vivian

Ken found a love for the beach in the real world after the whole debacle with the patriarchy in Barbie World. Even if he couldn’t truly beach like he wanted to.

The sand that squished between his toes, the water that lapped against the shore in the distance, the cry of a seagull that became wondrous background noise as he stared out into the ocean.

Everything that he loved about the beach was tenfold here.

And then… There was you.

You visited the beach almost every day like him, finding almost as much joy in it as he did. 

The way you stood ankle deep in the water, closing your eyes as you enjoyed the feeling of the water hitting against your ankles. He found himself almost stumbling over his feet when he first saw you doing that.

Something about you just drew him in.

And Ken fell fast and hard.

Ken watched you every single time you came to the beach. Almost becoming expectant of your form, so much that he grew sad on the days you didn’t show up. His blue eyes followed every move you made, whether that be when you sat on the sand reading or wading through the waves.

Even if he wasn’t trained to save you like lifeguard Ken, he knew he would try if anything had happened to you.

That much he was sure about.

You had both bumped into each other accidentally one day after he kept his eyes on you, it being more your fault than Ken’s. You were being blinded by the sun while you were walking down the shore, and Ken… well, he was just blinded by the fact that you were actually walking over to him.

Your bodies bumped together before you could register the fact that there was a shadow, your hand too busy covering your eyes to keep the sun out to notice such a detail.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

Ken froze when you moved to look up at him, your nose scrunched slightly from the blinding light. He gulps and nods to your words. 

Quick! 

What would Ken do in this situation? He was cool!

The idea flashes in his mind before he can truly think it over.

He needed to look cool for you! To impress you!

His arm comes up, hand coming behind his head as he flexes his muscles, and before he could speak, his body goes to lean on a doorframe that so obviously was not there.

His body, straightened like a board, falls flat into the sand.

Your laughter afterwards, as you helped him get back up, was the best medicine for anything, he immediately found himself deciding.

After that, the two of you had become almost inseparable on the beach.

Ken currently stood in the same spot as he usually did, his eyes watching behind his sunglasses as you find your regular spot with the same beach bag you carried over your shoulder.

Your gaze drifts over towards where he stood, knowing where he would be, your hand coming up as a protective shield for your eyes against the sun. Something in him skips when your smile brightens at just the sight of him, your other hand raising to wave at the familiar figure.

You were as bright as the sun in Ken’s eyes.

No, brighter!

“Hi, Ken!”

You call out to him the same way as always, and his feet move before his brain can even think to catch up, leading him closer to you as his own smile makes its way onto his lips.

You always called out to him first.

You always smiled when you saw him.

And every time it sent a thrill through his head.

The feeling reminded him of Barbie, but something was different this time with you. It felt more… real? True? Ken couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

But he knew he liked it.

Whatever it was.

His eyes stare behind the pair of sunglasses he wears, taking in the way your eyes squint at the occasional ray of sunshine peeking through your fingers. The included scrunch of your nose was another thing he found himself longing to see more often ever since that first encounter.

Like the cherry on top of a perfect sundae.

Just like the other times, you seemed to have forgotten to pack a pair of sunglasses in your beach bag, something Ken didn’t mind as he always kept an extra pair in his pocket just for you.

Not wanting you to suffer from the sun any longer, he quickly pulls the shades from his pocket, pops them open, and places them on your face, making sure to be extra careful as he does so. He didn’t want to accidentally poke you and hurt you!

Your smile turns gracious, a soft sound of laughter escaping you. The sound rang deep in Ken’s brain, hitting every nerve connection that was possible, a Pavlovian sound that instantly caused his smile to brighten.

“Thanks, Ken. Maybe I need to just always keep a pair in my bag.”

“I’ll always keep an extra pair for you.”

His words, albeit more truthful and straightforward than you’re used to from other men, were a part of Ken that was just him.

You watch behind the sunglasses as he digs through his pocket for a few seconds, before showing you his treasure like it was his proudest achievement. Seashells were littered in his palms, of different sizes and colors, but all pretty little things.

None of them had chips or missing pieces, as if Ken had dutifully picked out ones from the sand that were just perfect.

“Ken, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

This was another thing about Ken: he was always finding seashells on the seashore and giving them to you. You had so much that you managed to fill a vase with them to keep on your dining room table.

Carefully, you take the seashells from his hands, looking them over for just a few seconds longer before setting them into a small pocket in your bag, mentally reminding yourself to be careful when you pack up from the beach.

When you look back at Ken, you find him staring at you with that same smile on his lips, one that was so distinctly him. Bright and waiting, perfect teeth on display.

Hell, you were sure if he had a tail, it would be wagging excitedly by now.

“They reminded me of you.”

Your heart melts every time you hear it from him, your smile almost becoming too much, your cheeks aching. But he always pulled that from you, a smile so bright you didn’t mind the ache.

“Thank you, Ken.”

Your voice had softened around the syllable of his name, and you watched as his body almost slumped in response to such a gracious thing.

Slowly, you lean forward to plant the gentlest of pecks against his cheeks, a small, grateful thing that would only devolve into something more if you let it.

And maybe… You did.

“Come on, Ken. Let’s go look for more seashells.”

You begin to walk before him, kicking off your sandals and heading towards the shoreline. Unbeknownst to you, Ken is standing stock still, his brain computing such a delicate thing from you, storing it in the section of his brain that was all about you.

“Are we girlfriend/boyfriend now?”

“Yes, Ken, we’re girlfriend/boyfriend now.”

“Sublime!”

You hear his call behind you, and you struggle to contain your laughter before hearing his footsteps rushing to catch up beside you, his hand instantly finding your own to intertwine your fingers.

Ken smiled as bright as the sun the entire time, looking at everybody that passed by the two of you while you walked, pointing over at you enthusiastically.

“This is my girlfriend.” He would announce with almost the same amount of excitement every time.

Driver

☆ this man is a big big fan of shy people. there's no pressure for him to speak around you and he gets to be protective of his partner whenever you're both in public. you both are winning in this relationship.

☆ when you two are out of the house, he'll hold your hand to lead you through crowds so that you don't get lost. if someone tries to have any sort of conversation, he'll stand in front of you and let you hold onto his arm while practically burrowing into his back.

if you get uncomfortable in any situation, ever, then he's getting you out of there and driving you to wherever you so desire.

☆ there's been a couple of times when you've needed to see him at work for whatever reason, and shannon absolutely adores you. the first time shannon meets you, he tries to sweet-talk you and immediately sees that driver cares an awful lot about you when he gets incredibly protective.

shannon knows now that to avoid making you uncomfortable, or driver pissed, he should let you start any conversation.

Holland

☆ holland absolutely does not understand the concept of being shy. he is talking constantly, and to literally anybody that will listen. it's a small miracle that the two of you ended up together in the end.

☆ he talks for the both of you. if you guys are out in public and somebody asks you a question, holland will answer for you without a second thought.

after a while, he starts to speak for you even if you have something to say. once you get comfortable around holly and healy, sometimes you want to speak for yourself and holland will talk over you without even realizing.

he's been told to shut up multiple times by holly so that you can speak, if you want to.

☆ despite all of his natural confidence, if you will, he learns how to chill out a little. he's never really been around anybody as quiet as you before, and it's definitely a learning curve as to how to be with someone that isn't as talkative as him. it's a constant battle between simply being himself and not accidently overwhelming you.

Lars

☆ two peas in a pod. lars is plenty shy on his own, so he understands your affliction.

☆ almost all of the time you guys spend together is at home. lars will find cute little activities to do for dates so that you guys aren't just having the same date with dinner and a movie every time.

or maybe you guys go on walks. he really likes taking you out to have picnics at the lakefront, or when the water is frozen you'll both (carefully) skate across the ice. you're one of the only people that he's brought to his treehouse, and he very much enjoys seeing somebody he loves in a place that brings him comfort.

☆ when you guys do go out of the house, mostly to go to the church together every sunday morning, lars so bravely takes on the brunt of the conversation that people initiate. he gives very short, awkward responses, and you guys are escaping to go home soon enough.

the friendlier folks in the town learned quickly that you and lars are an incredibly quite couple, and now they keep the talking to a minimum if they think it's a bad time. it's something you both have noticed and appreciate greatly.

Ryland

☆ ryland is actually very fond of you being shy. he thinks that quietness is a very appealing trait, and he likes just being able to sit with you without feeling the need to say much.

☆ since he's started dating you, he's gotten better with his shy students. he's heard all of your stories about what it is was like when you were in school, and he lets that reflect on how he acts around the students in his class.

☆ he used to be a wild person, going to parties and doing drug before he became dr. ryland grace. he's kicked that sort of behavior now, of course, but there are still remnants of it that remains within him.

every once in a while, his brother colt will invite him out, and if you're comfortable with it, ryland brings you along as well. he's perfectly content with just being out with you, and if you prefer sitting in the corner of the bar the whole time, then he'll happily join you.

you don't even have to say a word at all, though colt has admitted to ryland that he enjoys when you will open up to him for conversation.

you'll get home from the outing and ryland will tell you how happy it makes him to see the two people he cares for the most in the same room, and how thankful he is that you came even if it's not particularly your thing.

Henry

☆ henry isn't shy himself, but he is very anti-social. he understands the feeling of being in public and wanting to have no one even look in your direction.

☆ he doesn't get out much on his own, besides going to classes and his therapist, so he's fine with just sitting at home with you if that's what you want.

when you guys do venture out of the house, however, he likes to take you to the bookstore. he has a particular corner that the owner has basically sectioned off for him, and you guys can sit back there for hours.

if you like reading, then you pick out your own book to read as you sit besides him. if you don't like reading, then he'll read out the words from the book that he has.

Henry swears, relentlessly, that he’s difficult to love.

He blames the fault on the mere basis of his existence, blames it on his quietude, his painfully reserved nature, his propensity to hurt himself. Of course, by life’s honest cruelty, there’s an irony in his conflict, a flaw that always seems to question his deprecation. He falls into captivation, almost by an urgent necessity.

Henry, yieldingly so, experiences the tugging, gnawing sensation of love more often than he’d like to admit. Especially when it comes to you.

The overwhelming emotions manifest in his sketchbook. Sometimes they’re only snippets of you, so obscured by abstract haze. It continues on like this for tens of pages, all because he’s frustrated with how he can’t capture you properly. He’s so compelled to do so that he keeps trying anyway. 

It’s not long before he gets it, that final missing piece to the puzzle. Prior to this, he spends extra time just looking at you. You’ll often stare back and pull a stupid face, to which his resolve retires. But he just ends up drawing that, too. 

He draws everything he can see, and sometimes, what he hasn’t. He’ll only sketch in the lonesome familiarity of his apartment, for something about the thought of you stumbling across them makes him turn inside out.

Pages and pages of you, birthed by his own mind, his own will across the paper. His fingers will brush across the pencil work whenever he’s missing you. The act is so intimate and private and wary. It's almost perverted. It’s incredibly raw, splayed open. It’s incredibly Henry. 

After a few months of dating, his self-doubt only seems to grow by the day. It strains on him, and more importantly, it strains on you as he begins to withdraw himself. He spends a lot of time torn between his inclination to leave until something dawns on him.

He thinks of you. He thinks about how cruel his sudden disappearance would be, how unfair. He thinks about it hurting you, making you cry. 

It makes him sick. He goes outside to smoke. 

One night, seemingly on a whim, he decides to bite the bullet under the reasoning that if he tells you about himself, about what’s underneath, then maybe his decision to leave will be a mutual desire. 

Each admission seems to force itself from him, eager to end the cycle of circling in the pits of his stomach and fighting to rise in his throat before inevitably losing to the great effort that he puts into swallowing the discomfort. The more he speaks, the more he begins to feel the inklings of regret. It dries up his mouth, desperately wanting him to shut up.

And so he rushes his words, expectantly, preparing himself for a blow that he’s sure will come the moment he stops talking. He huffs a breath, wincing prematurely. It’s a habit spawned from a pattern — that good things don’t really like to happen to Henry. 

But the blows don’t come. In fact, you don’t say much at all. You stand there by the edge of the couch where he sits, eyes glossed-over. Your hands come up to cradle his face, a face so beautifully carved, a face so ruined it’s almost like he wears a storm. Your arms come around his neck, pulling him into you. 

By tender instinct, his knees spread to allow you closer. His knees spread to allow himself to bury his head against the warmth of your stomach as he grasps and clings at your waist and back. 

You lean down to kiss the crown of his head and rest your cheek against his hair. “You’re perfect, Henry," you say, voice gentle, "You come easy to me.” 

He winces all the same, but he allows the words to settle in the sliver of space between you. He finds that they only make him cry harder, though unlike his usual surges of emotion, the sound is audible. He thinks that this is the first time his habit has been broken — where he’d choke down the sound of his anguish as though the echoes of his sorrow were the same as pollution. 

You stay like this for a long while until his breathing slows and the ragged edges even out. His hands hold fistfuls of your shirt, the hem risen. Eventually, they loosen as well, coming to roam and reside on the junction of your torso and hip. 

Henry looks up at you, imploring the genuineness of your sentiment.

It’s without fail that you notice, you always do, and you offer him a nod of reassurance. It’s enough for him to know that no lie exudes from you, not even as the years of his own self-inflicted dishonesty soak and stain your shirt.

There’s a beat of stillness before he leans in, pressing his lips over the base of your sternum. 

And when you fall asleep, tucked underneath the pillowy fabrics of your bed, he stays. 

He sits at the foot of the mattress, sketchbook in hand, eyes fond with the image of you. Each swift motion of his wrist is a divine replicant, a detail about yourself that you haven’t yet noticed. He stares at that soft part of you, the space cradled, centered between the bottom of your breasts and the beginnings of your ribs. Henry stares for a long while, flitting his gaze every-so-often to the subtle rise and fall of your midriff. 

you don’t think anything more of it—until your phone buzzes again.

I’m sorry. This was my girlfriend’s number. She passed. Her number must have finally been reassigned to you. I won’t send any more messages.

your heart stops as you read over the new message. guilt floods your brain. your fingers move quickly.

Don’t apologize. You’re not bothering me at all, please feel free to keep messaging me. I’m sorry for your loss.

you watch as the message goes from delivered to read. the three dots don’t pop back up to indicate that the stranger is typing out a reply. you lock your phone.

three days later is when you finally get a new message.

Thinking about you again. Went to the diner and sat in our booth. I love you.

you don’t respond.

then the next day, another message comes in. it becomes routine. one message a day for about a month.

I wear your ring around my neck now. It still hurts when I’m asked about it, but I get to tell them all about you. I wish you would have been able to see it.

I smelled someone wearing your perfume today. I turned around hoping to see you standing there. I miss you.

Your birthday is coming up. I don’t know how I’m going to spend it without you.

I tried to make that pasta you made for our first date. It doesn’t taste as good as yours.

Happy birthday, my love. I can’t believe you’re not here to celebrate it.

that’s when you finally break. you know you’re crossing a line, but even still, you don’t want him to be alone on her birthday. your heart cracks a little in your chest just thinking about it. your fingers shake as you type out a message.

you still hit send.

Do you want to meet today? You can tell me about her.

you don’t set your phone down. you keep it unlocked, waiting for a response—or more likely, no response.

you see the three little dots pop up. then finally, an answer you were hoping for, but not expecting.

That would be nice. I can meet in an hour. Thank you.

attached to the message is a location. a small diner just a few blocks away. you type out one final message before going ready to meet the person whose been pouring their heart out to your number.

Of course. I’ll meet you there. I can’t wait to hear more about her.

when you finally meet him, you’re surprised to see a man near your age. it’s awkward at first, of course, but the conversation flows. you learn more about who his messages are about, athena. you also come to learn more about the mystery texter, henry. the night is spent letting him reminisce about the past. you don’t even realize the diner is closing until the waitress cuts off your coffee supply.

before leaving the diner that night, the two of you have already made plans to connect again the following week. you reassure him that your phone, and now you as well, are there if he ever needs anything or wants to send another message.

Obviously with the peppered kisses, there's bound to be little licks. Tiny flicks of his tongue against your cheek mostly meant to weird you out because he thinks it's funny, but as he moves around your face and does the same to your lips it gets a bit more heated. This is the start of a lot of your sexual encounters actually, because he can't help giving you his own sandpaper kisses.

Speaking of his sandpaper kisses, that boy absolutely has a thing for licking you, and not even just to eat you out (although that he does a lot of that too). He's notorious for laving his tongue against your neck, your shoulders, your navel, anywhere he can get his mouth against your skin, he's there.

His favorite place to be when he's fucking inside you is buried in the crook of your neck. He can rest against you and cover you with his body while he rubs his head and face and cheek into the junction where shoulder meets neck to better feel your rapid heartbeat. It helps him concentrate on really ruining you and it turns him on too when he feels your pulse spike as you lose yourself to the pleasure.