Pairing: Count Olaf x Violet B.
They cease crossing words (firearms) for a moment, basks in the solitude (the quietude) of a moratorium that will never last. He parts her mouth with two fingers, ready—eager—to slide his tongue in.
She turns away her head (shy and coy and so typical of a lethal coquette).
"It's not good to play games, Violet," he said.
Still, she does not look him in the eye (knowing an armistice will never last, and she refuses to surrender).
"I'm tired," she feigned a yawn.
"Then sleep," with me.
"I'm tired, not stupid."
"I never said you were."
That was the implication. "And I never said you said. I simply said."
They bicker endlessly, torsos tangled, voices hoarse (she rolls her hips over to meet his). She is supple, like softened leather in spring. And he is wizened and old but still young (at heart and in the head).
Besides, he likes to play with (almost) prepubescent girls.