Celebrating 1000 downloads of Titan Arum, part 2: Oscar!

Side note: you're all wild, we hit 2000 downloads before we got even halfway through our 1k download celebration. Thank you all so much!! 

Now without further ado, everyone's favorite ornery editor!

DEBUT

By Cath, edited by CrescenceStudio

No way. No way, no way, no way. Nope. No. Way.

There is no chance whatsoever that you're going tonight. It's not happening. This… It's all wrong!

You stand before the full length mirror in Oscar's bedroom– 

No, it's your bedroom now too. The mental correction is taking longer to come into effect than you'd thought it would, despite you having had nearly two months to adjust. And despite you redecorating… or rather, decorating the place.

To call it a bachelor pad would be a compliment, since that would imply at least furniture to begin with. Oscar's place had just been... empty.

"I'm always traveling. What is the point of a–What the fuck did you call that? A duvet?-- Whatever the hell it's called, if I'm in hotels most of the time?" 

His huffing had done nothing to stop your determination to bring the aesthetic of the place from "utilitarian holding cell" to an actual home. Where people live. On purpose. He'd groused the whole time, but little did he know, you had seen every one of his slight smiles as you chose which bedsheets, towels, curtains matched your shared space best. He'd enjoyed watching you make your small—and not so small—claims on the space. 

You stare at yourself in the full-length mirror (a purchase he had been surprisingly on board with) for a heartbeat more before half thrashing your way free of the clothes and adding them to the ever-growing mountain on the bed.

You can't do this. Nope. Too much pressure. 

You shove on a tattered sweatshirt (Oscar's, stolen, smelling like old books and his spice-scented cologne) and a pair of shorts just as Oscar enters the room. 

"You're not dressed yet?" He arches an eyebrow at you, and you immediately scowl. It does not escape you that he isn't ready either–he's wearing the same jeans and tee-shirt from his morning errands.

"I'm not going." 

He leans against the doorframe, his broad shoulders near filling the entranceway, his expression shifting towards one he always seems to save just for you, a wry kind of amusement bordering on exasperation. 

"You sound like a toddler," he says. You think you hear the beginning of a chuckle in his voice, and it fans your stubbornness into outright defiance. 

"I do not. I sound like an adult who can make their own decisions, and I decided I'm not going." 

Your earlier suspicion is confirmed: his chuckle evolves into a snort that does a poor job hiding his laughter.

"It's the launch party for your book. You quite literally have to go." 

You throw yourself backwards onto the bed with a loud groan, covering your face with your hands. He's right, of course. But there's no way in hell you're saying that. 

"How about this, Oscar? You edited the thing. You go schmooze in my stead and make good impressions and whatever else is expected for something like this–"

You feel his presence moments before he reaches down for you. It's that familiar tingle that fills the air every time you two are in close proximity, a ticklish kind of static. He grips you firmly but gently by the shoulders, prying you up from the bed. He'd probably release you if you put up a fight, because he was annoying like that. So instead, you switch tactics and go entirely limp, forcing him to drag your stubborn, slumping form up. Your head lolls from side to side, but he, equally as stubborn, hauls you up into a seated position. 

"What's the issue, sweetheart?" he asks, the note of annoyance in his voice the only acknowledgement of your ragdoll display.  

You lean against him, winding your arms around his hips and burying your face into his stomach. Your face feels warm with embarrassment, and you don't want him to see. You don't want to admit the actual problem—to hear how frivolous it sounds when it's spoken aloud. All that would do is make you feel… small. Ridiculous. 

The silence stretches, and soon you feel the weight of his hand against the back of your head, cradling it gently. He leans just slightly into you, pulling you closer, and begins drawing soothing, rhythmic circles on your back. The soothing effect is near instantaneous, and you sigh loudly before turning your head so he can hear you. 

"I have nothing to wear." 

His hand stills for a moment, and his thumb twitches at the base of your neck. His chest shakes a little, and you pull back to glare up at him. 

He's laughing. That bastard!

"Stop it, I'm serious!" 

This, of course, only makes him laugh harder, the tone warm and genuine. You expect the shame and embarrassment to overcome you at any moment, but it doesn't. He's not mocking. You find yourself struggling to maintain your glare, your lips twitching into a smile. 

"That's the issue? We can fix that! Why didn't you say something sooner?"

He drops a kiss on your forehead before untwining himself from your arms and walking to your closet. 

"No, it's not! I– Nothing feels right, and it's too late to go and buy something new...!"

"It's just nerves. It's making it hard to make a decision."

You grunt in response, wrinkling your nose. You know that, of course. Doesn't make it any easier. 

"Here." Oscar withdraws an outfit from the closet and presents it to you nonchalantly. "What about this one?" 

You eye the fabric skeptically. It's pale in color, the material looks buttery smooth, and you're almost entirely certain you've never seen it before. 

"I-Is that mine?"

"What? What kind of question is that? It's not mine."

"I– I don't know! Where did that even come from?" 

Oscar's brow drops to a decidedly annoyed expression. 

"Scribbles. You cannot seriously expect me to know where you've obtained your clothing." 

You practically hiss at the nickname, snatching the clothes hanger from him. 

"Fine, I'll try it! Now get out so I can change."

Oscar arches his eyebrow at you. 

"Seeing you change? That's where we draw the line of privacy, is it? Even though I've seen you–"

"Beat it, Spellcheck!"

He's cackling, and you're flustered and overheated by the time you succeed in banishing him from the bedroom. 

—-—-—-

"Come out, Scribbles. Let me see you." 

You sigh softly to yourself before leaving the safety of your bedroom, having finished your final grooming touches. The outfit Oscar picked feels suspiciously new. When did you even buy this? 

Still, the color is more complimentary than you'd expected, and the cut of it is undeniably flattering on your body. You still feel anxiety creeping up your throat from its nest in your belly, but your boyfriend had been right. Having the choice made for you was helpful. The quality of his choice certainly didn't hurt either. 

Stepping into the living room, you look around for a moment before spotting Oscar leaning against the far wall. 

Your mind goes blank, a slate wiped clean. He's changed as well, it seems. He wears a light brown vest paired with a cream colored jacket–colors that distinctly compliment your own outfit. The lines of the suit follow the contours of his body perfectly, and your pulse suddenly feels very loud. It's not wholly unusual for Oscar to dress up for work events or the like but… 

Damn. He's hot. 

Your gaze slides up his body and to his face, and you finally see the expression he's wearing. Any last scrap of insecurity you feel is banished by the look he is giving you. It's more exalting than desire, more sinful than reverence, more devoted than hunger. It's... all of those things and more. 

You can barely breathe. 

"I knew it." 

He drags himself from the wall and stalks towards you, the movements reminiscent of a prowling cat. 

"I knew that would be stunning on you the moment I saw it." 

You're flushing, your breathing coming unevenly. The effect he has on you is dizzying, but one question rises from the haze that's overcoming your mind. 

"The moment you saw it...?"

"You like my gift, Scribbles?"

"Wait, you… you bought this for me?"

"Well, you're always going on and on about everything needing to match in this damn house, so..."

"You bought this so I could match with you?"

He's only an arm's length from you now. The intensity of his gaze as he rakes his eyes up and down your body is such that you can practically feel his touch sliding over your skin. 

"Don't be absurd," he says quietly, his eyes finally meeting yours. The smile he gives you is wicked, but you don't miss the tinge of pink settling over his cheeks. 

He finally closes the gap between you, pressing you against the wall in one swift, easy motion. His hands find your hips, and his face nuzzles into your neck. For a moment, you wonder if he chose that spot to strategically hide his blush, just as you had before, but the thought quickly leaves you, as Oscar distracts you with the warmth of his breath against your skin, the nip of his teeth on your earlobe. 

You shudder. 

"I bought it because I knew it would look incredible on you. I bought my suit after to match." 

His arms wind around your lower back and fit you to him, and you nearly purr, pulling him closer. His touch is intoxicating—soft and sweet from his kisses that barely graze your skin, rough and scratchy from his beard lightly scraping against you. He trails his lips along your body. First, nibbling at your ear, then brushing over your jaw, before finally finding its way to the corner of your mouth. 

You turn towards him to close that torturous distance, wanting your mouth upon his. All you can think about is the feeling of his lips pressed against yours. Your whole body is on fire, set alight by his touch, but still he holds himself just beyond your reach.

"Maybe we shouldn't go after all," he hums. The rasp of his deep voice is more pronounced than usual, and you arch your back into him in response. He grins wolfishly at you, and you almost snap. Enough with the teasing. 

You want him to kiss you so. Fucking. Badly.

But before you can give voice to your wishes, he grants them as if he knows the effect he has on you.  He kisses you with a languid, searing intensity. You tangle your fingers into his soft curls and he groans into your mouth, his fingers digging hard into your body. You can feel his control dangling by a thread–

He pulls back, his breath hitching, and nips at your lower lip before truly breaking the kiss. 

"But–" you begin, but he shakes his head. 

"Tonight is to celebrate you. What you accomplished. I want you to have that, you deserve it. You've earned it."

He raises his hand to your cheek, brushing his knuckles over the heated skin. You smile. 

"... Fine. We'll go."

"Good." 

He separates from you, and the cool air isn't as soothing as you'd hoped. It's mostly lonely. He crosses the room to grab the keys, and shoots you a smirk over his shoulder as he goes. 

"Because I deserve it too. I had to edit the damn thing, and I think you would actually perish if you had to come up with a synonym on your own–let alone place a comma properly–"

"Asshole!" 

His laughter drowns out your stream of obscenities, and you depart for your book's debut.