Title: Pretty Women

Rating: R (M) for sexuality

Author's Notes: I wrote this to challenge myself—I'm not too big on Sweeney/Mrs. Lovett sex. I just don't think Sweeney would do it—however, I do realize Mrs. Lovett does say, "Me rumpled bedding legitimized." So I suppose there is a chance he was doing her, but I think it was only because he'd been in prison for fifteen years and probably had the worst case of blue balls ever. So, here's my take on it, a juxtaposition fic comparing Benjamin/Lucy and Sweeney/Nellie, using flashforwards in italics instead of flashbacks. B/L is written flowery and "perfect" for a reason, because they were perfect (and damn, did it feel weird to write that—simply because it's rough and angry, I prefer the S/L sections). It's rated R for sex, a little language, and a little violence. I tried to keep the sex somewhat vague, but if you feel it violates TOS rules as too explicit, do tell me. I have no desire to get a reprimand. Thanks.

Oftentimes, he never knew how it started. He just somehow knew there was more to her kisses than usual, and one would lead into another and soon he'd find himself holding her tightly and kissing her so fiercely it left him breathless. Her eyes would shine, and he'd know, and he'd let her lead him to the bedroom.

(He was still bloody from the nightly chore of chopping up the dead when she gave him that look. He knew that look, and despised it—tonight he simply couldn't stand it. So, without bothering to wipe his hands, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her towards him, storming through the bakehouse and pausing only long enough to slam and lock the door. Toby was inside of her room, so he dragged her upstairs, not caring as she stumbled and tripped on the way up. Throwing his door open so hard it banged against the wall, he shoved her in through his doorway, the bell jingling dangerously. After relocking the door, he turned and advanced upon her. She was already on his bed, looking excited; her arms were open for him.)

Her skin was soft—soft enough to make him stroke her gently, never pressing hard or gripping her tightly. She would respond, gooseflesh following his fingertips and he could never resist kissing it. She was warm and supple, and didn't so much yield as much as she simply flowed with him, and they needed absolutely no words, because she loved him and he knew it.

(He hated her skin—it was rough and dirty even though they had good money now and she could've easily afforded to wash more often. She was cold—cold and then hot, depending on where his hands were at the time. He hated how she bucked against him, how she grabbed at his wrists and tried to put his hands where he didn't want them, so he viciously complied by squeezing her arms and digging his fingers painfully into the flesh of her hips. She asked him to let go, to slow down, but he would not—this wasn't his idea, it was hers, and she could just deal with that.)

Kissing her was sweet and always intoxicating. Her lips were soft and he could never stop there—he would invariably kiss her cheeks, her forehead, down her throat, and her hands would go to his hair and hold him to her. The little noises she made were music to him, and she tasted like heaven. When he would kiss down the valley between her breasts, she would arch gently upward, and shiver when his breath would cool the spots he'd kissed.

(She wanted him to kiss her. He grit his teeth and turned his head away when she tried it, and her mouth sloppily kissed at his cheek instead. Her chapped lips clumsily moved to his neck, and he pushed her away, making her flop back down in the bed. He glared at her, and then fell upon her, not kissing her neck like she wanted but biting her sharply, and then partially regretting it when he suddenly found himself wanting to spit—her taste was vile. She yelped in surprise and pain, and he grinned savagely at the sound. He wanted her to do that again, so he dug his fingers hard into her side again. She tried to kiss him again and succeeded, and he didn't mean to respond to it. His hand flew to her throat and forced her on her back again, and he openly wiped his mouth roughly with his arm, smearing blood across his face. "Don't kiss me," he hissed.)

Her hair would fan out around her face like a halo, golden, curled, and shining. He loved her hair, and would wind his fingers through it. And when she'd reverse the scales in a fit of mischief and he'd find himself on his back and she smiling down at him, her hair would caress and tickle him and fall about her face in a cascade. She took advantage of her husband's profession and her hair always smelled of beautiful things, things that were simply her. And then she would sit up and her hair would fall about her shoulders and down her back gracefully, like her, and he would never be able to stand it and pull her back down to him so he could have her hair in his hands again.

(She was pulling at the pins she had in her hair, but he had no interest in having her hair down. Her hair was rough and got everywhere, itching at him and reminding him of the gnat swarms of Australia. He used to yank her hair, but he got tired of it breaking and twisting in his fingers. So he pulled her hands away. "Leave it up," he growled. She knew better than to argue and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him to her. He pushed away again and set to work on his trousers, slapping her hands when she tried to help him. "I don't need your help. Take your own bloody clothes off.")

She would sometimes tremble in anticipation when he slid a hand between her thighs, and, though it had taken a little time, he'd managed to find the perfect way to touch and stroke her into all kinds of cooing and writhing. He always kept his hands in good condition, considering his business—customers didn't like rough hands, and he knew his wife certainly wouldn't. He'd kiss her when he would slip his fingers inside of her, and she'd moan into his mouth. He wouldn't so much tease her as much as he would simply build her up, wanting her to be happy and satisfied by the end.

(He thought it was wretched, watching her finger herself, and he often didn't put up with it for long. He didn't give shite if she was unsatisfied. She was trying to undo his shirt, and had managed to get it halfway open before he batted her hands away yet again. He wanted to roll her over, so he wouldn't have to see her face, but he supposed the room was dim enough. She shuddered when he reached between her legs and forced her thighs apart.)

She would move against him and with him, holding onto him as he would bury his face in her throat or kiss her. He loved how her heels would rest against his calves sometimes, or how she would squeeze him with her knees when she had the upper hand. He never could help it when he'd close his eyes, because being inside of her was too much, but sometimes, he'd manage to see that flush spread across her cheeks and her breasts, and her lips would part and a sigh would escape her throat, and she would arch upwards against him. When he came, it rendered him silent, and he would hold her tightly to him, shaking as things slowly wound down to a halt, and then it was only them together.

(He didn't go slow—he never went slow. He thrust into her and she cried out, and then he realized facing her was a mistake—she clung to him and got her legs around him, so he'd have to pry her off of him when it was done. He kept himself up on his hands, pushing into her and wanting to hurt her, and when he saw the obscene pleasure she was getting from this, he closed his eyes tight and refused to look at her, and wished he couldn't hear all the noise she was making, the dirty encouragements and the loud, revolting moans—yet another reason why he regretted not forcing her on her stomach, as he could easily shove her face into a pillow and not hear any of that. It didn't take long, as always, and he ground his teeth in his effort to keep silent, his hands grasping her sheets tightly as he came in her. His arms shook slightly, and, when it was finally over, it was only then he opened his eyes again.)

He would hold her, and she would curl up against his chest, and they'd both wait for things to fade, for the heat to finally leave as the sweat cooled.

"I love you," she would whisper, and his heart would soar.

"As I love you." Nothing else ever needed to be said after that. It wouldn't take long to fall asleep, his fingers buried in her yellow hair.

(He'd pulled away from her almost immediately, prising her legs away from his hips. He sat at the end of the bed, his back to her. He wanted her to leave. The deed was done, his body defiled even more from her wretched quim and whorish desire—what more did she want?

"Do you love me?" she suddenly said, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. He shrugged her fingers away, staring at the floorboards. "Do you?"

He knew what he wanted to say to her, to do to her. But he didn't say it, and he didn't do it. Silence prevailed for a few minutes more before she collected her clothes and left him alone for the night.)