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“Ugh… again? Fuck’s sakes, Y/N, again?”
Sombr is pacing, bitching and moaning, throwing a fit. Y/N looks on, exhausted, a little less worried than last time. Bitching, moaning, throwing a fit - such theatrics have become ritual at this point. She lets him air his rage. Like weather, it passes. Like thunder it’s loud yet oddly impotent.
“Yes. Yes, again. What is the problem?”
“Trust Y/N…”
“It’s not about trust.”
“And…” he raises a finger, an oddly patronising gesture for a man-boy. Presumptuous. Presumptuous cunt. But he has the face of a malnourished angel, writes notesapp poems about her ankles and recites them like scripture. She suspects that he likes the reciting more than the muse.
“I liked a picture.” She states, bluntly, dead-eyed.
“You like him.” Sombr flops down next to her, takes her hand. His hand is clammy. But his gaze is sincere, and importantly very brown. His twinkish love is true.
“As an artist. I can listen to other music, you know?”
“I write odes for you and you… you Y/N… you’re bored with that aren’t you?” He laughs, his hand, growing no less clammy, travels to rest on her cheek.
“You- you want songs of seagulls and- and- and fucking Boom-booms?! What even is that Y/N? A boom-boom? I write stars into your eyes, sunsets onto your lips. I make you my religion, and god, Y/N I sing of you… it counts for something.”
“Sometimes it’s a bit much.”
“My love’s a bit much?” He huffs.
“You’re in love with love.”
“Yeah, through you Y/N.”
“So I’m a means to an end?”
“Fuck Y/N… don’t you love love?”
He pouts. Fucking pouts… Y/N’s ovaries are learning to tie knots usually reserved for girl scouts. Still, cow eyes, big twinkling cow eyes. All the greatest artists must have been whiners, she thinks, no one else would be deluded enough to think their little feelings worthy of global broadcasting. Sombr is a great artist. Will be, at least. Hopefully. And he’s serious about her. Serious. Unlike Joost.
Sombr, as if policing her thoughts and coming upon that name which he deems most distasteful of all, suddenly decides, as he often does, that words, his words, are of little interest to her. So he lays her down. She lets him, feeling, if not entirely excited, then at least curious as to what sexual maneuvers he thinks will win back that mythic devotion that he seeks of her. He kisses her, tries to, swiping his tongue across her lips as if it were a key card. She opens, out of sympathy, like a homeless shelter, and her tongue plays with his, politely, like one plays with the odd kid in class to keep them from travelling down red-pill pipelines. Speaking of pipelines. There’s one rubbing against her thigh at the moment. At it again.
“My darling… my muse… seems we’ve misunderstood each other…” He hums, his scrawny self thrumming with self-righteous horniness. It’s that spiel. Amazing how many words he cloaks his hormone-infused lust with.
“How so?” She chuckles.
“We’re so good together dear. Can’t you feel it?”
“I feel something.” She looks down for a moment, smiling at his eager half-thrusts against her leg. He wants to fuck a statue.
“And it’s only for you…” He purrs.
A lie. She’s seen him get hard to the sound of his own songs. His reflection. The idea of a star on Hollywood Boulevard. Still, his is a perfectly adequate dick. And he operates it with finesse that’s, well, fine. While he slobbers down her neck, he undoes his pants, pulling up the organ in question. He looks up at her, as if just now, he’s offering her the golden ticket. She looks at him with great sympathy, even a little bit of cautious intrigue. Still, when he gets back to tongue-dancing down her chest, she gazes longingly at the Darth Invader mounted on her shelf, and at her phone, which unbeknownst to her twiglike lover is plinging away. Reels, mountains of well-chosen reels, from a source all too known to both parties. That blond beauty. Sombr is whimpering somewhere below her, trying to insert himself.
“You’re not gonna come already are you?” She asks, furrowing her brows.
“Mmmh… perhaps.” Sombr groans.
“That won’t do.”
“Please Y/N… I hunger for the sweet embrace of your womanly flesh.”
“A new song lyric?”
Maybe…”
“Why don’t you eat me out then?” She tilts her head, deigning to play with his curls, wonderful curls to be fair.
“Mhmm… eat for suck?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
And so he does go down on her, with the passion and inexperience of youth and an almost comedic faith in his abilities. She is reminded of all those times during the Vietnam war the U.S. accidentally bombed Laos or Cambodia instead of their Viet-cong targets. For no reason. Still, her left lip surely has never felt so appreciated. In a moment of extraordinary daring she reaches out, grabbing her phone, which lights up, faithfully. A semi-ironic minion meme. A picture of a hot air balloon with her face on it. Love in other words, or images. She smiles, fondly, truly, as Joost keeps supplying that delightful stream of content. That, thick, mounting flow. As her lover slaves away, applying the right attitude to all the wrong holes, she emerges herself in Joost’s digital caresses, moaning in earnest. Sombr moans quite happily, and taking pity on him, she pats his curly head.
“Still with that weeping willow of a man?” Joost texts her, a vulgar amount of emojis accompanying his text.
“And he’s weeping into my willow right now…” She replies.
“And you’re… wet?” The scepticism leaks through the screen.
“Somehow, yeah.”
“Does he know we’re having a digital threesome?”
“No.. that’d make him somber, I think.”
“Best to keep him happier… or is it happir with him?”
“He’s ok.”
“You don’t deserve ok.”
“You compared me to a seagull in a song.”
“Because you’re fly <3”
“Fuck off. I’m supposed to be coming now.”
“Oh do come… and then… come over later, and come some more. <3”