that man is dead

there's a hole in the world like a great black pit, and it's filled with people who are filled with shit. and the vermin of the world inhabit it, but not for long. they all deserve to die. ⌈ indie sweeney todd; selective ⌋

[daemontonsor]

      ❝ --Do you need help?❞

[aryastarks]

[daemontonsor]

  ❝ Why have you come?❞

[daemontonsor]

  ❝ Why have you come?❞

[barkering-deactivated20140313]

             There is a rekindled vigor in the spark of her soft blue eyes - he is not the man he was before, but even so, she would still pick him over nothing. He is hardened and cold both to the touch and to the core, she thinks, and she will act as his counterpart; soft and warm to replenish the man that once was. While vaguely, in the back of her mind, a niggling thought ruptures the swell of pleasant arterial concepts and ideas (oh, hes here, her Benjamin—still here, alright), she recognizes that he will require a incessant amount of time, she is ready and willing to devote it.

              She wouldn’t have married him in the first place if she wasn’t. 

               He falters and descends, and she all too careful, all too trusting. Its her Ben, not the stranger on the street who looked so familiar, who she could never just place in the darkness of the London’s muck. The stranger who always looked too tired and too angry, unkempt, pursued by that devil-of-a-woman. But, she isn’t here right now, and Lucy is free as a song bird. He wont hurt her, and if he did — oh, she couldn’t care less.

                 That is what love will do. Thin hand reaches to delicately slip into the tresses of his hair, still as curly as she remembered it — darker now, stress waning against his form. Lucy cradles him against the flat curve of her abdomen and ribcage, other hand tucking around his shoulder and curling into the cloth at his back.

                   Perhaps he was a devil fallen, and she an angel dirtied & such things tend to lose their permanence, but the grip they’ve both placed so carefully shall not be severed again, she thinks. She is a mother and a wife, and refuses to allow it.   ’ I knew it was you, ’  she mumbles, tenderly smoothing her tongue over her lip. It shines in the pale reflection of the candlelight. Her voice is far from the splendid cadence it once was — it trembles when she is unsure, it is very soft when she is pleased, and it rasps when she tried to speak at volume.

                   A fair share of screaming takes its toll. She will not speak of these horrors to him, as it will only anger him to the point that he will thirst more for revenge. She’s seen men enter his parlor and never return, and it does not connect in the dark of her mind. She is only overwhelmed with him now, with his — everything. While no longer bright and fresh and young and full of hope, he is there, he is broken and damaged — and she will take & accept what he is.

                   Descending into madness alone is hard enough. She wants to be there with him this time.   ’ I love you.  ’   The words are affirmation, something for him to hold onto, to register deep in his mind she is still here, and she still loves him, and she always will.  ’ So—much. ‘ 

[daemontonsor]

            ⌈  and he is bathed in gold sunlight. ⌋  

   Behind his eyes all he sees is light; it is both terrifying and beautiful. Harkening back to days of old, wherein hope lay still. Now there is little but cobwebs and skeletons in his soul, the ever reaching corners of his mind filled with horrors and scattered thoughts.

   Where he is death she is life, his polar opposite, the air he breathes and blood in his veins. The entire motivation he held for escaping that forsaken country was not beyond his reach, though it's likely she should be. Perhaps he will taint her with his own darkness, or she would save him from going over the edge completely; at this time there's no telling which will occur first.

   A wiser, saner man would force her to leave, to never return. But for all of his vengeful wrath, he is utterly weak and broken in her presence. Fragments of his past-live scattered on the floor in glass, a double-edged reflection peering back at him, smeared in blood and dirt. While salvation is certainly no option, not with the crimes embedded into his very bone, he still holds great affection for his wife.

   Chest constricting, his head presses closer to her, dirtied nails digging into rag and pinching skin. And she loves him; even now, older and different, she keeps to her vows, for her heart is still the same.  ❝ I am different,❞ He murmurs, a subtle reminder of that pure face, the one anyone could see from a mile away. Having lived without sunlight and love for so long, he's only be friended pain, only lived with a hope of feeling something, even if it was a lashing.

   This he cannot change; one can never go backward, after all. Barker is buried, buried alive beneath dirt and corpses and hate and blood; but, there. In some ways, at least wherein his wife [ & child ] are concerned. All others are forsaken. 

             ❝ Life has not been kind, my dear.

                                  --And nor have I.❞

[teddyridgeley]

ALL IN THE NAME OF CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT...

Send my muse prying asks about anything and everything… please?

[daemontonsor]

.

[daemontonsor]

[bigstupidbaby-deactivated201309]

there is a simple answer to everything and its usually no

[daemontonsor]

                                                Answer is — {you can’t tell ‘em.} 

                                   They’ll never understand.

                    Because what you did WAS FOR THE RIGHT REASON

                                             BUT what you did was also w r o n g

And you’ll never wash it off

[daemontonsor]

also if you aren't following lucy & mrs. lovett tisk, tisk, my dear

[daemontonsor]

FUN FACT: I had a Johanna Barker muse for a very long time and then I deleted her and now I'm crying because she's waking up again. You're fabulous. Keep doing what you're doing.

"Pardon me ma'am, what's that awful stench?❞ 

[calisvol]

   ”Now, do I really look like one who needs a shave?”

[daemontonsor]

    His stare is a testament to the obvious answer of no.

                           -- and annoyance soon follows.

[daemontonsor]

you'll soon drip precious

                            .....rubies. 

[daemontonsor]

❝ Now don't be shy, no one's in the chair.❞ 

[daemontonsor]

[barkering-deactivated20140313]

                                 The swell of rage previously displayed in the man she’d spent hours attempting to figure out in their youth — ornate as he was, she’d sworn she’d done it until he’d up and surprise her again — appears to be quelled to the point that the woman is no longer as frightful as before, and in the folly of cloudy haze that, confidently, he will not harm her — she takes another step forth, reclaiming the distance she’s wedged between them.

;                                 He tells her his name is Todd, and she wrinkles her nose.  When another word is added, the tight knots in her chest unwind to a certain degree. He is going under another name and she does not know why, but if the pallor of his skin and the dark lines surrounding his eyes tell any tragedy, she’ll be the first to read it.

                                     Once again, she offers her hand forth - steadier this time, closing until her fingertips (still delicate and soft, miraculously) flutter over the skin of his cheek. She is too afraid to press for the attention she desires, an affirmation that this is real and shes not just the lonely beggar woman in the street, left cast out to die after she became of no more use to a man who preferred her for her body rather than her heart.

                                       ’ Oh—- ’ and the dulcet timbre drops to a low whisper,  ’ —- Benny. My Ben. It—it is you, issit? Please don’t leave me alone ‘nymore. ’  Ever so carefully, the other hand reaches for his free one, seeking to brush the surface of her palm against his own, askance via physical contact to simply hold it. Its been far too long since shes known contact that is not brutal and unkind - the faded spots of bruises under her clavicle and hip are well enough to tell, if he’d get a look at them. 

[daemontonsor]

          Oh, he nearly flinches; not out of displeasure, or disgust, however. Barely does the barber remember what such sentiments were like. Memory did little to capture it so fully, and only frustrated him more. Now here was his wife, broken and dirty but still as lovely as ever, unafraid, and perhaps far too trusting.  

                   ⌈  he would never hurt her, of course.  ⌋  

   She is soft, and it is quickly tucked away as useful information, something not to be forgotten again. Without even meaning to, he is [ however faintly ] leaning into the familiar and yet foreign touch. Old & new; a spark of nostalgia and all the more powerful.

  Where she touches, warmth blossoms in stark contrast to his coolness. But, that may merely be his own perception; his own need to be naught but a wicked demon, separating himself from those that carried on, as if nothing had occured.

  That is was easy, of course, paired with a mad baker and severing the ties to his own sanity, lost at sea, or back in Australia. What little remained is only cultivated by the very practiced, delicate hands of her, she who speaks so gently and is so fragile, cast aside by this world and left to die.

  As flawed and twisted as he may be now, a far cry from foolish naivety, she is still his one and only saving grace. And nothing, nor anyone, shall whisk her away from him again. He'd kill anyone who dares to try.  

         ❝ Yes.❞ Ragged and torn are his words, his stare mixed between disbelief and agony; there is no guarantee he simply has not slipped into a new state of madness, yet if it is so, he will indulge it. The knife falls from steady hands [ & to think he wanted to kill her, oh god ] before his forehead leans to rest on her own; his fingers grasp at her clothing, but mere rags, unwanting to let go.

  And then he falls, onto slack-covered knees with his face pressed against her torso; never once does he release her, no.  ❝Lucy,❞ How sweet her name falls from his tongue, as if he were anything but vile.

                      ❝ You have my word.❞ My love;