#more??

Oscar isn’t sure what to do. Spooky had been fully ready to fuck after you asked him if he wanted to hang out, to get you stripped down and bent over, try every position just to see how your face would scrunch, and tears would gather. See how this little princessa, always running her mouth and acting all stern, would react to being treated like how he treated every other pretty thing that had the misfortune of catching his eye.

However, Spooky had abandoned him a while ago, leaving behind a confused and lost Oscar. You two were sitting on your couch–no, cuddling–his arm resting heavily on your shoulders, with you tucked under his arm, a blanket with a bunch of Muppets characters draped over the both of you while you watched some soap opera on the television. A half-drank fountain soda sat by his feet that were propped up on the table, a finished slushie cup sat a few inches away from it, and remnants of wrappers and boxes from your fast food were pushed to this side. The condoms in his pocket felt misplaced now, especially with you wearing a sweater with a butcher neck that hung off your shoulders and pajama pants with Oscar the Grouch (he’s starting to believe that you did that on purpose) on them.

Not that you didn’t look great in them. He had spent a pretty good amount of time staring at your ass in the pants–you always wore pajamas everywhere, it was hard not to. 

He held his breath as you moved, his heartbeat stopping. But it quickly restarted the moment he felt your hand run over his abdomen, half-wrapping around his torso, and you shifting closer to him. 

Your hands were strangely cold for someone wrapped in a blanket and wearing warm clothes.

Thu-thump. Thu-thump.

His mind reeled to the music that had played in your car as you drove to get the food. The lyrics strangely sentimental and soft to most of the stuff he was used to being blared from the speakers that sat on his front yard like gargoyles. Yours had a strange tang to it, almost country-like, like stuff found on the east coast, some had more guitar, almost like some kind of rock genre.

Thu-thump.Thu-thump.Thu-thump.

You smelled so nice. Almost vanilla, but not quite like the stuff he’d smelled on girls before when he’d have his nose pressed against the crane of their neck. Much softer, almost like honey and coffee–maybe your soap. And your hair smelled like coconut and something much sweeter–maybe your hair products, or shampoo.

Thu-thumpThu-thumpThu-thumpThu-thump

“What’s this about?” he finally breaks the stillness, looking down at you. Looking up, you saw the same stern glare he always had, and had throughout the whole night. He had arrived with a smirk and expectancy, and now it was just blank.

“We’re hanging out,” you reply, resting your cheek on his chest again. “Gotta wine and dine before I get fucked.”

A rumbly laughter vibrated in his chest, and you glanced up at him smiling, white teeth flashing. You didn’t want to admit that you had gone off on a whim and called him, hoping for the same thing you did, and then chickened out. Too nervous to admit you were a virgin, or that you wanted to know him better.

“Oh, so that’s it? You wanted some quality time?” he questions, bringing his arm down from your shoulders to your waist, holding you closer. 

“Sure.”

“Coña.”