Her eyes flickered from one statement to the next. Obsessive-Compulsive? Dependent?
"Am I insane then, Dr. Mortis?" She questioned, quite perplexed.
But Emma answered instead, her mocking laughter was hideous. "Aren't we all, dear?"
Mrs. Lovett nervously swallowed a saliva bolus. Emma Balm sauntered over; she stood, roughly around six feet with those precarious stilettos, and visually measured her body. She roughly snorted and snickered simultaneously.
"What a joke," She huffed in a dismissive tone.
"Beg your pardon, dear?" Mrs. Lovett crossly questioned. What was she getting at?
Emma Balm whispered in high soprano, making circles around her prey:
"Beg your pardon, what?
You understand quite well,
You vindictive, malicious slut,
What I am about to tell.
How can I make this clear?
While you wistfully call me dear,
You dangle what I yearned
For years upon years!
But why worry now?
What have I to fear?
You, ha-ha, a withered widow,
Nothing but a silly cow!
And I will take him yet!
Look at you, wandering by the sea
A brainless cod, caught in your net.
But oh look at me, a vibrant twenty-three!
Oh glance my way, I would best you any day!
My locks so fair so fine,
Yours are putrid, filthy with London grime.
My curves so perfect and divine,
And despite jealous words, they are all mine.
Why would he remain with you?
What more could you do?
It is a laughable scene, quite true,
But let me paint a more rosy hue,
An afterlife without you, that's a better view."
Mrs. Lovett burned with rage; her cheeks were stained a brilliant red. She feverishly whispered back:
"Oh my dear, you are in no position to make a threat,
That much I know, how much you will regret
Any ill statement you make
So shut that putrid mouth, for your sake.
You are vain, that much is plain,
Perhaps even bordering insane,
If you think Mr. T will favor your claim.
From what I recall, you were quite the bane
An' I can boldly proclaim, you have nothing to gain.
You may have youth, that much I can attest
But listen close you obnoxious pest
We have both been put to rest
An' have no life no zest
So you cannot decide who is best!
Call me names if you must, silly girl
An' proceed to make fancy twirls,
For you cannot hide, your tainted soul
An' it certainly is not white as pearls.
Your beauty may surpass mine,
But look around you!
Even 'ere you notice:
The drenched eyes, the shadowed faces,
We all hollow with time.
But a true woman can make darkness shine."
Emma was startled, speechless. She attempted a protest but was roughly interjected.
"Ladies, ladies!" Dr. Richard Mortis began, firmly tapping a fountain pen against his desk, "I do have other clients you realize. Mrs. Lovett, the waiting room, please!" He urgently waved both hands, ushering her to the door.
Perhaps, just perhaps mind you, Dr. Richard Mortis was not entirely unaware. Mrs. Lovett decided the doctor had selective hearing. He must have listened to countless patients per day; she was certain he would filter through necessities only. And by chance, he had caught that little altercation. Or perhaps he knew the vicious words were brewing the entire session. Could he be pretending? Could he assume the identity of an ignorant bumpkin? She was certain; she was certain it was false. And his interruption proved it too. His annoyance was openly displayed; his facade was removed.
Sweeney Todd loudly whistled, resuming the cleaning Mrs. Lovett was so intent on. He chirped a little ditty; the same melody Judge Turpin first heard while his cheek was lathered. He rubbed the window with a small washcloth. He stretched up higher, still vigorously washing.
Mrs. Lovett. Mrs. Lovett. Mrs. Lovett. Her name pounded against his temples; it kept tempo with his swabbing strokes. She was suddenly, unexpectedly in his thoughts. It was slightly unsettling, but he could think of little else. It must have been the dress, he concluded. It was the color that had him transfixed, not her.
But then he sighed.
He remembered the tailor shop. It was the first time he ventured out with her since Pirelli's sham barber contest. She was excited, surprisingly less pale than usual. She happily bounced about, sorely distinctive in the bleak London streets. He was amused by her ardent desire for a new garment—but that was a woman for you. But it was frightening too. She rambled on about evening gowns! Evening gowns, mind you! Why did she need anything like that? It would draw unnecessary attention, he mentioned. But she convinced him otherwise. It would draw unnecessary attention not to lavish oneself, she corrected. One fancy dress couldn't possibly matter. He couldn't fathom, at the time, one would be terribly insufficient.
She scurried amongst yards of fabric. Cotton. Silk. Velvet. Charmeuse. She cooed over each one. Of course, she had to choose something more extravagant, more expensive. She held a creamery blue against her bodice. Her voice piped for an opinion.
His face curdled; she childishly pouted. What was the matter, she inquired. She impatiently tapped her foot. She adored the choice, it was evident. It probably reminded her of crystal, clear skies by the sea—or some such nonsense. But he abhorred the fabric. It would awfully blend into her waxen flesh. And if he had to look on her, he would rather look on her in something reasonably decent.
He defiantly tapped on a jade velvet. She pondered for a moment. A singular slender finger rested on her high cheekbone. She shrugged. If that's what you prefer, she exhaled. And her first choice was flopped onto a pile, suddenly forgotten.
That was the first time she wore the dress, when she walked with Thomas.
And she certainly was striking, beautiful even. But Sweeney was still convinced the dress was only an enhancement factor. Besides, the fabric was superb. So would it not be assumed the dress would be conceptually perfect also? She had nothing to do with this. It was just the dress, wasn't it?
The brass bell jangled his puzzled thoughts. And there she stood; the source of his confusion. Her hair was still a proverbial shit.
"Ugh," She huffed, clearly upset, "She certainly is a rotten thing."
"Ah-ha, Miss Balm then?" He briefly questioned. He jumped off the trunk, lightly landed and waltzed to her stiffened form.
"Ooh, she burns me right through, Mr. T," Mrs. Lovett responded with increasing irritation, "You couldn't imagine the things she was sayin'."
"Well, enlighten me," Sweeney stated, sincerely interested. He held out an open hand.
She quizzically stared at his out-stretched palm. Then, she traced his face. She was searching for something, and he decided to provide an answer.
"Promised you a wash, didn't I?" He inquired, opting to grasp her hand instead, "So, say your troubles an' I'll scrub 'em out."
He gracefully attempted to bring her to the chair. But it was rushed, hurried. And Sweeney eventually flung Mrs. Lovett into his torture device. Some customs would always remain, he mused. He muttered a clipped apology.
"S'alright dear," Her accepting voice wavered.
He prepared the white china basin, filling it with hot teapot water on a rolling cart. A rosy soap bar, flowery perfume, and various natural oils were perfectly spread on his station. There was a comb, brush, pair of scissors and hot curler—just off the stove!—neatly placed on a white washcloth. A razor was concealed in his holster.
He slightly reclined the chair. She sharply gasped.
"Thought you were done for, eh?" Sweeney smirked, rolling the cart underneath her tangled tresses. He proceeded to pluck out hundreds of bobby pins with dexterity and ease. "No worries, me pet. It reclines manually, with me pullin' on the back. But don't push on the footrest. Then we'll both be finished."
A startled laugh escaped her open mouth, and then she questioned him, "Do you really want to know 'bout what happened?"
He quickly dunked her hair into the warm water. He lathered the soap and oils into her scalp before speaking, "You've asked me questions like this before," He mused.
"Well, you weren't really payin' any attention when I was talkin' 'bout the sea," She grumbled, childishly slumping down.
He immediately pulled her back, and continued scrubbing her roots. He addressed her statement succinctly, "I was listenin' to you."
"Oh?" She exclaimed, "Then what was I sayin' 'bout the sea?"
"Somethin' 'bout the judge," He teased.
"Mr. T!" She was exasperated now, "I dunno why I bother! Talkin' to you is like talkin' to someone what gone deaf, dumb, and blind!"
He expediently rinsed her locks, and was now proceeding to towel-dry. "Then why do you bother, Mrs. Lovett?" He was still toying with her.
"Mr. Todd, I told you—" She began, quite listless.
But Sweeney interjected, "I like the sound of me own voice? That must be it."
"I most certainly do not! I ain't that vain. Not like that damned Emma Balm," She huffed.
Ah, there. He had succeeded; she was speaking freely about that intrusive assistant. He dabbed some oil between the comb; then he carefully worked on her knots. "She certainly is vain," He agreed, while yanking a particularly nasty one.
She winced, but made no sound of discomfort, "She was goin' on and on 'bout herself. How beautiful she was, how full of youth, how pretty her hair was, you know all that rubbish. Then, she started harpin' 'bout me!"
"Oh, really? What did she say?" He inquired.
"She likened me to a cow an' fish, she did," Mrs. Lovett snarled, obviously aggravated.
"My, how clever," Sweeney sarcastically replied. He twirled the comb into his back pocket; then, he gently brushed a few stray tangles.
"How do you mean, dear?" Mrs. Lovett wondered aloud.
"What with you lovin' the sea an' all. Very clever you should be likened to a fish," He clarified.
Mrs. Lovett snorted, "Yes, well. Still thinks 'bout nothin' but you. She wants to snatch you away, some such nonsense like that."
"I find that difficult to believe," Sweeney blandly stated. He rolled strands of her hair through the curler. He resumed speaking, "All she did was threaten me."
"Maybe she's givin' you another chance, love," She teased, mocking him.
"Mmm," Sweeney grunted; he generously applied perfume to her tendrils. He shoved a small mirror into her hands. "There," He briefly stated.
She slowly raised the hand mirror to her face; she gasped, from surprise this time not fear. She gently fondled her curls and breathed, "Its like silk, don't think I ever had me hair feel like that."
"It is a vast improvement," Sweeney murmured, cradling her locks. He was admiring a true masterpiece. He lifted a few strands to his curious nostrils. He inhaled. It was a most distinctive, defiant smell: Lilac.
She shivered; her exposed flesh erupted into tiny bumps. He scanned her bare shoulders, trailing down to a plunging bodice. He was briefly fixated on her heaving chest. Her nipples made small bumps on the fabric …
He whirled around the chair, almost knocking over the cart. His hands impaled her arms; his fingers bit her armpits. He intently stared into her dark eyes.
"You aren't wearin' a corset," He confirmed, intending for the words to be harsh. However, his voice was a pained, hungry whisper.
"No, I'm not," She confessed, her eyelids languidly drooped, "How do you suppose I got ready so quick-like?" She licked her parched lips, waiting. Then, she added, "No time for knickers either."
That statement demanded evidence. He kneeled before her, one hand firmly planted on her arm. The other began a torturous journey. Her laced boots were brushed over; he lightly skipped over the laces. His fingers crawled over a thin, silky fabric. It was probably the red and black striped stocking. She had bought plenty of other colors. Gray. Black. White. An absurd navy blue. However, she insisted on wearing the former. They were special, she announced one day, because she wore them the day he came back. But the fabric stopped at her knee. He was pushing against naked flesh now.
His fingers curled her inner thigh. She shuddered; her mouth lightly quivered.
"No, no you aren't," He confirmed. He roughly pressed against her drenched sex.
She leaned forward; a faint moan trickled off her lips, landing deliciously close to his ear.
What are you doin' Benjamin Barker? What are you doin' Sweeney Todd? His thoughts incessantly buzzed. But he didn't have an answer. He felt her skin; it was thick, hot. He smelt her desire: musky, with a trace of lilac. It was instinct for her; It was impulse for him. It was nothing more, he decided.
His middle finger was nestled underneath her clitoris. He pressed up; and her hips bucked forward. He grabbed it between his thumb and forefinger. It thumped like a tiny heart. She squirmed, making some nonverbal protest. But he ignored her fidgeting.
She was slouching down again; her legs spread very wide. And Sweeney couldn't conceal the wicked smirk tickling his mouth.
"Mr. T," She begged, her voice was so pitifully small; it was almost captivating.
"What?" He grumbled, pinching her hard. It produced a struggled whine.
"Mr. T," She pleaded again, her thighs trembled.
"Quiet," He ordered, twisting her throbbing clitoris. She contained a muffled whimper.
He was satisfied with her quick obedience. She would never disagree with him; she would not dare displease him. And that deserved a small reward.
He deftly inserted two fingers into her; his thumb pressed circles into her hard clitoris. Her mouth quivered; her teeth bit her plump bottom lip. But she remained silent. His fingers rocked, pushed. He moved quicker, rubbing her slick sex. She had ceased squirming and wiggling about; her hips swayed to his frenzied rhythm.
Why are you doin' this? Should you be doin' this? His mind was relentless. It constantly prodded and probed. He needed her silent, because his thoughts would not cease.
He stopped working her; but her body protested. She tightened; it was a desperate attempt to keep his fingers inside. She panted loudly; her eyes brimmed with fresh tears. Her mouth opened, but she clasped it shut quickly, remembering.
"That's right, me pet," He hissed, teasing her clitoris again, "Stay nice an' quiet."
She was battling with throaty groans, feverishly rolling her head. He rubbed deeper, curling his fingers. His nails scrapped her tender, raw flesh.
She was thoroughly soaked; his fingers were thickly coated in her yearning. But he stroked faster, brutally.
Then, a loud cry, an indecent cry shattered his solitude. Her verbalization of ultimate pleasure made him rigid. His erection painfully brushed against his pants.
But it wasn't such a horrendous problem, he thought.
Her shuddering breaths, her closed eyes, her dewy flesh, her dark aroma.
It was her surrender. And that was a delicious excuse for his unsettling questions.
Author's Note: Um, yeah. They finally did something, ha ha. It always makes me nervous to write chapters like this. For a few reasons, 1) Fear of the characters getting too out of character, 2) Fear of things being too smutty and not tasteful, and 3) Fear of fangirls(boys too I suppose!) that would rather be in Mrs. Lovett's place. But, face your fears I say! And go along with your gut! Because I think this sexual frustration has been brewing for way too long. A little needed to come out (um, HA bad pun). And maybe Sweeney is a little out of character, but if you notice the last few sentences he isn't so much. He's trying to rationalize, just like Mrs. Lovett. Aw, cute. Maybe they really are meant for each other ;) … and as for Mrs. Lovett; don't start labeling her as lucky yet. There are more chapters to come after all.
Until next time, faithful ones.
Ps. I bet the hits are going to skyrocket on this chapter, lol.