catching the light like water. She laughed—a light, tinkling sound rehearsed for the ears of courtiers—and Nora stood nearby, adjusting a fold in her daughter's sleeve, her face soft with approval.

Thomas stood apart, checking the time against his polished pocket watch, the glint of gold catching the edge of his cold gaze. He looked up briefly, his mouth thinning in irritation at the sight of Margaret before snapping the watch closed with a click of finality.

"You lot look lovely," Margaret offered into the charged air, her voice small, careful, the words as practiced as a prayer she no longer believed in. She kept her slim fingers clasped behind her, thumbs fiddling in anticipation. It had been months since Margaret had left the palace past the gates, besides for a usual gather for produce at the markets.

Beatrice turned just enough to catch Margaret's eye, her lips curling into a slow, triumphant smirk that didn’t reach her coldly shining eyes. Nora gave only the faintest of nods in acknowledgment, her fingers already back at work adjusting the angle of Beatrice’s bonnet, ensuring every ribbon and bow sat with effortless perfection.

Margaret bowed her head, murmuring another hollow compliment she knew they would not hear, and accepted the shawl a waiting maid thrust into her arms with mechanical indifference. She wrapped it around her shoulders, grateful at least for the meager shield against the creeping morning chill.

Within moments, they were ushered out into the courtyard. The air was sharp and biting, carrying the fresh scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Margaret flinched as the cold kissed her cheeks, but she kept her expression still, trained. Before them loomed the family carriage, grand and heavy, its deep blue panels freshly polished and emblazoned with the Fitzgerald crest—a bear rampant, roaring in silent pride.

Margaret climbed in after her parents, tucking herself into the farthest corner of the plush interior. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her fingers tightening until her knuckles turned white as the horses stamped and frothed impatiently at the bit, their breath pluming in the frosty air.

The carriage gave a lurch, the wheels groaning as they began their long journey northward. Margaret kept her eyes on the road ahead, refusing to look back at Briarbourne Hall, its chimneys silhouetted against the awakening sky.

The path stretched out before them—four long hours through misted hills, along roads that wound through shadowed woods where light struggled to reach. Alderham was waiting at the end of it, a place Margaret had only ever heard of in careful murmurs and wary warnings, a place of power and cold stone and royal blood.

She pressed her palm against the windowpane, watching as the mist thickened, swallowing the world in a pale gray hush.

Somewhere beyond that veil of fog, Wrosley Keep loomed, patient and immovable.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The great hall of Wrosley Keep stood as still as a tomb, thick with a silence that settled deep into the stone walls. Only the occasional crack of the hearth fire gnawing at its last stubborn logs offered any sign of life, the sound snapping sharply in the heavy air. Morning light, dim and shrouded by Alderham’s eternal mist, slanted weakly through the narrow, arched windows, painting long, wan stripes across the cold flagstone floor. The lingering fog outside made even the bold banners on the high walls seem muted, their colors dulled as if bleached by centuries of waiting.

At the end of the long black oak dining table sat King Harry Styles, solitary at the head, his figure carved out in stark lines against the throne-like chair he occupied. His posture was ramrod straight, every inch the king he had been raised to be, shoulders squared beneath the heavy cut of his dark jacket. The deep blue fabric, trimmed with subtle silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar, caught the faintest gleam of the firelight. As he meticulously adjusted the cuffs at his wrist, the small movements spoke volumes—rituals of control, of composure sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hair, dark and thick, was neatly combed back from his brow, not a strand out of place. It gleamed faintly in the low light, the rich, natural wave of it tamed into order, like everything else about him.

Across the vast, yawning stretch of table—too long for comfort, too cold for true conversation—his twin brother, Edward, slouched in his chair with a boneless ease that seemed almost deliberately disrespectful. His ankles were crossed lazily beneath the table, boots scuffed with the dust of some unspoken misadventure, and his shoulders slumped as if the very notion of formality was a burden too great to bear.

A young maid, pale, slight, and visibly trembling, moved with silent urgency as she set down the last of the polished silver cutlery. Her hands fluttered like nervous birds. She offered a low, swift curtsey, her head bowed so low the limp ties of her apron brushed the floor. Without daring a glance at either brother, she backed out of the hall, the soft scrape of the door closing behind her like the final note of a funeral march.

Then Edward moved, quick and careless. He seized the metal lid covering his breakfast and tore it free with a theatrical flourish. It clattered noisily across the gleaming surface of the table, spinning and skipping like a tossed shield until it collided with a silver pitcher at the center with a metallic bang.

The echo rolled through the cavernous hall.

Harry’s jaw tightened so sharply a muscle leapt in his cheek, the only betrayal of his irritation. His hand paused mid-motion, fork hovering just above his plate.

"Must you behave like an ungoverned hound?" Harry said without lifting his gaze, each syllable clipped and wrapped in the kind of low, withering disdain that could wither even the boldest spirit.

Edward only chuckled, a deep, lazy sound, utterly unfazed by the rebuke. He speared a thick slab of meat with a single, cavalier jab of his fork, dragging it toward himself with a scraping sound that made Harry’s teeth grind.

"Morning to you as well, brother," Edward said around a mouthful of food, his voice warm with amusement and irreverence.

Harry returned to his meal with the same rigid, silent discipline with which he did everything else. His knife sliced through the ham with clean, efficient strokes, movements so precise they might have been measured with a ruler. Every bite was deliberate, not a crumb or smear of sauce left as evidence of indulgence.

In sharp contrast, Edward wielded his utensils with the gracelessness of a street brawler—switching hands without care, sawing into bread and meat with the same dull knife, elbows planted firmly on the table as he leaned forward like a boy who had never been taught a single table manner. He lounged and sprawled and ate without shame, his dark hair tied back haphazardly in a leather cord, the ends curling rebelliously against the nape of his neck.

After several minutes of taut silence, broken only by the muted scrape of silver against china and the distant whisper of the fire, Edward flung his fork down with a clatter that rang out across the cavernous hall. He leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, the legs of it creaking beneath his lazy sprawl. His long hair, having worked itself free from its earlier binding, spilled in unruly waves over the crumpled shoulders of his shirt, the loose strands catching the weak light like dulled copper. His collar was undone at the throat, exposing the smooth, bronzed skin of his collarbone, and his sleeves were shoved up past his elbows in a careless, half-drunk sort of fashion.

"So," Edward drawled, his voice rough with sleep and sarcasm, "the illustrious Fitzgeralds are due to arrive today?"

Harry did not immediately respond. He merely gave the smallest nod, so slight it might have been mistaken for the tilt of a shadow, his attention never once wavering from the careful, measured cuts he made into his meal. His movements were slow and deliberate, each slice of his knife a whisper against the plate.

Edward shifted, reaching for the nearest loaf of bread. He tore at it absently with long, calloused fingers, shredding the crust as a hawk might rip into a hare, his posture slouched and feral despite the grandeur around him. The pieces fell onto his plate in a rough pile, forgotten as quickly as they were made.

"What’s the fuss about, then?" Edward said, tossing a scrap of bread into his mouth and speaking around it. "Bit far to travel just for tea and pleasantries, isn’t it?"

Harry’s hand paused. He set his utensils down with almost surgical care, the faint clink of polished silver on fine china disturbingly soft. Without a word, he lifted his gaze; cool, commanding, and edged with warning.

"They need our help," he said simply, each word clipped and weighted, his tone stripped of any warmth or sympathy.

Edward snorted into his goblet, the low, derisive sound ricocheting off the stone walls. He tossed another piece of bread onto his plate with a bored flick of his fingers.

"Help?" he echoed, his mouth curling into a smirk. "Why would we waste our time bailing out a family with more pride than sense?"

Harry offered no immediate reply. Instead, he resumed his meal with mechanical precision, methodically cutting into another slice of ham. The blade of his knife bit through the tender meat with a quiet, clean hiss, like the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

"It is not a matter of want," Harry said at last, his voice low and implacable, like the slow shifting of stone beneath a mountain. "It is a matter of duty."

Edward tilted his head, studying his twin as if he were some curious artifact, grinning as though Harry’s words were the punchline of a particularly dry jest.

"Ah yes," Edward said, leaning forward with a theatrical air. "Our sacred duty. To lift the burdens of lesser houses. How terribly noble of us."

For the first time, a flicker of real irritation crossed Harry’s face. His fingers tightened minutely around the handle of his knife, the knuckles whitening, but he gave no other sign that Edward’s mockery had landed. He finished the bite he had prepared with methodical grace, then reached for the linen cloth beside his plate, dabbing the corner of his mouth with restrained, practiced elegance.

"You will remember your place when they arrive," Harry said after a beat, each syllable sliding out slow and deliberate, like the grinding turn of a rusted key in a stubborn lock.

Edward only grinned wider, raising his goblet in a mock salute that dripped insolence. His hair fell untamed around his face, the wild strands catching the muted gray light and turning it to glinting fire.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, sharpening into a cutting stare that could have chilled molten iron.

"And for God's sake," Harry said, the words bitten off as coldly as the northern cliffs outside, "bind your damned hair. You look like some half-bred poet loitering at court doors."

Edward laughed a low, reckless sound that spilled far too loudly into the solemn vastness of the great hall. It was the laugh of someone who cared little for consequences, who had built a life on poking at the sharp edges of his brother’s patience.

Still, under the weight of Harry’s blistering gaze, Edward eventually dragged a hand through his hair with exaggerated compliance, shoving the tangled mass back from his face and tying it off with a rough leather thong he fished from his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate, mocking.

"You do love your little spectacles of propriety," Edward mused, voice full of half-hearted admiration as he slouched even farther down in his chair, the picture of unruliness disguised as nonchalance.

"And you," Harry said, returning to his meal with a cool finality, "love humiliating yourself."

With that, the room lapsed once more into a brittle, strained silence, broken only by the steady scrape of knife against plate, the low pop of the hearth, and the distant, hollow thrum of the banners outside Wrosley Keep flapping against the oncoming storm.

The Fitzgeralds would arrive by afternoon. And Harry intended to be ready.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The carriage rattled over the uneven roads that wound through the countryside of Edevane, the early morning sun now fully risen and casting pale gold across the fields. Dust and the sweet, heavy scent of wet earth kicked up in their wake. The horses' hooves clattered rhythmically against the stone-laid roads, a steady drumbeat beneath the low chatter of birds darting from the hedgerows.

Margaret sat tightly beside her sister, her shoulder brushing against the overstuffed skirts of Beatrice’s traveling gown. The silk and tulle ballooned against the cramped quarters, forcing Margaret to shrink inward all the more. She folded her hands primly in her lap, her patched dress of stitched scraps looking even sadder beside her sister’s fine lavender silks, the fabric catching the light like mist.

Their parents sat across from them, poised and straight-backed despite the jostling of the carriage wheels. Lord Thomas Fitzgerald barely moved a muscle, his gloved hands resting on an ivory-handled cane, while Lady Nora kept herself busied with small, constant adjustments—pulling her shawl closer, smoothing the folds of her gown, glancing sharply now and then toward Beatrice.

"Remember," Nora said sharply, her voice slicing through the confined air, "head high. Shoulders back. Speak with care and caution. You are not merely our daughter today, you are the future face of this family."

Beatrice gave a demure nod, twirling the end of one pale glove between her fingers with a casual grace that was well-practiced.

Margaret said nothing. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane, letting her gaze blur over the endless roll of green and gold hills, the shadowed woods beyond them. Occasionally, a village boy or a weary farmer would pause to watch the passing carriage, hats tugged low over their brows, but Margaret hardly saw them. She let the rhythm of the horses, the creak of the wheels, the distant shushing of the bushes along the roadside lull her into a quiet fog.

"How grand it shall be," Beatrice said, breaking the stillness with a voice touched by barely restrained excitement. "To show my face properly this time. To be seen not as a child, but as the next heir. Imagine it… the future of Fitzgerald resting in my hands."

She smiled, the kind of smile that was all white teeth and ambition hidden behind a curtain of charm.

Lady Nora offered her daughter a thin, pleased smile in return. "You have been groomed for this, Beatrice. Do not forget it. And should fortune favor us..." She leaned slightly forward, voice dropping low and intent, "you may well have the opportunity to become Harry Styles’ missus."

At this, Beatrice's cheeks pinked with barely concealed glee. Margaret sat still, her gaze dropping to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"The more the brothers, moreso Harry, favor us," Nora continued briskly, "the better our standing. We require their allegiance as much as they require the appearance of unity. Do not embarrass us. And do not think for a moment they will forgive carelessness."

Thomas grunted in vague agreement, his eyes still trained out the window.

A sudden tap of fingers against the carriage wall snapped Margaret back to attention.

"And you," Lady Nora said sharply, her steely gaze fixing on Margaret like a hawk's on a mouse. "You will speak only if you are spoken to. When you greet the brothers, you will curtsy politely and say nothing more unless addressed."

Margaret turned her head, sitting straighter, folding her patched skirts beneath her with aching care.

"Yes, my lady," she murmured, her voice low, nearly lost beneath the clatter of hooves.

"You will stand behind us," Nora continued, voice crisp. "You will not interfere. You will not embarrass yourself, or us. Should you be asked to leave, you will do so without hesitation."

Thomas said nothing. He never did when it came to Margaret. His gaze remained pinned out the opposite window, as though she were merely another piece of luggage making the journey.

Margaret bowed her head obediently, feeling the familiar flush of shame rise up the back of her neck. Her palms, folded tightly in her lap, left small damp prints against the fabric of her skirt.

"Of course, mother," she whispered, offering a curt nod.

Beatrice gave a small, satisfied smirk and returned to adjusting the lace cuffs at her wrists, as if the matter were settled beyond all dispute.

The carriage jostled sharply over a rut, and Margaret’s head knocked lightly against the wooden frame of the window. She hardly flinched. She only turned her face back toward the glass, watching the misty hills of Alderham grow nearer with each lurching turn of the wheels.

The air seemed to grow colder the farther north they traveled, the fields giving way to long stretches of moorland, where the wind bent the grasses low and dark clouds loomed distantly along the horizon. Somewhere ahead, hidden among the hills and cliffs, lay Wrosley Keep—the seat of the House of Styles.

Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to chase away the chill creeping into her bones.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The long hall of the north wing was chilled with the breath of the early morning fog, a low mist pressing against the tall windows like ghostly fingers. Beyond the glass, the fields of Alderham stretched out in a pale, colorless sprawl, the sun straining through the mist in gauzy ribbons of gold, as if the world itself was still waking, hesitant to embrace the new day.

Harry Styles stood in stillness at the window, one gloved hand resting lightly on the cold stone ledge, his eyes lost in the view that had become so familiar it barely registered anymore. His reflection, sharp and princely, stared back at him through the pale glass, the contours of his face sharpened by the dim light. His dark blue coat, cut sharply across his broad shoulders, swept neatly to the tops of his polished black boots, the fabric rich and heavy, like the weight of his title. A brooch bearing the House of Styles sigil, a lion crowned with ivy, clipped his heavy velvet cloak at the throat, glimmering faintly under the low sun. Beneath the cloak, a crisp white cravat was tied precisely at his collar, the folds symmetrical and flawless. His black waistcoat fit snug against his chest, the fabric stitched with faint embroidery in thread so dark it was barely visible unless caught in the right light, a detail most would miss but one that only added to the meticulous perfection of his appearance.

A pocket watch gleamed in his hand, the silver casing flashing briefly as he thumbed open the lid and checked the time. They were due any moment now.

The Fitzgeralds.

Their meeting had been arranged through a careful back-and-forth of handwritten letters, sealed with too much wax, and couched in the kind of formalities that Harry found irksome but unavoidable. The need for this meeting was not one born of mutual respect or kinship, but necessity. The Fitzgeralds needed money after the unfortunate, very public collapse of a portion of their estate wealth. It had become a scandal, one that could not be ignored, especially given how they had once been among the most influential families in the kingdom.

Harry, urged by Edward’s strange, persistent prodding, had agreed to this... display of generosity. At first, it had seemed like nothing more than an act of diplomacy, an arrangement to maintain the delicate balance of power between noble houses. But Edward had insisted, his voice heavy with persuasive charm, that this could be more, much more. Pity, Edward had argued, was not weakness if wielded properly. It was power: the power to bestow favor, to raise up those who could not stand on their own, and in doing so, show the kingdom that King Harry Styles was not just a ruler but a savior.

The thought of it left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth. It was so very... calculated. So very Edward. He had always been the one to see power in places where others saw only weakness, to turn the very act of charity into a tool of dominance. And Harry, always the more cautious, had reluctantly agreed. There was no real danger in extending a hand to the Fitzgeralds. They would remain beneath him, as all others did. Their presence at Wrosley Keep was a show, nothing more—proof of his strength disguised as kindness, as benevolence.

The thought lingered in his mind, cold and steady, until a sharp voice echoed down the hall, dragging him from his thoughts.

"Your Majesty."

The voice was unmistakable. Edward.

Harry didn’t bother to turn, his expression already sliding into a mask of polite restraint.

Edward emerged from the west wing archway, his wild hair now tamed into a neat bun tied with a slim ribbon of red silk at the crown of his head. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves tucked into a black waistcoat, silver buttons gleaming, and fitted dark trousers tucked into knee-high riding boots. There was a rakish elegance about him, like a man pretending at courtly behavior but unable, or unwilling, to hide the scoundrel underneath.

"You’re late," Harry’s lips tightened, the words slipping out like the snap of a drawn bowstring. His hand flexed once around the smooth casing of the pocket watch before he snapped the lid shut with a sharp click and tucked it back into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. The movement was crisp, exacting, as if even small gestures could not afford to be careless.

With a slow, practiced stillness, he turned toward the direction of the voice, his frame rigid beneath the heavy drape of his cloak. His face, honed into an expression of distant resolve, betrayed none of the irritation that simmered low beneath his skin.

Edward grinned in response, wide and unbothered, his stance a study in irreverence. His dark cloak hung open and loose at his sides, the finer points of his attire rumpled with a careless charm that somehow only made him look more princely, not less.

"I’m early by my own clock," Edward said lightly, voice lilting with amusement as he strolled forward, hands tucked lazily behind his back.

Harry’s eyes flickered once, a brief roll of temper he was too well-trained to fully show. "You don’t have a clock," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Edward, as he brushed an invisible crease from the sleeve of his coat and adjusted the cuffs with slow, deliberate precision.

"All the more reason I’m never wrong," Edward replied with a shrug, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. He came to stand beside Harry, their twin reflections caught faintly in the dim glass of the window—two halves of the same whole, yet impossibly different.

The hall stretched wide around them, a cavern of stone and echo, lined with suits of armor that glinted dully in the thin, reluctant light. Tapestries bearing the ancient crest of their house stirred slightly from the draft seeping through the cracks in the stone walls. Every sound, the scrape of a heel, the breath of the fog beyond the windows, seemed amplified by the vast emptiness.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath controlled, tempered, as he turned his gaze toward the distant outline of the main gates, barely visible through the thick white gauze of mist that clung to the outer courtyard. The carriages would be there soon, he knew. The sound of wheels grinding over gravel, the snort of impatient horses, the flutter of banners—he could almost hear it already, ghosting through the cold air.

Without looking at Edward, Harry lifted one hand, a sharp, commanding gesture, and called out, "Open the gates. They’ll arrive shortly."

His words cracked across the space like a whip. Down the hall, the guards straightened at attention, the polished steel of their armor flashing briefly in the dim light. With practiced efficiency, they bowed low, the motion deep and synchronized, before sweeping away toward the outer doors with the hollow thud of boots against stone and the low, rhythmic clank of armor plates shifting.

The brothers remained where they stood, silent as sentinels.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hush of the empty hall, thick with waiting, and the soft, ceaseless groan of the wind pressing against the high windows. Somewhere farther off, the faint metallic moan of the gate mechanisms starting to turn echoed up through the stone like the slow stirring of some great beast waking from slumber.

Harry watched without moving, his posture a portrait of patience sharpened into a weapon. Edward, beside him, rocked back slightly on his heels, humming a soft, tuneless sound under his breath, as if the moment's gravity did not touch him at all.

As Edward rocked idly on his heels, the soles of his boots made the faintest creak against the flagstones. He tilted his head, casting a sidelong glance at Harry, who stood rigid as a drawn sword beside him.

"Tell me again why we’re offering a lifeline to a family that couldn’t even keep their coffers guarded?" Edward asked, his voice low, coaxing, almost playful.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the skin as he remained unmoving, his gaze locked out toward the mist-veiled road. The fog lay thick and heavy, muting the edges of the world beyond the gates into little more than ghostly outlines.

"Because it is our duty," Harry said at last, his tone clipped and cool as a blade's edge. "A king does not merely conquer. He uplifts, when it suits him."

His words held the weight of a rehearsed lesson, something he had long ago carved into himself with careful precision. Yet even now, the bitterness laced subtly through his voice, a reminder that duty rarely tasted sweet.

Edward smirked, slow and crooked, the kind of smile meant to provoke. "Sounds like you’re going soft," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed mischief.

In a single, fluid motion, Harry turned to face him. His cloak snapped behind him with the sharp crack of heavy velvet slicing the cold air. The movement was so sudden, so forceful, that Edward instinctively straightened, the lazy smirk lingering but his posture subtly less mocking.

Harry’s glare pinned him where he stood; cold, searing, and honed with the precision of a dagger’s thrust.

"Say that again at court," Harry said, his voice low enough to be a warning, "and see how fast you find yourself posted to the borderlands."

The threat, though spoken softly, hit like a slap. The borderlands, windswept, treacherous, and crawling with unrest, were not where one went to bask in favor. It was where inconvenient men were sent to fade into obscurity, or die.

Edward raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, the chain at his wrist glinting faintly as it caught the dim light. Laughter flickered in his dark eyes, the easy, reckless kind that had always marked him as Harry’s greatest frustration, and perhaps his only true equal.

"As you say, Your Majesty," Edward teased, sketching an irreverent half-bow that was far too casual to be respectful. His tone danced on the edge of mockery, but there was an acknowledgment buried beneath it, a deference neither of them would ever admit aloud.

Harry said nothing in return. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back beneath the heavy drape of his cloak, adjusting the set of it until it fell in precise, commanding folds. His gloved hands smoothed down the front of his coat, each movement methodical, controlled.

Without another word, the two of them turned and began to move in measured strides down the long hall toward the main entrance. Their boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm, echoing faintly through the cavernous space.

The air between them, though outwardly casual, thrummed with an electric tension—the constant, unspoken current that ran deep between twin brothers who had been raised together yet shaped by the crown to walk entirely different paths.

Outside, the ancient iron gates had begun to groan open, the sound deep and grating, like the yawning of some slumbering beast. Mist coiled greedily through the widening gap, spilling over the gravel like thick smoke from an unseen fire.

From beyond the wall of fog came the soft, rhythmic crunch of hooves meeting gravel, steady and deliberate.

The horses slowed, their breath misting the cold air in great silver plumes. A black carriage, lacquered to a mirror shine and bearing the Fitzgerald family crest, emerged slowly from the mist and drew to a halt before the steps of Wrosley Keep.

Their guests had arrived.

[onedirection-oneshot]

Safe in His Arms

The first thing I noticed was the dull ache in my lower abdomen. Then, the damp, uncomfortable feeling between my legs. My stomach twisted—not just from the cramps but from realization. My period.

I groaned internally, my face scrunching up as I shifted slightly. That’s when I felt it—Niall’s strong arms wrapped securely around me, holding me against his warm chest. His breathing was soft and even, still deep in sleep. I hated to move, but I needed to get to the bathroom now.

Carefully, I began to untangle myself from him, but even in his sleep, he held on. His arm tightened slightly around my waist as he buried his face into my neck, murmuring something incoherent. I smiled softly despite the discomfort, running my fingers lightly over his forearm.

“Niall,” I whispered. No response.

I tried again, wiggling free bit by bit until I was finally able to slip out of his grasp. His body instinctively curled into the warm spot I left behind, and I hesitated for just a moment, watching him. His golden hair was an absolute mess, lips slightly parted as he slept peacefully. Even in the dim morning light, he looked absolutely beautiful.

I forced myself to move, wincing as another sharp cramp hit. Wrapping my arms around my stomach, I hurried into the en-suite bathroom, flicking on the light. As soon as I pulled down my now red sploched knickers, I sighed. Yep. Definitely bled through.

Moving quickly, I cleaned myself up, changing into a fresh pair of underwear and grabbing a pad from the cabinet. My body still ached, my stomach twisting in discomfort, but at least now I felt slightly better.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, my eyes immediately landed on the bed. Something was different.

The sheets.

They were fresh. Clean. Changed.My stomach dropped.

Niall was now sitting up against the headboard, his eyes on me, a small reassuring smile on his face.

“Morning, love,” he murmured, voice husky from sleep. i barely heard him. My face burned as I slowly walked over to the bed. “Did I… did I bleed through?” I asked hesitantly, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.

He nodded. “Yeah, but it’s no big deal. I changed the sheets while you were in the bathroom.”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Niall…”

“What?” he asked, his tone light, amused even. "That’s so embarrassing,” I mumbled, peeking at him through my fingers.

His lips curled into a smirk as he reached for me, pulling me effortlessly back into bed. “Don’t be silly,” he murmured against my hair. “It’s just a bit of blood, babe. I really don’t mind.” I sighed, resting my cheek against his bare chest. The warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing—it was comforting.

“You didn’t have to change the sheets,” I whispered after a moment.

“Course, I did. You were busy, so I helped. That’s what we do, isn’t it?”

I bit my lip, my heart swelling with love for this man. “You’re too good to me.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Damn right I am, - and you deserve it sweetheart.” he finished in a whisper.

Just then, a sharp cramp tore through my abdomen, making me wince and clutch my stomach instinctively. Niall immediately noticed. “Hurts bad?” he asked softly, concern laced in his voice.

“Yeah,” I admitted, exhaling shakily.

“Stay here,” he whispered, shifting me gently off him. I watched as he swung his legs over the bed and stood up, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Niall, you don’t have to—” He gave me a pointed look. “Stay. Here.”

I didn’t argue.

A few minutes later, he returned, holding a small tray. He set it on the nightstand and sat down beside me, pressing two painkillers into my palm.

“Take these,” he said softly, handing me a glass of water.

I obeyed, swallowing them down before noticing the steaming mug beside him. “Is that…?”

“Hot chocolate,” he confirmed with a proud smile, handing it to me. “With your fabourite mashmallows. Figured you could use something warm.”My heart melted. “You didn’t have to do all this,” I whispered.

“Of course, I did.” He cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across my skin. “It’s my job to take care of my girl.” i smiled, taking a careful sip of the drink. It was warm, sweet, comforting—just like him.

Once I was finished, he pulled me back into his embrace, tucking me against his chest like I belonged there.

“Today, we’re not leaving this bed,” he declared firmly.

i chuckled softly. “Not even for food?”

“I’ll bring it up,” he said confidently. “You just stay here, cuddle me, and let me take care of you.” I sighed contently, snuggling deeper into his warmth. “I love you, you know that?”

“I do,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “And I love you more.”

And just like that, the day melted away in the safest place I could ever be—in his arms.

[myonlyangel13]

hi my absolute fav could u do one where like user and harry are in secondary scl like 2009/2010 and user has her period in school (maybe on sports day or smh) and she’s like DYING and harry feels super bad but it super awkward and doesn’t know how to help rlly? and like dating maybe 4 or 5 months love youuuu

Thank you so much for the request darling🥹🥹 so fun and cute to make!!😚😚

2009 - period cramps | 🩸

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

harry, as venus by botticelli

the birth of harry finally come to life, thanks to the incredible visions depicted in de amore ex tempore, a fic by @persephoneflouwers that has me dreaming like i haven't in a while. thank you <3

[bangchansrose]

the worst part about rediscovering 105 pages of archived one direction fanfic from 2020 is realizing that was when i peaked as a writer

[dearreader-12]

I fear that if I had been like a serious 1D fan as a teen I would have been unstoppable. The whole "just a girl bringing a book to a concert and Harry Styles noticing me" trope, I would have devoured every single one of those fanfics.

[prettystylinson]

Pathos ↠ l.s

"𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝐻𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛?" "𝐴 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛, 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑡? 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑆𝑡𝑦𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡." "𝐻𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛. 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ."

In 1760s London, amidst the grandeur of gilded estates and the shadowy intrigues of high society, Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson are heirs to two of the city's most esteemed families. To the outside world, Harry and Louis present a complicated relationship-a bond that borders on disdain, peppered with moments of what could pass as brotherly camaraderie. Yet, behind closed doors, their connection defies the strict conventions of their world. Beneath the facade of disdain lies an undeniable bond, forbidden and fraught with danger.

𝐼𝑛 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑑𝑢𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑛, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠.

Available on AO3 and Wattpad

[watermelonlovershigh]

can we have a scenario with Harry where the R is on her period and throwing up and harrys just trying his best to comfort her 😫🥺🥺

AN: i hope i did your request justice. luckily i've never had to experience throwing up from my period so i don't know how it's exactly like. so i just hope its kinda sorta accurate in how i describe the cramps making reader feel and get sick. also whoever requested this, please let me know what you think. feedback is really important for us writers.

This story contains: fluff, period leaking (kinda), being sick (puking) due to period cramps, comfort

{ boyfriendrry - soft!harry - think of fine line harry era - harry is not famous in this story }

word count- 2,173

While staying the night at your boyfriend Harry's house, you get your period and then end up getting sick due to painful period cramps.

You've known Harry for about two years. For most of those two years you were just friends. But about a month ago you finally confessed your harboring feelings for each other and now you're officially a thing. A couple. Dating more or less.

Yes you both were scared that if something happened with your relationship that your friendship would be over, but you just had to have a little bit of faith. Faith that no matter what happened your friendship comes first and foremost.

Now because this relationship is fairly new, Harry hasn't seen you at your most vulnerable states yet. Most vulnerable states as in when you're crying or sick or even the ups and downs you go through with your period. Well besides sex because you're both impatient, horny people. Because when you two were just friends, you were mainly friends within a friend group. Meaning you weren't like the closest friends ever.

Though over time you became closer as just friends and that's how you both realized you had feelings for each other. Still, Harry had yet to see you at your low points. But tonight that all changes.

Tonight, you were planning to spend the night at Harry's house. You've spent most nights at his house since becoming girlfriend and boyfriend if you're being honest. You just love the comfort Harry and his home brings to you.

Now unlike most nights that you stay over, you told Harry beforehand that you weren't in the mood for sex. You're not sure why but you had this pit feeling in your stomach that was secretly warning you of what's to come and that made you not want sex tonight.

You even told him if he'd rather you not come over because you didn't want sex to just tell you. But Harry just laughed through the phone and said that was ridiculous. That of course he still wants you to stay over. He doesn't just want to see you because of the sex. He loves you more than that.

The night started off well. Harry had ordered some chinese take-out and you both ate the delicious food while watching a romcom on his sofa. Eventually after you finished eating, you ended up cuddling into one another on the couch with a big fluffy blanket over top of you. That is until you felt the all too familiar feeling of your period starting. "Fuck," you hissed out.

"What?" Harry questioned quickly from his position as the big spoon behind you.

Going to stand up, you replied, "Um, think I started my period." At this point you knew there wasn't any way to hide the fact your period just started because you were staying the night at his house for fucks sake.

Harry had a frown on his face and goes to let you know, "Oh, well that's alright. I have some pad and tampons under my bathroom sink. Keep'um there for things like this." God, you're about ready to marry this man on the spot. His thoughtfulness is killing you.

You nodded your head and said shyly, "Okay, thank you. I'll be right back." You rushed off to the bathroom before you leaked too much in your panties and finally made it in time to collect the products you needed. Harry even bought the good brands too. Bless his heart.

After inserting a tampon and using a pad for extra protection, you were good to go. Except you realized just how tired you were now. It was nearly eleven at night anyways. So when you made it back down the stairs to Harry's living room where he had paused the movie to wait on you, you asked nervously, "Can, um, we just go to bed? I'm kinda tired now."

Without any thought, Harry stood up from the sofa and said, "Yeah, of course. Is everythin' alright with your period though. Need anythin' else?" If he doesn't stop being so nice you will be getting married tomorrow.

You shook your head, "No, I mean, yes I'm okay. Caught it right in time so I didn't leak through my clothes, thankfully. And my cramps usually start a few hours after I start. So I'm not in any pain right now. Just sleepy."

Harry turned the tv off and grabbed your hand to hold while walking up the stairs with you. "Good, but let me know if that changes. Don't be afraid to wake me up, okay. I won't mind." he commented.

A few moments later you were cuddled up in bed and ready to sleep. Your periods always made you extremely tired. Physically and mentally. Then not even five minutes into your cozy cuddles, you were asleep.

----------------------------

As your eyes glance over at Harry's alarm clock you can see the time now is four am. You were sleeping peacefully until you started getting your first wave of period cramps. To hopefully will them away, you take some deep breaths and lay in a fetal position to try and fall back asleep. But you quickly realize that's not going to happen.

Now if you were at your house, you'd go take some medicine to help with your period cramps but beings that you're at your boyfriend's house, you didn't want to risk waking him up. Though he told you he wanted you to wake him if you needed anything, you just couldn't find it in you to do that.

I mean you're not necessarily embarrassed you got your period at Harry's house because he is a grown, mature man that knows women get periods. But it's more so about you being in such a vulnerable position in front of him for the first time. To your luck though, the period and the cramps were not even the worst of your worries right now. It's the creeping nausea that's blooming in your stomach.

You don't always get sick on your periods but you do more often than most you'd say. Like every three period cycles. And it's mostly from the cramps getting so bad that they make you feel and get sick. Oh how you wish on anything that this months period wouldn't be one of the months you get sick on your period. Especially not on a night you're staying at Harry's house.

As you continue to lay in bed beside a sleeping Harry, your cramps get worse and your nausea also gets worse. To the point you know you must get out of bed if you don't want to be sick all over his bed and floor. So you scramble to remove yourself from Harry's duvet and scurry over to his bathroom that's to the right of his room. But due to the room being pitch black, you accidently knock something off the night stand on your side of the bed which in turn wakes Harry up.

At this point you don't care that you've knocked something over nor do you care if it woke Harry up. All that you care about is not being sick on the floor. When you make it inside the bathroom, you flip the light switch on and run over to the toilet. Luckily you have a moment to prepare yourself for what's to come so you reach back to collect your messy hair out of your face and kneel down on the cold, hard floor.

Back in the bedroom, Harry is sat up very confused as to what's going on. The only thing he can assume is that you felt yourself starting to leak and ran to go change your products out. But when he hears your first dry heave, he knows that's not the case. He jumps out of bed and rushes to the bathroom so he can help you in any way he can.

"Hey, hey," Harry coos while finally reaching your kneeled body, "shhh, it's alright. Let it out, y/n. Your tummy will feel so much better." And just like that, after multiple harsh dry heaves, you begin to actually throw up. Which isn't pleasant and especially not pleasant when you ate chinese food for dinner.

Harry replaces your hand with his so he's now the one holding your hair back. You're in so much pain that you barely register he's in the bathroom with you. All you know is that your uterus feels like it's being kicked and punched repeatedly and you're so nauseous because of that.

You throw up for what feels like minutes until you finally catch a break. With his free hand, Harry collects some toilet paper and dabs it around your mouth and nose. Then he tosses it in the toilet and reaches up to flush the nasty contents. You whisper out an embarrassed, "Thank you."

"No need to thank me, love. Hate seein' you like this. Is it your period that's making you sick? Or the chinese? Because if it's the chinese food then I should be a little worried since we ate the same thing." Harry replies.

"No um, forgot to mention but um, sometimes on my periods my cramps get so bad that it makes me get sick. Sorry you're having to see me like this. I know I probably look and smell gross. You can go back to bed if you want."

Biting back, Harry responds, "Hey, y/n, it's totally fine. I understand periods are painful for women. And if it makes you sick then that's alright. But I will do everythin' in my power to help you not feel sick anymore. And I am not leavin' you in here by yourself. I don't care that you're sick in front of me. We are in a relationship so it was gonna happen eventually anyways, right? Now do you still feel like you're going to throw up?"

You answer hoarsely, "Kinda, but if i had some medicine I think that would stop it. It's just my cramps hurt so bad I can barely move."

"Alright," Harry softly speaks, "stay here and let me get you some medicine." He stands up on cracking knees and searches through his medicine cabinet a few feet away. "Okay, here is some zofran for your nausea and here is some pain pills for your period cramps. Let me grab you a cup of water."

After filling a paper cup full of water and collecting the medicine, Harry comes back over to you and kneels down on the hard bathroom floor beside your body. He hands them to you and with shaky hands you take the cup of water and swallow down the pills. Then he grabs the now empty cup back from you and tosses it into the trash can beside the toilet.

Being patient with you, Harry doesn't suggest going back to bed until you feel ready enough to do so. He just sits beside you and gently grazes his fingers up and down your back. Once the zofran has kicked in, you don't feel sick anymore. You just feel achy and slightly gross.

Breaking the silence, you ask, "Can I take a shower and then go back to sleep? I feel all gross but also so tired again."

"Of course you can, baby. Let me get you a towel and an extra pair of clothes from your bag, okay." Harry gets up to do just that and you stand up realizing you need to use the toilet as well. But you'll wait until he returns with your stuff.

When Harry does return with your stuff, he gives your forehead a kiss and says, "Take your time, y/n. I'll be in bed waiting on you. Call for me if you need anythin''." And with that, he leaves and you're finally left alone to use the bathroom and shower.

----------------------------

When you re-enter Harry's bedroom after your shower, you expect to see him fast asleep again. But no, he's propped up in bed watching Friends on the television that hangs on the wall in front of his bed. He turns his head towards you with a sleepy smile on his face. "How was your shower? All good?"

You nod and answer while climbing back into bed beside him. "Mhm, it was good. And um, thank you for taking care of me tonight. Really appreciate it."

"Awe, baby," Harry coos, turning the tv off and helping you move closer to him, "no need to thank me. It kills me to know you sometimes have to deal with your periods side effects alone. I love taking care of you." With your head now on his chest, he tilts his head down to peck your forehead with a kiss and questions, "Is your tummy feelin' better now? Not nauseous anymore?"

Tiredly, you shake your head no against his chest and whisper, "Just slight cramping but nothing like it was before. The medicine is working. Love you."

Knowing you're not in excruciating pain anymore, sleep starts to take over Harry's body too again. But not before he can mutter out an, "I love you, too."

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )

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______________

My Masterlist Masterpost

[gumballavocadoharry]

Red moon: Jack Chambers;

*Mentions of periods, girl problems, Susan becoming a woman (In some way), small angst, typical period problems, some 50's reference of feminine hygiene. Back in the 50's and possibly 60's, they would call periods a curse or something like that, but in this story, it's seen as it should be: A milestone in every woman's life at some point.*

The entire week Susan had been hungry more than the usual, somewhat grumpy, tired and overall, blah. The excitement and dynamism had left Susan and instead filled her with this shell of azoic within her. The little things of simply accidentally knocking over a bottle of nail polish made Susan become a godzilla like creature. Or seeing a sad clip of a commercial made tears escape her eyes like she had seen a lost dog without a home.

Her normally slight figure had become more of a bulky one (only slightly) and her face broke out in zits, that to her were like boils of a plague. Then in the later of tonight, Susan faced stomach aches that weren't of the type she would usually get if it were a matter of simple borborygmus. Otherwise, flatulence. This was a more intense agonizing, relentless ping of annoyance. It didn't halt even once her dinner was finished. Only when she nervously asked Alice for some tylenol pills due to a 'tiny headache.' Of course, that still racked Alice's suspicions. She always fretted when one of her children was sick or hurt.

Susan fell asleep with a more slackened abdomen, not thinking of any tactics to use for soothing a crabbed pain. The next morning, Susan awoke feeling a bisection of her usual self. But she still tripped herself from her dream, ate breakfast and went to school with her little brother anyway. She decided not to bring up any more pains to her parents as she didn't need to deal with their constant worrying about it. There were more equitable things on her mind. Nothing peaked itself of normalcy in the classroom....well...at least until recess. Susan loved the monkey bars.

She didn't even mind that her sunflower yellow skirt flew above her head to reveal her matching sowed in shorts that served as a thick boarded from the class seeing her peach colored undies.

Alice had sowed them in awhile back; "If you're going to get dirty and play hard, then at least put on shorts under your skirts and dresses dear," Her mother complained, "I don't want those boys looking at something they have no business seeing."

"Oh my god! Susan, what's that on the back of your shorts!?" Peggy Mogland shouted from across the slide. Susan furrowed her eyebrows and adjusted herself upright and ran inside to the bathroom. She was met with a middling sized red spot smack on the back of her skirt that leaked onto her shorts. The bright red patch stared Susan in the eyes as she just looked on in complete horror and amazement.

The milestone her mother promised to celebrate.....Susan's first period. The day she would become a woman. Yes, Susan was finally visited by Aunt Flo.

She ran to the office as fast as she could, ignoring the sound of the bell and told Ms. Sallow, the secretary what had happened. She sent a call in to Susan's parents right away before sending Susan off to the nurse. "Congratulations honey, you have your Aunt Flo." Mrs. Quinn cheered. She handed Susan a sterile towel to wrap around herself while she waited for her parents.

Susan had hoped Alice would show up, showering her with affection and treats while welcoming her into this new world of womanhood that Susan was expected to leap into. She could almost taste the chilling sensation of chocolate ice cream, chocolate bars, fries and milkshakes to her delight. Despite the solid breakfast that was fed to her, Susan still craved a cheeseburger and fries from Freddy's.

But, her hankerings were diminished upon seeing Jack's green chevy bel air pull into the parking lot. It must be some mistake, surely mom's driving? Susan resonated with herself. After all, dad wasn't equipped to handle such a delicate and private matter like this? Jack's brunette heading popped out from the door of the car, stepping out with his black office suit and black loafers. Susan's cheeks popped in rosy tints; glazed in a more strawberry tint with added apricot.

"Susan?" Jack looked to the nurse, "Is everything okay?" Worry was a theme in his entire facial looks. "Oh, she's fine.....she started her period," Those words sent a prickle through Susan's back. It stung her cheeks even more than sour candy, "She just needs plenty of rest and maybe.....some chocolate might help along with a warm heating pad and some midol." Oh sure, talk about me like I'm some science project or freak of nature!

Jack gave a awkward smile, but didn't hesitate to comfort Susan.

"It'll be okay baby, daddy's gonna take you home now." I'm not a baby, mom said I was officially a woman once this thing happened! Susan balked in her head. Jack escorted Susan out of the school and into the backseat of his car. "Mom is at the store right now, but when she gets back, I'll tell her,"

"Thanks dad." Susan shot a light little voice of gratitude. "This must be exciting!" Jack turned the corner of the road, "My little girl...isn't so little anymore, are you Sus?" Susan pinched a tight lipped smile as her answer. "I'll make sure Roger leaves you alone." As if he's the issue right now. But Susan smiled and thanked her father for his efforts in taking care of Susan the best way he knew how. Arriving home, Susan stripped off her skirt and ducked it into the hamper before putting on a nightgown and grabbing a sanitary belt her mother had prepared for her.

Jack had submissively invited himself in to Susan's room. "I made you a heating pad, there's chocolate ice cream in the fridge and snacks in the pantry," Jack came closer, fingers tracing the smooth skin of her forehead, "Is there anything else you need?" Susan smiled weakly before shaking her head. "Okay.." Jack kissed Susan's forehead before leaving her bedroom, "I'm going back to the office. Call me know if you need something okay? Your mom will be back in a bit." Susan smiled and rested her head into her fluffy pillow.

It couldn't have been more than an hour when Susan heard the open and slam of the front door. "Susan!" It was her mother, Alice, stampeded into her bedroom with this look of absolute exhilaration. "There's my baby! My girl has her period!" She clapped, smile still opened wide like Alice as a TV show guest on a game show about to win a million dollars.

But to Alice, she did. Her little girl had entered into this new stage of adolescence. Her womanhood. Alice squeezed Susan into a hug, kissing her face all over in pride. "Oh sweetie....having a period now means that one day you'll be able to have a family." Alice rubbed Susan's cheek with the back of her hand. "Maybe we should go over it again-" "Mom!" Alice petted Susan's hair, "I know...I'm sorry. It's just.....you're not a baby anymore Susan. I mean, you'll always be my little girl but, this is an exciting new stage for you and....I'm just so proud of you and excited for you too!"

Alice wrapped her arms around Susan, talking with her about what to expect from her periods. "If you have any questions, just ask me...OH! did you remember to put on a sanitary belt?!" Susan blushed. "Yes mom," "Show me how you do it-"

"Mom! I mean....I am 11 now." A whine slipped from her chambré aggression. Alice kissed Susan's cheek before leaving her bedroom. "Call me if you need me." Susan stared at the blank pasty ceiling. She just zeroed in on the typical sounds of the hallway; clicks of Alice's heels, the echo of her presence while she folded clothes and put them away in the laundry bin and Susan's own breathing.

It wasn't long until she heard the hollering of her pixy brother. "Guess who aced his test!" "Shh, Roger...your sister's upstairs resting." Alice took Roger aside and explained to him the very sensitive sentiments of Susan's condition. "Roger, remember to be thoughtful. It's like if you had a cold and wanted everyone to be quiet because you were resting....well same thing with Susan. And don't tease her either."

Roger agreed.

Instead, he found it best to ignore Susan until she would come to him whenever she felt it was right. "I'm home!" Jack later cheered from the doorway. "And how's our little pumpkin doing?" Susan groaned, turning away from the door in irritation. "She's resting right now....I think she just wants space. I was like that when I first started my period." Alice grew in pride, head fluttering her young aged self into a mirror of Susan.

Jack carefully tiptoed into Susan's bedroom, sneaking a glance of his sleeping beauty. "Hey kitten," Jack seated himself next to Susan, "How are you feeling?" Jack had left prematurely, making sure Susan was comfortable before taking off for work again. "A little gross, but overall, fine." Jack kissed Susan's forehead. "Let me or mom know if there's anything you need." Jack petted Susan's head before leaving back to the kitchen.

It was later on that night, Susan snacked on chocolate ice cream and a cheeseburger with fries that were put in the fridge just for her and to wash it down with a glass of iced tea. Susan heated up her dinner before sneaking back up to her bedroom. Stuffing her face into insalubrious delicious meal. Susan had skipped out on dinner with her family; laying serenely wrapped in her yellow blanket, nursing the heating pad on her tummy. Alice made sparsely invites into her bedroom, sharing stories of her first period, rubbing Susan's legs, thumbing over Susan's warm cheeks.

But this was Susan's little oasis. Her bedroom where she could enjoy her little meal and be free from the motherly involvement of Alice. Susan munched away with her cheeseburger and fries, savoring the moment of her first period.

Sorry if the ending is a little cheesy :)))))

[stylesonfilms]

Where The Quiet Was - Prologue [h.s]

series summary: In the cold northern kingdom of Alderham, King Harry Styles rules with silence, steel, and a legacy he never asked for. Raised to believe emotion is weakness, he commands with distance—his crown a burden worn without question, his twin brother a shadow he’s long tried to outpace. Far south in the polished courts of Edevane, Margaret Fitzgerald is the daughter no one sees. Quiet, overlooked, and dressed in the remnants of her sister’s life, she exists on the edges of a family that prizes beauty and ambition; neither of which were ever hers. What follows is not a love story. It is a reckoning. A tale of power, silence, and what happens when two people find themselves undone not by war or betrayal, but by the quiet things no one ever dares to say aloud. warnings: will be posted with each chapter. word count: 1.5k a/n: this is just the prologue. the story will follow to be be a slow burn, while being full of angst and yearning. stay tuned, my friends!

In the northern reaches of Alderham, where the sea clawed endlessly at jagged cliffs and the sky never remembered the color of blue, the House of Styles ruled in a silence older than war. Their dominion stretched over stone and fog, built not on affection or the will of the people, but on blood, inheritance, and history too proud to kneel.

At the center stood Wrosley Keep, a fortress turned palace, all looming archways and sharp towers that scraped the mist. Ivy twisted through the cracks in the stone like veins, and time itself seemed to settle in the creaking woodwork and cold fireplaces. The halls smelled of smoke, leather, and iron—a history left to rot, but never questioned.

It was here that King Harry Styles reigned; not with warmth, but with authority honed sharp and polished clean.

He was never seen without a tailored three-piece suit: black or navy or deep hunter green, the fabric thick and fine, his collar always pressed, his waistcoat snug. Everything about him was chosen, precise. His dark curls, short and swept back with a carelessness that was deliberate, framed a face that was both striking and unreadable. His lips rarely smiled. His eyes, green and glassy, revealed nothing.

He spoke only when needed, and even then, every word fell heavy with intention.

At court, he was a presence more than a man; tall, unmoving, always watching. Conversations faltered when he entered a room. Lesser lords bowed deeper than necessary. Even the seasoned ministers stumbled through their counsel when he tilted his head or narrowed his gaze.

Harry did not rage. He did not whimper or scowl. He did not entertain niceties. He simply expected. And the world gave.

He had grown up in the northern wing of the Keep, in a room with stone walls and windows that never opened. He had been taught to ride before he could spell, to wield a blade before he’d ever written his own name. A prince molded not by love but by responsibility. There had never been lullabies, only oaths. No lull of comfort, only lineage.

Legacy was his only cradle. And legacy, now, was his to bear.

In a different shed of light, Edward Styles was looser around the edges. His presence was lighter, his posture less rigid. He wore trousers and unbuttoned shirts with soft cravats, his long hair pulled back with careless charm, always half a step behind Harry, always the second thought.

He was not unloved by the court. In fact, some preferred his laughter to Harry’s silence. But that preference was useless—Edward held no real power. He spoke freely because his words bore no consequence.

To Harry, his brother was tolerable only in the way that dust is tolerable. Always lingering, never necessary.

Their bond was a myth constructed by their surname. Twins by fate yet they remained rulers by force. It was always a competition from the moment they could both roll over. It was about power, about a legacy to leave behind. Who could do what faster, smarter, diligently. But when it came to it, one had to take the throne and the other would have to watch.

Harry would have cast him out had it not been for custom, for appearances. But tradition demanded two Styles men remain at court, and so Edward lingered. Every door slam and heavy boot down the palace’s halls dusted behind a trace of Edward and his rebellion, his name.

There was no queen at Wrosley. No heirs. No soft footsteps in the halls. Just a crown resting on a head already bowed under its weight, and an empire that expected to be led without question. Harry didn’t need the women, no maiden could satisfy him enough. They were less to him, pathetic sacks that held all but connection, their submission to him.

But in the stillness of his chambers, when the moon crept over the frostbitten moors and silence pressed against the windows like a second skin, there were no answers. Only the throne. Only the quiet.

To the south, in the gentler lands of Edevane, the Fitzgerald estate stood among rolling hills and sun-dappled vineyards, a kingdom painted in gold leaf and etiquette. The estate, Briarbourne Hall, appeared resplendent from afar. Its cream-colored façade glowed at sunset, and carriages arrived like clockwork with their polished brass and embroidered coats of arms. The gardens were sculpted into perfect, symmetrical blooms. The columns were tall, its guests tasteful, and its laughter rehearsed.

But closer—beneath the polished veneer—the cracks had begun to show.

The fireplaces burned lower. Velvet curtains were drawn to hide the fading wallpaper. The silver didn’t shine quite as it used to, and the servants spoke in tones quiet enough to keep the rot from becoming gossip. It was a house still desperate to be admired, even as it hollowed from within.

Inside, Lady Beatrice Fitzgerald, the prized heir to the Fitzgerald name, stood atop a pedestal of her own making. Three gowns had been flung across the bed, and she examined her fourth in the mirror while Lady Nora, their mother, circled like a hawk in pearls.

“Chin up. Shoulders soft but proud,” Nora murmured, adjusting the neckline of the silk. “A queen never lets them see her sweat.”

Beatrice was their golden girl—flawless posture, silk-smooth smiles, and the calculated grace of someone who had never once been told no. She was being prepared, always prepared for the next title, the next court, the next throne. And she drank the attention like wine, eyes half-lidded in her own reflection.

In the corner, half-shadowed by the drawn curtain, stood Margaret. 

She held a chipped porcelain tray—cold tea, two sugar cubes, lemon slices sliced too thin, brittle at the ring and flimsy in its sour center. No one had asked her to bring it. No one ever did. Her sleeves were rolled up, hands red from the morning’s scrub of the tiled halls. Her gown hung in tired folds around her ankles. It had once been Beatrice’s, lavender silk turned a dull gray-blue, frayed at the hem where Margaret had sewn it up with rough thread, the stitches barely holding from a tear she didn’t have time to fix.

She had made it fit. She always did.

She had stitched every seam of the dress she would wear to Alderham—a patchwork of scraps from discarded fabrics, hidden under a cloak that had once belonged to her mother’s cousin’s maid. It was her finest dress. And it still wasn’t hers. But she didn’t mutter a single complaint. Instead, she rather dipped her finest bow at the fore of her parents, thanking them for the opportunity to come along to Alderham. After, she rushed to dish up the dinner prepared along the stretched tables, taking extra precision. She had folded their serviettes into rosebuds, her mothers favorite.

Margaret had long since learned that the way to be noticed in Briarbourne was to be useful, not visible.

“Margaret,” her mother said once without looking, “take that to the kitchens. And do something with your hair. You're an eyesore.”

No thanks. No glance. Just command and dismissal.

She dipped her head, murmured, “Yes, ma’am,” and moved quickly so Beatrice wouldn’t have a chance to nudge her aside with one of those careless little pushes, the kind that always managed to bruise without leaving a mark. Her sister’s laughter followed her out of the room, light and cruel.

She wasn’t allowed to dine with guests. She arranged the flowers for the drawing rooms. She fetched the ribbons. She stayed behind the curtain while the suitors were entertained.

Her father, Lord Thomas, didn’t strike her, but he didn't speak to her either. His eyes slid past her at the breakfast table, as if acknowledging her presence would somehow devalue the family name. When he did address her, it was with the clipped tone he used for horses or staff. Not unkind—just detached. Indifferent.

She had once been allowed to sit at the piano when she was thirteen. Her fingers found the keys with quick glances around her, before a soft note rang through the air. Silence first, then the click of her fathers shoes. The next morning, the piano was locked.

No one told her she was lesser. They simply treated her that way. And so Margaret drifted through the house like a ghost in hand-me-down shoes, too quiet to be remembered, too useful to be entirely discarded.

But she noticed everything.

She saw how her father’s smile faltered when he spoke of royal alliances. She saw how her mother’s fingers trembled as she adjusted Beatrice’s jewels—jewels they couldn’t afford to replace. She saw how Beatrice practiced her curtsies in the mirror after everyone had gone to bed, whispering titles under her breath like a spell. Margaret did not envy them. Not truly. But she wondered what it might feel like to be seen.

There were whispers now, urgent and laced with names from the north. The House of Styles. A visit was being arranged—an audience at Wrosley Keep. Beatrice was to be dressed in emerald satin. Margaret would travel beside her, cloaked in patched wool, silent and unmentioned.

Was Margaret just a symbol of humility? Or unity? Or maybe she was just a placeholder. A shadow to make the crown gleam brighter on Lady Beatrice’s head. That didn’t matter though. This was not the worst that the quiet could get. 

The carriage would leave at first light.

[sushirrrry]

the one-shot I'm writing that you'll probably get tomorrow is making me cry so

it's historical fiction 🫡🙂‍↕️

[hauntedheart92]

[myonlyangel13]

I had a thought maybe a Dad Harry where user gets her first period and bleeds on the bed by accident and gets super embarrassed and everything

Hi darling thanks for the request!!🫶🏼🫶🏼 idk if I liked how it turned out.. but hope you like it or if I should change the introduction anyway💋💋

Dadrry - first period