A/N: I was initially going to post this with the rest of the In The End chapters (which haven't materialised yet, but will in the future), but since it didn't really fit with any of the prompts, I decided to use it as a standalone instead.

Disclaimer: Sweeney Todd: not mine. Not now. Not ever.

To Seek Revenge

Once upon a time, it had been Eleanor Lovett's biggest ambition to touch the demon barber as many times as she could during the span of a day. She had started off small (but by no means timidly): a hand resting on his shoulder or back as she spoke to him; her breath in his hair as she inhaled his scent. He'd always snarled in protest and thrown her off (little whore, how dare she touch me when she knows the only one I want is my beautiful Lucy!), but gradually, as time had passed, he'd found himself succumbing to her touch, body coming alive as her hand rested on his back, shivers careening down his spine as her breath teased his neck. He'd hated her for it – raged and howled and broke all manner of objects for how the filthy slut was making him feel – but the temptation had become too great to resist (he'd had no woman for fifteen years; he hadn't wanted to sully the memory of his wife by replacing her body with that of a prostitute's when the guards had seen fit to throw one into the cell sometimes), and he'd fallen.

Oh, how he'd fallen.

The touching – that irritating, infuriating touching – had taken an even greater step forward. Growing bolder: a hand gliding lower than was necessary; a nip to his earlobe; her lips against his jaw or mouth depending on her mood. To his absolute horror and disgust, he'd found himself responding to her: coarsely pinching a nipple through the fabric of her dress; biting at her neck until the angry red marks blossomed over her pasty skin like blood diffusing in water; kissing her back with a fury that could stir the pits of Hell.

It had, of course, led them down to her room, scrabbling with laces and buttons, the layers of their clothing tossed haphazardly askew through the pie shop, the parlour, the bedroom. There he would pin her to the bed, gnashing his teeth, snarling, her hands greedily roaming his back, touching every bare contour of his body, her lips accosting his neck, plundering his shoulder, assaulting his mouth. He'd clawed at her spine, sank his teeth into her throat, drove himself into her to the point of pain; still she'd allowed him to abuse her.

It had happened almost nightly, a sinful ritual to please those thirsty gods demanding blood, blood, always blood…

That was until the fateful night in the bakehouse.

That night, when he'd stood before her, drenched in the blood he'd craved, staring at the sacrifice he'd made to the gods so that fate would treat him kindly. Fate was cruel. Fate had wanted his wife, and Fate had gotten her, by his hand. A grotesque smile had stretched across her split throat, leering at him, mocking him, the face of the Devil. And he'd looked, scarcely comprehending what he was witnessing, darting his gaze upwards to lock with the whore's…and he'd known with a startling clarity, as surely as she had.

"You knew she lived."

And she'd spouted more lies about it being for him, only for him, because she loved him, and somehow he'd known, with everything that she'd ever said to him, that this was the complete truth, and he'd almost smirked ironically despite the unbearable ache in his chest. Bile had clawed at his throat as he'd stared at the carnage he had wrought, the voice of his Lucy echoing softly in his mind as she spoke to him – somehow he could recall her perfectly in the wake of her true death.

He'd turned to where Lovett had been standing then, an animalistic hiss sizzling from his windpipe, wanting to grab her and squeeze the life out of her filthy bones; but in his preoccupation with the woman he'd been starved of for fifteen years he'd failed to notice the devious she-devil disappearing like smoke into the night. Snarling like a predator, he'd proceeded to tear the house apart in his search for her, driving his razor into the soft material of the couch, sweeping her ugly ornaments from the tables, upturning the furniture. When he'd exhausted himself he'd returned to the sewers with the intention of finding the urchin and dragging him back and spilling his blood all over the floor for his own satisfaction, but he hadn't been able to find him, either.

The worst part of the whole thing had been burning his beautiful Lucy's body and leaving her in that place of hell. The furnace had been a welcoming induction for demons as it had burned brightly in the dim bakehouse.

Afterwards he had set about cleaning the place as thoroughly as he could, scouring the place free of any hint of heinous crimes. He hadn't left the place – the both of them disappearing would have been too suspicious, even for London – instead spreading the story when asked that Mrs. Lovett had left the building to seek her fortune elsewhere, leaving the pie shop in his trust. No one had questioned him. It was too corrupted to care about the fates of others.

So Sweeney Todd had been able to plot the perfect revenge for when he finally meets the baker once again.

He hasn't been successful in finding her yet.

Until today.

Until today, when he'd paused on a street corner in the outskirts of London, tired from his endless, restless quest of seeking her out, to hear two gossiping housewives voicing their surprise that Mrs Lovett – yes, the widowed Eleanor Lovett of Fleet Street, no less! – had actually found the fortune she had left to seek, by accepting the hand of old, respectful Mr. Thompson with whom she'd been residing. Old Mr. Thompson had even adopted her young ward as part of the family.

In a matter of minutes of eavesdropping, Todd has gleaned the information he needs to find her, and with purpose restored he makes a beeline for the place of her residence. He is more than a little surprised that she'd somehow managed to find the urchin and keep him by her side; he suspects that that will probably mean that she has lied to the lad once again. It seems she is unable to stop the filthy, compulsive habit.

Now he stands outside her grand house in the more savoury end of London. She has done well for herself in the few months since their last meeting. The mansion dominating the street is nothing like the quaint seaside cottage Lovett had once dreamt of sharing with him, but it's certainly as extravagant as her imagination.

It is laughably easy to creep through the gates, circle the house and find a way inside, through a partially opened window on the ground floor. There is no one around to challenge him. It's as though she is expecting him.

But she isn't. He can tell from the look of confounded surprise and horror on her face when he finds her in the study that he is the very last person she expected to see again.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then she leaps to her feet with a strangled yelp and says, voice trembling, "if you don't leave at once then I'll scream. I swear to God I will, Sweeney Todd."

At the mention of God his features twist into a demonic mask, but he quickly settles again when he sees her opening her mouth to carry out her threat. He needs her complete trust for his half-premeditated plan to work.

So instead he stays where he is, lowering his voice to a quiet rumble. "I just wanted to see you. To make sure you're okay."

She freezes, unsurprisingly shocked. He detects a quiver of hope in her voice. "What?"

He chances a step forward, satisfied when she does not react. He keeps his voice soft. "You left without a word. It hurt me, pet."

"I thought you'd 'urt me," she breathes, swaying on her feet as though she doesn't know whether to stay put or go to him.

He shakes his head. "I wouldn't. I couldn't." Lies, lies like the ones she'd told him…

"Why's that?" she says. "That was yer wife's body after all, if not 'er mind."

At the mention of his fallen angel he stiffens, but forces himself to keep his voice expressionless. "What's dead is dead."

"Yes," she muses, daring to venture closer, arm held out as though she is testing him. "I suppose it is."

Slowly he reaches for the outstretched hand. A sharp intake of breath issues from her when his cold fingers interlace with hers, but she doesn't appear to be scared of him anymore. A glance at her face shows him the heated, hungry shine of her eyes, the burn for him reigniting. His lip curls. He has her right where he wants her.

He lets his hand slide up her arm slowly, sensually. It comes to a rest at the nape of her neck, caressing the soft flesh there in a way he knows drives her wild. She breathes hard through her nose.

"Where is your husband?" he mutters, inching closer, his spare hand moving to cup a breast through her dress.

Her eyelids flutter closed and he knows he has won. "Out. 'E won't be back for 'ours."

He tilts her head now, dipping closer to nip at her earlobe, and he feels her shudder beneath him. "And the boy?"

"Went out with 'im. No one 'ere to interrupt us, Mr. T." She lifts her hands to the lapels of his jacket, eyes half-lidded suggestively.

No one indeed. "Good," he growls, and finally meets her mouth.

It's the same as before: her mouth is hot and wet and demanding; her hands move to his hair, nails biting into his scalp as she claims him; passionate and desperate as always. He fights the bile raging in his throat and responds with the same ferocity, dropping both hands to her clothed behind and driving her sharply against him. She gives a hoarse moan, throwing he head back and panting hard.

Before he knows it she is leading the way down the corridor, turning back every few seconds to steal a kiss from Death's lips, too addicted to live without it. He allows her to (little whore, can't keep your clothes on for anyone), tries to conjure Lucy to his mind to make this more bearable – but it only causes the hollow in his chest to ache like a long-healed wound. So instead he focuses upon her, upon what he will do to her, and finds his lust for her spiralling out of control, for as much as he detests her, she has always had a strange power over him, and he is caught up in a marriage of lust and revenge with the aid of her witch's hands.

At last they crash through the door to what he deduces is the room she shares with her new husband, glimpses the bed – pristinely made – before she pushes him onto it, swooping down on top of him to sink her teeth into his neck, scrabbling at the layers of clothes covering his bare skin.

"Never wanted to marry 'im," she gasps as she presses kisses to his cheeks, yanking his cravat free and tossing it over her shoulder, almost made with her desire to have him again. "On'y married 'im 'cause I thought you wouldn't want me anymore an' I needed somewhere to stay. 'E took me in as soon as 'e found out I 'ad nothin', an' ya don't get many men like that – 'e was kind to me an' Toby an' that's why I married 'im, but I never wanted to betray you, my love, never." "

The irony of her last statement is bittersweet, but he rolls them over, sits up to discard his shirt. "It doesn't matter." And it doesn't. His revenge will be sweeter this way. Fresher.

She sits up herself and turns away for a moment to pull down her stockings, then begins on her corset. He takes the opportunity to slide a razor from its holster and slip it under the pillows, then begins to assault the back of her neck with his teeth. Her breath quickens and her fight to lose her dress becomes more frantic.

At last they are both naked, and she slips down his body to kiss the thick, white scars on his chest, the territory she has missed so much. He can feel himself swelling at the prospect of what is to come. Barely able to contain himself he pushes her onto her back, drives two fingers roughly between her legs. Wet heat soaks his fingers – she is more than ready. The little whore always had been for him.

Without further ado he plunges into her, slamming his mouth onto hers as she cries out. The pace is rough and fast – any other woman would break under the strain. He is not paying attention to the moans of delight she is issuing; his fist clenches around the cool handle of his sliver friend, the ball of fire in his stomach smouldering dangerously as his lust and anticipation rises higher. Like always her hands roam his back greedily whilst he gnashes his teeth, her lips accosting his neck, plundering his shoulder, assaulting his mouth, and he responds in kind, feeling her writhe beneath him, getting steadily more vocal as time progresses, and he knows it's only a few moments before she finishes –

"Look at me," he growls, and she obeys, her dark eyes finding his, glazed with pleasure, her body shuddering as she comes, her head tipping back trustingly –

He takes his opportunity and gives a triumphant slice, a jagged smile from ear to ear.

Blood sprays forth in a vicious fountain, drowning him in the rubies he has dreamed of since the bakehouse. She gargles feebly for a moment, then falls silent, just as he finds his own release, growling as he pulls out to cover her thighs in his seed.

He turns her face as he slides from the bed. Her expression is frozen pleasure, the light in her eyes bright. She never saw what was coming. Though he regrets that he had not been able to torture her – the satisfaction that that would have brought! – he derives some gratification in the fact that her husband will find her like this, legs unashamedly open for the world to see, the dying orgasm on her face. Oh, Mr. Thompson will have to live with the haunting image of his wife whoring herself trustingly before death. The boy, of course, will know the trademark, will live forever in terror, glancing over his shoulder in case the barber is looming there. It is enough to send him mad.

He slips out of the house as easily as he'd entered, melting like a shadow into the dark alleys.

He had meant the world to her.

She had meant nothing to him.

And his final revenge has been wrought.

A/N: I'm sorry if it feels a little rushed/disjointed, particularly at the beginning to when Sweeney finds Nellie – I'm just going to blame it on the fact that I'm incredibly out of touch with writing in recent weeks.

Reviews are much loved. :)