worstpies
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you make me sick; i make it worse by drinking late by worstpies
Fandoms: Sweeney Todd - Sondheim/Wheeler
05 Aug 2025
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She imagines his heart in his chest, thudding like the beating of a bird’s wings against his ribs, and she feels a stab of pain as clearly as if it were her own. Is there any joy in it, she wonders, or does he only scratch a primal itch when he slides into her? Isn’t it all the same in the end?
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Nellie slots her cheek into the divot between his hip bone and his stomach as easily as though she’d been sculpted to fit exactly there. “No work on Sundays. ‘S the Lord’s day,” she mutters. Her breath rustles the trail of hair beneath his navel, and Sweeney’s legs seem to tremble.
“I don’t see you seated for mass, Mrs. Lovett.” Through the dry, almost teasing tone of his voice, there is an underlying strain. She thumbs at his hip with her free hand, relishing the way he tenses beneath her ministrations. Heat coils low in her belly, accompanied always by the swooping sensation she imagines she’d experience if she jumped from the top of a building.
“I’m as devout as can be, love. S’pose I’m a bit overdo for confession, though, eh?”
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if you keep quiet, it will stay like this forever by worstpies
Fandoms: Sweeney Todd - Sondheim/Wheeler
21 Apr 2024
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The stunted, hesitant way he lifts his hand and holds it, momentarily aloft, before dropping it back onto the mattress beside him, feels like a message, a sign scrawled into the air. Already, she can sense his willingness to give in - it sits in the set of his jaw, the lax line of his ordinarily too-stiff posture. A fish caught hopelessly on the very hook he’d been hoping to avoid, plucked from the safety of water and left dangling in the air.
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i make a mess, and you'll be there to help me undress by worstpies
Fandoms: Sweeney Todd - Sondheim/Wheeler
17 Feb 2024
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Sweeney comes to see Mrs. Lovett in the bakehouse after a long day's work.
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lay down - i will tear every ghost from your dream by worstpies
Fandoms: Sweeney Todd - Sondheim/Wheeler
20 Jan 2024
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Summary
“You’re a terribly improper woman, Mrs. Lovett,” he says through clenched teeth.
She hoists herself clumsily into his lap, straddling him, the layers of skirts and petticoats sliding up her legs and pooling grandly around his waist. He grunts beneath her weight, and his hands hover momentarily at her sides as though by instinct before he lets them drop. “Now, dear, no need to flatter me.”