AN: I live! This took me awhile...

Metal. Cold, harsh, unyielding. It was nothing more than that. What qualities could he see in those razors that he found more appealing than her own womanly flesh? Not that there was much of that. Not that she had much to eat to ensure that it was there. These hard times had stretched her skin so tightly over her bones that it threatened to split, had hollowed her stomach out and made her harsh cheekbones prominent as knives. Knives...

Hell, she was beginning to look like the bloody things! Couldn't he touch her just once, see if she would warm to his touch more quickly than the blades...? She could bite him, too, make him bleed, even, if that was what he did with them when he was up here alone. He must do more than just look at them, which her certainly did intently enough. How she wished her body could catch his eye like that...

The room smelled of him--or did he smell of the room? It was impossible to tell; he rarely left. The smell was sharp and harsh: shaving cream, metal, and the barest tang of blood that could have simply been ingrained into her senses for good. It nearly made her sneeze; she was never up here. The faintest scent of decay lingered from Pirelli; he'd lain up here for hours while they'd cavorted about downstairs like the wicked pair they were. Traces of dust and mold also lingered, but they'd been there long before Benjamin Barker and would linger long after Sweeney Todd--or was it the other way around? Ah well--Either way, it didn't matter a whit to her.

And there it was, the box, lying open on the table by the yellowing pictures of the girl and her girl, with their yellow hair...Only they would be allowed to watch what she was going to do, and they could never tell him. If he ever found out, if by chance he returned too soon and they were still warm, or if she forgot to clean them off properly...Well, she doubted she'd get the chance to touch them again, and not because he would lock them away somewhere.

Of course, there was one missing, the one he always carried with him. She wondered if he had some way of telling them apart. She must be careful to put them back exactly the way she found them, she decided.

She pulled a slender beauty from the box, tried to rub some warmth into the metal. Like getting up a man, she thought mischievously, grinning to herself as she rolled it between her palms. It took some foreplay, she supposed.

The tip of her tongue traveled the length of the closed razor sensuously, as if it could feel the sensation. She sucked on the metal a little, cleaning it with her tongue a bit more thoroughly. To think his hands had been on this...

She hiked up her skirts a little awkwardly, then decided to just remove the whole thing. It was quite a mess of clasps and laces and buttons to get all the troublesome garments off, but eventually she was able to "admire" her pathetic, vulnerable body in the shattered mirror. Her skin was stretched too taut over the bones, and it was a sickly pale color--nothing close to what Lucy's healthy glow had been. But then again, Nellie Lovett had no reason to be envious of a diseased beggar. Not now that Lucy had been reduced to such a thing.

Her eyes wandered to his bed--a thin, dirty mattress and a threadbare quilt over in the corner, but she didn't care. It was his, and despite the fact that he most likely rarely touched it, let alone slept on it, she refused to be bothered by it. It was his.

She laid back on it, opening her legs and thinking that she ought to start working on herself, now. The air was cold against her skin, but she didn't mind. In fact, it almost added to the eroticism of the situation. The way it forced her nipples erect sent the knifeless hand to her breast, and she kneaded it with soft little sighs and a slight squirming of her hips. She sucked on the razor again, feeling it grow hot on her tongue. She pinched her nipple and growled to herself, purred something soft about Mr. Todd.

Her hand moved down her tightening belly, down between her legs, and her hips shifted up to meet it eagerly. She began a torturous stroking, her thighs trembling lightly as the slick nub grew more erect under her fingers. She pulled it gently, moaning with pleasure as her fingers kneaded the tip firmly. She flicked the knife open, shuddering at the way it shined. Thank God the windows were so dirty, or they could have seen her on the street...

She lifted her legs and whimpered, her belly tightening. Her free hand slipped lower, and a finger slid in, her thumb still rubbing the engorged little nub of flesh. Her hips worked quickly, and she found she had to shift her position. Another finger was added to the first as she rolled onto her knees, and she gasped at the rush of blood that occurred at the change in position. After a few anguished moments of thrusting against her hand, caught in the mindless pursuit of pleasure, she came suddenly, clenching tightly around her fingers. The most pathetic noise came from her, a sort of strangled cry of what sounded like pain.

It seemed she had lost her intentions momentarily, but they returned at the feel of the hot metal in her palm, as other sensations returned. The little mattress creaked as her legs widened, and she slowly replaced her fingers with the handle of the razor. She groaned, unexpectedly feeling the texture of the detailing on the knife slide against her . She stroked a nipple lightly with one hand, played with it, teasing herself. Soft, breathless little moans escaped her.

She began to move against the razor, shuddering involuntarily as the handle scraped inside her. She slid over it farther, a low little moan escaping her. She felt more lust rise up in her as she thought of the knife as him, of his flesh inside her, and her thrusts became quicker, harder. She was growling now, a low, dangerous noise as she clawed at the sheets with her free hand.

She came soon after, her muscles fluttering quickly around the handle, and she bit her lip hard enough to make it bleed. He would walk through that door soon, she could feel it, and as she writhed with pleasure she struggled not to make a sound. She pulled the razor from her body, carefully licked the handle clean. As she hurried to pull on her many troublesome articles of clothing, she heard the unmistakable sound of his footsteps on the stairs outside--he had a definite tendency to make things creak.

She wiped the handle on her dress for good measure, settled it in the box, and managed to get the blood off her mouth, all in time for him to walk in. His eyes, dark and predatory as ever, took in her form as she stared almost guiltily back at him. The question came: "What're you doin' 'ere?"

"Makin' sure nothin' looks suspicious, love," she replied, softly and unconvincingly, "'Y'know the blood is an awful mess to clean up." She hoped he didn't see the way her lip bled, or smell the slickness between her legs, or see how dark her eyes were in arousal at the sight of him.

He gave her a confused, almost suspicious look, but said nothing as he walked to the box of razors--and pulled out the very one she'd used. She was already almost dazed with the exertion that came from self-pleasuring, her legs weak with the way they'd tightened, and she nearly fainted with fear as he flicked the knife open.

He went to the window and proceeded to ignore her. She shuddered and left, her legs unsteady on the stairs.