[x] boundless, sympathies, forlorn memories
Day TEN! HOLY FRIGG. I mean, I can hardly believe I'm 30 in already for 500themes . When I hit 90, I might seriously celebrate.
Title: Boundless
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: All.
Fandom: KHR
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 376. Where does the sky end?
Words: 704
Genre/s: Gen.
Warnings: None.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: It becomes a ritual for them. They slip in, whisper of their concerns and darknesses, and slip into the shadows once more, but it is with renewed courage.
Disclaimer/Claimer: KHR is not mine. *3*
As he closed his eyes, he felt them all pass by and clasp his hands. It was a sort of peaceful gesture, and one that seemed almost spiritual. Every evening they could manage the time, they did this, and he merely whispered back soft encouragements to them.
The storm passed through, his lips pressed to the back of that tender, tanned hand. They brushed his skin softly, and his eyes stayed closed as he wished for his employer's health. He spoke of his woes and worries, his guilts and sorrows. He often beat himself up, but then the brunette would take the hand that held his and press a gentle kiss to the back, not one of romanticism, but one of camaraderie, and the feelings spoken through that gesture were louder than anything he could've said.
The rain held on tightly, and the brunette worried for his friend's inner turmoils, but he willed himself to be calm and listen. Sometimes, there came a point when he was conflicted, and on the verge of destroying himself, but then that hand, smaller than his own, but belonging to someone he considered larger than life, clasped his softly, more softly than the touch of a feather, perhaps. He smiled against his tall friend's fingertips, and quietly, the other dark-haired man slipped from the room at ease.
The lightning was both disturbed and spirited. It was always a hit-or-miss as to how he was feeling, but as a whole it made him feel better just to sit and whisper to him. The man smiled and honestly laughed, and together they lifted each other's spirits. When the curly-haired youth brought his hand to his mouth to kiss it and then put it down so that the caramel-haired man on the chair could lift his hand and do the same, but he never kissed them on the rings, as they did to him. Too impersonal, he felt. So to the youngest of his fellows, he left a chaste kiss on his thin wrist.
The sun was only truly quiet in here, and the state of sanctuary for them stayed in this room in the wee hours of the night. He spoke softly of his darkened thoughts, those of troubles in his life, and things he muddled through mentally. But by the time the brunette had murmured something that may have very well been nothing, he'd come to learn of himself. It wasn't in his nature to mull over things forever, so after he got a kiss on the bruised and battered knuckles, he left the room with a smile.
Rare occasion brought the Cloud here. He honestly hated this sort of organized system, but when no one else was around, and it was deadly quiet at Headquarters, he might slip in untraditionally. He would bend his knee for no man, but the brunette would rise and press their cheeks together on both sides, an Italian gesture he'd taken to. He was brief, cold even, but his words hit home quickly, and were more morose, perhaps, than many of them could deal with. Except his leader. The man stood strong against all his predictions, and when he left that room smirking, he couldn't help but feel like something in his daily mannerisms had been reset.
Even more rare occasion brought the Mist to the room. He sarcastically pressed his lips to that ring and those bony fingers, and when he murmured things, it was as if his own mentality and darkness permeated the room, but the leader resisted valiantly. He would stand and wait for him to finish whatever it was he needed to say, and when he pulled back into the darkness, it was with a soft kiss to the side of his hand. He chuckled, his ponytail disappearing behind him.
Letting out a slow sigh and then a smile, he stared out of the dark window behind every one of their visits for a few moments before returning to his duties. In these moments, his subordinates could only feel like their boundless sky was a fountain of rejuvenation, but it was in these moments afterwords that the brunette himself could truly feel like what they believed him to be.
...
Title: Sympathies
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: 13+
Fandom: Permanent Curiosity
Pairing/s: Pandora "Panni"/Sebastian Anthony
Theme: 79. Tragic moment.
Words: 1189
Genre/s: Gen, Angst, Romance-ish
Warnings: None.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: I almost didn't want to acknowledge the fact that I'd done such a thing. It wasn't anything like me.
Disclaimer/Claimer: Mineeee~
I feel like I can't tear my eyes away from this.
I'd known. I wonder absently why I can't just stop feeling like this. I'd never felt like this before, not in any of the previous twelve missions, twenty assorted practices within our technological base, and two deaths of my close family had I ever felt like this. No heart-wrenching terror had gripped me like it had when I pulled this trigger, knowing well the consequences. In all truthfulness, it should have been pulled long ago, for she was the target. But for some reason, she struck me as unusual.
Two shots fired. I wondered when my finger had moved against my will. I can only see through a half-open gaze, so I know that my stare and lips are as flat as always, but it is different, because all these thoughts and feelings are raging under my skin.
My gun is thankfully muffled, but that won't completely deafen the sound. I have, at most, perhaps five minutes to survey the area and find the quickest escape route. I'd known that those men were traitors, and this was why it had been acceptable to kill them. I didn't think twice about the fact that I'd jabbed his knife into his spinal cord and chest, leaving him gasping in horrid, phlegm-filled breaths as he passed. I usually avoided the neck in any way, but it couldn't have been helped. I needed him out of the way so I could shoot her attacker, and by a sort of divinity, my targets. It was, somehow, a shame, however, that she was another one of those same targets. Those two shots hit that man and her, but I almost made a noise at the back of my throat when I realized that I'd hit her just under the lung. Lots of pain, and she'd probably feel like she was dying along with the rest of them, but it had not been nearly vital enough to kill.
I'd messed up.
"Sebas," She seemed to murmur sarcastically at me in her last moments, and by that I mean that she must go soon, even though her eyes are wild with life, for if I leave her alive and untended, she may very well die of blood loss, and I will be hailed as a failure back at base. "You don't...have to be like this, you know." I say nothing. Judging by her sweaty visage and breathless, humorless chuckle, my face is as stony as always, even though a thousand more words than I usually spoke wanted to leap from my throat. "I chose this path because...there was nothing else for me." A gasp. I feel my eyebrows furrow as I watch her struggle, and I almost feel the need to, as they say, 'put her out of her misery'. "You're...too good for this. You're...too smart to be going around...killing people."
I stare, and the thought is curious to me. It's as though she knows nothing of me, of my ways, of my true intentions. I would, after all, when she was dead, rip her apart from the outside in, examine her every tendon and cavity, and when I was done, writing down my observations as I went, I would go wash my hands and ascend up to my apartment-style room, continuing onto a new day. I may have been more intelligent than many, but there was nothing else that sated my desires like being in this profession. To have it taken away from me would be absolutely unbearable, and to try and explain myself to normal people would end in nothing but failure. I'm sure I only blink, but my voice comes out flat as I speak. Even I am surprised to hear the words. "Strange," The word feels dry in my mouth. Swallowing is "We may be more alike than you had ever dreamed," I am murmuring, which is disgraceful. To merge one's words in a sentence spoken softly makes one sound uneducated.
She laughs a bit, and blood comes up in the cough that follows. "Perhaps we are. But that doesn't mean...you have to be this...soulless drone," She points to the gunshot wound I have dealt her, and I say nothing. I don't even feel myself blinking. "But if it serves your purpose...by all means...finish the job."
I raise my gun, and my finger trembles. Once again I surprise myself with the words, for I have not thought them. They tumble from my lips awkwardly. "I never meant for any of this to happen to you."
Pandora, ginger-haired, quick-witted, sharp-eyed. Pandora, named after the one the first woman on earth, the "giver of all", the extinguisher of hope. The one that had opened the box of all evils in the world and let it loose. I wondered, absently, if killing her meant that I would be further proving what a monster she'd created in her curious intentions. Much like myself, the woman had only wanted to find the truths in her world, and in doing so happened upon a darker future. As my finger pulled back, I felt my lips move, saying, "Farewell," Seeing her fighting smile on her face as the bullet pressed into her temple, and a second followed, as was my typicality, I tried to feel nothing again. When I saw that she breathed no more, I fished out my cellular phone, and to my surprise, I dropped it on the concrete ground around us, my fingers trembling. Picking it back up, I made the call for the bodies to be transported back to Headquarters. Helping the crew get the bodies on, I lifted Pandora--nicknamed "Panni, she'd probably told me half a hundred times--and to even my surprise, did not let go. Even on her sterile girdle, I sat with her head on my legs, hands curled around her ginger locks. Even upon arriving back home, I was wheeled in on the girdle with her, but the men stopped near the elevators, asking with their eyes what I was going to do. Standing there was Bair, and I looked up at her slowly, my vision blurred.
"Sebastian?" She called me properly, for unlike the corpse on my lap, she'd known that that name annoyed me greatly. However, I knew that I hadn't minded Pandora calling me that, despite all odds. She looked worried about something, and her hand reached out, gently clasping my shoulder. "You're crying?"
I think for a moment. I've heard, and seen, and read about tears, but never actually experienced the action myself. I slipped my hand from that leather glove, for it was safe here, and reached up to touch my own face. These stony gray eyes were capable of tears after all. I felt Bair wrap her arms around me, something foreign to me, mostly because I don't even allow most people to touch me. But in the silence, I am grateful for her presence, and my eyes close against the fabric of her shirt.
It was a death I would never forget, and an error that would haunt me forever.
I'd taken on sympathy for the enemy.
...
Title: Forlorn Memories
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: All.
Fandom: Here For Now
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 244. A love remembered.
Words: 518
Genre/s: Gen, Hurt/Comfort.
Warnings: None.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: Her hand was soft, and big. I can almost think of her voice sometimes, but not really. I remember stupid things most of the time--things that had been important to me back then. But now, it's all vague memories.
Disclaimer/Claimer: Mine.
I remember my mother's hand. I'm sure that she almost always smelled of food and sweets, because I liked her smell. But then again, it's a wonder I remember much of anything at all.
Really, it wasn't such a great place to live. Well, that's what I'd heard, anyways. It was the borderline slums. But my parents lived only a few hundred feet away from it, and our house was nice. It was never dirty, and even though all the kids I went to school with were a little rough around the edges, I'd never sensed anything wrong with it.
In all honesty, though, I was only a kid. I only remember the stupidest things, like when someone wanted my cookies at lunch or something. But I do remember one day scarily well, but I guess it was because it was only a week or so before I entered the orphanage. I was around five years old, and I was walking into the kitchen. It was quiet at first as I hit that last stair, but then I heard something hit the floor, and my heart raced. I almost couldn't move, but when my legs began to work again, my mother was laid out on the floor. I don't remember most of their argument, but I knew that the blows began to fall, and my father, enraged, threatened to take out a weapon they apparently kept hidden. Then, later on, my mother and I stole away, and I cried, because my dad had been angry with us. But she soon explained that this was the only way. According to Mom, my parents were both involved in some really shady business, and if we didn't ditch town, we were done for. My father had connections, after all.
So she dropped me there. It was a tearful separation, I know, and it was made worse by the fact that I was bawling my eyes back after her last hug, kiss, and hair-ruffle. I didn't want to be standing out here in this foreign place. I wanted my mother back. But I'd never see her again--or my father, for that matter. He made sure she was taken care of long, long ago. But then he got done in trying to play dirty tricks to pay off a loan to another man in the business, and there it was.
I don't know why, but I sometimes think of it. A lot of the time, though, I just can't think it's real. After all, I love Mom more than I can explain, and it doesn't make any sense to me that we're not actually related. I'm forever grateful for her, because the orphanage just isn't the greatest place to grow up. She adopted me when I was seven, and of course I knew that we weren't related, because I knew my mother from those far-off memories, and she didn't smell like this. But when my hand, still small, curled around hers, and she gave me that watery smile, and then a tight hug, I couldn't see myself anywhere else than with her.
Title: Boundless
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: All.
Fandom: KHR
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 376. Where does the sky end?
Words: 704
Genre/s: Gen.
Warnings: None.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: It becomes a ritual for them. They slip in, whisper of their concerns and darknesses, and slip into the shadows once more, but it is with renewed courage.
Disclaimer/Claimer: KHR is not mine. *3*
As he closed his eyes, he felt them all pass by and clasp his hands. It was a sort of peaceful gesture, and one that seemed almost spiritual. Every evening they could manage the time, they did this, and he merely whispered back soft encouragements to them.
The storm passed through, his lips pressed to the back of that tender, tanned hand. They brushed his skin softly, and his eyes stayed closed as he wished for his employer's health. He spoke of his woes and worries, his guilts and sorrows. He often beat himself up, but then the brunette would take the hand that held his and press a gentle kiss to the back, not one of romanticism, but one of camaraderie, and the feelings spoken through that gesture were louder than anything he could've said.
The rain held on tightly, and the brunette worried for his friend's inner turmoils, but he willed himself to be calm and listen. Sometimes, there came a point when he was conflicted, and on the verge of destroying himself, but then that hand, smaller than his own, but belonging to someone he considered larger than life, clasped his softly, more softly than the touch of a feather, perhaps. He smiled against his tall friend's fingertips, and quietly, the other dark-haired man slipped from the room at ease.
The lightning was both disturbed and spirited. It was always a hit-or-miss as to how he was feeling, but as a whole it made him feel better just to sit and whisper to him. The man smiled and honestly laughed, and together they lifted each other's spirits. When the curly-haired youth brought his hand to his mouth to kiss it and then put it down so that the caramel-haired man on the chair could lift his hand and do the same, but he never kissed them on the rings, as they did to him. Too impersonal, he felt. So to the youngest of his fellows, he left a chaste kiss on his thin wrist.
The sun was only truly quiet in here, and the state of sanctuary for them stayed in this room in the wee hours of the night. He spoke softly of his darkened thoughts, those of troubles in his life, and things he muddled through mentally. But by the time the brunette had murmured something that may have very well been nothing, he'd come to learn of himself. It wasn't in his nature to mull over things forever, so after he got a kiss on the bruised and battered knuckles, he left the room with a smile.
Rare occasion brought the Cloud here. He honestly hated this sort of organized system, but when no one else was around, and it was deadly quiet at Headquarters, he might slip in untraditionally. He would bend his knee for no man, but the brunette would rise and press their cheeks together on both sides, an Italian gesture he'd taken to. He was brief, cold even, but his words hit home quickly, and were more morose, perhaps, than many of them could deal with. Except his leader. The man stood strong against all his predictions, and when he left that room smirking, he couldn't help but feel like something in his daily mannerisms had been reset.
Even more rare occasion brought the Mist to the room. He sarcastically pressed his lips to that ring and those bony fingers, and when he murmured things, it was as if his own mentality and darkness permeated the room, but the leader resisted valiantly. He would stand and wait for him to finish whatever it was he needed to say, and when he pulled back into the darkness, it was with a soft kiss to the side of his hand. He chuckled, his ponytail disappearing behind him.
Letting out a slow sigh and then a smile, he stared out of the dark window behind every one of their visits for a few moments before returning to his duties. In these moments, his subordinates could only feel like their boundless sky was a fountain of rejuvenation, but it was in these moments afterwords that the brunette himself could truly feel like what they believed him to be.
...
Title: Sympathies
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: 13+
Fandom: Permanent Curiosity
Pairing/s: Pandora "Panni"/Sebastian Anthony
Theme: 79. Tragic moment.
Words: 1189
Genre/s: Gen, Angst, Romance-ish
Warnings: None.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: I almost didn't want to acknowledge the fact that I'd done such a thing. It wasn't anything like me.
Disclaimer/Claimer: Mineeee~
I feel like I can't tear my eyes away from this.
I'd known. I wonder absently why I can't just stop feeling like this. I'd never felt like this before, not in any of the previous twelve missions, twenty assorted practices within our technological base, and two deaths of my close family had I ever felt like this. No heart-wrenching terror had gripped me like it had when I pulled this trigger, knowing well the consequences. In all truthfulness, it should have been pulled long ago, for she was the target. But for some reason, she struck me as unusual.
Two shots fired. I wondered when my finger had moved against my will. I can only see through a half-open gaze, so I know that my stare and lips are as flat as always, but it is different, because all these thoughts and feelings are raging under my skin.
My gun is thankfully muffled, but that won't completely deafen the sound. I have, at most, perhaps five minutes to survey the area and find the quickest escape route. I'd known that those men were traitors, and this was why it had been acceptable to kill them. I didn't think twice about the fact that I'd jabbed his knife into his spinal cord and chest, leaving him gasping in horrid, phlegm-filled breaths as he passed. I usually avoided the neck in any way, but it couldn't have been helped. I needed him out of the way so I could shoot her attacker, and by a sort of divinity, my targets. It was, somehow, a shame, however, that she was another one of those same targets. Those two shots hit that man and her, but I almost made a noise at the back of my throat when I realized that I'd hit her just under the lung. Lots of pain, and she'd probably feel like she was dying along with the rest of them, but it had not been nearly vital enough to kill.
I'd messed up.
"Sebas," She seemed to murmur sarcastically at me in her last moments, and by that I mean that she must go soon, even though her eyes are wild with life, for if I leave her alive and untended, she may very well die of blood loss, and I will be hailed as a failure back at base. "You don't...have to be like this, you know." I say nothing. Judging by her sweaty visage and breathless, humorless chuckle, my face is as stony as always, even though a thousand more words than I usually spoke wanted to leap from my throat. "I chose this path because...there was nothing else for me." A gasp. I feel my eyebrows furrow as I watch her struggle, and I almost feel the need to, as they say, 'put her out of her misery'. "You're...too good for this. You're...too smart to be going around...killing people."
I stare, and the thought is curious to me. It's as though she knows nothing of me, of my ways, of my true intentions. I would, after all, when she was dead, rip her apart from the outside in, examine her every tendon and cavity, and when I was done, writing down my observations as I went, I would go wash my hands and ascend up to my apartment-style room, continuing onto a new day. I may have been more intelligent than many, but there was nothing else that sated my desires like being in this profession. To have it taken away from me would be absolutely unbearable, and to try and explain myself to normal people would end in nothing but failure. I'm sure I only blink, but my voice comes out flat as I speak. Even I am surprised to hear the words. "Strange," The word feels dry in my mouth. Swallowing is "We may be more alike than you had ever dreamed," I am murmuring, which is disgraceful. To merge one's words in a sentence spoken softly makes one sound uneducated.
She laughs a bit, and blood comes up in the cough that follows. "Perhaps we are. But that doesn't mean...you have to be this...soulless drone," She points to the gunshot wound I have dealt her, and I say nothing. I don't even feel myself blinking. "But if it serves your purpose...by all means...finish the job."
I raise my gun, and my finger trembles. Once again I surprise myself with the words, for I have not thought them. They tumble from my lips awkwardly. "I never meant for any of this to happen to you."
Pandora, ginger-haired, quick-witted, sharp-eyed. Pandora, named after the one the first woman on earth, the "giver of all", the extinguisher of hope. The one that had opened the box of all evils in the world and let it loose. I wondered, absently, if killing her meant that I would be further proving what a monster she'd created in her curious intentions. Much like myself, the woman had only wanted to find the truths in her world, and in doing so happened upon a darker future. As my finger pulled back, I felt my lips move, saying, "Farewell," Seeing her fighting smile on her face as the bullet pressed into her temple, and a second followed, as was my typicality, I tried to feel nothing again. When I saw that she breathed no more, I fished out my cellular phone, and to my surprise, I dropped it on the concrete ground around us, my fingers trembling. Picking it back up, I made the call for the bodies to be transported back to Headquarters. Helping the crew get the bodies on, I lifted Pandora--nicknamed "Panni, she'd probably told me half a hundred times--and to even my surprise, did not let go. Even on her sterile girdle, I sat with her head on my legs, hands curled around her ginger locks. Even upon arriving back home, I was wheeled in on the girdle with her, but the men stopped near the elevators, asking with their eyes what I was going to do. Standing there was Bair, and I looked up at her slowly, my vision blurred.
"Sebastian?" She called me properly, for unlike the corpse on my lap, she'd known that that name annoyed me greatly. However, I knew that I hadn't minded Pandora calling me that, despite all odds. She looked worried about something, and her hand reached out, gently clasping my shoulder. "You're crying?"
I think for a moment. I've heard, and seen, and read about tears, but never actually experienced the action myself. I slipped my hand from that leather glove, for it was safe here, and reached up to touch my own face. These stony gray eyes were capable of tears after all. I felt Bair wrap her arms around me, something foreign to me, mostly because I don't even allow most people to touch me. But in the silence, I am grateful for her presence, and my eyes close against the fabric of her shirt.
It was a death I would never forget, and an error that would haunt me forever.
I'd taken on sympathy for the enemy.
...
Title: Forlorn Memories
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: All.
Fandom: Here For Now
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 244. A love remembered.
Words: 518
Genre/s: Gen, Hurt/Comfort.
Warnings: None.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: Her hand was soft, and big. I can almost think of her voice sometimes, but not really. I remember stupid things most of the time--things that had been important to me back then. But now, it's all vague memories.
Disclaimer/Claimer: Mine.
I remember my mother's hand. I'm sure that she almost always smelled of food and sweets, because I liked her smell. But then again, it's a wonder I remember much of anything at all.
Really, it wasn't such a great place to live. Well, that's what I'd heard, anyways. It was the borderline slums. But my parents lived only a few hundred feet away from it, and our house was nice. It was never dirty, and even though all the kids I went to school with were a little rough around the edges, I'd never sensed anything wrong with it.
In all honesty, though, I was only a kid. I only remember the stupidest things, like when someone wanted my cookies at lunch or something. But I do remember one day scarily well, but I guess it was because it was only a week or so before I entered the orphanage. I was around five years old, and I was walking into the kitchen. It was quiet at first as I hit that last stair, but then I heard something hit the floor, and my heart raced. I almost couldn't move, but when my legs began to work again, my mother was laid out on the floor. I don't remember most of their argument, but I knew that the blows began to fall, and my father, enraged, threatened to take out a weapon they apparently kept hidden. Then, later on, my mother and I stole away, and I cried, because my dad had been angry with us. But she soon explained that this was the only way. According to Mom, my parents were both involved in some really shady business, and if we didn't ditch town, we were done for. My father had connections, after all.
So she dropped me there. It was a tearful separation, I know, and it was made worse by the fact that I was bawling my eyes back after her last hug, kiss, and hair-ruffle. I didn't want to be standing out here in this foreign place. I wanted my mother back. But I'd never see her again--or my father, for that matter. He made sure she was taken care of long, long ago. But then he got done in trying to play dirty tricks to pay off a loan to another man in the business, and there it was.
I don't know why, but I sometimes think of it. A lot of the time, though, I just can't think it's real. After all, I love Mom more than I can explain, and it doesn't make any sense to me that we're not actually related. I'm forever grateful for her, because the orphanage just isn't the greatest place to grow up. She adopted me when I was seven, and of course I knew that we weren't related, because I knew my mother from those far-off memories, and she didn't smell like this. But when my hand, still small, curled around hers, and she gave me that watery smile, and then a tight hug, I couldn't see myself anywhere else than with her.