I am about 2,000 words away from finishing Music That Nobody Heard. Because I randomly got inspired, here's three Turpin/Lovett oneshots based on random songs that came up. Title is from lyrics in the last song.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeney Todd.
Warnings: Prostitution, rape. Not graphic.
Fruit of Sin (Virtual Star Embryology, Revolutionary Girl Utena soundtrack)
She would never hurt him. She knew society had done terrible things to his head, that he saw cruelty in every light shard, but she would be the one to care for him in his trouble. Lucy hurt him, her memory, and finding out about her would be worse. She is the only one who would never hurt him.
But he hurts her, every day, every time he acts like he doesn't hear her voice, every time he smiles for his razors but not her kindness. There is only so much pain a person can take before unloading it onto another, and that's why he does it.
That's why she's here.
She would never hurt him. She isn't hurting him now. It's not like he knows, not like he cares. She will keep it that way. It's her own secret, her way of saying that he does not rule her life. Well, of course he does, but this is something to cling to.
She feels her betrayal's fingers, soft with disuse, tie up her corset strings. The man's teeth are near her ear but he doesn't speak, doesn't bite down, simply stays, a threat. His hands go around her waist, and he drops coins into her apron pocket, then shows her the door.
She hurries away from his house, back to the shop, as soon as possible. Halfway there she stops, takes the money out, holds it to her nose. It smells like the Judge's cologne. She wonders if her love has it in his collection, and smiles.
The Plagues (The Prince of Egypt Soundtrack, Stephen Schwartz and Alan Menken)
This is not how the plan is supposed to go.
But then again, Anthony and Johanna were supposed to leave half an hour before, and she saw them running around the barbershop, looking for hiding places, before she ducked back in and prepared more pies, feigning nonchalance.
She hears footsteps. Sweeney is now halfway down the stairs, blocking the Judge, explaining frantically. He points. The Judge swivels and backs down with a tip of his hat.
Then his eyes lock onto her.
He strolls into the shop and orders a pie. "Not ready yet, we're bloomin' closed," she says, wipes her hands. "Can I interest your judginess in a bit o' ale?"
"Gin would be preferable," he says.
She knows full well he'd rather drink cologne than gin, but goes to the parlor to get him some all the same. He follows her, and then once she's rummaging through her cabinets, he pounces.
Ensnares her in his arms. Wrestles her to the ground, turns her over.
She should fight and kick and scream—everything in her is blazing to—but then he'd rush up the stairs, and the plan would go wrong, and Mr. Todd would blame and hate her.
His hands are at her hips, teeth on her neck, and she goes still, looks up, they meet his eyes and his hold lustful vigor. He likes that she's fighting back the urge to struggle. Likes that she trembles as he yanks up her skirt. Likes the marks he's leaving on her.
She closes her eyes. It's Mr. Todd, playing rough again, Mr. Todd at her, it's all she wants, no razors just angry fingers and—oh—
She lets loose a moan.
He smacks her across the face.
Her mouth is bleeding and he's pushing her against the hard floor, but she imagines she is Lucy. Mr. Todd sent her this plague, he is making her Lucy, he wants her. He will avenge her.
Yes.
He will avenge her tonight.
Misery Loves Company (Opheliac, Emilie Autumn)
It's demeaning that the owner of an emporium that serves perfectly good (alright, perfectly tolerable) ale should be drinking at a shoddy little bar near London's docks. But Mrs. Lovett's alcohol comes in two days, she needs the rest for her customers, and she's not in the mood to drink with the boy or Mr. T right now.
She is going to sit here and shoot whiskey and get mistaken for a prostitute. And there is nothing that damn fool barber or her adoptive son can do about it.
This is all the little whore's fault. She had to run Lucy off twice today, and it's got her nervous and vindictive. But she has to play the cheery mother-of-all. She ought not to covet.
She orders another whiskey. It's not coveting if you paid for it in fifteen years of pain.
Mrs. Lovett works her fingers to the bone, and what does she get? Nothing. He will never notice her. Not when he has his pictures and his scars and his shining razors, big speeches about what's wrong with the world.
What's wrong with the world is she isn't fully drunk yet. She gulps down more whiskey, and the warmth is gone from her throat as soon as it comes.
There's a clicking of canes and the smell of overwrought cologne. A cough. "Madam."
She turns. "I ain't f'r sale—"
Shit.
It's him.
The Judge. With his trusty, greasy Beadle in tow. She smiles. Isn't this peachy? "As I was sayin', you're 'onor, I ain't f'r sale, but I do 'appen to like me a drink."
"Then you shall have one," he says, and points his cane to the bartender. "What makes a woman such as yourself arrive here alone? The streets of London are fraught with trouble this time of night. Why, if not for the criminal transactions taking place, I would never set foot…"
She laughs.
The half-smirk on his face falters for a moment, but he covers it easily. "Alcohol is a vice as well, madam."
"You'd know all bout vices and whatnot, wouldn'tcha?" she asks, and then something in her is brave. "Might 'ave to take a poor, confused widow 'ome. Course, I ain't goin' back tonight. Surely there's a more fittin' place—"
"You will find suitable lodgings for your suggestions in the back, harlot," he says. "and likely men to fill them."
She rises, downs the whiskey, and smiles at him. "Thank you, love. Good knowin' the law's above such indecencies."
She leaves and finds the rooms, then waits. He isn't long.
"God save your filthy soul," he says after they finish.
She thinks that's a little much, considering he up and moaned Johanna's name during.
When she giggles at the idea that such hypocrisy could be, he gets that look in his eyes again, the one that says he knows his wrong. And that's enough. That's sweeter than whiskey.
He destroyed Mr. Todd's life but now, he is suffering, and for a little while, he suffered at her hands. And glory be to God, she feels right proud.