Period Help
synopsis; where each bully boy comforts and supports you through your period in their own way.
a/n; lol uh.. wrote this for my cousin, but i also decided to post it so..
𓇼| period pain, light blood mention, soft sexual content, emotional vulnerability.
jimmy hopkins
he doesn’t know what to do at first. you’d skipped class, curled up in the girl’s dorm with your face buried in a pillow, and when he found you there — pale, sweaty, clutching your stomach — he panicked. thought you were sick, dying, something worse. then you told him.
“it’s just cramps,” you mumbled. “it’s fine.”
but he stayed anyway. snuck into the dorm and sat on the floor beside your bed, arms crossed, jaw tense. he didn’t know what to say. he hated seeing you in pain and not being able to punch it out of someone.
“you need anything?” he asked eventually. “i can get chocolate. or a hot water thing. whatever.”
you smiled, told him he didn’t have to.
but ten minutes later, he was back, out of breath and holding a messily-wrapped hot water bottle, a snickers bar from the vending machine, and a crumpled pack of midol he clearly mugged someone for.
“you don’t gotta thank me,” he muttered when you teared up. “just don’t cry. i don’t know what to do when girls cry.”
you dragged him into bed with you, back pressed to his chest, the water bottle between your stomachs. he held you like he was scared you’d break.
and later, when the dorm quieted and your hips pressed back against him without thinking, he hesitated.
“are you sure?” he whispered against your neck, one hand on your waist, the other trembling slightly.
you nodded, and he was careful. slow. kissed your back through every wince, every flinch. and afterward, when you curled up again, he kissed your temple and said, “i’ll beat up your uterus if it hurts you again. swear to god.”
—
gary smith
he laughed when you told him. “how grotesquely human of you,” he said, smirking like it amused him. like he thought pain made you interesting.
but when you went quiet and stopped touching him that night, he noticed.
he always noticed.
he brought you tea the next morning. real tea, stolen from the teachers’ lounge. you stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“don’t look so shocked,” he said, handing you the mug with something close to gentleness. “i’m manipulative, not heartless.”
you didn’t speak, just curled into his lap. he let you. stroked your hair and read his book with you half-asleep against him. he kept his tone low, even. comforting in a way he’d never admit.
when you hissed later, hand on your stomach, he pushed the book aside and helped you lie down. didn’t say a word when you asked him to stay.
and when you reached for him, seeking something more to distract you — he didn’t tease. he kissed your thighs with reverence, lips soft and careful, like he understood. like he knew exactly how to make you forget.
“don’t bleed out on my sheets,” he murmured, smirking against your skin. “but if you must, at least let me make it worth it.”
—
pete kowalski
pete’s face turned pink the second you mentioned it.
“oh. oh. okay. uh. yeah. i can… help. i guess?”
he was awkward, fumbling, but so gentle. he offered you his hoodie without thinking, even though it was the only warm thing he had. you were curled up on the library floor with your arms around your knees and tears in your eyes. pete found you there and sat beside you with a juice box and a pack of tissues.
“i read juice helps,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s got… i dunno, vitamins or something.”
you hugged him.
he blushed harder.
you ended up in his dorm later, wrapped in his bedsheets, half-asleep in his bed. he didn’t try anything, just read his comics with you resting against his shoulder. you reached for his hand, and he squeezed it like he never wanted to let go.
when you kissed him that night — soft, lingering, grateful — he pulled you closer, one hand cradling your jaw like you were something breakable. you guided him between your legs, and he hesitated.
“are you sure? i mean, it’s not weird for me, i just… i want you to be okay.”
he was sweet. slow. every motion filled with love he didn’t know how to say aloud. afterward, he wiped your skin clean with shaking hands and kissed your forehead.
“you can always tell me,” he whispered. “even the gross stuff. even the hard stuff. i’ll always wanna help.”
—
derby harrington
derby was repulsed. not by you — never by you — but by the idea of bodily functions happening outside his carefully controlled world. when you told him, he blinked like you just said you’d been possessed.
“you’re… bleeding?” he said, the word sticking in his throat.
you rolled your eyes. “it’s a period, derby. not a curse.”
but later that evening, he came to your dorm with a white paper bag filled with expensive teas, imported chocolate, and a ridiculously overpriced silk heat wrap he ordered from a catalog.
“you’ll use this,” he said, placing it on your bed like it was something sacred. “and you’ll drink this. and you’ll stay here, with me, until you feel better.”
he meant well. his version of care was structured, rigid, but real.
he let you rest against his chest while he read aloud from a french poetry book he barely understood. his voice stumbled over the words, but his arm around you stayed steady. he wouldn’t admit how worried he was, but you felt it in the way he kissed your hair and let you fall asleep in his lap.
and later, when you wanted him close — needed him in that aching, tender way — he was hesitant.
“it doesn’t… hurt, does it?” he asked softly, brushing hair from your face.
you shook your head, and he touched you like fine china. like something too delicate to be real. he whispered your name like prayer and kissed your shoulders with a reverence you’d never seen in him before.
“you’re mine,” he murmured, forehead to yours. “every part of you. even this.”
—
russell northrop
russell understood pain. but he didn’t understand why you were hurting if nobody hit you.
you told him, gently, that it was just something your body did every month. that it wasn’t anyone’s fault. he frowned, fists clenched, ready to fight your uterus if he could.
“russell protect you,” he said.
he sat with you through the worst of it, quiet and heavy beside you on the common room couch. when you winced, he’d press his giant hand to your lower back, rubbing in slow circles like you showed him.
he brought you water. warmed blankets in the dryer. sat on the floor by your bed and told you stories in his low, rumbly voice — memories of growing up, old fights, moments of clarity only he could see.
he didn’t like blood. didn’t want to hurt you.
but when you asked for touch — for closeness — he treated it like a gift.
his hands were big, careful. his movements slow. he whispered your name over and over, voice thick with awe. afterward, you curled into his chest and he kissed your forehead with something like worship.
“russell love all of you,” he said. “even on hard days.”
—
johnny vincent
you tried to hide it. didn’t want him worrying. didn’t want lola finding out and teasing you for “not being able to keep your man’s attention.”
but johnny knew. he always knew.
“you’ve been off,” he said, crouched beside your bed with his hand brushing your hip. “you don’t gotta lie to me.”
you told him. quietly. and he nodded like it made everything make sense.
he didn’t try to fix it — he just stayed. pulled you into his chest, let you bury your face in his jacket that still smelled like motor oil and cologne. he played music low from his radio, let you drift in and out.
but when the pain got bad and you whimpered into his shirt, he stiffened. helplessness didn’t suit him.
“what do you need, baby?” he whispered. “i’ll get it. anything.”
when you kissed him — shaky, needy, flushed — he responded like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. he held you gently, rocked you through it, murmured soft curses against your neck.
“you don’t gotta pretend around me,” he said later. “you bleed, you cry, you ache — i still want you. always.”
—
peanut romano
he was flustered. you told him, and his face turned red to the tips of his ears.
“oh. uh. wow. i mean — okay. cool. not cool. i mean, normal. totally normal.”
but when you doubled over in pain, he dropped the act.
he made you soup on the gang’s broken stove, fought through lola’s stash of junk to find clean towels and pain meds, and carried you from the hideout to his own bed because he hated how cold the floor was.
“you’re not weak,” he said when you cried. “you’re just hurt. and i’m gonna help.”
you kissed him, and he kissed you back like he was scared to make it worse. when your body asked for more — closeness, skin, heat — he checked on you a dozen times.
“does that hurt? what about that? too much?”
he touched you like a secret. like worship. whispered your name and told you how beautiful you were, even when you felt anything but.
and afterward, he stayed awake. held you all night. rubbed your back when the pain came back. kissed your shoulders and whispered, “you’re safe. i got you.”
—
kirby olsen
he acted cool about it. said he’d “dealt with stuff like that before” even though his voice cracked the whole time.
“yeah, no big deal,” he said, casually sliding a heating pad across your bed like it wasn’t the first one he ever bought.
but his concern bled through.
he showed up at the dorm with protein bars and vitamin drinks like it was a football injury. he didn’t know much about periods — but he knew how to care for pain.
you let him baby you, and he liked it more than he’d admit. he ran a bath with bubbles and sat outside the door just in case you needed him.
when you came out, skin flushed and soft from the water, you kissed him — slow, grateful. and he froze.
“you sure?” he asked, eyes dark, voice hushed.
you nodded, and he kissed you like he’d waited forever. he was slow, practiced, but earnest. he didn’t care about blood, about mess, about anything that wasn’t your mouth on his and the way you sighed into his touch.
afterward, wrapped in a towel, he kissed your forehead.
“you don’t have to be perfect for me to want you,” he said. “you just have to be here.”
—
trent northwick
trent made a joke out of it, at first.
“whoa, crimson tide, huh?” he said, laughing — until he saw your face. pale, quiet, withdrawn.
“shit. sorry. bad joke.”
he spent the rest of the day trying to make it up to you. followed you around campus, carried your books, offered his hoodie and swore it looked better on you anyway.
he didn’t know how to help, so he asked.
“what do you need? seriously. i’ll do anything.”
you told him — warmth, silence, pressure. he laid behind you in bed, wrapped you up in his arms, and pressed his hand gently over your stomach until your breathing slowed.
and when you asked for more — his mouth, his hands, his skin — he hesitated only once.
“you want me to… while you’re on it?”
you nodded. he kissed your neck, whispered that you didn’t have to be ashamed, that he wanted you anyway. he was messy, slow, eager to please.
afterward, he kissed every inch of you he could reach.
“still the hottest girl in school,” he whispered. “even bleeding.”
