Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeney Todd at all, fabulous as it might be
A/N: this is just a little something that happened when i decided i needed more fanfiction on my page
i can't actually stand most relationships that end up really awful and damaging? but sweenett is actually an awfully nice pairing within fanon, especially since fanon is the only way to make it really mutually canon between both parties (i'm sorry, as much as nellie loved sweeney, you have to concede that he did not feel the same at all)
but yeah i hope you enjoy this uvu please review because reviews are the best
and if you're still not thinking of reviewing
*slides chocolate pudding cup towards you* how about now? ? ? ?
Mrs. Lovett was positively impossible.
She was a good woman, honestly, a kind hearted one, and part of him—the last shred of the normal, sensible, Benjamin part that existed—admired that. Was fond of it, even. He always had been, from the moment he moved in upstairs to the moment he was shipped off to down under. And then, there was a part of him—the darkness, the ever-swelling demon that called itself Sweeney Todd that had clutched his insides in its filthy claws long ago and held tight till he succumbed—that part was infuriated by it. Strangely enough though, he could never find himself calling it loathing.
But no matter how good she was, there was a part of her that baffled him—she didn't fear him, and the two parts of him were once again warring over it. Benjamin positively yearned for it; he'd lost everything, and he finally had one person who, should everything play out just right, would be some sort of normalcy in his life, a constant and someone he could rely on and maybe in time learn to love. But Sweeney—Sweeney didn't have the foggiest clue what to do about that. He wanted to hate her, he wanted it so badly, and he'd often sit up in his shop waiting for customers, any customers to arrive and take his mind off things and let him release some off that pent up stress, and he'd brood about it; he was quite good at that, brooding, and he could sit up there for hours on end thinking about how badly he wanted to hate her and so often he'd convince himself that he truly, properly did hate her, the sort of hate that just reached into your insides and tore up your heart. But then she'd saunter in with that confident little smile on her face and that sassy little swish in her hips, and that hate seemed to melt away, and as he looked at her, there was no loathing—and he was sure she could see the confliction between sadness and longing and infuriation duking it out within him just as well as he could feel it. And after a while, he started to think that maybe, just maybe, what was tearing at his heart wasn't loathing after all.