“I’m not real, you know,” he whispers, and you shrug, fist your hand in his hair, and guide his mouth between your legs.
“I know,” you reply. “You share a name and a superficial resemblance to a historical homosexual (although some experts suspect bisexuality), and are otherwise an entirely fictional entity well-suited for exploration via fanworks.”
You gasp; he really does have quite a clever tongue.
“Some of those fanworks will adhere to canon,” you continue breathlessly, “and some will deviate wildly, and they’re all valid expressions of fannish interpretation, whether or not other fans approve of it.”
“But aren’t some of them… inappropriate ?” His voice goes straight to your core and you shiver.
“That’s a subjective term and only an individual reader can make that call.” You throw your head back and whine with frustrated lust as that clever tongue pauses. He knows what he’s doing borders on cruel; he knows you love it. “Fortunately, the predominant archive for fanworks has a robust tagging system allowing readers to select tags they wish to include or exclude from their search results, which means they will only see stories with content they want to consume. If someone is viewing content they disapprove of, it’s because they’re either refusing to take responsibility for curating their own experience, or deliberately seeking out something to be offended by in a transparent act of performative morality.”
He smiles - you can feel it, can feel the movement of his lips against your skin, and you can feel the heat of his breath when he whispers, “They sound like children throwing a temper tantrum because mum refused to take sides over who gets to play with the dollies this time.” You can’t help but laugh, high and breathless, and the return of his tongue makes you gasp. “Honestly,” he continues, “they sound tiresome. Worse: they sound boring .”
“You are,” you say on the heels of a wanting little whimper, “not incorrect. Fffffuck , do- do that again-”
He does, and you are momentarily bereft of words as a brilliant and soundless flare of perfect pleasure eclipses the world around you and leaves you gasping for air in the wake of its silent explosion.
“At any rate,” you mumble and finally let go of his hair when you can once again feel your fingertips, “thank you for helping me write this drabble.”
“But cherished reader,” he says, smirking up at you from between your quivering thighs, “isn’t a drabble one-hundred words exactly?”
“It is,” you answer, and answer him smirk for sly smirk. “But if they can post a dull one as a drabble at sixty-nine words, I can damn well do the same at four hundred and fifty.”