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• Beauty	By : Solaras Category: S through Z > Sweeney Todd (Movie Only) > Sweeney Todd (Movie Only) Views: 2181 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
  Disclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

• Chapter List
  • 1-Beauty
• • 1
• 
  
  
  
  

  Disclaimer:  I own nothing.  I’m just borrowing for non-profit purposes,
  but I’ll return everything, I promise. 

   

  Author’s Notes:  Well of course, I have to support Adultfan’s Sweeney section. ^_~  Most have probably seen my Sweeney fiction
  already, but incase you haven’t this first jaunt into the fandom was inspired
  by a prompt by windowscreen
  on the sweeneyslash
  livejournal. 
  And while I have written two other Sweeney pieces, this remains my
  favorite

   

  All my Sweeney fics exist in the
  same universe, which I have entitled the Appreciation Series.  Here is fic number
  1:

   

   

   

  Beauty

   

   

              The
  honorable Judge Turpin reclined languidly in his chair surrounded by the books
  of his library.  Bound in leather worn
  smooth and supple from handling, the secrets of closed doors and shadowed
  rooms, of sweat and breath, of touch and taste laid pressed together on shelves
  of dark wood.  Between the bookcases
  painted figures danced across the walls to steps only they understood, a homage
  to the Villa of the Mysteries.  Turpin
  let his eyes wander across the barred limbs that reached and beckoned, the
  lovely faces, and the painted eyes that held the secrets of a long forgotten
  cult; eyes that, from the corner of his own, followed him.  Eyes so dark and shuttered, that even the
  light hid in them, and haunted him even now. 
  Eyes set in a pale face that smiled and gestured, but revealed
  nothing. 

             

              Turpin
  dragged his attention to the tea tray beside him.  The tea steamed lazily in its delicate china
  cup, the bottle of brandy heavy and awkward beside it.  The pot of milk sat untouched.  Turpin had a sudden urge to stir the creamy
  white liquid till it frothed and foamed; till it lathered.  He ran the back of his hand across his
  stubbled cheek, along his chin, and down the smooth and shaven skin of his
  throat.

             

              “Something,”
  he said aloud to himself, fingers brushing along the rise of his Adam’s apple,
  “something familiar.”  The dark eyes of
  the barber stared out at him from the memories of earlier in the day: following
  and watching, guarded and anticipating.

             

              The barber
  had not been handsome; in fact he had been pale and drawn.  His eyes ringed with dark circles, as from
  too little sleep in too many days.  The
  barber had been dark and strange, but under the strain and lines of age and
  pain there was a ghost of something beautiful. 
  The barber had been lithe and thin with graceful limbs.  His hands, which knew how to treat a man’s
  flesh, moved with a delicate refinement. 
  The barber was a man who had once been beautiful, and Turpin was a man
  who recognized beauty and the potential for such.

             

              Turpin’s
  thoughts ran to the upstairs’ room with its hidden peephole.  His errant ward was beautiful as he had known
  she would be.  She would learn her place
  in time.  She would learn to appreciate
  him, for only he could truly appreciate her beauty.  No one else deserved to look on her lovely
  form.  A fissure of anger tingled along
  his spine as Turpin remembered her defiance; remembered the treachery he had
  discovered while sitting in the barber’s chair.

   

              Hand still
  on his throat, Turpin wondered what a few good nights’ sleep, a few good meals,
  and a trip to a fellow practitioner would make of the barber.  The barber kept dubious company, but it would
  not be the first time Turpin tidied up the surroundings to obtain something
  beautiful.  Sometimes the weeds had to be
  removed for the flower to bloom.

   

              Turpin ran
  the fingers of his free hand around the rim of the little milk dish.  He dipped two fingers in and stirred the
  contents slowly round and round.  He
  lifted his hand, and watched as the milk dripped white from his fingers.  Turpin’s other hand slid away from his throat
  and down his torso, and when it rested at his hip, he realized with a start
  that he was hard.  Slowly, as if
  expecting to be caught, he brushed his fingertips along the now prominent rise
  in his trousers.  Turpin hissed out a
  breath and raised his gaze to the dark eyes on the walls.  Surrounded by the secret debaucheries of the
  world, Turpin moved his hand and thought of the barber, Sweeney Todd.

   

   

  End

   

  Solaras

• • 1
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