A/N: Warning: contains minor sex and adult themes, don't like don't read.
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, unfortunately.
Sloppy Seconds
She comes to you first, as always, that ghost you love being haunted by. It's a gala, some faceless man's fundraiser, and she knows how much you can't stand these social niceties. She's the opposite—she thrives off the attention. It's a game- she'll play her best mask and see who falls for it. You suppose that makes you a challenge; it'd explain why she keeps coming back.
She snatches the champagne glass from your hand and you look up. She's a vision in red, loud and seductive. You can't help but admire the way the dress clinging to her curves.
Your eyes meet Butler's—you're here for business. But you can never resist your favorite indulgence, no you're weak when it comes to your addictions, and quitting always seemed pointless. He doesn't approve, and you half wish he would stop you. Your hand hitches at her dress as you lead her out of the gala. Hotel rooms are a dime-a-dozen; you've always got one booked.
The second the door closes your mouths are grappling. Your hands run across her stomach, her breasts. It's violent when you turn her around and capture her in your arms, holding her against your taunt body. You press her to the wall, one slender wrist held above her head, the other against the small of her back.
"I hate you," she mumbles.
"Likewise," you bite out through gritted teeth.
You kiss and suck along the nape of her neck and she lets out a small gasp as she feels your hardness digging into her. You grasp the zipper of her dress in your fingers; the fabric falls away to reveal seamless skin. Your mouth meets her shoulder blades hungrily, and she writhes beneath your grip. You're addicted to the fight- nails scratching, teeth biting-you want to leave your mark on her and feel your own skin bruise.
She thrusts back suddenly, whirling around. Her hands meet your chest and she pushes you across the room, to the bed. You like this part best. She straddles you in her lace bra and thong; her body is soft and perfect and your hands slide across her thighs, her hips, as she unbuttons your shirt. She slithers lower across your chest, to the waist band of your pants, and this is how you need her, this is how you need to feel.
You close your eyes when she's beneath you and let your mind trick it's self, let your body drown in its euphoria. A soft moan escapes you. The same name is always at your lips as you come—in that moment, you almost believe it's her. This is as close as it gets, this is how you imagine it would be. It's a damn good second best.
But it is second best. When it is over, you lie without touching. You always feel dirty and guilty and somehow still unsatisfied, but you push the emotions away because you don't need to feel at all. That's your staple, isn't it? You've mastered the art of being a bastard. Finally, she speaks, and her voice is venom..
"My name is Minerva, not Holly."
You hate yourself for it, but you never hate yourself enough to stop. You're miserable, you're alone, and a twisted part of you finds pleasure in making her miserable too. In the darkness her curves are good enough, she's almost good enough. She's so fucking close to everything you need—but she's not.
"I hate you," she says again, as you button your shirt and fix your tie. You look to where she's lying, and it's a mistake—her legs stretch on for eternity and her gold hair splays outwards like a spider web. God, she's beautiful—as an admirer of art you can say that. She's still a vision, naked as a goddess, but she's the wrong vision.
You chuckle.
"No you don't." Her mouth twists into a frown; she knows you're right. "You just hate that we don't love each other because all conventions say that we should. We destroy your perfect little plan, don't we?"
You pull on your suit jacket.
"But god knows you're too cold for love anyway."
"And the same to you, Master Fowl," she replies. You take a moment to consider whether this is true. Maybe it is. You've always poured your love and hate into scratches along your arms, but you're finding that a therapeutic fucking is more effective. Both leave marks-your body is a canvas, and you can substitute the art for emotion. Maybe you don't truly love anything but yourself.
"A pleasure, as always," you say, as you find the door. "…Minerva."
Her eyes are stone on your retreating steps. You can feel them, but you're too much the coward to look back.
"You won't remember that for next time."
A/N: Woah dude my first fanfic in ages. Idk why Artemis Fowl is calling me all of a sudden. But yeah, this just came into my head, a kind of angsty Artemis/Minerva and onesided Artemis/Holly. Somehow everything I write is dark now. =/ Ah well. Enjoy the angst! Arty is a wonderful character to write for, he's so multifaceted. He's got so much potential for issues. I've always imagined him as a cutter, just because of how much he internalizes. He's just a self destructive kind of guy, and he's so intelligent that it's got to fuck with his view of the world and his understanding of love. Or maybe I just like fucking with him. =P
P.s. reviews make my night. Fo sho.
-JR