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Arrangement	By : Solaras Category: S through Z > Sweeney Todd (Movie Only) > Sweeney Todd (Movie Only) Views: 3203 -:- 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-Arrangement
- 1
Disclaimer: Nothing involving Sweeney Todd belongs to
me. I’m just borrowing for non-profit
purposes.

Author’s Notes: This fic was
written for a fest with the prompt:
Turpin/Sweeney
Razor Kink. In my mind
this too exists in the universe set up by the Appreciation Series, but again
not a direct sequel to anything. I just
list them in the order they were written.
This is also the smutty one.
*wink*

Truthfully there is supposed to be a fourth installment, but
*cough cough* it’s only in the idea stage, and has
been so for sometime. Maybe one day it
will come to realization.

Arrangement

            His fingers
slid across the cool surface of the coin; its edges nicked and one corner
slightly bent, no doubt from a hasty and mismanaged
minting. The scrap of dull metal felt
smooth and flat against the fleshy palm it pressed into. Turpin’s fingers slid away, as the warden’s
hand collapsed around its hidden treasure.
A quick glint, a smooth flick, and a brush over a dingy white coat, and
the coin vanished.
            “See that
no lasting harm comes to her, nothing permanently disfiguring,” Turpin said in
an even tone that left no doubt to the power of his position, and the implied
threat thereof. “Understood?”
            “Yes sir,
and if the wigmakers should call, sir?”
            “Well, it does grow back; in fact, should such a
gentleman call, give him a prod in the right direction. It seems I spared the rod too much in the
past.”
            “A bit of
stiff handed care, and she’ll be set to right, sir.”
            “When her
tune changes, send word to my residence.”
            “Yes sir,
Judge Turpin, sir.”
            Turpin
stared through the slot at the mass of filthy bodies milling aimlessly beyond
the cell door. The thin and underfed
women, with the bones of their limbs visible with every movement, the blue
veins stark against translucent flesh, paid no heed to the bright beacon among
them. Johanna sat like a budding flower
amongst a field of withered dandelions; her yellow hair fresh and clean. With eyes wide and dark in the murky light of
Bedlam, Johanna stared back at the Judge, defiant.
            With a last
nod to the warden (even if the man’s credentials proved un-forged, Turpin
couldn’t bring himself to call him doctor) Turpin turned to leave the dank
halls of the asylum; the warden bobbing in a swift bow behind him. A few days submersed in the unwanted and
forgotten, and Johanna would see the generosity of his offer of marriage. He looked forward to soothing and nurturing
the wilted flower, watching her bloom and bask in his saving light.
            The London
morning dawning outside Bedlam was pale and grey. To the East, just visible over the tops of
shadowed buildings, a weak pink light struggled to pierce the foggy haze. So far the day promised to be bleak, as bleak
as Judge Turpin’s mood. Despite his
careful watching and guidance, Johanna was still led astray; and by some
commonplace sailor. Only his own luck,
his fortunate happenstance to be in place to hear the plot revealed, had saved
his naïve Johanna from disgrace. The boy
warranted watching, as he had been warned off before; a good job for Beadle to
perform. Unclear, however, was how
knowledgeable the would-be accomplice.
            Turpin
shifted his gaze to the direction of Fleet Street. The boy certainly held the Barber of Fleet
Street as a confidant, but if remained to be discovered how much the barber,
Mr. Todd, knew about the subject of the intended escapade. The man had been honored, no doubt, to
receive the patronage of someone as high aloft as Judge Turpin himself, that
perhaps had he known that Johanna was his ward; he would have counseled the boy
against such ill-placed intentions. With
hard times falling on the lowers of London, perhaps the barber could be a blade
that cut both ways; and in difference to the success of his establishment,
persuade the boy to abandon his fool’s quest.
A second visit to the barber might be worthwhile, if it meant gaining an
ally. The sooner the boy left the
picture; the sooner Johanna’s disheartenment, and the sooner Turpin’s plans
regained their track. If the barber
proved less than useful, then Turpin would know the face of a further enemy;
however, if he proved willing, then Turpin still needed a shave.
            Turpin
scanned the far side of the street for a familiar portly figure. Beadle lingered in the shop front of a bakery
passing a pastry from hand to hand, shaking the empty hand in turn and blowing
on the fingers. Upon noticing Turpin’s
gaze and subsequent lift of the chin, Beadle jerked up from his slouch, fumbled
his sweet roll (near to dropping) and hurried across the street.
            “We’re done
here,” said Turpin.
            “Very good,
my Lord, will you be returning home?” asked Beadle, as he shuffled his pastry
behind him and out of sight.
            “No, I
think not. There is another errand I
wish to attend to this morning, and then you and I shall discuss what is to be
done with the sailor.”
            “Don’t you
worry, sir, I’ll take care of him properly this time.”
            “Yes, but
first I wish to route out all the conspirators.
Perhaps the answer is among them.
The strategy of divide and conquer should never be discounted my
friend.”
            “Very
clever, my Lord, and the errand, sir?”
            “We are
bound for Fleet Street,” the Judge said, and let his feet follow his gaze away
from the asylum. Beadle followed behind
him stuffing pieces of pastry into his mouth; bits of flake landing on the
lapels of his coat. Around them the
world continued to lighten; the shadows creeping back to their origins. The fog rolled away from shops busy with
early morning stock and prep, only to be replaced by puffs of grey-brown dirt
being swept into the street. The
swish-swish of brooms fell silent as Turpin passed, a gentleman moving among
the working class.
            The shop of
destination loomed cold and grey in the shadow of the larger establishments
around it. Smoke, black against the
paling sky, drifted lazily from the smokestack.
A light fluttered in the downstairs shop, but the upstairs windows
showed no signs of life. Turpin climbed
the wooden stairway. The planks creaked
under his steps, and echoed by Beadle behind him, the aged wood sagging with
the added weight. Morning dew slid off
the railing where his hand slid along the beam.
At the top of the stairs, Turpin raised a hand to knock on the door,
announce his presence, and wake the barber if necessary; but his knuckles never
touched more than air, as through the window he could see the barber already
awake.
            Light
glinted off the blade of one of the barber’s seven day set. Turpin had seen the beautifully crafted
silver-handled razors on his previous visit, and now one of those smiling
blades rasped over the barber’s pale throat.
Head back and dark eyes fixed on the razor’s reflection in the mirror,
Mr. Todd followed the path of white lather; every stroke revealing newly shaved
and sensitive flesh. The razor descended
to the basin of water on the counter, an arc of silver following in its
wake. The barber’s chin tilted down,
eyes always on the blade, as if tied by a string to the razor. Beyond the windows opposite Turpin, the sun
finally breached the barrier of stone buildings. Full morning reached across the barbershop;
fingers of pale gold caressed their way over the arch of the barber’s cheek,
wet and glistening in the light.
            The razor
rose again. Turpin’s hand dropped. Mr. Todd’s head fell back, his eyelids
lowered, and the blade under his chin.
Turpin gripped the doorknob. The
razor moved slow and smooth against the line of the barber’s throat. Turpin turned the knob, and pushed against
the door. Mr. Todd’s eyes cut to the
side, and Turpin felt the piercing sensation, but it was Mr. Todd who
bled. A thin line of red rose under the
edge of the blade, still pressed to the barber’s throat; his hand held tense
and unmoving.
            “I wish to
speak with you Mr. Todd,” Turpin began, “I’m sure you will forgive the early
hour.” The light of the new day found no
purchase in the night-dark eyes that regarded the Judge with a wary and strange
depth. The eyes of the barber followed
him, as Turpin stepped fully into the shop.
A tread at the door, and the eyes swept to Beadle behind him. Mr. Todd narrowed his eyes ever so faintly at
the second visitor; a slight indention under the eyes causing the lower lids to
rise and slide inward. The barber
returned his stare to Turpin, and lowered the razor in a stiff movement.
            “Judge
Turpin, I wasn’t expecting the honor,” Mr. Todd said. His fingers flexed around the handle of the
straight razor.
            “Quite so,
but I being a man of the law, felt that you should have the chance to redeem
yourself.” Turpin watched the muscles around
the dark eyes relax, and the eyes widen; the morning light filling them, and
the strange intensity disappearing behind the veil of the polite and eager
servant.
            “The great
and honorable Judge Turpin is most forgiving,” Mr. Todd said with a bow of the
head. “What can I do for you today? A bit of pamper and pomade?”
            “Later
perhaps.”
            Turpin
watched the barber’s head rise, but remain slightly downcast in
supplication. The man’s hands spread in
an inviting entreaty; the once tense arms now loose and easy, minus the quick
twitch of the fingers still wrapped around the razor. Mr. Todd returned the scrutiny from under
long black lashes. His eyes were alive
and alight now, but Turpin could still see something of the haunting darkness
in their depths. Turpin hesitated for a
beat, waiting for the hunter he had glimpsed to reappear, but the smiling
supplicant remained. The light from the
window brushed along the delicate curve of the barber’s jaw. The man possessed an elegant bone structure,
not unlike Turpin’s beloved Johanna.
Turpin’s eyes were drawn to the slide and stretch of pale skin over the
fragile bones of Mr. Todd’s wrist. The
man had closed the razor, the blade hidden with in the handle, and his fingers
caressed the silver casing. His thumb
slid along the ridge concealing the blade, around the head, over the tip, and
back again.
            “Beadle?”
Turpin inquired over his shoulder. He
let his head turn, but kept his eyes on the barber.
            “Yes, sir?”
            “Wait
downstairs. Speak with the woman, Mrs.
Lovett, about our pressing matter.”
            “Ah yes sir,
good idea. I shall wait for you in the
pie shop,” Beadle replied with a tip of his head. He let his gaze rest heavily on the barber,
and with a sharp flick of the wrist, extended his walking stick. Beadle held it briefly like an ornate club,
and then his grip eased and his hand slid up over the handle. He gave a slow nod to the barber and left the
upstairs shop. Mr. Todd’s eyes followed
him out with a brief calculating gleam flashing through them, which dissipated
as quickly as it came as the open and shut of the downstairs door echoed in the
upstairs shop. His gaze returned to
Turpin, as placating as ever. Turpin
took a step forward and then another, closing the distance between them.
            “Now Mr.
Todd, I wish to discuss the disturbance that took place here the other
day. The boy, how close are you to him?”
            “Anthony,
sir? Not very close at all,” Mr. Todd
replied, fingers still tracing the contours of the razor casing. “I took passage on a ship he served on, and
he knows very few people in London. I told him he might call upon me, that is
all.”
            “Am I to
understand, that you didn’t know of his intentions to usurp my ward?” Turpin asked, as he moved to stand in front
of the barber.
            “Of course
not, sir. I think he might have
mentioned seeing a lovely girl in the city, but I had no idea he had set his
sights on such a proper young lady, and one in your honorable care as well,”
the barber stated with his hand fisted over the razor, surely a sign of
vexation. Turpin smiled. He had read the barber correctly; his
patronage was worth more than a mangy sailor.
            “Perhaps
you and I could reach an arrangement, Mr. Todd.”
            “Of course,
Judge Turpin, I am your servant,” the barber replied, and bowed his head before
the judge. Wisps of the wild black hair
brushed across Turpin’s coat, so close had he placed himself to the barber.
            “Are you
Mr. Todd?” Turpin said, voice low in his throat. “You should see to that,” he said, and
brushed a finger across the weeping red line on the barber’s throat. The barber started at the touch, and drew
back a step into the counter behind him.
His wide eyes narrowed swiftly, the blackness sweeping through them,
before the mask of gentility settle again.
            “Yes, of
course,” said Mr. Todd. He laid down the
razor, picked up the towel resting beside the water basin, and pressed the
cloth to his throat. After dabbing under
his chin for a moment, the barber held out the towel with a gesture to the red
stain on Turpin’s own hand. Turpin
brought the hand up, but instead of grasping the towel, he wrapped his fingers
around Mr. Todd’s wrist. His grip was
firm, and he could feel the bones shift under his palm, as Mr. Todd jerked
instinctively against the restriction. Turpin’s other hand reached around the barber
to pick up the razor. He held the silver
instrument at eye level, and the Mr. Todd’s eyes were riveted to the housed
blade.
            “You should
have more care, Mr. Todd. It doesn’t do
for one of your profession to cut himself.”
Turpin let his thumb trace the path Mr. Todd had laid out earlier: along
the back, over the head, and across the tip.
The barber’s eyes followed the movement.
Soldiers had their guns, constables their sticks, and barbers,
fittingly, their razors. Women were
strange creatures, that which all the volumes Turpin had amassed still failed
to explain, but men were much easier; even the strange and dark Mr. Todd. “Lovely things, your blades,” Turpin said in
a dark voice, and ran the tip of the closed blade over the barber’s cheek and
down his throat. He pressed the cold
metal to the red line marring the pale flesh.
“Tell me Mr. Todd, what is your Christian name?” The barber’s eyes drew up to Turpin’s, darted
to the door, down to the floor (the shop) below, and back to Turpin’s; and the judge
knew his intent was understood.
            “Sweeny,”
the man said with a slight stutter, as if another syllable was lodged on his
tongue, “Sweeny Todd, sir.” Turpin
smiled, and used the razor to tilt the shorter man’s head back.
            “Yes, an
arrangement, Sweeny Todd.”
            Turpin
brought his mouth down over the pale lips of the barber. For a moment the barber was stiff against the
counter. Turpin pressed the razor hard
under Sweeny’s Adam’s apple, and the man opened his mouth, his body slumped
against the counter, and Turpin pressed against him. Turpin’s tongue invaded the pliant mouth,
lapped at the teeth, and wrapped around the tongue that shied away from his
own. The barber tasted metallic, like
the silver razor gliding along his collar bone.
            Turpin
pulled back so that his lips merely rested against the barber’s. Every breath he took he stole from the man
before him, and then fed the air back to him.
Sweeney’s eyes were very dark.
The darkness and the depth of those endless orbs chased away the
light. A cold shiver ran down Turpin’s
spine, as he stared into the eyes of the barber.
            “Come now
Sweeney Todd, have a little more enthusiasm for your patron,” Turpin said; his
lips brushing gently across Sweeney’s with every word. “What passions do you hide behind that
exterior of the polite servant of men?”
            “Who says
I’m hiding anything?”
            “Everyone
hides something Mr. Todd, and you, I think, hide quite a lot. Let us dispense with repression today.”
            Turpin
kissed Sweeney again, and hummed a pleased sound in the back of his throat when
the other man responded. The hand not
holding the razor glided around to the barber’s back; the fingers ran down the
length of the barber’s back, and molded around the firm curve of Sweeney’s
ass. Turpin pushed a leg between Sweeney’s
and used his handhold to pull them groin to groin. The barber’s head fell back with a gasp, as
his weight ground his cock into Turpin’s thigh.
Sweeney’s hands gripped Turpin’s shoulders in an effort to keep his
shaky balance, and in response Turpin hitched the man higher off the
ground. Sweeney fell against him, chest
to chest, and Turpin continued to rock against him.
            Turpin
claimed Sweeney’s mouth again, and pushed his tongue hungrily inside. He slid the closed razor between them, and
ran it along the side of the erection pressed into his thigh. The barber choked on a moan, and brought his
hand down to fumble for the razor, but Turpin moved it out of reach.
            “How much
you must care about your tools Mr. Todd,” Turpin said roughly, “such an exquisite
set of razors; beautiful, like their keeper.”
Turpin spun the barber around, and pressed him into the counter. Turpin held the razor in front of the barber,
and pulled the blade from its sheath. “A
man should love the tools of his trade,” Turpin said as he opened Sweeney’s trousers
with his free hand. Sweeney’s hand
scrabbled across the counter and grasped a jar of pomade. Meeting the dark eyes in the mirror, Turpin
slid his hand along Sweeney’s arm and took the jar. “Do your blades sing for you?   I think I’d like you to sing for me.”
            While his
eyes remained locked the pale face reflected in the mirror, Turpin pushed two
slicked fingers into the man trapped under him.
Sweeney gasped and grunted at the intrusion, his eyes fixed to the razor
in front of him. Turpin pulled his
fingers free and fumbled his own trousers open.
He kneed the barber’s legs farther apart, and entered the man with one
swift stroke, which elicited a crying note from Sweeney. Turpin gripped Sweeney’s hip with one hand to
steady his thrusts, and with the other hand he held the razor in Sweeney’s line
of vision. He set a quick pace and a
sharp angle that had the barber keening low in his throat. Turpin watched as Sweeney’s face contorted in
the mirror. His mouth dropped open, a
flush spread across his pale skin, and his eyes narrowed but never completely
closed. The light on the blade flashed
and flickered with every thrust, and Sweeney’s eyes never left the smiling
blade.
            Turpin
removed the hand on Sweeney’s hip, and he wrapped his arm around the barber’s
chest, hauling the man back against him.
He brought the straight razor to Sweeney’s throat, turning the blade so
that the back pressed against the man’s flesh.
Sweeney’s body tensed and shuddered in Turpin’s arms. A few more shallow thrusts into the
convulsing body, and Turpin followed Sweeney to orgasm.
            Sweeney
moved away first, but only so far as to pull up his pants and lean against the
counter. His breaths left him in panting
gasps. Turpin laid the open razor on the
counter and straighten his clothing. The
barber’s hand reached out and gripped the razor’s handle. In the mirror, Turpin could see that the cut
on Mr. Todd’s throat had opened again.
Red dripped down the pale column of flesh.
            The barber
turned with razor in hand. His face was
pale and shadowed; the flush gone as if it had never been. His eyes were dark with a strange haunting
depth. Turpin watched the fingers
holding the razor flex. Outside the
stairs creaked, and both men turned to the door.
            “Judge
Turpin, sir?” Beadle called through the
door. “You are due at the Court House
soon.” Turpin turned back to Mr. Todd,
and found the barber’s smile once more on his face; his eyes alight.
            “A
beneficial arrangement indeed, Sweeney Todd,” said Turpin.
            “Perhaps,
you’ll get your shave next time, sir,” replied Mr. Todd.

Thanks for stopping by,

Solaras
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Arrangement