Sweeney Todd #46 Pulse
Title: Two Pulses
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Sweeney Todd, Nellie Lovett
Prompt: 30 Kisses #17, kilohertz; fanfic50 #46, pulse
Word Count: 725
Rating: T
Summary: After their first coupling, Nellie springs up from the bed before he does.
Disclaimer: All I own is a computer.
After their first coupling, Nellie springs up from the bed before he does.
Their clothes are outcasted on the floor like children's discarded candy wrappers; she paces wildly as she grabs the articles belonging to her. Sweeney watches, supine and apathetic, from her mattress.
She spent so long wishing for this moment. She spent so long wishing for him to notice her and sweep her off the feet like those pathetic-but-so-damn-happy-princesses in the fairy tales. She spent so long wishing that, now that it's come to fruition, she's scared of the reality. Of the ever after to this tale.
Because she knows deep down their story cannot end well.
Because any moment he'll leap up in disgust and scream with his silent dark eyes that he's angry, that he's hurt, that she's nothing but a whore, and those screaming dark eyes will be worse than anything he could scream through his mouth.
Because their two pulses will never beat as one and she needs to stop torturing herself with the possibility that they ever could.
She throws on her clothes as hastily as he threw them off just minutes before, fighting with a mess of buttons and laces as she stumbles towards the door, needing to leave before he does.
"Nellie."
She freezes.
She hears him approach from behind. Her muscles have chilled to ice blocks and she can't coax them into melting before he reaches her - she tries to urge the ice in her body to heat - because she needs to move away before he reaches her, before she can see the disgusted hatred burning in the furnaces of his eyes -
His chest, covered only in sweat rather than cloth, presses against her equally damp and undressed back, thawing her muscles in an instant.
His arms thread around her waist and pull her closer against him. His chest rises and falls against her back, swelling into her flesh with every breath. His head nestles in the crook of her shoulder, hair tickling her jawline. His lips forge a necklace of soundless kisses along the back of her neck. His hands trace along her body, fingers playing leisurely over her stomach, her chest, her face, melding her liquid form to his own.
She closes her eyes and lets herself be consumed in his fire.
"I thought I should leave . . ." she manages to whisper, head lolling backwards against his shoulder. Her eyes crack open tentatively to find his gazing down at her, piercing her like swords crafted from volcanic rock, black and solid and glinting with light from some mysterious source. "I didn't think it'd be wise for me to linger - to overstay my welcome, or to make this into something that it couldn't ever - I thought you'd become angry if you thought too long about all this, and I didn't want to . . ."
Never one for words, he doesn't reply.
Never one for silence, she keeps talking:
"Don't get me wrong, love, I've got no regrets about - this - but I thought you would and - and I couldn't bear to see that, I couldn't stomach seeing you enraged after what I'd waited to happen for so many months . . ."
So many years . . .
"So I thought I should just get going before you came fully back to your senses and yelled or stormed off or . . ."
Or glared at me with all the anger and pain and betrayal of the world . . .
Eyes never flickering from hers, he traces one palm back down her face, her chest, her stomach, until he finds her fingers. Grasping them in his own, he drags their entwined grips upward. Then he presses their wrists together, encircling both their joints with the fingers from his other hand, holding them together.
They are still for a long moment, back to chest, wrist to wrist, eye to eye. She wishes he would just tell her what he means rather than expecting her to interpret his language consisting entirely of gestures and eyes. She grows weary of being his translator.
Then she gasps - because finally she understands. She stares at their wrists with wonder and joy and love and the renewed seedlings of hope that perhaps - perhaps - she shouldn't be scared of their ever after:
Their two pulses beat as one.
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Sweeney Todd, Nellie Lovett
Prompt: 30 Kisses #17, kilohertz; fanfic50 #46, pulse
Word Count: 725
Rating: T
Summary: After their first coupling, Nellie springs up from the bed before he does.
Disclaimer: All I own is a computer.
After their first coupling, Nellie springs up from the bed before he does.
Their clothes are outcasted on the floor like children's discarded candy wrappers; she paces wildly as she grabs the articles belonging to her. Sweeney watches, supine and apathetic, from her mattress.
She spent so long wishing for this moment. She spent so long wishing for him to notice her and sweep her off the feet like those pathetic-but-so-damn-happy-princesses in the fairy tales. She spent so long wishing that, now that it's come to fruition, she's scared of the reality. Of the ever after to this tale.
Because she knows deep down their story cannot end well.
Because any moment he'll leap up in disgust and scream with his silent dark eyes that he's angry, that he's hurt, that she's nothing but a whore, and those screaming dark eyes will be worse than anything he could scream through his mouth.
Because their two pulses will never beat as one and she needs to stop torturing herself with the possibility that they ever could.
She throws on her clothes as hastily as he threw them off just minutes before, fighting with a mess of buttons and laces as she stumbles towards the door, needing to leave before he does.
"Nellie."
She freezes.
She hears him approach from behind. Her muscles have chilled to ice blocks and she can't coax them into melting before he reaches her - she tries to urge the ice in her body to heat - because she needs to move away before he reaches her, before she can see the disgusted hatred burning in the furnaces of his eyes -
His chest, covered only in sweat rather than cloth, presses against her equally damp and undressed back, thawing her muscles in an instant.
His arms thread around her waist and pull her closer against him. His chest rises and falls against her back, swelling into her flesh with every breath. His head nestles in the crook of her shoulder, hair tickling her jawline. His lips forge a necklace of soundless kisses along the back of her neck. His hands trace along her body, fingers playing leisurely over her stomach, her chest, her face, melding her liquid form to his own.
She closes her eyes and lets herself be consumed in his fire.
"I thought I should leave . . ." she manages to whisper, head lolling backwards against his shoulder. Her eyes crack open tentatively to find his gazing down at her, piercing her like swords crafted from volcanic rock, black and solid and glinting with light from some mysterious source. "I didn't think it'd be wise for me to linger - to overstay my welcome, or to make this into something that it couldn't ever - I thought you'd become angry if you thought too long about all this, and I didn't want to . . ."
Never one for words, he doesn't reply.
Never one for silence, she keeps talking:
"Don't get me wrong, love, I've got no regrets about - this - but I thought you would and - and I couldn't bear to see that, I couldn't stomach seeing you enraged after what I'd waited to happen for so many months . . ."
So many years . . .
"So I thought I should just get going before you came fully back to your senses and yelled or stormed off or . . ."
Or glared at me with all the anger and pain and betrayal of the world . . .
Eyes never flickering from hers, he traces one palm back down her face, her chest, her stomach, until he finds her fingers. Grasping them in his own, he drags their entwined grips upward. Then he presses their wrists together, encircling both their joints with the fingers from his other hand, holding them together.
They are still for a long moment, back to chest, wrist to wrist, eye to eye. She wishes he would just tell her what he means rather than expecting her to interpret his language consisting entirely of gestures and eyes. She grows weary of being his translator.
Then she gasps - because finally she understands. She stares at their wrists with wonder and joy and love and the renewed seedlings of hope that perhaps - perhaps - she shouldn't be scared of their ever after:
Their two pulses beat as one.