Fanfic 100 - 95, New Year
Jan. 17th, 2006 09:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanTitle: Poor Thing
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Judge Turpin, Lucy Barker, mention of Beadle Bamford
Prompt: 095, New Year
Word Count: 1925
Rating: NC-17, or possibly R. (I hate rating my own fics, have I mentioned that before?) See the author's note below.
Summary: A pivotal New Year's party.
Author's Notes: Warning, there be sexual violence ahoy. Don't read if such things are not your cup of tea.
It was never supposed to happen this way. I doubt anyone would believe that, but it was not what I planned. Lucy Barker was, and is, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Anywhere. Not just in physical beauty, but in something more…ephemeral. You could see it in those sparkling, perfect blue eyes of hers. Especially when she looked at that idiotic young barber. She could have done so much better. It was maddening that such a woman had thrown herself away.
Transporting him had been a mistake, that I saw now. It was not the way to bring her to me. I would have given her so much, you know. Presents, luxuries. The finest money could buy. Lucy could have been the talk of London. Should have been.
I had Bamford invite her to my annual New Year’s party. I wanted to apologize, that much was true. But more than that, I wanted her to see what society could offer her. What shining treasures could be hers, if she reached out to take them. She would be the most glittering ornament at my party, with those shimmering, golden curls. Like a doll’s, those curls.
I should explain that, for many years, I had thrown New Year’s parties modeled after the Medieval feast of fools. Anything was permissible, anything was possible, for that one night. And it was silently agreed, among all the guests, that whatever happened on that evening did not "count" towards one’s social standing. No one ever spoke of things that happened there, ever again. And so, they tended to be rather wild. I looked upon it as…a cleansing ritual. At the end of every calendar year, I lifted the rules, for this select group. They indulged themselves to their heart’s delight, and then remained good, law abiding citizens for the following year. There was a…justice to it, you see.
She was not prepared for it. That, I should have anticipated. I was not prepared for it. That, I could not have anticipated.
A private matter with a colleague had kept me later than I intended, and I dressed myself for the party. Keeping with the topsy turvy theme, instead of dressing up, I wore the most casual thing I could imagine; nightclothes and a dressing gown. As I padded down the stairs in my slippers, surveying the colorful scene spread at my feet, I caught sight of those golden curls. So lost, so alone in the sea of whirling gowns and laughter.
My breath caught in my chest. After all that had happened, just knowing she was in the room still affected me. I made my way through the sea of guests, as they all moved out of my way. I would have likely run in to someone, had they not been quick enough, for all the attention I paid them.
When I found her, there were tears in her eyes. Confusion. Loneliness. I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was like that, her flushed face turned up to mine. “Judge Turpin…” she began, lilting voice strained and slightly slurred. She was so very lonely and so very perfect, a vision. She was dressed all in black, making her pale, rose-tinted skin all the more luminous in the gas light. I could see her falter at my mode of dress, I remember the soft, perfect sound that escaped her lips, like a sigh, but a little higher, a touch more panicked.
Her eyes held mine, waiting, expectant. The room seemed to hush; it might have in fact, though I couldn’t say.
I would like to say, in hindsight, that I had been drinking that night, as it might soften the weight of my actions. But I was drunk only on her beauty, the silhouette of her body, hugged by the contours of her dress, the delicate, quick hands cased in soft black gloves, the warm, red lips that remained slightly parted. Without a word, like a man sleepwalking, I leaned down to capture those lips with mine, to taste the sweetness waiting there for me. She tried to pull away, but my arms were already around her as I drank down the honey sweet taste of her lips, her mouth.
Bamford told me, afterwards, that the party stopped to watch, thinking it was some sort of show. At the time, I was unaware of anything expect the angel in my arms, and the need that shot through me like a red-hot poker, setting my blood on fire as it coursed through my body. She cried out, muffled by the kiss, and tried to squirm away but she was dizzy and weak and tired. Anyone could see that. She was lost, a lost lamb, and she had come to me at last.
I deepened the kiss, her back arching against my hold, and I could feel her press against me through the layers of cloth between us. Her heart was beating so very fast. Poor thing. A bird in a cage. And she did make music for me, the sounds slipping into my mouth like sugar, like pie; warm and sweet and melting. One of my hands went to her cheek and felt tears there as she continued to struggle against me, to no effect other than crushing our bodies closer together.
Sliding one of my feet between hers, I pressed her down onto the carpet without breaking the kiss. The cries intensified, almost tiny screams now, and I shuddered in anticipation of other sounds I could draw from that sweet, soft throat of hers. The leg now between hers slid up, drawing her legs apart through the skirt separating us. I could hear several of her stays snapping like brittle twigs as I pressed her against the floor, pinning her there with lips and tongue. And, despite herself, I could feel her responding to me. Warming to my touch.
I ended the kiss to devour her pale, white neck, stretched under me as she struggled, slowly loosing heart. Her voice was thick, with tears and with deeper things, and I could feel it travel up, under my lips to find hers. “Your honor…Judge Tur…please…have mercy…in the Lord’s name… please…”
I never thought I would have her beg anything of me, and never so quickly. One of my hands caught first on wrist, then the other, drawing them over her head. I could hold both easily, and stretched her lithe, warm body beneath me. She arched her back, twisting in an effort to break free, but I pressed against her, my weight pinning her in place as I continued to map that oh so fair skin, that honeyed sweetness I can still taste on the back of my tongue.
My robe had already fallen open in the tumble to the floor, and the hand not holding her wrists moved down to her skirts, slowly but surely drawing them upwards, petticoats, shift and all. Her legs were as soft as her neck, and just as beautiful. She did scream then, high and piercing. “Please, God…someone help me…”
If anyone made a move, I never heard of it. I didn’t see, but I would not have, under the circumstances. Bamford, when I asked him later, said they thought I had brought in a lunatic for a little New Year’s amusement for my guests. The idea of mistaking my sweet Lucy for a raving madwoman…but it is no matter what they thought. For me, that night, there was nothing but the two of us.
I stopped her scream, or at least muffled it, with another kiss. My nightshift had already gathered above my hips and I pressed against her, skin to skin. She squirmed and twisted, trying to escape me with renewed vigor, but all I could taste was her delicious lips and feel her warm, tender skin beneath mine.
Though I was more than ready, she was not, and a touch of pain joined her fear as I pushed my way inside her, letting the lavish kiss end in order to meet her eyes. She wouldn’t look at me though, her head turned, her beautiful face streaked with tears. Unlike other women I have known, she did not go red and patchy as she wept, but looked as she always did except for the twin tracks lining her flushed cheeks. It was glory, to think that I was inside such a radiant creature. My free hand reached up to smooth her tears in an almost fatherly gesture and she flinched.
It was the flinch that did it, I think. I would have been relatively gentle, up until then, like a man worshipping at a shrine. But who was this girl, beautiful or otherwise? This slip of a poor girl to refuse me what, by rights should have been mine?
I pounded in to her, hard and deep. She stopped trying to fight me, a low moan escaping her, but she never turned to meet my eyes, expression always averted from me. Until I shifted, tried a new angle. Then she moaned again, the nature a little more mixed this time. Her wrists turned in my hand, fingers searching for something to hold on to and finding nothing. She was glorious, as her body responded to mine, gasps and moans beginning to pour from her throat, try to bite them back as she may.
She screamed again, entirely differently this time, and I drank it in, the feel of her tightening against me exquisite in itself before my own bliss came crashing afterwards. Her eyes she kept resolutely closed, but the rest of her body…for this moment, it was mine. It was like flying.
Slowly, my breath returned to me. She had gone limp, docile beneath me, and I watched her, going limp myself before pulling out of her perfect body. I could feel…see…a bit of blood; the cost of her unreadiness, and, in all honesty, my own violence. I moved to one side of her, kneeling, before letting her wrists go.
She opened her eyes, then turned to face me. There wasn’t contempt, or hatred, or even lingering pleasure written on her expression. There was nothing at all. A simple blank. And though she was still beautiful, it was the cold, perfect beauty of a statue. That insubstantial quality, the light of her features, was utterly gone, as if it had never been.
We both stood, and she did not meet my eyes again, pulling her damaged dress back into shape as best she could. Unsteadily, as if she were on a ship in the open sea, she moved for the door, and this time, it was Lucy before whom the crowd parted, deftly stepping out of the way. A servant let her out.
I watched her walk away from me, tying my robe, and I knew that I would never touch Lucy Barker again. But I also knew that no one else would ever touch her again either. And it was some consolation, if a poor one. Without a word, I turned and began climbing the stairs back to my quarters, to clean myself.
This was not how things were supposed to go, between Lucy and me. It was never what I wanted for us. But regrets will not change the past. So all I can do to make it up to her is raise her daughter…as if it were the child she would have had with me. I can raise our daughter and mend a little of what can never be undone.
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Judge Turpin, Lucy Barker, mention of Beadle Bamford
Prompt: 095, New Year
Word Count: 1925
Rating: NC-17, or possibly R. (I hate rating my own fics, have I mentioned that before?) See the author's note below.
Summary: A pivotal New Year's party.
Author's Notes: Warning, there be sexual violence ahoy. Don't read if such things are not your cup of tea.
It was never supposed to happen this way. I doubt anyone would believe that, but it was not what I planned. Lucy Barker was, and is, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Anywhere. Not just in physical beauty, but in something more…ephemeral. You could see it in those sparkling, perfect blue eyes of hers. Especially when she looked at that idiotic young barber. She could have done so much better. It was maddening that such a woman had thrown herself away.
Transporting him had been a mistake, that I saw now. It was not the way to bring her to me. I would have given her so much, you know. Presents, luxuries. The finest money could buy. Lucy could have been the talk of London. Should have been.
I had Bamford invite her to my annual New Year’s party. I wanted to apologize, that much was true. But more than that, I wanted her to see what society could offer her. What shining treasures could be hers, if she reached out to take them. She would be the most glittering ornament at my party, with those shimmering, golden curls. Like a doll’s, those curls.
I should explain that, for many years, I had thrown New Year’s parties modeled after the Medieval feast of fools. Anything was permissible, anything was possible, for that one night. And it was silently agreed, among all the guests, that whatever happened on that evening did not "count" towards one’s social standing. No one ever spoke of things that happened there, ever again. And so, they tended to be rather wild. I looked upon it as…a cleansing ritual. At the end of every calendar year, I lifted the rules, for this select group. They indulged themselves to their heart’s delight, and then remained good, law abiding citizens for the following year. There was a…justice to it, you see.
She was not prepared for it. That, I should have anticipated. I was not prepared for it. That, I could not have anticipated.
A private matter with a colleague had kept me later than I intended, and I dressed myself for the party. Keeping with the topsy turvy theme, instead of dressing up, I wore the most casual thing I could imagine; nightclothes and a dressing gown. As I padded down the stairs in my slippers, surveying the colorful scene spread at my feet, I caught sight of those golden curls. So lost, so alone in the sea of whirling gowns and laughter.
My breath caught in my chest. After all that had happened, just knowing she was in the room still affected me. I made my way through the sea of guests, as they all moved out of my way. I would have likely run in to someone, had they not been quick enough, for all the attention I paid them.
When I found her, there were tears in her eyes. Confusion. Loneliness. I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was like that, her flushed face turned up to mine. “Judge Turpin…” she began, lilting voice strained and slightly slurred. She was so very lonely and so very perfect, a vision. She was dressed all in black, making her pale, rose-tinted skin all the more luminous in the gas light. I could see her falter at my mode of dress, I remember the soft, perfect sound that escaped her lips, like a sigh, but a little higher, a touch more panicked.
Her eyes held mine, waiting, expectant. The room seemed to hush; it might have in fact, though I couldn’t say.
I would like to say, in hindsight, that I had been drinking that night, as it might soften the weight of my actions. But I was drunk only on her beauty, the silhouette of her body, hugged by the contours of her dress, the delicate, quick hands cased in soft black gloves, the warm, red lips that remained slightly parted. Without a word, like a man sleepwalking, I leaned down to capture those lips with mine, to taste the sweetness waiting there for me. She tried to pull away, but my arms were already around her as I drank down the honey sweet taste of her lips, her mouth.
Bamford told me, afterwards, that the party stopped to watch, thinking it was some sort of show. At the time, I was unaware of anything expect the angel in my arms, and the need that shot through me like a red-hot poker, setting my blood on fire as it coursed through my body. She cried out, muffled by the kiss, and tried to squirm away but she was dizzy and weak and tired. Anyone could see that. She was lost, a lost lamb, and she had come to me at last.
I deepened the kiss, her back arching against my hold, and I could feel her press against me through the layers of cloth between us. Her heart was beating so very fast. Poor thing. A bird in a cage. And she did make music for me, the sounds slipping into my mouth like sugar, like pie; warm and sweet and melting. One of my hands went to her cheek and felt tears there as she continued to struggle against me, to no effect other than crushing our bodies closer together.
Sliding one of my feet between hers, I pressed her down onto the carpet without breaking the kiss. The cries intensified, almost tiny screams now, and I shuddered in anticipation of other sounds I could draw from that sweet, soft throat of hers. The leg now between hers slid up, drawing her legs apart through the skirt separating us. I could hear several of her stays snapping like brittle twigs as I pressed her against the floor, pinning her there with lips and tongue. And, despite herself, I could feel her responding to me. Warming to my touch.
I ended the kiss to devour her pale, white neck, stretched under me as she struggled, slowly loosing heart. Her voice was thick, with tears and with deeper things, and I could feel it travel up, under my lips to find hers. “Your honor…Judge Tur…please…have mercy…in the Lord’s name… please…”
I never thought I would have her beg anything of me, and never so quickly. One of my hands caught first on wrist, then the other, drawing them over her head. I could hold both easily, and stretched her lithe, warm body beneath me. She arched her back, twisting in an effort to break free, but I pressed against her, my weight pinning her in place as I continued to map that oh so fair skin, that honeyed sweetness I can still taste on the back of my tongue.
My robe had already fallen open in the tumble to the floor, and the hand not holding her wrists moved down to her skirts, slowly but surely drawing them upwards, petticoats, shift and all. Her legs were as soft as her neck, and just as beautiful. She did scream then, high and piercing. “Please, God…someone help me…”
If anyone made a move, I never heard of it. I didn’t see, but I would not have, under the circumstances. Bamford, when I asked him later, said they thought I had brought in a lunatic for a little New Year’s amusement for my guests. The idea of mistaking my sweet Lucy for a raving madwoman…but it is no matter what they thought. For me, that night, there was nothing but the two of us.
I stopped her scream, or at least muffled it, with another kiss. My nightshift had already gathered above my hips and I pressed against her, skin to skin. She squirmed and twisted, trying to escape me with renewed vigor, but all I could taste was her delicious lips and feel her warm, tender skin beneath mine.
Though I was more than ready, she was not, and a touch of pain joined her fear as I pushed my way inside her, letting the lavish kiss end in order to meet her eyes. She wouldn’t look at me though, her head turned, her beautiful face streaked with tears. Unlike other women I have known, she did not go red and patchy as she wept, but looked as she always did except for the twin tracks lining her flushed cheeks. It was glory, to think that I was inside such a radiant creature. My free hand reached up to smooth her tears in an almost fatherly gesture and she flinched.
It was the flinch that did it, I think. I would have been relatively gentle, up until then, like a man worshipping at a shrine. But who was this girl, beautiful or otherwise? This slip of a poor girl to refuse me what, by rights should have been mine?
I pounded in to her, hard and deep. She stopped trying to fight me, a low moan escaping her, but she never turned to meet my eyes, expression always averted from me. Until I shifted, tried a new angle. Then she moaned again, the nature a little more mixed this time. Her wrists turned in my hand, fingers searching for something to hold on to and finding nothing. She was glorious, as her body responded to mine, gasps and moans beginning to pour from her throat, try to bite them back as she may.
She screamed again, entirely differently this time, and I drank it in, the feel of her tightening against me exquisite in itself before my own bliss came crashing afterwards. Her eyes she kept resolutely closed, but the rest of her body…for this moment, it was mine. It was like flying.
Slowly, my breath returned to me. She had gone limp, docile beneath me, and I watched her, going limp myself before pulling out of her perfect body. I could feel…see…a bit of blood; the cost of her unreadiness, and, in all honesty, my own violence. I moved to one side of her, kneeling, before letting her wrists go.
She opened her eyes, then turned to face me. There wasn’t contempt, or hatred, or even lingering pleasure written on her expression. There was nothing at all. A simple blank. And though she was still beautiful, it was the cold, perfect beauty of a statue. That insubstantial quality, the light of her features, was utterly gone, as if it had never been.
We both stood, and she did not meet my eyes again, pulling her damaged dress back into shape as best she could. Unsteadily, as if she were on a ship in the open sea, she moved for the door, and this time, it was Lucy before whom the crowd parted, deftly stepping out of the way. A servant let her out.
I watched her walk away from me, tying my robe, and I knew that I would never touch Lucy Barker again. But I also knew that no one else would ever touch her again either. And it was some consolation, if a poor one. Without a word, I turned and began climbing the stairs back to my quarters, to clean myself.
This was not how things were supposed to go, between Lucy and me. It was never what I wanted for us. But regrets will not change the past. So all I can do to make it up to her is raise her daughter…as if it were the child she would have had with me. I can raise our daughter and mend a little of what can never be undone.
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