Care For A Sip?

He's always so happy when he seeks you out every night, too, bounding up to you like a goddamn golden retriever. You could get used to it, to him, to that easy, gum-chewing smile.

You make a show of thinking, pressing your finger to your chin and letting out a hmmm.

"Eating donuts, or doing them in your car?" you ask, and he lights up like you read his mind.

An hour later sees you gripping onto the 'oh shit' handle, laughing wildly as he floors the gas pedal and spins the two of you around and around in the set's empty parking lot. The remnants of the box of Krispy Kremes you bought flies like a crash test dummy and half an original glazed rolls beneath his seat, where it will be forgotten for months until one day when it makes an opportunistic Jean-Claude very happy.

Eventually Colt slows the car to a stop so you can catch your breath. You're dizzy from your joyful hysterics and he just sits there grinning at you like you're the most wonderful thing in the world.

"That was fun. You're crazy, though," you say. He is. Crazy and gorgeous and perfect. A master of beckoning your daring side out of you. When he leans over to kiss you, you find yourself moaning into it a bit, especially when his tongue sweeps yours.

"What now?" he asks, voice low, eyebrow cocked. You decide to put all your chips in and take a gamble. Guys like Colt don't take you for donuts - or donuts - if they don't really like you, after all.

"Well, I was thinking you could fuck me in the back of the car, seeing as we're alone out here," you try to make it blasé, but your heart is going a mile a minute.

Colt's eyes go wide and then a Cheshire-cat smile takes over his face. You've never heard a man physically have to hold back a 'woohoo' before, but he does, and instead just pumps his fist to himself. That makes you laugh, too, and you grab his face to pull him into another smooch.

"C'mere, you dummy," you whisper, and oh, he comes.

The two of you practically wrestle each other into the back seat, clothes going all over the car. You really can't get enough of his body. He borders on being too handsome, with those stupid sexy abs and huge biceps. They're only made all the more appealing when they're displayed above you as he kisses every inch of your hot skin he can get to, worshipping you with his mouth.

"Hey you're—" kiss, right on your nipple, earning him a giggle, "—you're really gorgeous, did you know that? Like, I'm trying not to be shallow but oh my god."

"I want to lick your pecs. Is that weird?" you ask. He stares down at you in rapture and then shakes his head hard.

"No. Not weird at all. Please. Please do it. Whatever you want. Leave a mark, even."

You do, sitting up to bite at the muscle in his chest, run your tongue around his pebbling areola. You can tell he's hard in his boxers, leaking so much that they're staining dark grey even darker. You leave a purple ring of your teeth above his heart and smile up at him.

"I have lube and a condom in my bag."

You think he actually mutters a prayer of thanks up to the ceiling of his car before he attempts to affect cockiness again.

"Thought you were gonna get lucky?" he asks with a wink. You shrug.

"Can I be honest? I've had them with me since I first heard you psyching yourself up to ask me out."

Oh, that knocks the bravado right out of him, and he meets your next kiss with near-desperation. It's a mess of hands as the two of you roll the condom on him together and you buck and moan into his touch as he fingers you open, and when he's inside? Fuck, he is thick and perfect. You both have to make a concentrated effort not to just come right there.

He tries to fuck you slow, he does, if for no other reason than he's worried about the suspension on his car, but when you lean forwards just enough to smack his ass he is set off like a racehorse. In fact it's his turn to hold onto the 'oh shit' handle for leverage to help him jackhammer into you, because from the way your legs lock around the small of his back, you want it as hard and fast as he can offer.

A sound enginner loops back to pick up their forgotten keys. They see Colt's car rocking in the empty lot. Out of kindness, they don't mention it to either of you when you both come in walking a little funny the nexy day.

“Your last name, Ken. What is it?”

“Oh. I don’t know! Not sure I have one. Hey, what would you say my love language is?”

“Quality time,” you say, without missing a beat. It’s true. He hasn’t left your side since he turned up on your doorstep. You’ve set him up in the guest bedroom but you know he’s sneaking into yours at night and laying at your feet like a dog. He is a beefy, unsubtle man, so you wake up every time he does it without fail, but out of kindness you’ve chosen not to mention it.

Plus you maybe like it. A bit.

“But be careful with all that,” you add on, “that whole love languages thing is rooted in misogyny. It’s not super healthy to take it as gospel.”

Ken lets out a little scream and then frisbees the entire magazine out of the window as if it’s just grown teeth and tried to bite him. You stare at it as it plummets.

“You can’t throw stuff out the window, Ken. We’re six storeys up.”

“I should if it’s misogynistic!” he counters, and you suppose you can’t argue with that. You go back to the problem at hand. 

“Okay, well, shall we make up a last name, then?”

“Why do you need to know it so bad, anyway?”

“Because I’ve told you, the piece of plastic you brought with you does not work as a passport in the human world.”

You have a friend who specialises in making fake IDs. For noble reasons - usually to help victims get away from abusive partners - but they’re happy to help you with this conundrum, too. Not that you’ve gone into too much detail. Nobody would believe Ken is a doll turned human, you think, no matter how gloriously toned his abs are.

Stop thinking about his abs. He’s talking. You tune back in to the conversation. 

“How about ‘Beach’? I like the beach.”

You wonder for a moment what it’s like to live inside his brain. It must be so gloriously unburdened by thoughts.

“I think maybe we should go for something more common and, uh, believable.”

Ken pouts. It’s annoyingly adorable.

“Can’t I just use your last name? I’m your Ken doll.”

A weird feeling comes over you. It’s a bit… possessive, if you had to put a word to it, but in a way that Ken clearly wants to be possessed by you. That this handsome, silly man is so willing to be yours so easily. Is so happy to trust you with his well-being. So maybe, if you’re even beginning to entertain this silly fantasy, and that one day he could be more than just the guy who now suddenly lives in your house… maybe you want a separate surname to him. Just so people think you aren’t dating a relative or whatever.

“Oh, wait, duh,” you say, and type ‘Barbie Ken’ into your search engine. The Wikipedia page pops up and you click on it.

“Here we go - Kenneth Sean Carson Junior. Huh. You have a dad?”

Ken shrugs.

“I guess so. I’m not sure! Do you want me to have a dad?”

You’re not sure how to answer that, but luckily you don’t have to, because you get an email through. It’s from your landlord and the title is ‘magazine thrown out of window?’.

You groan. It’s going to be a long day.