Fic: The Emporer's New Clothes
For lilith_lessfair , who requested a Torchwood drabble. Well... this ended up being slightly more than a drabble, and no one from Team Torchwood makes an appearance, but when I began thinking of Torchwood, this is what popped up in my head. (Nota bene: this is what happens when you don't give me a detailed prompt! I run amok in time and space!!) This is the first in a series of 5 stand-alone yet interrelated tales.
Title: The Emporer's New Clothes
Author: Kenazfiction (kenazfiction@gmail.com)
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: John Hart, others
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been RTD. Or the BBC, for that matter.
Summary: "Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society." -- Mark Twain
I. “The man with the boots does not mind where he places his foot.” -- Irish proverb
Venice, Earth, 1677
"Sweet Jesu!" she hissed, and if it weren't for her backward scramble, tripping gracelessly over her skirts and shoving him away, he'd have thought she was singing a hymn to the dexterity of his tongue. "Oh, God help us, he's coming!"
I'm not, he thought irritably. His cock throbbed behind the placket of his breeches, and his shirt clung across his shoulders with sweat born of been half-buried underneath layer upon layer of brocade and silk and linen--twice as much dress as woman, for fuck's sake!-- and he could tell he wasn't even going to get so much as a courtesy hand-job out of this. He wiped his mouth and chin on the bottom of her shift, and she jerked it out of his hand with a petulant little curse.
"Lace me up! Damn you, lace me up or we're both dead!" she squealed. Her hands flapped about his ears like little frantic birds before she turned and gripped the bedpost.
You might've struck that pose an hour ago. Oh, the fun we could've had! A little breath-play is good for the soul. Well, my soul, anyway.
He stood up, his lips pinching in a moue of vexation for the opportunities lost, and made no concession to her birdlike bones when he tightened her stays with a jerk. She yelped out a complaint as her stomacher dug into her flesh, and he smirked. Still, seeing that tiny little waist all bound up, perfectly contained and restrained... it made him want to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and abscond with her to-- to anyplace he might be able to fuck her five ways to Sunday without a bloody interruption.
"Out!" She meant it as a demand, but it came out a desperate whine, her eyes wide with panic as she gestured toward the window.
"That's just adorable. Fierce as a kitten, you are." He took his time sauntering over to the casement-- one, two, three, four lazy steps-- just to see anger flush her cheeks pink, and cast a glance out the window down to the murky, moving shadows of the canal below.
Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.
He knew what was in that water; last night, he'd rolled two corpses into it. The first one had been business; the second one... well, that had been more of a spur-of-the-moment thing. The narrow canals off the Canalasso probably had as much blood in them as water: debts settled, justices administered, inconvenient problems solved, vendettas vetted. Beneath the window, a fat brown rat paddled uselessly against the fecal current and floated slowly backward until it passed out of sight.
"No. Not a chance."
Her pouting mouth formed a perfect null of shock, and he imagined, with equal parts irritation and regret, how his cock would have looked in it. This night had been a fucking waste.
"Well, you cannot stay here!" Even in a whisper, her voice was shrill. A girl's voice, not a woman's. She swiveled her head sharply on her sparrow's neck, taking in the echo of uneven footfalls on the stairs. Her face had gone deathly pale beneath the nest of golden curls. She looked at him pleadingly. The terror was genuine (how sweet!); she was too young to have the guile to fake it.
He replied with an aggrieved noise--Goddesses give me the patience to suffer fools and little children!-- and just before the door opened, he dove under the bed.
A man reeled in, bringing a miasma of stale wine into the room behind him like he'd bathed in a cask on the way home and invited the grapes to come with him, and beneath the wine was the stink of the rut.
Oh, good: drunk and horny. From his vantage point, he could see only the man's boots as they wove across the room in unsteady bounds: absolutely gorgeous. Tawny calfskin, low heel, fitted snug around the calf and climbing to the knee. Incredible quality; the hallmark of having good taste and the coin to go with it. The man toed them off, and he could smell the neatsfoot oil on the hide, even over the sharp, rank pong of unwashed feet.
Above the latticework of hemp and the thick down mattress it cradled-- which I won't be sleeping on, thank you very much-- he heard the wet sounds of a moving mouth and the rustle of fabric as the man pushed up her skirts.
"Good God, you're wet," he growled, the words all a-slur. "Sweet and ready for my prick."
If he had rolled his eyes with more vehemence, they might have rolled out of his head. Dirty talk was hot; listening to some drunken sot's dirty talk was not. Particularly not when the bastard was taking credit for his work. He could still taste her cunt; his face was sticky-slick with her. He swiped his tongue over his lips: musk and salt and a slight metallic tang.
"Been thinking of me all night, haven't you, naughty girl?" The voice was utterly smug, and it was all he could do not to stick his head out and correct him on this point.
There was a little shriek of surprise, and the bed groaned, as if it is was as bored and uncomfortable as he was under the weight of two bodies.
A regular cadence of squeaks ensued, punctuated by bloateded grunts. The girl occasionally remembered to make noises of interest, and-- that's it? No joke? No wonder the little bird was aching for a good reaming. Too bad they hadn't quite gotten to that; timing really was everything, and he hadn't needed four years in the Time Academy to teach him that. The girl followed up-- too little, too late-- with the most pathetic fake orgasm he thought he'd ever heard. If she'd been married off to this fool at fourteen, you'd think she'd know how to convincingly fake her way through a fuck at sixteen. But judging from how quickly the snoring began after the grunting ended, she probably shouldn't have even wasted her effort on her "unh-unh-UHN!"
Poor lamb. What a waste.
He gave it a few minutes before he slipped out from under the bed, his hand on his knife (just in case). The man, however, was out like the proverbial light, a thin trickle of saliva coursing out of his mouth and down the crest of her tit, which had popped out of the rigid stays to oggle him like a third eye. And what a fantastic tit it was: high and firm, nipple just begging to be sucked, and completely wasted on this ridiculous boor. She was still awake, trapped under the weight of him, her skirts up around her armpits. Between the man and the stomacher, she looked as though she could hardly breathe. Her eyes glittered with shame and resentment in the candlelight, but she remained mute. Moonlight poured in from the window and illuminated the pale, flat slabs of the man's ass. Charming.
The man's cloak lay tossed across a chair where he had carelessly thrown it. With the tip of his knife, he lifted the fabric, revealing the heavy leather purse beneath it. He hoisted it slowly, careful that the coins within didn't clatter together: even an insensate drunk might have an uncanny sixth sense about the disposition of his money. He did, after all; hence, body #2. He stopped just inside the door, and turned back.
Creeping over to the bed, he leaned in close and let his mouth hover over that ripe little nipple, just for a moment. He could smell the rush of her pheromones mingling with her rose water perfume, saw every muscle in her body tighten in terrified and absolutely delicious anticipation... and then turned his head and looked into her face. "I..." he whispered, watching her wide eyes dart back and forth between his and her sleeping husband's slack-jawed face, "would have made you come so hard you'd see stars."
He grabbed the boots with his free hand, an afterthought, ignoring a quickly stifled objection from the bed, and slipped silently out the door.
Title: The Emporer's New Clothes
Author: Kenazfiction (kenazfiction@gmail.com)
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: John Hart, others
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been RTD. Or the BBC, for that matter.
Summary: "Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society." -- Mark Twain
I. “The man with the boots does not mind where he places his foot.” -- Irish proverb
Venice, Earth, 1677
"Sweet Jesu!" she hissed, and if it weren't for her backward scramble, tripping gracelessly over her skirts and shoving him away, he'd have thought she was singing a hymn to the dexterity of his tongue. "Oh, God help us, he's coming!"
I'm not, he thought irritably. His cock throbbed behind the placket of his breeches, and his shirt clung across his shoulders with sweat born of been half-buried underneath layer upon layer of brocade and silk and linen--twice as much dress as woman, for fuck's sake!-- and he could tell he wasn't even going to get so much as a courtesy hand-job out of this. He wiped his mouth and chin on the bottom of her shift, and she jerked it out of his hand with a petulant little curse.
"Lace me up! Damn you, lace me up or we're both dead!" she squealed. Her hands flapped about his ears like little frantic birds before she turned and gripped the bedpost.
You might've struck that pose an hour ago. Oh, the fun we could've had! A little breath-play is good for the soul. Well, my soul, anyway.
He stood up, his lips pinching in a moue of vexation for the opportunities lost, and made no concession to her birdlike bones when he tightened her stays with a jerk. She yelped out a complaint as her stomacher dug into her flesh, and he smirked. Still, seeing that tiny little waist all bound up, perfectly contained and restrained... it made him want to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and abscond with her to-- to anyplace he might be able to fuck her five ways to Sunday without a bloody interruption.
"Out!" She meant it as a demand, but it came out a desperate whine, her eyes wide with panic as she gestured toward the window.
"That's just adorable. Fierce as a kitten, you are." He took his time sauntering over to the casement-- one, two, three, four lazy steps-- just to see anger flush her cheeks pink, and cast a glance out the window down to the murky, moving shadows of the canal below.
Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.
He knew what was in that water; last night, he'd rolled two corpses into it. The first one had been business; the second one... well, that had been more of a spur-of-the-moment thing. The narrow canals off the Canalasso probably had as much blood in them as water: debts settled, justices administered, inconvenient problems solved, vendettas vetted. Beneath the window, a fat brown rat paddled uselessly against the fecal current and floated slowly backward until it passed out of sight.
"No. Not a chance."
Her pouting mouth formed a perfect null of shock, and he imagined, with equal parts irritation and regret, how his cock would have looked in it. This night had been a fucking waste.
"Well, you cannot stay here!" Even in a whisper, her voice was shrill. A girl's voice, not a woman's. She swiveled her head sharply on her sparrow's neck, taking in the echo of uneven footfalls on the stairs. Her face had gone deathly pale beneath the nest of golden curls. She looked at him pleadingly. The terror was genuine (how sweet!); she was too young to have the guile to fake it.
He replied with an aggrieved noise--Goddesses give me the patience to suffer fools and little children!-- and just before the door opened, he dove under the bed.
A man reeled in, bringing a miasma of stale wine into the room behind him like he'd bathed in a cask on the way home and invited the grapes to come with him, and beneath the wine was the stink of the rut.
Oh, good: drunk and horny. From his vantage point, he could see only the man's boots as they wove across the room in unsteady bounds: absolutely gorgeous. Tawny calfskin, low heel, fitted snug around the calf and climbing to the knee. Incredible quality; the hallmark of having good taste and the coin to go with it. The man toed them off, and he could smell the neatsfoot oil on the hide, even over the sharp, rank pong of unwashed feet.
Above the latticework of hemp and the thick down mattress it cradled-- which I won't be sleeping on, thank you very much-- he heard the wet sounds of a moving mouth and the rustle of fabric as the man pushed up her skirts.
"Good God, you're wet," he growled, the words all a-slur. "Sweet and ready for my prick."
If he had rolled his eyes with more vehemence, they might have rolled out of his head. Dirty talk was hot; listening to some drunken sot's dirty talk was not. Particularly not when the bastard was taking credit for his work. He could still taste her cunt; his face was sticky-slick with her. He swiped his tongue over his lips: musk and salt and a slight metallic tang.
"Been thinking of me all night, haven't you, naughty girl?" The voice was utterly smug, and it was all he could do not to stick his head out and correct him on this point.
There was a little shriek of surprise, and the bed groaned, as if it is was as bored and uncomfortable as he was under the weight of two bodies.
A regular cadence of squeaks ensued, punctuated by bloateded grunts. The girl occasionally remembered to make noises of interest, and-- that's it? No joke? No wonder the little bird was aching for a good reaming. Too bad they hadn't quite gotten to that; timing really was everything, and he hadn't needed four years in the Time Academy to teach him that. The girl followed up-- too little, too late-- with the most pathetic fake orgasm he thought he'd ever heard. If she'd been married off to this fool at fourteen, you'd think she'd know how to convincingly fake her way through a fuck at sixteen. But judging from how quickly the snoring began after the grunting ended, she probably shouldn't have even wasted her effort on her "unh-unh-UHN!"
Poor lamb. What a waste.
He gave it a few minutes before he slipped out from under the bed, his hand on his knife (just in case). The man, however, was out like the proverbial light, a thin trickle of saliva coursing out of his mouth and down the crest of her tit, which had popped out of the rigid stays to oggle him like a third eye. And what a fantastic tit it was: high and firm, nipple just begging to be sucked, and completely wasted on this ridiculous boor. She was still awake, trapped under the weight of him, her skirts up around her armpits. Between the man and the stomacher, she looked as though she could hardly breathe. Her eyes glittered with shame and resentment in the candlelight, but she remained mute. Moonlight poured in from the window and illuminated the pale, flat slabs of the man's ass. Charming.
The man's cloak lay tossed across a chair where he had carelessly thrown it. With the tip of his knife, he lifted the fabric, revealing the heavy leather purse beneath it. He hoisted it slowly, careful that the coins within didn't clatter together: even an insensate drunk might have an uncanny sixth sense about the disposition of his money. He did, after all; hence, body #2. He stopped just inside the door, and turned back.
Creeping over to the bed, he leaned in close and let his mouth hover over that ripe little nipple, just for a moment. He could smell the rush of her pheromones mingling with her rose water perfume, saw every muscle in her body tighten in terrified and absolutely delicious anticipation... and then turned his head and looked into her face. "I..." he whispered, watching her wide eyes dart back and forth between his and her sleeping husband's slack-jawed face, "would have made you come so hard you'd see stars."
He grabbed the boots with his free hand, an afterthought, ignoring a quickly stifled objection from the bed, and slipped silently out the door.