Without You
Title: Without You, Part of "Turn Me Tender"
Word Count: Unknown but long! (am on bastard rubbish computer that won't work properly and tell me!)
Rating: NC 17
Summary: having told himself he's going to lay off the Lovett for a while Todd is experiencing difficulties! Contains non-consensul sex, vileness involving a rolling pin and (horror of horrors!) hugs!
Author's note: since i've been gone for a while i figured i'd start to make it up to you lovely people with a nice big tot of sweenett! Apologies if it's a bit long i just got over - excited! Read it in bits if it makes it easier!
Without You
Todd:
Two days of forcing himself to avoid and he could have sworn it felt like two years. He hardly even spoke to her. It was a torture abated only by the knowledge that she was suffering too, he hoped, at least as much as he was. Oh yes, she was suffering alright. It was a grim kind of heaven to see it, even if it did make him more hellishly aroused than he already was. he could see it in the set of her lips, her wide eyes miserably hopeful but looking always as though she were just about to cry. How she still tried to chatter to him for all he didn't reply, the strain of trying to stay cheerful painfully evident in her voice. It pleased him demonically, but without being able to touch her there was no real satisfaction in it.
He heard her crying to herself, alone at night and could see the redness in her eyes in the morning. It frightened him to find that he didn't really enjoy it as he should have done. That he took no pleasure in her lonely tears but ached to go to her and comfort her with kisses, caresses and cruel little words, longing for the feel of her body in his arms, her skin against his. He kept himself to his room, tormented by the ghosts of her sighs of pleasure and screams of pain until he found himself choking back tears of his own, alone in his chair at night.
He tried not to think of her at all. It confused him and made him feel small and lost which he hated, a stranger to himself and to everyone around him. He ended up thinking nothing at all much of the time, sitting still and staring, in a half catatonic state.
And he was killing all the time now, slitting more throats than he shaved. At least there was some release in that - at least until the trap door went down and the roar and glow of the bake house would throw up the scent of her or snatches of song, and he would be right back where he started.
He was hardly sleeping. Without the warmth and softness of her beside him that he could not deny brought him comfort at least to sleep - his dreams all turned to nightmares and he woke up in a sweat from the hell of a mineshaft where every prisoner bore her face, even he bore her face, and every stone he chipped at was a piece of her flash in his hands.
On top of everything she was wearing him down with her constant "Are you alright love's?", her "Can I do anythings?" and her "You should rest dear, you look shattereds". It made him want to scream at her - what did she fucking expect? To shake her silly and force her to shut up, screaming his longing for her into her face, hoping she would break from it. No, he wasn't alright, he wasn't alright at all and there was nothing she could do about it because it was all her fault in the first place- just to stop, if she could, doing whatever it was she was doing to him. She probably didn't even know and would never understand the extent of his agony however much he hurt her - and he didn't even dare to beat her as he boiled to do, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop or hold back. God, he wanted her.
By the end of the third day he was ready to split apart with it. Some little thing she said had infuriated him to the point where he had her seized by the throat, up against the wall, razor out and ready to slice. He could hear her heart beating frantically, feel her breath harsh against him, see her pupils dilate and feel himself grinding his painful, angry erection against her -
He had thrown her aside with a force that sent her sprawling to the floor and turned his back on her, storming out of the shop and slamming the door behind him.
He stormed down the street, seething, with no plan in his mind nor thought beyond the red haze of violent desire that was fogging up his brain in a nightmarish montage of her; fucking her, beating her, making her scream and cry, laughing with her, playing with her, lying beside her in warm, dark silence, her voice in his ears, her skin beneath his hands and on his lips, tasting, touching, breathing, living her until he could have roared his frustration from one end of Fleet Street to the other. He found his feet taking him in the direction of the Judge, so he could kill him and return to her, free to loose himself in her at last and forever.
It was dark, and soon he was running the gauntlet of women who lived in the shadows of these streets. At first it irritated him until he remembered what he had said to her not so long ago - that there was nothing he could have from her that he couldn't have from any common whore. After all, he told himself, who was to say it wasn't true?
He told himself that he didn't care, that it was coincidence that the girl he seized upon looked as like her as he could see. In the dark it was easy enough to pretend; the rusty hair and powdery skin may not have been hers but they would do for now. He dragged her into the nearest alleyway and had her feverishly, hard against the wall, slitting the front of her dress open and squeezing cruelly at breasts he would not look at, that could never be as lovely, as perfect as hers. Still she squealed satisfyingly, at the blade against her throat, clearly less used to such treatment than she ought to be. He growled bestially as he fucked her, hearing the other bitch's screams and feeling her hot cunt envelop him; terms of abuse spilled from his lips as he sank deep inside her repeatedly, spilling hotly into her and leaving her sobbing on the filthy streets.
It hadn't been her, but it had helped a little. He returned, more calmly than he had left, coming in and immediately seizing upon a glass of gin, sliding into a chair at the table across from her where she sat nursing her own drink, regarding him curiously.
"Where you been then?" she asked, frowning slightly. He bared his teeth in a hideous approximation of a grin;
"Enjoying the local scenery" he sneered, "In the shape of a cheap little Fleet Street whore." Ah that was good, the way her face fell open in horrified surprise, "Well -" he went on, enjoying this dreadfully - "Better than cheap really, I mean why pay for what you can take, eh?" She looked at him in disgust and he chuckled horribly to see her struggle for words.
"So pretty she was " he taunted, "Had lovely yellow hair, and better she was than you could ever be" ouch, how that hurt her, she looked as though she'd been slapped in the face. It was a good look for her, he smirked to think, and he supposed in a way that she had been slapped by it. "Yes my dear" he purred, unwilling to miss the chance to hurt her, "I got more pleasure out of five minutes with her than I could from a life time of fucking you my sweet". He had never enjoyed lying quite so much, any minute now she was going to cry and she got up to go so that he would not see. He slammed a hand down hard on her wrist, pinning her to the table;
"Stay" he hissed, "I told you didn't I, that you were nothing to me, believe me yet?"
She looked at him, not knowing what to say, tears streaming silently down her face, god she looked lovely, he wanted her more badly than ever now;
"Answer me Eleanor" he growled. Finally, finally she had to be in more pain than he was, he almost sighed for satisfaction -
"You're nothing and you know it, aren't you?"
"Yes Mr Todd" she whispered wretchedly, not looking at him.
"Look at me" he snarled, "And speak up, I didn't hear you." Her face when she turned it to him hurt his heart and he almost wished he could take it back, she believed him so completely;
"Yes Mr Todd" she sobbed, and he smiled.
"Good" he nodded. Then he hit her - terrified for a moment of his own weakness in feeling bad about it. He knocked her to the floor and kicked her where she fell all the harder for his fight against the urge to tell her he hadn't meant it. She was everything to him now, everything. The loveliest, most beautiful thing he had ever seen. That no-one compared to her or even came close. That he wanted her constantly, not just her body but all that she was. That - the thing that frightened him more than anything - he really didn't think he could live without her.
He knelt over her in a fury, pulling at her laces and stripping her roughly, not pausing to touch her - taking up her own rolling pin where it lay on the side, prising apart her legs and ramming it into her as far as it would go, raping her violently with her own monstrous tool while she wept and screamed wordlessly in pain and shame, her cunt stretched torturously wide. he stopped and stood up, over her, after a hellish eternity of her cries and wordless pleas for him to stop, releasing his prick and spraying his hot, insane lust across her helpless little body, curled up tightly in pain on the floor.
He did not see, as he walked away, how the sun came out in her face as she watched him go, smiling through her tears to know that, whatever he said, he wanted her still.
Todd:
He just felt worn down with it. Worn down and tired and falling away from himself. He had been standing at the window since the first sad seeping of daylight crept in, hours now - before she had come up with breakfast. He must have looked preoccupied, consumed with his one purpose as usual. Oh yes, there was a great deal of killing the judge in there but he felt almost ready to admit now that it had become more for her that he needed to than anything else. To remain true to what he had sworn. The childish, tedious promise that was killing him. He was consumed, yes, and had been ever since he set eyes on her all those years ago, and she had smiled at him, cutting him and sealing his fate. He wanted her, he had always wanted her and he was tired now, so very tired of all the denial, so tired he could break.
She sounded weary too he thought -
"Mr T, can I ask you a question?" He was ready for it finally, ready to say yes, I will, I do, whatever you say - and to mean it whole heartedly.
"What did your Lucy look like?"
That took him by surprise, all the fire, all the readiness went out of him and he found that he - didn’t know and didn’t care, couldn’t even conjure up her face beyond a photograph, couldn’t picture her for real at all.
"She had yellow hair" was about all he could manage, unwilling to admit to her that he didn’t care, and she must have known that his reply meant that he didn’t, to carry on as she did.
"You’ve got to put all that behind you now -" she was saying, and he frowned, for sometimes she seemed to know him so instinctively and then at others, such as now, she missed it altogether. He had put it behind him and could she not see that such was the problem?
"She’s gone" she was saying, meaninglessly, "Life is for the alive my dear -" her words washed over him, washing away the blood, the pain, the tight hammering stress, and her promise then, her proposal, so comforting - "We could have a life us two - maybe not like I dreamed, maybe not like you remember, but we could get by -"
Yes he thought, they could, hadn’t he hurt her enough? More to the point hadn’t he hurt himself? After all she had done for him - there was nothing she wouldn’t do, no need of his she would happily supply - and she hadn’t even needed to if it had all been to secure a place in his heart. He had lost it to her long ago. She had kept him alive. She had made him live for the first time. Only she, ever. He looked straight at her, almost smiling to see her eyes light up and he opened his mouth to let it all spill out - then the chance was gone. He was stung by the hurt and hopelessness in her pretty face when the idiot boy ran in and he wanted so much just to order him straight out, to hold her and whisper to her and kiss it all better - but it was not to be.
As he planned away, that afternoon with Anthony she hovered in and out of the room like a frantic moth, constantly coming in on some excuse until the day wore on. She had given up by the time the boy was gone and he had settled back into the old fury, worse than ever now for the closeness he had come to happiness.
He stormed downstairs that evening, having completely finished his own supply of gin and wanting hers as well. She just watched him, stupidly, as he drained the bottle almost completely down and snarled at her to send the boy for more.
"Oh but Mr T - I’ll have to wake him and -" he growled, restraining himself from hitting her;
"Send him" he snarled, not caring what she was babbling about in the least. So she did. She was so damned obedient it made him angry, didn’t she have anything else to live for? Could she really be so pathetic? She wandered back in to him, looking at him with concern.
"Mr T - are you alright?" he uttered a growl - that question again, and he too tired and gin - fuelled now to just ignore it as usual, spoiling for a fight in fact.
"What do you think Mrs Lovett?" he hissed venomously, "Do you think I’m fucking alright?" her eyes were wide, timorous and apologetic. God he wanted to hurt her, to have her, to kill her if it would just put him out of his misery, and it would he thought grimly, but he wasn’t ready to die just yet.
"Sit" he snapped, pushing her violently into the sofa. She half started up, nervous -
"Mr T -" she began.
"Shut up!" he roared, hitting her now, hard across the face, taking a hellish pleasure in seeing her cringe and fight back tears. He knelt on the chair, over her, hissing in her face, tempted to hit her again for the way she cowered back from his gin - soaked breath.
"I. Am. Not. Alright." He spat "Understand? I am not alright with your continual fucking questions, your nagging, your whining, your ceaseless, senseless prattle. I am not alright having to see you every bloody day. To hear you, smell you, even think of you, you bitch. I am not alright with the way you look at me, the way you talk and the things you say, the way you feel, the way you dress -" he paused for breath, seething.
"The way I dress?" she spluttered; typical, he thought, of the woman - cottoning on to the most trivial thing he had said "What’s wrong with -?" he sprang at her, seizing her breast in his hand, ripping the fabric that barely covered her down as he pushed her against the back of the chair -
"Thoughtless, vile slut -" he tried to hiss, though it came out as more of a moan, as he felt her heart beat beneath his hands, her breasts heave so invitingly, felt himself grinding his body against hers, his cock screaming for release in her horrible, beautiful flesh - "Parading yourself in front of me like that - when you know how much I want you, whore, tormenting me day and night, you filthy, gorgeous little bitch -" with a sharp, sudden jolt he had opened a razor and pressed it to her throat, feverish with the need to hurt her, the very real urge to slit her damned throat - oh, he sighed, it was delicious, how scared she was of him, drunk and with a blade in his hand. He feared he really might have killed her if the boy had not walked in with the gin and screamed. He glared at him.
"Mr Todd sir -" Toby stammered, shaking like a leaf - "I - I got your gin sir." He let the breath out between his teeth, throwing her away with a final sneer of contempt, grabbing the gin and storming upstairs.
Lovett:
He had scared her beyond measure and then she had had to pretend that she was fine for Toby’s sake. She wondered, half hysterically, if this was how a mother felt, explaining to the child that mummy and daddy loved each other really. The boy dear boy, he was so concerned for her and, smart though he wasn’t, clearly didn’t believe her when she said that it was nothing. It was a pain getting him to go to bed and when she finally had done and she was alone she burst into tears.
She didn’t cry for long though, she never did. But it hurt today, thinking of how they might have been even now if that bloody sailor boy had not barged in when he did. Still, ever one to look on the bright side - he had said that he wanted her even if he had looked like he wanted to kill her for it.
She wanted to go up to him. Wanted so badly to try again. Wanted him oh so badly. But for once she was just too scared, too conscious of her dress and of the effect she seemed to have on him. Glad that she had any effect on him of course but not wanting to make things any worse for him. He would not be back tonight, she sighed.
A couple of hours later though she heard an almighty banging on the stairs outside and went to investigate. He looked like hell.
"’Ere, what the hell are you doing love?" she asked, half angry, half concerned.
"Outhouse -" he slurred, "Sick - fuck off -" She didn’t. She was going to quite enjoy this, damn it. She followed him out, kneeling behind him and patting him she hoped not too patronisingly on the shoulder - as he threw up violently into the bowl, making a viler retching noise than an ailing cat, face streaked with tears from the effort.
"There, there dear" she said mechanically, "That’ll teach you now won’t it?" He swivelled round to glare at her balefully, face white as a sheet, eyes redder even than usual -
"Mrsh Lovett -" he garbled, making a horrible internal gurgling sound from the effort of moving and speaking - "Y’ fuckin’ bitch - I’m gonna fuckin’"
Whatever it was he didn’t get a chance to say, doubling up and throwing up again, this time over her dress. She sighed, hoping he would appreciate the irony of it later, after what he had said about her clothes.
She sat with him while he shook and retched, berating herself for the faint vengeful, sadistic pleasure she was taking in seeing him brought low for once. After his behaviour previously and after the gin she had had herself in the last couple of hours she thought it was probably fair. Eventually she hauled him to his feet and all but dragged him back upstairs. He didn’t resist it any more but he did make it as hard for her as possible, so that she was panting by the time she got him to his room, letting him slide into his chair, half in, half out. She sighed and shook her head;
"Bloody useless lump" she muttered and left him to it.
Todd:
He came too, feeling like he had been hit over the head with a brick, had nettles shoved into his throat and vomited out of his nose. He was stiff all over from the angle he had slept in and didn’t want to know what his hair was doing. He groaned and fell back into a doze rather than face that spinning, sliding world outside the chair.
He was half awake when she came up with a tray and wanted to object as usual to her infernal bloody fussing but wanted the water she pressed on him too much to protest. And the breakfast. And the tea. Oh god damn that tea and breakfast were good! He wanted to slap her for smirking like she was but it hurt too much to move. When she rose to go he made a last shot at paying her back for her kindness, in his usual way.
"Lovett -" he grunted.
"Yes dear?"
"Give up - I’m not gonna fuck you." He slurred. To his affronted amazement she just arched her eyebrows and wrinkled up her nose.
"Tell you the truth love" She sighed, a taunting, witch’s grin on her lovely damned face - "I wouldn’t want you to until you take a bloody bath. You fuckin’ stink pet."
She smiled cheerily and was gone.
Todd:
He loved the way she smiled, on those too rare occasions when she was purely and genuinely happy. How her smile shone out from her face, pulling at the corners of her eyes as well as her lips. How they burned then, twinkling even. How shy that smile was somehow, as though it surprised her to be so happy and she could not completely trust in it.
He loved her practicality, how for all she fussed and chattered out loud he could see how quick and efficient she was. How she got things done with never a complaint. He was not unaware of the pains she took to make sure that he ate and slept - to make sure, in short, that he survived. He was aware, if uncomfortably so, that he owed his continued existence to her, and he could not hate her for it; surprised to find that life was not hateful to him as it ought to have been. In fact he could not dream of giving it up. There was, even after everything, something very much worth living for and that something - he had to confess to himself - was her and the life she had offered him so sweetly.
He loved her continued care and attempts to chatter to him, despite how abominably he had treated her, especially in the last couple of days. Now that everything was arranged and the judge would be in his hands by this time tomorrow he could relax and consider what would happen in the days to follow. She had been so good to him, he had done nothing to deserve it and in the last few days had repaid her kindness with the direst contempt and cruelty. He was surprised, to say the least, to find himself feeling ashamed of his own behaviour. Neither did it help to know that she would only forgive him everything as she always did. Normally he would hate her for being so much better than him and he understood now, in this contemplative silence, why he hated her so much; it was easier than hating himself.
He loved the way she, who was so terrible at keeping things to herself, managed to suffer so silently beneath her love for him. He despised her for that love, yes, but knowing this she had mostly kept it from being right in front of his eyes, even when making love to her. Yet - and he loved this too - she could hide nothing from him with those eyes like open doors, her love screaming and streaming from them so that the whole street must surely have heard it. It hurt him to think how much she must be suffering from that constant screaming in her head that had already sent her mad as it was, long ago.
He loved her madness, her sudden flashes of genius and her wild unpredictability. So different from him in that respect and yet she complemented him so perfectly, as testified by the success of their little business venture. It kept her so positive, the craziness, so happy through her sadness, he could not help but admire her a little. So strong she was.
He loved her strength, her fragility - all in one. How she seemed always on the verge of breaking - into tears or into laughter, he was sure she never knew herself from one minute to the next. Then how she would pick herself right back up again like a baby bird learning to fly.
He hoped he knew her as he felt he did and none of his was really just conjecture. He wanted to know her even if he did not know quite why. He felt overcome with a sudden powerful urge to do something he wasn't sure he had ever done before - and took a large swig of gin to try and make the idea go away.
The gin just made him feel all confused. Why was he sitting up here, cold and in the dark, moping and agonising over Mrs Lovett? He tolerated her, surely, at best, used her to relieve his needs but otherwise - no, horrible, drunken honesty surged up, laughing wickedly, at best he was in the paradise of her arms, the sun bursting through his brain when she smiled . He felt a curious ache in his chest - he had hardly touched her in days, hardly seen her smile. Everything was dark and dull and clouded. At worst he hated her which was better. He found himself wishing she would play fair and hate him back, yet his need to do that unspeakable thing was returning. He knew it was no good trying to talk himself out of something it had occurred to him to do. He sighed, gulped, got up and headed downstairs in defeat.
It was dark downstairs which probably meant that she had gone to bed. He felt a flicker of annoyance (that he would have hated to recognise for remorse) at the thought of having to wake her. Still he lit a candle and stole through to her room. She was asleep, curled up apparently peacefully, though there was a nearly empty gin bottle on the table by her bed. He held the candle over her a moment, watching her sleep, her face was streaked with the silvery tracks of tears and he hurt horribly at the thought of her crying and drinking alone down here this evening. Would it have hurt him to have shown her just a little kindness, or any attention at all even? He felt a wave of almost physical sickness, though whether it was from his weakness or the memory of all his cruelties to her he would not have liked to say. The wave passed quickly into the lust for her that had besieged him so ceaselessly for so long. She was so small, so vulnerable and undefended, even though he knew she slept with her rolling pin under her pillow it would be so easy just to take her, to use her and then leave as it was normally so simple to do. But not tonight - he had other things to do.
He set the candle down and took hold of her by the throat, not really wanting to hurt her, just to test her, lust making it easy to appear angrier than he really was with her. He pulled her up and pressed her against the head board, the razor at her throat almost a ritual now, yet truly frightening her every time. She fell quickly, blinking into wakefulness;
"Mr Todd - wha- ?"
"Tell me you hate me Mrs Lovett" he hissed, fearing he would break and weep if he did not, needing her hatred or her love, either one, too badly to leave her in peace.
"What - but -" she spluttered out.
"Tell me you hate me as I hate you. It can't be so hard - I've hurt you, raped you, used you in every way - please -" he half groaned in despair - how long had it been since he had said please to anyone? - "Please say you hate me." he looked closely into her frightened eyes and she shook her head in bewilderment -
"No -" she gasped, "No - I can't - I love you - always - I'm sorry -"
For a tense, terrible moment the hand holding the razor shivered at her throat before he nodded, pulled half his mouth into a mirthless smile and said "I knew you'd say that" and he did. Then he dropped the razor and, without warning, burst into tears. No less bewildered she looked, but the sympathy melted into her face so easily it made him feel even worse.
"Oh love -" she whispered, holding out her arms to him "There there," she murmured, "Nothing to cry about -" If he had hated himself before he despised himself now, letting her take him in her arms, clinging to her helplessly, finally saying it -
"I'm sorry -" he wept, "Eleanor - I'm so sorry - I've been so horrible to you - and you -"
"Hush love" she said firmly "Nothing to be sorry for you silly thing. Goodness me.
That woman. He could have cracked from disbelief. Soothing him gently as though he had never so much as given her an unkind word let alone threatened her life almost routinely or beaten and raped her senseless. No, just a tear in her own eye to see him upset, rocking him gently until his sobs subsided, curling up against her, leaning into her like a child.
"Hold me" he whispered brokenly.
"Any time love"
"I really am sorry -"
"Hush it, you."
He sighed, he really didn't deserve her, but here goes, he thought -
"Mrs Lovett?"
"Yes love?"
"When this is all over - when I've killed the judge - when we've baked his remains - when I've fucked you until you can't move from it - when everything's back to normal - whatever that is -" he paused.
"Yes love?" she sounded breathless with hope and anticipation. Maybe just for once he could fulfil it.
"A little house by the sea, you said?"
"Something like that" God, he thought, she was so like him sometimes, so bloody stubborn - trying so hard to sound flippant while he could hear her choking back tears - he hoped they were for happiness. He looked up at her, she was smiling, her eyes shining, that smile he had missed so much -
"Anything you say love," he murmured "And I mean that - anything you say."
He heard her sob then and she squeezed him tightly, her whole body singing with happiness.
"Oh -" he said, feeling like a small child - "And - Mrs Lovett?"
"Yes love?"
"Can I sleep with you tonight?"
Word Count: Unknown but long! (am on bastard rubbish computer that won't work properly and tell me!)
Rating: NC 17
Summary: having told himself he's going to lay off the Lovett for a while Todd is experiencing difficulties! Contains non-consensul sex, vileness involving a rolling pin and (horror of horrors!) hugs!
Author's note: since i've been gone for a while i figured i'd start to make it up to you lovely people with a nice big tot of sweenett! Apologies if it's a bit long i just got over - excited! Read it in bits if it makes it easier!
Without You
Todd:
Two days of forcing himself to avoid and he could have sworn it felt like two years. He hardly even spoke to her. It was a torture abated only by the knowledge that she was suffering too, he hoped, at least as much as he was. Oh yes, she was suffering alright. It was a grim kind of heaven to see it, even if it did make him more hellishly aroused than he already was. he could see it in the set of her lips, her wide eyes miserably hopeful but looking always as though she were just about to cry. How she still tried to chatter to him for all he didn't reply, the strain of trying to stay cheerful painfully evident in her voice. It pleased him demonically, but without being able to touch her there was no real satisfaction in it.
He heard her crying to herself, alone at night and could see the redness in her eyes in the morning. It frightened him to find that he didn't really enjoy it as he should have done. That he took no pleasure in her lonely tears but ached to go to her and comfort her with kisses, caresses and cruel little words, longing for the feel of her body in his arms, her skin against his. He kept himself to his room, tormented by the ghosts of her sighs of pleasure and screams of pain until he found himself choking back tears of his own, alone in his chair at night.
He tried not to think of her at all. It confused him and made him feel small and lost which he hated, a stranger to himself and to everyone around him. He ended up thinking nothing at all much of the time, sitting still and staring, in a half catatonic state.
And he was killing all the time now, slitting more throats than he shaved. At least there was some release in that - at least until the trap door went down and the roar and glow of the bake house would throw up the scent of her or snatches of song, and he would be right back where he started.
He was hardly sleeping. Without the warmth and softness of her beside him that he could not deny brought him comfort at least to sleep - his dreams all turned to nightmares and he woke up in a sweat from the hell of a mineshaft where every prisoner bore her face, even he bore her face, and every stone he chipped at was a piece of her flash in his hands.
On top of everything she was wearing him down with her constant "Are you alright love's?", her "Can I do anythings?" and her "You should rest dear, you look shattereds". It made him want to scream at her - what did she fucking expect? To shake her silly and force her to shut up, screaming his longing for her into her face, hoping she would break from it. No, he wasn't alright, he wasn't alright at all and there was nothing she could do about it because it was all her fault in the first place- just to stop, if she could, doing whatever it was she was doing to him. She probably didn't even know and would never understand the extent of his agony however much he hurt her - and he didn't even dare to beat her as he boiled to do, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop or hold back. God, he wanted her.
By the end of the third day he was ready to split apart with it. Some little thing she said had infuriated him to the point where he had her seized by the throat, up against the wall, razor out and ready to slice. He could hear her heart beating frantically, feel her breath harsh against him, see her pupils dilate and feel himself grinding his painful, angry erection against her -
He had thrown her aside with a force that sent her sprawling to the floor and turned his back on her, storming out of the shop and slamming the door behind him.
He stormed down the street, seething, with no plan in his mind nor thought beyond the red haze of violent desire that was fogging up his brain in a nightmarish montage of her; fucking her, beating her, making her scream and cry, laughing with her, playing with her, lying beside her in warm, dark silence, her voice in his ears, her skin beneath his hands and on his lips, tasting, touching, breathing, living her until he could have roared his frustration from one end of Fleet Street to the other. He found his feet taking him in the direction of the Judge, so he could kill him and return to her, free to loose himself in her at last and forever.
It was dark, and soon he was running the gauntlet of women who lived in the shadows of these streets. At first it irritated him until he remembered what he had said to her not so long ago - that there was nothing he could have from her that he couldn't have from any common whore. After all, he told himself, who was to say it wasn't true?
He told himself that he didn't care, that it was coincidence that the girl he seized upon looked as like her as he could see. In the dark it was easy enough to pretend; the rusty hair and powdery skin may not have been hers but they would do for now. He dragged her into the nearest alleyway and had her feverishly, hard against the wall, slitting the front of her dress open and squeezing cruelly at breasts he would not look at, that could never be as lovely, as perfect as hers. Still she squealed satisfyingly, at the blade against her throat, clearly less used to such treatment than she ought to be. He growled bestially as he fucked her, hearing the other bitch's screams and feeling her hot cunt envelop him; terms of abuse spilled from his lips as he sank deep inside her repeatedly, spilling hotly into her and leaving her sobbing on the filthy streets.
It hadn't been her, but it had helped a little. He returned, more calmly than he had left, coming in and immediately seizing upon a glass of gin, sliding into a chair at the table across from her where she sat nursing her own drink, regarding him curiously.
"Where you been then?" she asked, frowning slightly. He bared his teeth in a hideous approximation of a grin;
"Enjoying the local scenery" he sneered, "In the shape of a cheap little Fleet Street whore." Ah that was good, the way her face fell open in horrified surprise, "Well -" he went on, enjoying this dreadfully - "Better than cheap really, I mean why pay for what you can take, eh?" She looked at him in disgust and he chuckled horribly to see her struggle for words.
"So pretty she was " he taunted, "Had lovely yellow hair, and better she was than you could ever be" ouch, how that hurt her, she looked as though she'd been slapped in the face. It was a good look for her, he smirked to think, and he supposed in a way that she had been slapped by it. "Yes my dear" he purred, unwilling to miss the chance to hurt her, "I got more pleasure out of five minutes with her than I could from a life time of fucking you my sweet". He had never enjoyed lying quite so much, any minute now she was going to cry and she got up to go so that he would not see. He slammed a hand down hard on her wrist, pinning her to the table;
"Stay" he hissed, "I told you didn't I, that you were nothing to me, believe me yet?"
She looked at him, not knowing what to say, tears streaming silently down her face, god she looked lovely, he wanted her more badly than ever now;
"Answer me Eleanor" he growled. Finally, finally she had to be in more pain than he was, he almost sighed for satisfaction -
"You're nothing and you know it, aren't you?"
"Yes Mr Todd" she whispered wretchedly, not looking at him.
"Look at me" he snarled, "And speak up, I didn't hear you." Her face when she turned it to him hurt his heart and he almost wished he could take it back, she believed him so completely;
"Yes Mr Todd" she sobbed, and he smiled.
"Good" he nodded. Then he hit her - terrified for a moment of his own weakness in feeling bad about it. He knocked her to the floor and kicked her where she fell all the harder for his fight against the urge to tell her he hadn't meant it. She was everything to him now, everything. The loveliest, most beautiful thing he had ever seen. That no-one compared to her or even came close. That he wanted her constantly, not just her body but all that she was. That - the thing that frightened him more than anything - he really didn't think he could live without her.
He knelt over her in a fury, pulling at her laces and stripping her roughly, not pausing to touch her - taking up her own rolling pin where it lay on the side, prising apart her legs and ramming it into her as far as it would go, raping her violently with her own monstrous tool while she wept and screamed wordlessly in pain and shame, her cunt stretched torturously wide. he stopped and stood up, over her, after a hellish eternity of her cries and wordless pleas for him to stop, releasing his prick and spraying his hot, insane lust across her helpless little body, curled up tightly in pain on the floor.
He did not see, as he walked away, how the sun came out in her face as she watched him go, smiling through her tears to know that, whatever he said, he wanted her still.
Todd:
He just felt worn down with it. Worn down and tired and falling away from himself. He had been standing at the window since the first sad seeping of daylight crept in, hours now - before she had come up with breakfast. He must have looked preoccupied, consumed with his one purpose as usual. Oh yes, there was a great deal of killing the judge in there but he felt almost ready to admit now that it had become more for her that he needed to than anything else. To remain true to what he had sworn. The childish, tedious promise that was killing him. He was consumed, yes, and had been ever since he set eyes on her all those years ago, and she had smiled at him, cutting him and sealing his fate. He wanted her, he had always wanted her and he was tired now, so very tired of all the denial, so tired he could break.
She sounded weary too he thought -
"Mr T, can I ask you a question?" He was ready for it finally, ready to say yes, I will, I do, whatever you say - and to mean it whole heartedly.
"What did your Lucy look like?"
That took him by surprise, all the fire, all the readiness went out of him and he found that he - didn’t know and didn’t care, couldn’t even conjure up her face beyond a photograph, couldn’t picture her for real at all.
"She had yellow hair" was about all he could manage, unwilling to admit to her that he didn’t care, and she must have known that his reply meant that he didn’t, to carry on as she did.
"You’ve got to put all that behind you now -" she was saying, and he frowned, for sometimes she seemed to know him so instinctively and then at others, such as now, she missed it altogether. He had put it behind him and could she not see that such was the problem?
"She’s gone" she was saying, meaninglessly, "Life is for the alive my dear -" her words washed over him, washing away the blood, the pain, the tight hammering stress, and her promise then, her proposal, so comforting - "We could have a life us two - maybe not like I dreamed, maybe not like you remember, but we could get by -"
Yes he thought, they could, hadn’t he hurt her enough? More to the point hadn’t he hurt himself? After all she had done for him - there was nothing she wouldn’t do, no need of his she would happily supply - and she hadn’t even needed to if it had all been to secure a place in his heart. He had lost it to her long ago. She had kept him alive. She had made him live for the first time. Only she, ever. He looked straight at her, almost smiling to see her eyes light up and he opened his mouth to let it all spill out - then the chance was gone. He was stung by the hurt and hopelessness in her pretty face when the idiot boy ran in and he wanted so much just to order him straight out, to hold her and whisper to her and kiss it all better - but it was not to be.
As he planned away, that afternoon with Anthony she hovered in and out of the room like a frantic moth, constantly coming in on some excuse until the day wore on. She had given up by the time the boy was gone and he had settled back into the old fury, worse than ever now for the closeness he had come to happiness.
He stormed downstairs that evening, having completely finished his own supply of gin and wanting hers as well. She just watched him, stupidly, as he drained the bottle almost completely down and snarled at her to send the boy for more.
"Oh but Mr T - I’ll have to wake him and -" he growled, restraining himself from hitting her;
"Send him" he snarled, not caring what she was babbling about in the least. So she did. She was so damned obedient it made him angry, didn’t she have anything else to live for? Could she really be so pathetic? She wandered back in to him, looking at him with concern.
"Mr T - are you alright?" he uttered a growl - that question again, and he too tired and gin - fuelled now to just ignore it as usual, spoiling for a fight in fact.
"What do you think Mrs Lovett?" he hissed venomously, "Do you think I’m fucking alright?" her eyes were wide, timorous and apologetic. God he wanted to hurt her, to have her, to kill her if it would just put him out of his misery, and it would he thought grimly, but he wasn’t ready to die just yet.
"Sit" he snapped, pushing her violently into the sofa. She half started up, nervous -
"Mr T -" she began.
"Shut up!" he roared, hitting her now, hard across the face, taking a hellish pleasure in seeing her cringe and fight back tears. He knelt on the chair, over her, hissing in her face, tempted to hit her again for the way she cowered back from his gin - soaked breath.
"I. Am. Not. Alright." He spat "Understand? I am not alright with your continual fucking questions, your nagging, your whining, your ceaseless, senseless prattle. I am not alright having to see you every bloody day. To hear you, smell you, even think of you, you bitch. I am not alright with the way you look at me, the way you talk and the things you say, the way you feel, the way you dress -" he paused for breath, seething.
"The way I dress?" she spluttered; typical, he thought, of the woman - cottoning on to the most trivial thing he had said "What’s wrong with -?" he sprang at her, seizing her breast in his hand, ripping the fabric that barely covered her down as he pushed her against the back of the chair -
"Thoughtless, vile slut -" he tried to hiss, though it came out as more of a moan, as he felt her heart beat beneath his hands, her breasts heave so invitingly, felt himself grinding his body against hers, his cock screaming for release in her horrible, beautiful flesh - "Parading yourself in front of me like that - when you know how much I want you, whore, tormenting me day and night, you filthy, gorgeous little bitch -" with a sharp, sudden jolt he had opened a razor and pressed it to her throat, feverish with the need to hurt her, the very real urge to slit her damned throat - oh, he sighed, it was delicious, how scared she was of him, drunk and with a blade in his hand. He feared he really might have killed her if the boy had not walked in with the gin and screamed. He glared at him.
"Mr Todd sir -" Toby stammered, shaking like a leaf - "I - I got your gin sir." He let the breath out between his teeth, throwing her away with a final sneer of contempt, grabbing the gin and storming upstairs.
Lovett:
He had scared her beyond measure and then she had had to pretend that she was fine for Toby’s sake. She wondered, half hysterically, if this was how a mother felt, explaining to the child that mummy and daddy loved each other really. The boy dear boy, he was so concerned for her and, smart though he wasn’t, clearly didn’t believe her when she said that it was nothing. It was a pain getting him to go to bed and when she finally had done and she was alone she burst into tears.
She didn’t cry for long though, she never did. But it hurt today, thinking of how they might have been even now if that bloody sailor boy had not barged in when he did. Still, ever one to look on the bright side - he had said that he wanted her even if he had looked like he wanted to kill her for it.
She wanted to go up to him. Wanted so badly to try again. Wanted him oh so badly. But for once she was just too scared, too conscious of her dress and of the effect she seemed to have on him. Glad that she had any effect on him of course but not wanting to make things any worse for him. He would not be back tonight, she sighed.
A couple of hours later though she heard an almighty banging on the stairs outside and went to investigate. He looked like hell.
"’Ere, what the hell are you doing love?" she asked, half angry, half concerned.
"Outhouse -" he slurred, "Sick - fuck off -" She didn’t. She was going to quite enjoy this, damn it. She followed him out, kneeling behind him and patting him she hoped not too patronisingly on the shoulder - as he threw up violently into the bowl, making a viler retching noise than an ailing cat, face streaked with tears from the effort.
"There, there dear" she said mechanically, "That’ll teach you now won’t it?" He swivelled round to glare at her balefully, face white as a sheet, eyes redder even than usual -
"Mrsh Lovett -" he garbled, making a horrible internal gurgling sound from the effort of moving and speaking - "Y’ fuckin’ bitch - I’m gonna fuckin’"
Whatever it was he didn’t get a chance to say, doubling up and throwing up again, this time over her dress. She sighed, hoping he would appreciate the irony of it later, after what he had said about her clothes.
She sat with him while he shook and retched, berating herself for the faint vengeful, sadistic pleasure she was taking in seeing him brought low for once. After his behaviour previously and after the gin she had had herself in the last couple of hours she thought it was probably fair. Eventually she hauled him to his feet and all but dragged him back upstairs. He didn’t resist it any more but he did make it as hard for her as possible, so that she was panting by the time she got him to his room, letting him slide into his chair, half in, half out. She sighed and shook her head;
"Bloody useless lump" she muttered and left him to it.
Todd:
He came too, feeling like he had been hit over the head with a brick, had nettles shoved into his throat and vomited out of his nose. He was stiff all over from the angle he had slept in and didn’t want to know what his hair was doing. He groaned and fell back into a doze rather than face that spinning, sliding world outside the chair.
He was half awake when she came up with a tray and wanted to object as usual to her infernal bloody fussing but wanted the water she pressed on him too much to protest. And the breakfast. And the tea. Oh god damn that tea and breakfast were good! He wanted to slap her for smirking like she was but it hurt too much to move. When she rose to go he made a last shot at paying her back for her kindness, in his usual way.
"Lovett -" he grunted.
"Yes dear?"
"Give up - I’m not gonna fuck you." He slurred. To his affronted amazement she just arched her eyebrows and wrinkled up her nose.
"Tell you the truth love" She sighed, a taunting, witch’s grin on her lovely damned face - "I wouldn’t want you to until you take a bloody bath. You fuckin’ stink pet."
She smiled cheerily and was gone.
Todd:
He loved the way she smiled, on those too rare occasions when she was purely and genuinely happy. How her smile shone out from her face, pulling at the corners of her eyes as well as her lips. How they burned then, twinkling even. How shy that smile was somehow, as though it surprised her to be so happy and she could not completely trust in it.
He loved her practicality, how for all she fussed and chattered out loud he could see how quick and efficient she was. How she got things done with never a complaint. He was not unaware of the pains she took to make sure that he ate and slept - to make sure, in short, that he survived. He was aware, if uncomfortably so, that he owed his continued existence to her, and he could not hate her for it; surprised to find that life was not hateful to him as it ought to have been. In fact he could not dream of giving it up. There was, even after everything, something very much worth living for and that something - he had to confess to himself - was her and the life she had offered him so sweetly.
He loved her continued care and attempts to chatter to him, despite how abominably he had treated her, especially in the last couple of days. Now that everything was arranged and the judge would be in his hands by this time tomorrow he could relax and consider what would happen in the days to follow. She had been so good to him, he had done nothing to deserve it and in the last few days had repaid her kindness with the direst contempt and cruelty. He was surprised, to say the least, to find himself feeling ashamed of his own behaviour. Neither did it help to know that she would only forgive him everything as she always did. Normally he would hate her for being so much better than him and he understood now, in this contemplative silence, why he hated her so much; it was easier than hating himself.
He loved the way she, who was so terrible at keeping things to herself, managed to suffer so silently beneath her love for him. He despised her for that love, yes, but knowing this she had mostly kept it from being right in front of his eyes, even when making love to her. Yet - and he loved this too - she could hide nothing from him with those eyes like open doors, her love screaming and streaming from them so that the whole street must surely have heard it. It hurt him to think how much she must be suffering from that constant screaming in her head that had already sent her mad as it was, long ago.
He loved her madness, her sudden flashes of genius and her wild unpredictability. So different from him in that respect and yet she complemented him so perfectly, as testified by the success of their little business venture. It kept her so positive, the craziness, so happy through her sadness, he could not help but admire her a little. So strong she was.
He loved her strength, her fragility - all in one. How she seemed always on the verge of breaking - into tears or into laughter, he was sure she never knew herself from one minute to the next. Then how she would pick herself right back up again like a baby bird learning to fly.
He hoped he knew her as he felt he did and none of his was really just conjecture. He wanted to know her even if he did not know quite why. He felt overcome with a sudden powerful urge to do something he wasn't sure he had ever done before - and took a large swig of gin to try and make the idea go away.
The gin just made him feel all confused. Why was he sitting up here, cold and in the dark, moping and agonising over Mrs Lovett? He tolerated her, surely, at best, used her to relieve his needs but otherwise - no, horrible, drunken honesty surged up, laughing wickedly, at best he was in the paradise of her arms, the sun bursting through his brain when she smiled . He felt a curious ache in his chest - he had hardly touched her in days, hardly seen her smile. Everything was dark and dull and clouded. At worst he hated her which was better. He found himself wishing she would play fair and hate him back, yet his need to do that unspeakable thing was returning. He knew it was no good trying to talk himself out of something it had occurred to him to do. He sighed, gulped, got up and headed downstairs in defeat.
It was dark downstairs which probably meant that she had gone to bed. He felt a flicker of annoyance (that he would have hated to recognise for remorse) at the thought of having to wake her. Still he lit a candle and stole through to her room. She was asleep, curled up apparently peacefully, though there was a nearly empty gin bottle on the table by her bed. He held the candle over her a moment, watching her sleep, her face was streaked with the silvery tracks of tears and he hurt horribly at the thought of her crying and drinking alone down here this evening. Would it have hurt him to have shown her just a little kindness, or any attention at all even? He felt a wave of almost physical sickness, though whether it was from his weakness or the memory of all his cruelties to her he would not have liked to say. The wave passed quickly into the lust for her that had besieged him so ceaselessly for so long. She was so small, so vulnerable and undefended, even though he knew she slept with her rolling pin under her pillow it would be so easy just to take her, to use her and then leave as it was normally so simple to do. But not tonight - he had other things to do.
He set the candle down and took hold of her by the throat, not really wanting to hurt her, just to test her, lust making it easy to appear angrier than he really was with her. He pulled her up and pressed her against the head board, the razor at her throat almost a ritual now, yet truly frightening her every time. She fell quickly, blinking into wakefulness;
"Mr Todd - wha- ?"
"Tell me you hate me Mrs Lovett" he hissed, fearing he would break and weep if he did not, needing her hatred or her love, either one, too badly to leave her in peace.
"What - but -" she spluttered out.
"Tell me you hate me as I hate you. It can't be so hard - I've hurt you, raped you, used you in every way - please -" he half groaned in despair - how long had it been since he had said please to anyone? - "Please say you hate me." he looked closely into her frightened eyes and she shook her head in bewilderment -
"No -" she gasped, "No - I can't - I love you - always - I'm sorry -"
For a tense, terrible moment the hand holding the razor shivered at her throat before he nodded, pulled half his mouth into a mirthless smile and said "I knew you'd say that" and he did. Then he dropped the razor and, without warning, burst into tears. No less bewildered she looked, but the sympathy melted into her face so easily it made him feel even worse.
"Oh love -" she whispered, holding out her arms to him "There there," she murmured, "Nothing to cry about -" If he had hated himself before he despised himself now, letting her take him in her arms, clinging to her helplessly, finally saying it -
"I'm sorry -" he wept, "Eleanor - I'm so sorry - I've been so horrible to you - and you -"
"Hush love" she said firmly "Nothing to be sorry for you silly thing. Goodness me.
That woman. He could have cracked from disbelief. Soothing him gently as though he had never so much as given her an unkind word let alone threatened her life almost routinely or beaten and raped her senseless. No, just a tear in her own eye to see him upset, rocking him gently until his sobs subsided, curling up against her, leaning into her like a child.
"Hold me" he whispered brokenly.
"Any time love"
"I really am sorry -"
"Hush it, you."
He sighed, he really didn't deserve her, but here goes, he thought -
"Mrs Lovett?"
"Yes love?"
"When this is all over - when I've killed the judge - when we've baked his remains - when I've fucked you until you can't move from it - when everything's back to normal - whatever that is -" he paused.
"Yes love?" she sounded breathless with hope and anticipation. Maybe just for once he could fulfil it.
"A little house by the sea, you said?"
"Something like that" God, he thought, she was so like him sometimes, so bloody stubborn - trying so hard to sound flippant while he could hear her choking back tears - he hoped they were for happiness. He looked up at her, she was smiling, her eyes shining, that smile he had missed so much -
"Anything you say love," he murmured "And I mean that - anything you say."
He heard her sob then and she squeezed him tightly, her whole body singing with happiness.
"Oh -" he said, feeling like a small child - "And - Mrs Lovett?"
"Yes love?"
"Can I sleep with you tonight?"