hypothetical writer

Noah Calhoun (386 words):

You’re not leaving your bed. He makes sure of it. Anything you need, he’s getting it for you. Really, he kicks himself a little because he doesn’t already have everything ready, but you know without him telling you that come next month, it will all be in place. For now, though, food? He’ll cook for you. Drink? He’ll get it for you. Water, tea, beer, anything. He’d give you his blood if you wanted it, but you seem like you’ve got enough of your own. Heating pad? Medicine? Well that’s what he’s for, he tells you, slipping into bed beside you with a contented hum. He holds you, hand splayed over your belly protectively, and kisses all over your face, your neck and shoulder, down your body and up your legs. You only get what he’s getting at when he starts laying slow, gentle kisses at the waistband of your underwear, looking up at you with eyes full of suggestion.

“Don’t be gross,” you groan, flushing at the thought, tangling your hand in his hair to pull him away, but he resists the pull with a frown.

“It’s not gross,” he insists. “It’s you.” He outlines his full case between kisses. Mostly, it’s that he loves you, but also that orgasms have got to help, since they’re supposed to make you feel good, right? And, well, you can only resist logic like that for so long. 

You do swat him when he suggests a baby as a solution. “What?” he says indignantly, rubbing at his shoulder. “You wouldn’t get another one for nine months.”

The only thing he struggles to give you is alone time, but if you push it enough, he will leave you for a while, though he makes his reluctance abundantly clear. He goes into the barn and tries to work on things, but he gravitates back to you in under half an hour. You’re what he wants to focus on at the best of times, and when you’re not feeling well, neither is he. Luckily, since you’re not feeling well, he lets you be as grouchy as you want without complaint. Ordinarily, you know he would never shy away from an argument, but for about a week every month, you get your way, and he’s very happy to give it to you.

Ken (411 words):

He’s devastated. Genuinely devastated. Well, at first he doesn’t really understand what’s happening to you, but after a quick anatomy lesson, he is so upset that you wonder if maybe you’re underreacting to the whole thing. 

“Don’t women have to go through enough!?” he cries to the heavens, tearing at his shirt to bare his chest to the world. Ken has no shortage of shirts and jackets that open down the middle, since he’s prone to this sort of thing. It was a lesson you’d had to learn when you taught him about the feminist movement. 

“Not just women,” you remind him with a little false cheer, just to hear the aughuagh pulled from his throat as he falls to his knees in the middle of the living room. You’re on the couch with a heating pad on your belly–the thing that had prompted his questioning–and you find that his performance is actually helping with your cramps, pain shared being pain halved and all. He shuffles towards you on his knees, big watery eyes staring into yours as he far too gently places his hands on your knees, seemingly afraid to use any force lest he hurt you more. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, and one of your hands finds his bleach blond hair to pet him soothingly. Him and his theatrics.

Except, you remind yourself, his hair just grows out of his head like that. And it’s not theatrics–he really feels this strongly about your period, and about pretty much everything. It was one of the things you liked most about him. Because you were, despite yourself, very charmed by a human-sized doll who knew nothing about female anatomy or the world at large. You were so charmed, in fact, that having him on his knees between your legs was doing a pretty good job of distracting you from how miserable your period was making you. Ken adored you right back, though, leaning into your hand and sighing as he settled from just a simple touch. Kind of like a horse, ironically. Well, you think as you stroke his unfairly soft hair, human guys don’t know about female anatomy either, anyway. 

After a few moments, Ken opens his eyes and furrows his brow as if struck by a concerning thought. It was so wonderful to watch him think. He locks eyes with you and says, with complete seriousness, “Is that going to happen to me too?”

Lars Lindstrom (630 words):

You two had just gotten back to his place from a date where you traipsed around the woods and sat by the lake together. You had been heavily relying on coffee and infatuation to carry you because your body was protesting. It wasn’t that you were in that much pain, but your limbs felt heavy and you were slow to respond, not that it made much of a difference to Lars. You still wanted things to be perfect despite your fatigue, since you don’t want to scare Lars off so early, but you can admit to yourself that you’re flagging a little as you lean back against his kitchen counter.

You allow yourself a moment to squeeze your eyes shut and breathe as a lazy curl of pain crests in your gut. Lars is in the bathroom, so you don’t have to hide so much, not that it really makes a difference to the cramps whether you feel them out loud or not.

“Are you okay?” You hear a soft voice ask, and you open your eyes to find Lars, pretty in the afternoon light from his window, but wearing a fretful expression as he looks at you. You twist your grimace into a smile, helped along by the image of Lars lit up like an angel, but it’s a bit too late. “You’re a little…” he trails off, tentatively waving a hand around his face. Pale? Sweaty? The gesture is too vague to say, but you have your ideas. 

“I’m fine.” You’re quick to reassure him, but his brow furrows. Darn. “I’m just…it’s that time of the month, you know?” You let out a little nervous laugh. It’s uncomfortable at the best of times to tell others about this, but it’s undoubtedly worse to talk about it with Lars. His face lights up in understanding.

“Oh, okay.” He nods and, a second later, smiles at you and shifts on his feet.

Lars is a grown man. He knows, conceptually, what periods are. The thing is, you know he grew up without a mother, and the only woman he’s really close with is pregnant, so it’s not like he has a lot of practical knowledge on the matter. Plus, he’s very religious and very reserved, so how could he really get a thorough education? He knows about the blood, but he’s not quite prepared for the pain. You realize this when another cramp hits you, harder this time, and you curl into yourself, breaking eye contact and gripping his counter tighter with a hiss. You hear him take a few quick steps towards you, but he doesn’t touch you.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sing-songy as if more cheerfulness makes it more true. “It’s just a cramp, I’m fine.” “A cramp?” he asks, and you lift your head to watch him watch you with concern, hands twitching at his sides. “Do you need the doctor? Are you gonna be okay?” he asks, and if he wasn’t so genuinely concerned for you, you would laugh. But his concern is genuine, so you pull yourself back together with a sharp inhale, and you lay a hand over his clothed bicep, feeling the muscle jump under your touch. His head snaps to look at your hand, and you almost move away, but he only seems surprised, not upset.

“I’m okay. I promise,” you soothe, rubbing your thumb back and forth against his arm. He continues to watch your hand, and at the sound of your voice, his cheeks go pink. Suddenly, he gets an idea.

“You can watch me chop wood,” he says, finally turning back to you. “I’ll get you a chair so you can rest.” He smiles at you again and blinks hard, but he doesn’t move until you release his arm.

Driver (639 words):

He stands in the doorway of your bedroom, staring at you. This isn’t entirely unusual–you two didn’t live together, but he had gotten into the habit of quietly letting himself into your apartment to invite you out, and you had gotten into the habit of agreeing.

Today was a different story. You could tell that he had come to do just that, invite you out to grocery shop or take a drive with a casualness that suggested he’d been practicing his lines. Upon seeing you, however, his words died on his lips. You’re still in bed despite it being nearly two in the afternoon, and you know you look terrible. Your hair and skin feel greasy; you’re probably grimacing in pain because you were too exhausted to get up and take medicine, hands pressing on your uterus over the blankets; your sheets are rumpled because of all your tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position; and you’re still in your pajamas, which consist of a very large, very ugly shirt you’re too embarrassed to wear in public and some period underwear. You thank all that is holy for your foresight–you decided on period underwear after you had cried about The Very Hungry Caterpillar last night, which was something no one else ever needed to know about.

“Sorry,” you begin before he’s even had the chance to speak. Actually, he did have his chance. You’d been staring at each other for the past fifteen seconds. “I started my period and I just haven’t felt good.” You’re sort of embarrassed to say it, especially under his intense gaze, but you’ve learned it’s best to just tell him the truth. He takes in this information, eyes scanning you with singleminded focus. You watch him come to a decision, the barest hint of stoniness entering his expression as his gaze flits back to your eyes.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says with frankly unwarranted gravitas, like you’d just put a hit out on someone. Before you can ask what that even means, he turns around and leaves your apartment, leaving you feeling confused but…kind of taken care of.

He returns 15 minutes later with a small bag and a softer expression, which warms you up. He hands the paper bag to you without a word and cards his fingers through your hair almost unthinkingly, which of course makes you feel like a thousand butterflies are trapped in your abdomen, fluttery and light. It makes your next emotion all the more jarring, a cold drop in your stomach when you look in the bag. 

It makes no sense for you to feel that way, really. It’s all of your favorite things. The right brand of pads, your favorite chocolate, and even some other snacks that bring you comfort. It’s just–how did he know that? You’ve never spent a period with him before. You look up at him, confused and pleased and unsettled and grateful all at once, and he smiles down at you, just one of his little ones, but still genuine, still sweet.

“You’ve got Midol in your cabinet,” he tells you in his low, soft voice, like it’s only natural he knows the ins and outs of your medicine cabinet. You’re still a little uncertain how to feel, but then he leans down and kisses your temple, and you feel like you can taste sugar in the back of your mouth. “I’ll run you a bath,” he says into your ear, hushed, but his voice is dripping with such fondness and care that you can’t help but preen under it. Then, he pulls back and he is gone again. You hear your bathtub faucet turn on a few seconds later, and you look into the bag again, unable to keep the incredulous laugh from bubbling up out of you.

Ryland Grace (664 words):

You’re sitting on Grace’s couch when you feel the Gush of doom and despair. Hypothesis: if you go to the bathroom and investigate, then there will be blood. Grace is sitting at his kitchen table grading a stack of papers, mumbling to himself and generally looking domestic and adorable, so you sneak off to his bathroom to test your hypothesis. What you find therein supports your hypothesis. Shit.

“Ryland,” you call softly from the doorway between the living room/kitchen and the bedroom/bathroom hallway situation. Your boyfriend looks up from his work, peeking at you from over his glasses. Then, he pushes his glasses up and properly looks at you, half hidden behind the doorframe.

“...Yes?” he responds with an edge of suspicion. “You look like a ghost right now. Hiding in my hallway. In the shadows. What’s going on?” He’s being semi-playful, but you can tell from the focus in his expression that he knows something’s amiss. You kind of want to stand there and watch him figure it out, brilliant scientist that he is, but the situation is unfortunately time sensitive.

“Um. So,” you start, cringing a little. You’re a fully grown adult with a job and an apartment, but sometimes Grace fixes you with a look that reminds you that he teaches middle schoolers, and it makes you a little shy. “It’s no big deal, but I just started my period literally right now, and I figured I should bring it up.” You try to force casualness, but it doesn’t fit right in your mouth, so it comes out a little sideways. 

“Oh.” he says. Awesome. “Do you need a pad?” he asks. What? 

“What?” you ask. You were planning to stuff toilet paper in your underwear.

“A pad. It’s a weird coincidence, but, uh, I actually have some in my bag that I keep forgetting to put in my desk at school.” he explains with helpful hand gestures to boot. You wait a beat for him to tell you he’s joking, but he does not.

“Why do you need pads at your school desk?” you ask slowly. Grace makes a face at your tone.

“Well,” he starts, clearly trying to be delicate. “I teach the age group where.” He stops, apparently realizing that he’s talking to you and not the school board. “Sometimes kids start their period in my class.” he says quicker. “Actually it’s happened multiple times. And I’m talking first period ever. So I keep pads in my desk. Also for the kids who randomly start in the middle of the day, or they can’t get them at home, or they’re embarrassed to ask the office, or–” He takes a sharp breath. “They’re needed.”

You can’t argue with that, so you concede with a slight head tilt. It probably would’ve been nice to have a teacher like that when you were in school. “Do you have any tampons, by chance?” 

“I’m not giving a 12 year old a tampon,” Grace says, deadpan. Right. Duh.

“Fair. I’ll take the pad, please,” you say. Grace immediately starts rooting around in his school bag, and after a few moments, he emerges with a slightly dented box of pads. He takes one out of the box and holds it out to you, whistling like someone luring a wild beast, since you’re still lurking in the hallway. You laugh softly and cross to him, planting a kiss on his cheek as you take the pad from him, your nose bumping the edge of his frames. His cheeks are pink when you pull back with a cheeky smile. 

“Thank you, Mr. Grace!” you singsong, and he groans and shakes his head, unsuccessfully fighting a laugh.

“Please, Mr. Grace was my father,” he says as you retreat to the bathroom. “Call me Dr. Grace.” He smiles at your back when he hears you cackle. Once you’re gone, he notes the day in his calendar. It’s good to collect data on these kinds of things.

Colt Seavers (736 words):

With the casual way he reacted–just a quick downturn of his lips, a tilt of his head, “Sorry, baby”–when you told him you were on your period, you figured that your evening with Colt would be peaceful. It was your mistake to think that any evening with Colt would ever be peaceful. Well, that wasn’t quite fair–things had started out like normal, with you curled into his side on the couch, head resting on his shoulder, reveling in his warmth. He had let you pick the show for tonight, even though it was technically his turn, and you figured that would be the extent of his chivalry. That is, until you grunted softly in pain, your hand coming to rest over your traitorous uterus. Ow. Your medicine had run its course. Wonderful. It wasn’t really that big of a deal, though, because Colt would be here tonight to do triple duty as a heating pad, a weighted blanket, and a boyfriend. You would be fine.

“You alright?” Colt murmurs, tilting his head to rest on yours so that he can look down your body. “You in pain?” he asks even softer, one of his hands coming to cover yours, warming you inside and out.

“Yeah, but it’s no biggie.” You shrug one shoulder, nuzzling further into him. You were way too comfy to move.

“Au contraire,” Colt says, turning his body to face you, dislodging you from his shoulder and forcing you to lean your side on the back of the couch instead. He smiles at your irritated groan, which gives you the impression that he doesn’t know you’re not joking. “It’s a biggie.”

“You’re in pain,” you counter. It’s a safe bet, anyway, given what he does for a living.

“I am in pain,” Colt says, “because you’re in pain.” He places a hand over his heart and gives you his most soulful eyes, but if you look closely, you can see one side of his mouth twitching, suppressing a smile. Good, you think. He knows he’s being stupid.

“Oh my God,” you say, fighting your own smile, “I literally don’t wanna hear it unless you plan on feeling my cramps for me.”

“I would if I could, baby,” he sighs, sliding his hands under your thighs and folding himself in half to lay his head in your lap. You sigh too, long-suffering while you rub a hand over his back. Not to be outdone, he sighs even louder, longingly. “I would if I could.”

“Shut the fuck–” you begin, covering your amusement, but you cut yourself off with a yelp when he lifts you by the back of your thighs, unfolding himself to hook his chin over your shoulder. He carries you to the bedroom, unbothered by your kicking legs and your protests that it’s not even 10 pm, and he hasn’t paused the show. In no time, he gently sets you on the edge of the bed and settles himself on his knees on the floor in front of you, big hands holding your hips.

“What are you doing,” you ask flatly, rolling your eyes when he shushes you, eyes fixed on your lower belly. Despite being a stuntman, he could be very dramatic when he chose to be.

“I have a message for the motherfucker named period cramps.” Colt says in some kind of deep, action hero type voice, and you have a sneaking suspicion he’s making a joke at the expense of Tom Ryder. “You better stop hurting innocents before I get involved.” He leans closer and closer as he speaks until his nose is against your stomach, and you feel weirdly self conscious about him possibly smelling your blood.

“You are so dumb,” you tell him, and he leans back with an easy smile. His cocky expression makes him look extra dumb, but unfortunately also really handsome. You roll your eyes again playfully.

“You’re smiling though,” he tells you with increasing smugness. You’d want to hit him if you didn’t want to kiss him. 

“I am n–” You are. Son of a bitch. “You’re ridiculous,” you mumble as you grab him by the shirt collar with both hands and pull him up to you. He follows you easily, letting go of your hips to plant his hands on the mattress.