notes: Original written for the LJ fanfic challenge community, 1sentance. You choose a couple from any fandom (assuming no one else has claim over that couple at that time) and after you're approved you pick a set of 50 words (I think my set was Delta) you then write one sentence for each theme word. You are allowed to interpret these words as you like. My particularly set isn't in any chronological order, only alphabetical order.
disclaimers: "Borrowed" from Eoin Colfer for awhile, I'll send them straight home when Arty sobers up. Also thanks to White Lily for being an unoffical beta.
He's too busy with buttons and zippers to realize that the citric smell of oranges is not her designer perfume but rather the polish used on the antique table that supports both their weights.
She steals the small bottles of hotel shampoo out of spite, he lets her do so without complaint because he'd liked to share the smell of temptation in the showers at home.
She gives him a minute and he steals an hour; he asks for a day and she hands him a week; she draws the line at a month but he multiples until he's got himself a year; he offers her his name and she declines but marries him anyway.
They cocoon themselves in hotel's sheets of butter cream, spinning a cotton shell with a selfish lust, and like caterpillars, together they let themselves dream of being something else.
She steals a drink when his back is turned, leaving behind a teasing kiss on his mug that leaves him lusting after real lips rather than a pale outline of a substitute.
He cages her in his bed and in his sleep, using his arms for embracing restraints and entangling her lovely legs with his; he holds onto her insecure, afraid she'll regret a few hours passed and slip away with the night.
She lays in the tower so poetic with a golden crown upon her pretty head; a pretend princess for little Colette from her fairy friend; but unlike Colette who just wants her storybooks to come true, Artemis is afraid that he's no Prince Charming.
Despite his drunken state he retains enough motor skills to climb the stairs and the next night she locks her door and the liquor cabinet to keep the underage heir from declaring love and crawling in her bed.
She was drunk on colorful concoctions with even more colorful names and when she kissed him goodnight with the seductive smell of alcohol loneliness on her breath it meant nothing to him and less to her.
There's a mental line drawn between the do's and don'ts established by parties older than them and when all the mistakes are added and tallied, the smart man doesn't give a damn but older woman knows a little more; you can't guard a sleeping man when you're laying next to him.
They smell of dirt and secret places; private things crafted for two, lovers who know they do wrong with their whisper and white lies, waiting between the tulips and irises, spring time bouquets of wrongs and rights pressed between the pages of here and now.
He politely asks her to lower the volume, it's a disguised command; he doesn't like her music, the performers haven't been dead for a century like he prefers them; she tells him after this song and he's left listening to her poison lips and butterflies.
He watches her press the autumn leaves into the pages of a unused dictionary, oranges, reds, and yellows on black and white, he tells her they'll just turn brown and she tells him shut-up; she's only trying to capture the sun.
A seductive siren song of mini-drama of manmade apocalypse, the flames dance orange and the ash makes black, he finds her tired but smiling, offering him an awkward embrace as a corporate manifestation of Milton's hell burns according in the background.
Artemis had a schedule, his days were planned in advance (days for scheming marked in blue), Butler had understood the necessity of routine and never attempt to interfere; Artemis thought fondly of this as Juliet turned the radio up; she had penciled in a shopping trip.
When he was little his mother had two parakeets that chirped and chattered in delight, her little blue and green darlings flew out the windows when he opened the cage; years later when he feels like sharing his guilt Juliet laughs and give him a kiss.
Juliet bridges the boundaries of the yester-lands of 'London Where We Lost Our Minds' and the professional never-land of 'Deny...Deny...We Like Denial' when she connects the points between mornings and porcelain for him.
Her pedicure painted toes catches his eye as she tiptoes barefoot upstairs, a passionate red dressed like twins to her pedicure nails, and he briefly wonders if anything else she wear to bed is a lovely shade of red.
They find a lonely comfort in each other's bed after Domovoi's death and when the grief has subsided and liquor supply runs low their midnights and dawns will be both private and professional again.
The dress that her mother wore clings to her curves like the night to the moon and attracts all the men who yearn for a woman dressed in the color money.
Las Vegas and its clichéd sins of yesterday line up the night with big bright lights, a well to do brothel of broken dreams, a rich bastard vs. a rich genius, heads or tails Arty, they gamble for her life with a silver coin.
He drowns himself in girls who giggle and drink champagne, names and faces forgotten in a blur before he even gets bored, but never in his own bed; the children who call him Uncle Arty like to jump on that particular bed when Juliet brings them around for a holiday.
He's never felt the desire for violence and he stands out of character with everyone watching, so she pulls him away from the other young man and she feels guilty as she ices his hand.
She came home on Tuesday, a fulfilled dreams that only girls can grow, wrapped in blankets of Pooh and eyes of blue and Timmy finds his granddaughter's name fitting for the Fowls; Persephone brings their world spring.
Holding hands and fingers in hair, they hide between expensive sheets, hoping to avoid the dawn and the today it casually brings with it.
She warns him tomorrow always comes too soon in this situation, it pushes forward with a vengeance and kills the soft hours of the night that he wants to keep; sand in a hour glass and all that jazz; and when it comes she was right.
She gives him a chocolate coin, foil the color gold; a present for Saint Valentine; a jab at him, a joke from her...family motto after all.
With only 365 days lived another year's upcoming death is celebrated with the immortal undertaker, Dick Clark; and as his drunken morticians countdown the victims remaining breaths on TV, Artemis Fowl II makes like a criminal mastermind and steals Juliet's first kiss of the new year.
The album is both a haunting and a sanctuary, professional photos with her hair pined in curls and snapshots of birthday wishes and swimming lessons, cards and letters, silly faces from girl to woman; he hides it away in case it leaves him like she did.
Angeline and Artemis Sr. quarrel in the study; business he shouts, business she mocks; Juliet, on holiday, coaxes five-year-old Jr. outdoors where it's a warm world away from adults and things to make a boy cry.
Irish stereotypes who hold their liquor loose him to bitter ale and later to a lady in red, who apologizes for her drunken friend and they know by her pretty smile described to them in slurred words that she's why he's entertained them with his company tonight.
She was attractive media portrait of blonde and long legs; with hesitation he uses her 'Venus Goods', wrapping her neckline in diamonds and sapphires, just for tonight he names her Lorelei.
She sits in the Mercedes and traces the rain rivers that spill on the other side, it has a hypnotizing effect on an educated boy of sixteen, and this innocent beauty distracts him long enough he misses a pivotal moment of a young man life; the realizing of love.
"Women guard their hearts with great defensive for good reason," he tells the sympathetic bartender; "blind bastards like myself have the tendency to be cliched enough to break them.": the boy is pissed but remains articulate.
When the roses are in season the manor is dressed in vases full of red, filling the rooms with a perennial floral aroma; but when the blooms have withered and fled with the wind he can still smell the garden on Juliet's skin.
He watches across the room as this unfamiliar man whispers to her, the man's lips mere centimeters from her flesh, but because he's Artemis Fowl his expression remains placid.
She offers him temptation in a sizeable box with a price tag, it's a delicate game that he doesn't wanna play, but he's a boy and she's a girl and she owns him with neither of them knowing; so he buys the damn boots.
She lays on the bed and shakes the domed souvenir, the tiny town of Hollywood flooded and plagued by a mini manufactured blizzard, and she wonders if he ever plans on returning home.
She laughs at him, smiles in his direction, teasingly kisses his cheek, and pushes him away so she can get back to frosting her cake and when he leaves the kitchen he sees her putting the lily in a vase he has enough evidence to know she's happy.
When she first came to the manor she wore her hair in tight braids with colorful ribbons; she reminded him of kites he never flew, but as they got older she put the ribbons away and by then he had forgotten all about the importance of kites.
She could hardly recall what had start the roll (hadn't marmalade been the trouble maker); but when she had enough she slammed the doors in a likeable dramatic exit and he stayed in his study for the proper amount of brooding and is glad for good craftsmanship.
It was an odd ounces of sentiment that can only come from a man in a drunken haze; Timmy informed Butler that Arty and Juliet were like Barbie and Ken; Angeline had single handily planned both couples future without their input.
She sits beside the open windows, her long legs bear and her blonde hair dizzy on top of her head and he decides on another cold shower because he's still just a boy.
How often it occurs to her the difference of age and social status but he was never conventional, not as boy when he stole his way into myths and not as a man when he present her with bouquets of yellow and white lilies and red and cream tulips.
He starts an argument, it's brutal and undeserving and a lesser woman might cry but she never backs down from a fight and he knows that, he knows everything; he knows she won't leave without the last word...the point is to keep her there.
A friendly gesture towards Juliet feuds a silent civil war at the dinning room table; Angeline wonders if she should remove the silverware before her son has Butler kill the charming American with his salad fork.
He's captured at the beach with a quick and calculated kiss followed by a playful smile; the sun melts the colors of the horizon and passing tourist with a camera takes home a picture of a golden sunset, the ocean wishful waves, and between the two a young man bewitched.
A kiss was certainly an improper greeting between a Fowl and a Butler but between two young people on first name bases it was a physical image of attachment, affection, and admiration.
The Nutcracker is always a blur of music, costumes, colors, and dreams; no matter how many times she has seen it, she always falls in love, over and over again; it makes her happy so he endures it and maybe he falls in love too.
Butler tells her he's not like other little boys and she doesn't understand what her brother means until she observes his indifference to all the balloons and toys; and later when the odd boy speaks, she pokes him softly to see if he's not waiting on the pretty Blue Fairy.