Lady Paperclip (paperclipbitch) wrote,
Lady Paperclip

"Nymph, In Thy Orisons Be All My Sins Remembered," Torchwood, Jack/John, John/OFC

Title: Nymph, In Thy Orisons Be All My Sins Remembered
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/John, John/OFC
Present For/Prompt: supersparkly | See notes
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1055 (overran a little)
Genre: Slash/het
Copyright: Title is from Hamlet.
Summary: You feel as though you’ve known him forever, but it’s only been a few days.
Author’s Notes: The request intrigued me; to write a companion piece to I Nothing But To Please His Fantasy from a different POV. I ended up writing it from the point of view of the blonde prostitute John got fixated with for a while, and I actually like how this turned out. Plus I finally worked out why the timeloop was going on in the first place. I hope this is ok for you, supersparkly!

He lives across the street from you, in the hotel with its delusions of grandeur. He watches you; fingers smoothed flat to the glass, black eyes and split lips and a bloody nose. He never smiles.

You feel as though you’ve known him forever, but it’s only been a few days.


Selling yourself was unexpected, though it’s a living and with things as bad as they are it can’t be overlooked. Your town is being swallowed up by the desert, left to disrepair and discontent. The town hall with its puppet council that pretends to do what’s best, but they’re the only ones for thirty miles getting a decent meal. The anger is growing, and the raiders from neighbouring towns get ever more vicious.

You care less than maybe you should do. After all, you’re a whore. Whatever they take you were giving away anyway.


One night, you wake from a dream, screaming.

It takes three cigarettes and some cheap spirits before you stop shaking. The other girls seem torn between scorn and sympathy but it doesn’t matter. All that’s in your mind is the memory of the nightmare; the town burning to the ground, your flesh melting from your bones and the sound of laughter in the smoke.

Come the morning, the worst of it has passed, so you sit on the steps and watch two men checking into the hotel opposite. They’re both more handsome than anyone you’ve had here for a while. One is pretty but looks traumatised.

You offer him a smile, a hint at friendliness, but he doesn’t smile back.


Cinna has dark hair and the sort of breasts that make men love her and women hate her. She sits down beside you, pulling the cigarette from your mouth without asking and taking a drag. Cinna’s a bitch.

“That man scares me,” she says. You say nothing, snatching your cigarette back. “You know, he always seems to know when you’re outside. And he’s always at that window.”

You say nothing, slowly raising your eyes. You’ve had admirers before, but not like this. They were obvious, lascivious, frightening. He just looks lost, listless, face bloody.

“You should do something,” Cinna suggests.

He seems so sad; you can see the trembling from here.

“Fuck off, Cin,” you reply.


You’re sobbing, remembering a dream where your neck was snapped by a dark stranger and your body was dumped in the rain.

(You wish you knew what it meant.)


Cinna’s getting fucked in the street – that new guy in the hotel, the one who scares the hell out of you (he’s too calm). You’re inside, shaving your legs with a razorblade.

The other man is leant out of his window, teasing out plumes of smoke. One of his eyes is swollen shut, his fingers curled and bloody. There’s wistful longing in his expression, and you wonder if he loves his companion and how he could.

Later, Cin giggles in the street and you nick your leg when her client describes his friend as just my wife. You don’t know exactly what that means, but the implication is clear.


“We should fucking burn it down,” someone shouts, to general cheering.

You hate these citizens’ meetings and wouldn’t go but Cin labours under the misconception that you’re friends.

A few days ago no one was evening thinking of revolution but most of the town seem to be having vivid dreams and visions of flames.

Beside you, Cinna laughs.


He passes you in the street – that new man living in the hotel, he has such haunted eyes – and your gazes meet. He’s limping, bruised everywhere you can see, the edges of his mouth friction red. He stares at you like he knows you, but he’s only lived here a week.

His friend puts a large hand on his shoulder, squeezing brutally hard; he flinches, turns away.

But there was a moment of camaraderie.


Another traveller from out of town comes up to your room. He’s brutal; the sixth time he thrusts too hard and you bang your head against the wall you decide enough is enough. He always does this and you are fucking tired.

You keep a knife beneath your pillow and it slides easily between his ribs. He bleeds crimson all over you. Cinna screams when the law leads you through the streets, dripping.

“He always does it,” you insist.

“He’s only been in town four hours,” everyone replies.

Later, when you’re meant to be sleeping, waiting to be shot at dawn, you overhear some of the councillors talking.

“Is she starting to remember?”

“She can’t be. No one remembers.”

They do.”

“Well, yes.”

“Do you… think we should try to free them? They’re completely out of control. Do you recall what they did last loop?”

“I’m afraid they’re all starting to bleed into one.”

A pause.

“And the device is still safe? Still in the bank?”

“Of course.”

“Are you sure we can’t…”

Don’t. It’s the only thing keeping us in power. You know that.”

(In the morning, you are executed. And the whole thing becomes just another dream.)


You have a fever in the night, hallucinating vividly.

You think that the man from across the road, the one with the bared teeth and the wild eyes, comes to your room. You dream he fucks you, deep and hard and passionate, and then he kills you.

Cinna says that she is losing patience with your constant morbid dreams. You don’t know what she means.


“I love you.”

The man has a brittle sort of insanity, bruised lips and unsteady hands. He has lived in your town for twelve days. You’ve seen him in passing but you’ve never spoken before.

“I do love you,” he insists, “It’s just… I love him more, you know?”

“I don’t,” you reply.

He laughs, ragged and mad. “Oh, I love you.”

When he kisses you, it’s almost familiar.


You’re sure he used to be sweeter, the man with the swagger and the knives and the broken open eyes.

(Where did that thought come from?)


He lives across the road from you in the shitty hotel. He watches you too much and it scares you; his eyes are penetrating, his bloody lips in a calculating smile.

You feel as though you’ve known him forever, but it’s only been a few days.

Tags: character: jack harkness, character: john hart, pairing: jack/john, tv show: torchwood, type: het, type: slash, xmas 2008

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