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kinkfest2008-02-03 10:07 am
aliana-iskassa.livejournal.com) wrote in kinkfest2008-02-03 10:07 am
Entry tags:
Thanatophilia [Sweeney Todd, Sweeney/razors, R]
Title: Thanatophilia
Author/Artist: aliana_iskassa
Rating: R
Warnings: Gore, general disturbing themes
Word Count: 480
Summary: He loved the dying, loved the ways they died, boiled down to meat and bone and sinew, reduced to component parts, loved the harsh cacophony of the watch of life winding down before its time.
A/N: The prompt was “Sweeney Todd, Sweeney/razors: destiny - "We are the lovers of the dying.”.
The razors gleamed in the misty moonlight from the window, casting sparks of light on the peeling wallpaper. Once the walls had been bright, had been… he couldn’t remember what color they had been, thought that it might have been yellow.
Sweeney sat in the barber’s chair, the box of silver razors open, one of them in his fingers. He turned it over, watching the lights change, catching fragmented glimpses of himself- pale, tired, thin, utterly mad in his own, precise fashion- in the bloodstained mirror. He could remember the day he bought the razors, the memory sharp, bright with color, a spot of light when all the other memories had been extinguished in the gloomy darkness of exile.
He could not remember joy; happiness was like a lamp on a distant shore, a beacon forever out of his grasp. Could not remember what it felt like; all he knew now was a gnawing restlessness, a smoldering irritation like banked coals, a horrible dissatisfaction that couldn’t be helped.
Not until he had Turpin’s bare throat beneath his razor, not until he saw the clever gears and levers of the judge’s black-hearted body clank to a dissonant stop, not until the judge had bled every last drop of bitter blood out into the chill air.
A man knocked, and he ushered the poor sap into the chair. He met the man's eyes. A fleeting moment of regret, of the foolish man he had once been screaming for him to stop, and then a terrible silence and peace as the razor slashed down and across. There was something beautiful about death, he thought, watching as the man’s body shook, gurgling, white eyes rolling.
Something pure. It was easy to see what kind of character men had from how they died: some died angry, grasping for life, for hope, for revenge. Some died in agony, clawing at their throat, blood spilling over bony fingers like ink on blotting paper.
Others, the lucky few, died peacefully, one last breath, and no more, blood pulsing from the open wound in one long, last rush, the body relaxing into the chair, eyes falling shut as if a shroud of peace had wrapped itself around them.
He loved the dying, loved the ways they died, boiled down to meat and bone and sinew, reduced to component parts, loved the harsh cacophony of the watch of life winding down before its time. Loved them for yielding so easily to his beautiful razor’s edge.
He held his razor up to the light, watched light glitter red and white on the blade.
‘We are the lovers of the dying.’ One day, the judge would come, sallow and skinny and damned, and he would meet his destiny at the edge of Sweeney's razor.
‘And then, my friends, our last, great romance will end.’
Author/Artist: aliana_iskassa
Rating: R
Warnings: Gore, general disturbing themes
Word Count: 480
Summary: He loved the dying, loved the ways they died, boiled down to meat and bone and sinew, reduced to component parts, loved the harsh cacophony of the watch of life winding down before its time.
A/N: The prompt was “Sweeney Todd, Sweeney/razors: destiny - "We are the lovers of the dying.”.
The razors gleamed in the misty moonlight from the window, casting sparks of light on the peeling wallpaper. Once the walls had been bright, had been… he couldn’t remember what color they had been, thought that it might have been yellow.
Sweeney sat in the barber’s chair, the box of silver razors open, one of them in his fingers. He turned it over, watching the lights change, catching fragmented glimpses of himself- pale, tired, thin, utterly mad in his own, precise fashion- in the bloodstained mirror. He could remember the day he bought the razors, the memory sharp, bright with color, a spot of light when all the other memories had been extinguished in the gloomy darkness of exile.
He could not remember joy; happiness was like a lamp on a distant shore, a beacon forever out of his grasp. Could not remember what it felt like; all he knew now was a gnawing restlessness, a smoldering irritation like banked coals, a horrible dissatisfaction that couldn’t be helped.
Not until he had Turpin’s bare throat beneath his razor, not until he saw the clever gears and levers of the judge’s black-hearted body clank to a dissonant stop, not until the judge had bled every last drop of bitter blood out into the chill air.
A man knocked, and he ushered the poor sap into the chair. He met the man's eyes. A fleeting moment of regret, of the foolish man he had once been screaming for him to stop, and then a terrible silence and peace as the razor slashed down and across. There was something beautiful about death, he thought, watching as the man’s body shook, gurgling, white eyes rolling.
Something pure. It was easy to see what kind of character men had from how they died: some died angry, grasping for life, for hope, for revenge. Some died in agony, clawing at their throat, blood spilling over bony fingers like ink on blotting paper.
Others, the lucky few, died peacefully, one last breath, and no more, blood pulsing from the open wound in one long, last rush, the body relaxing into the chair, eyes falling shut as if a shroud of peace had wrapped itself around them.
He loved the dying, loved the ways they died, boiled down to meat and bone and sinew, reduced to component parts, loved the harsh cacophony of the watch of life winding down before its time. Loved them for yielding so easily to his beautiful razor’s edge.
He held his razor up to the light, watched light glitter red and white on the blade.
‘We are the lovers of the dying.’ One day, the judge would come, sallow and skinny and damned, and he would meet his destiny at the edge of Sweeney's razor.
‘And then, my friends, our last, great romance will end.’
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