Story: The World Shakes With Silence
Pairing: Olaf/Violet, hints of Olaf/Kit and Olaf/Esme
Summary: Nostalgia breeds sadness, sadness brings fear, fear hoists hate, hate mirrors love, and love causes nostalgia. A circle of catastrophic dimensions.
Disclaimer: While I might've enjoyed my romps with the characters of ASOUE for the last five years, I never have (and doubtfully ever will) own the rights of the Baudelaires and all they've encountered. All that belongs solely to Lemony Snicket/Daniel Handler (except perhaps the Count, who belongs to himself in addition).
Warning(s): Rated M for SEX IN CHAPTER SIX. :O
Olaf woke up to a jarring scream of metal against stone, and he yelped and covered his ears as the sound screeched down his spine with a shiver. Violet groaned from her place in her hammock next to him ('When did I fall asleep? And why on the floor?'), before his future wife sat up, throwing the thin blanket off herself, and let out a little sound of surprise when she spotted him sitting hardly a foot away. Grabbing the hammock underneath her for support, she recovered quicker than he expected to.
“What did you do?!” she spat furiously, pulling herself to her feet roughly and tearing out the door, grabbing her helmet as she went. Olaf followed, rubbing his temple and stumbling slightly over the doorstop.
Peering around the corner, he saw her disappear through the far door that lead to the control room, before following. The horrid grinding sound had ceased, and in spite of the continued hum of the engine, they didn't seem to be going anywhere.
'No surprises there.'
A brief investigation revealed that they'd run aground against the cliffside by none other than the Hotel Denouement. Climbing the ladder to the topmost hatch, Olaf reached up and grasped the handle, spinning it quickly and pushing it open. Violet followed him silently, and they stood for a moment on the surface of the Queequeg, before Olaf pulled something out of his pocket. Aiming it into the sky, he fired, and a red light flashed upwards, flickering for a moment before going out.
Violet sighed next to him in the brief moment that followed. “Was that supposed to do something?” she asked testily.
Olaf smirked, but didn't answer. He didn't need to, though. The hum of an engine could be faintly heard in the distance, and he yawned in response as a small boat roared into view.
Violet flinched next to him as she caught sight of who was aboard, and Olaf scratched the back of his neck a little nervously while he waited.
“Back already, Olaf?” a deep voice called as the boat pulled in close to them.
“Yes,” he said, as formally as he could. “It looks like one of my old plans might succeed this time after all.”
The Man with the Beard but no Hair and the Woman with Hair but no Beard glanced at one another curiously. “Oh?” the man asked, catching sight of Violet who, in spite of herself, took a small step back, almost behind Olaf.
Olaf smiled for a moment, before chewing his lip. “But I need a judge, and a witness.”
The Man with a Beard but no Hair glanced at his partner again, who nodded, and they both smirked. “Alright, have it your way.”
“And I need the proper documentation.”
The Woman with Hair but no Beard knelt down and pulled a briefcase out from underneath the control panel of the boat. “Let's see,” she said. “Annulments, Birth Certificates, Death Certificates, Hunting Licences, Legalized Killing Licences--” Olaf exchanged a glance with the Bearded Man, who simply smiled and shrugged, “Ah, here we are, Marriage certificates.”
Pulling out a thin piece of paper, she also removed a clipboard and a pen.
“Let's skip the ceremony. Do you take this girl to be your wife?”
Olaf grinned. “I do.”
“Very well,” she said, turning to Violet. “Do you--?”
“Yes,” Violet said, before she could finish, just wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.”
Olaf raised his eyebrow for a moment before shrugging.
“Sign,” the Woman said, handing Olaf the certificate.
When he was done, he handed it to Violet, who wrote her name quickly, hoping that the other two would leave soon. Given the choice between Olaf and his associates, Violet would gladly have Olaf alone. All three of them together were putting her at her wit's end.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the Woman said cheerlessly. “You may now kiss your bride.”
Violet didn't even get a chance to digest the sentence before Olaf grabbed her, spun her against him, and kissed her.
He grinned into her mouth, not daring to deepen it with his associates watching, but enjoying it nonetheless. Her lips were soft and warm and swelling against his, and her heartbeat quickened, and she was pushing against him, trying to wiggle away, and he let her go suddenly, watching as she fell back and landed on the sealed hatch. Violet wiped her mouth vigourously (which he found a little ridiculous, considering he hadn't even used his tongue), blushing and glaring daggers at all three of them.
The Man and the Woman, however, ignored them both pointedly. “There's a room reserved for you, 822. We would've put you into room number 176, but it was already booked.”
They both snickered, before firing up the engine on their boat and giving Olaf a wave. “See you tomorrow.”
“Until then!” Olaf said, waving back nervously, and they sped away.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Olaf turned to Violet, who was still lying on the surface of the submarine.
“Come on, Orphan, we'll have to go around.”
“Uh, hi,” Olaf said some three hours and a disguise later. “We're here to get our reservation for room 822? And we were wondering if you could send up an order of salt?”
The man behind the counter smirked, blinking down at Violet (who was still blushing from having to change behind a tree).
“Come along,” he said, and they followed him into the elevator.
Almost as soon as the door closed the man burst into a fit of giggles. “You married the Baudelaire girl? Are you serious?!”
“Shut up, Ernest,” Olaf sighed, “And when did you find out?”
“Just now, the bosses told me.” Ernest gave him a wry grin, “Are you going to consummate the marriage here?”
Olaf frowned. “Maybe.”
Ernest snickered. “I'll make Frank clean the sheets.”
Violet looked like she was about to be sick.
Almost as soon as the door was closed behind them, Violet bolted across the bedroom to the adjoining bathroom and locked the door behind her with a resounding click. It took Olaf a moment before he realized she had no intention on coming out again anytime soon, before he smirked, his mind making up it's own reasons why she didn't want to be disturbed. Sauntering over to the bed and throwing off his suit jacket, he flopped down onto the mattress and pulled his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He quickly grew bored of this, though, and rolled over, grabbing the receiver of the bedside phone and dialling for room service.
Violet still hadn't come out by the time his order arrived --four extra-large pizzas with bits of steak and bacon, and a bottle of wine (all charged to Esme, of course, if she ever showed up)-- and it wasn't until he was half-way through his first two slices when she poked her head around the door.
“You got food?” she asked tentatively.
Olaf smirked, devouring the slice he had and grabbing two more, folding them together before replying at length, “Villains need to eat, too.”
He half expected her to say something nasty to him, but she surprised him when she merely walked cautiously to him, and he grabbed the box and held it up for her. Violet sat on the edge of the bed, her legs clenched shut as if she expected him to leap across their meal, slam her against the floor and have his wicked way.
The count merely stared in abject boredom as she took the box from him tremblingly, peering inside. There were still four slices left, and she pulled one out, apparently surprised she had saved her so much. This quickly vanished when he pulled another box out from beside the bed, along with the bottle of wine and two large glasses. Pouring them both a glass (hers had considerably less, she noted, but figured he probably just wanted most of it for himself), he handed hers over, before started on another slice.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause, while they both ate, before Olaf noticed Violet staring at him.
“Do you always fold you pizza slices that way?”
Olaf blinked at her, startled at how forward she was. “What does it matter?”
Violet shrugged, her tension apparently gone. “Don't think it does. It's just strange, is all.”
The count stared at her for a moment, sipping his wine. “You should drink, you know. When you're done we're going to make this marriage valid. You know what that means.”
Violet didn't do anything, didn't flinch, didn't run, didn't cry. “I know. I want to be sober.”
“So I can remember.”
No sexy tone, no feeble attempt of seduction, no nervousness. Just business.
Olaf smirked in spite of himself. “It'll be painful at first.”
“At first,” Violet echoed quietly, as if it was all the answers she needed.
“Yes. Only at first.” Olaf openly grinned now, closing the box and placing it on the floor and taking another swig of wine before placing his now empty glass on the table. Pulling Violet's glass out of her hand and doing the same, he seized her hands and pulled her to him.
Neither of them said much after that. Olaf pulled her right up against him, flicking his tongue along her neck, as his hands reached behind her back to loosen her dress. In spite of her rather brave front, she was quivering in fear, her hands clenching into the front of his shirt and chewing her lip to keep from whimpering when he finally slid the dress down her shoulders. Burying her face in his chest, she shivered when he ran his fingertips up and down her bare arms, feeling the goose bumps as he pulled at the back of her (admittedly tiny) bra, looking for the clip.
Finally finding it, he unsnapped it, before tugging her arms up and wrenching the dress off her, pushing her down on her back and starting to run his tongue down the middle of her chest, between her petite, soft breasts. He ran a finger around one of her nipples as he did so, around and around, watching it harden while he blew warm air over the other, before pulling one into his mouth and pinching the other. She didn't so much as whimper, but she jolted and shuddered, chewing her lips feverishly and squirming in discomfort.
Smirking, he started to slide himself down her body, trailing his tongue over her bellybutton and moving lower until he could see her panties. ('White? Good lord.')
Licking his lips (and more than ready to consummate the marriage), he slowly pulled her legs apart and revelled for a moment as he ran a hand over her warm flesh, hearing her make a tiny, uncertain sound. Grinning, he hooked a finger underneath the crotch of her panties and pulled them to the side, revealing her lovely, swollen little outer lips and a tiny V of brownish-black curls. Groaning deep in his throat, he slowly pulled apart her flesh, letting out a suddenly impatient huff when he saw how moist she was. He was unbearably tempted to bury his face in that wonderful little cleft, but he decided to wait, wanting to tease her into submission. Not that she wasn't submissive already, but he wanted her whimpering for a whole new reason.
Carefully, he began to stroke his index finger against the swollen little nub where her lips began, not pressing down, scarcely even touching her. For a moment Violet didn't seem to respond, but she slowly started to squirm under him, huffing as she kept a hand clamped over her mouth to keep from moaning. For a moment, she even tried to close her legs, but he kept them open with his elbows, before stopping. Sliding up her again, he sat up, unbuttoning his shirt and eyeing her as he did so, taking in her flushed cheeks and her slight glare. Throwing off his shirt, he started to work on his pants, unzipping them and shoving them down. Violet gulped and quickly looked away, obviously completely at a loss as to what to do, and he grinned before pulling down his underwear and throwing it to the side, almost chuckling when she tried not to look at him out of the corners of her eyes.
“Violet,” he said, in the most commanding voice he could manage under the circumstances.
That did it; her head snapped up to look him in the eyes, before sliding down his body and, reluctantly, to view his equipment. With the way she stared in the seconds that followed, he doubted she had seen one before. She looked utterly dumbfounded ('Of course she is,' he thought smugly, 'who wouldn't be?') before he grasped her hand, and placed it around his want, lying down on top of her fully as he did so. Violet peered down between them for a minute while she felt him, and he smirked as her fingers explored him, before he reached down and grabbed her hand again, placing it above her head, and positioned himself between her open legs.
He felt a warm moisture against his tip, and smirked, and just as Violet was starting to work up the courage to ask “How?” he shoved himself inside.
Violet let out a little snapping groan as he shuddered and his eyes rolled and 'oh, God,' was she ever hot and wet and lovely. Taking in a huge breath, he raised himself on his elbows to see her, and oh, did she ever look furious, but she was just as pretty when she was angry, so he couldn't really be bothered to worry.
Pulling back slowly, he peered between them and saw a thin rivulet of blood, but not enough to disgust him, so he pressed back inside her, gentler this time, and heard her sigh in response, her expression turning neutral.
Taking her face in his hands, he kissed down her neck as he began to rock his hips in shallow, slow thrusts, willing her to get over it, before starting to pick up the pace, sliding his fingers along her sides and her back as he felt her start to shiver, and delighting in her soft, tight flesh.
Finally starting to feel secure enough that he wouldn't hurt her (why should he care, though, it's not like she meant anything, right?) he raised himself onto his arms, starting to deepen his thrusts, and she groaned and tightened around him (oh, was that even possible?) pulsing slickly around him as he began to work her harder, panting a little from excitement, his own body starting to shudder as well, and suddenly her hands were up and her fingers were in his hair and he was gasping from pleasure, his arousal hot and hers burning, and she was so close already ('Thank God,' he thought for what had to be at least the third time that day,) and he was slamming his hips against hers now, as deep as her body would allow, and she was gasping, eyes closed and her legs twining around his hips.
“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes,” he heard in his head, and for a moment he thought he was the one gasping it, but no, it was the orphan underneath him, and he felt her spasm and clench and squeal and her toes were curling and oh, oh, she was tight and pulsing and her insides were trembling, and she was climaxing, her pleasure gushing thickly against him, and he groaned in realization as she suddenly went silent, clinging to him and shuddering while he continued to slam into her, but not for long, before his back arched and he shook and groaned and spurted inside of her, painting her wonderful little peach with his own colours (but in this light it all looked the same).
There was a moment where he hung over her, panting, before he slid his hands around her and rolled them over so she was against him, on top of him. Sighing, he stroked her back while she continued to shake against him, before realization hit him like a ton of bricks, right to the face.
Two more. c:< With smut.