blood roses, a series of unfortunate events fanfic

STANDARD DISCLAIMER APPLIED.

blood roses
by: pixie paramount (07/06/09, 11:47 PM)
As Series of Unfortunate Events, Olaf/Violet & all the things that never really happened

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1.
His fingers are like spider's legs, thin and bone-like with thick knuckles. They dig into her skin, bruising it, and leaving crescent shaped love-bites along her skin. These marks never leave soon enough; she thinks he does it on purpose.

She reminds herself that she hates him, that she can't stand him, that this—this horrible dance—is nothing more than a horrible dream. That this doesn't exist when it, indeed, does.

(In the morning, she brushes her teeth so hard that she tastes copper, just to erase the taste of him.)

2.
Esmé isn't stupid. She can see that he looses sleep overtime—especially when they are so close to finalizing their plans. She sees the tiniest glint in his eyes when you mention those brats; he goes on tangents of how that bitch ruined it from the beginning.

Esmé asks him why he chose her in the hospital, why he watched it so eagerly, why he took to much enjoyment out of it even for the fortune, there had to be something more to it.

He never does answer her.

She can see what this girl—her family—does to him and if pity where in style, she most certainly would pity him.

3.
She's never thought of herself as pretty or beautiful, she's never thought of herself in terms other than sister, surrogate mother, and inventor.

He's never thought of himself anything less than the best.

She always blushes when someone compliments her on her beauty.

He wants to know where, exactly, that blush spreads. He likes to think—dream—that when she's on sating sheets and moaning—oh, oh, oh—that it spreads all the way to the tips of her toes.

However, with the hate in her—their—eyes when they next meet, he knows that it will never be.

The knife slits a joker's smile on his lips is proof enough of this.

4.
It's a wonderful night in Paris.

It is deep in the night when he slits the siren's throat, and he feels nothing even as the passing lights make the forever-smile more apparent on her lips; she's like a china doll this way.

He can almost find it in himself to feel a tinge of regret for what he has done, and it isn't enough for him to stop. It never is.

(Now, with the fortune finally his, he can ignore it.)

5.
Her lips are blue in death.

Her skin is frigid, her neck is like a swan's, and her throat is dotted with red-blue-black fingerprint bruises—that remind Klaus of spider-bites—are all over her skin. She's in her pretty dress; her bow in her hair; her lips parted as if to say, please.

He doesn't know what hurts him more.

Sunny crying—she just can't stop—or the fact that she is gone. He's alone now. She's left him—them—behind; she's dead and it hurts to think, say, and acknowledge it because once it is said, it becomes real. She'll never come back now. Never.

And it hurts more than loss should. It hurts more than this parent's dying, that Isadora disappearing, than Fiona hurting him with a kiss—it hurts more than anything that he can fathom.

The gun, his finger fumbling with the trigger, is heavy in his hands as he points it at the one who ruined everything, the one who took her away.

He pulls and watches as Olaf falls like rotting doll into the sea.

(And all Olaf can think is that he—finally!—won.)
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Author's Note: This, of course, doesn't follow canon in the least. Rated mainly for implications of sex and a healthy dosage of violence/murder; nothing too graphic, really.

Anyway, "the five things that never happened and the one that did" just popped in out of nowhere whilst rereading some of my favorite Violet/Olaf fics. Particularly: Evilklutz's Paper Thin; Madam Luna's Vice-Versa; and Rock Not War's Winners Confrontation. I am floored, constantly, by every one of them. You should definitely read them. Like, now.