ooc;; she likes to sleep with the radio on Welcome to post-dating hell! Mia 35th (early morning), 81381. ic;; so she can dream of her favorite song If this were an old-fashioned espionage movie, Pyemme might have spoken the words, "It's quiet... too quiet." However, in this situation too quiet wasn't nearly quiet enough, and speaking at all would simply ruin everything. Decked out in no more advanced spy gear than a black hoodie and like-colored boxers (both borrowed from the arden trailing her closely), the golden thill made her way silently down the empty corridor on stealthy padded feet. This was one of the few areas of the Janardan Academy she knew with any semblance of familiarity, and she was able to turn corners and choose doors with ease. There was enough starlight coming through the school's tall picture-windows to navigate, and even the most shadowy of thresholds could not confuse the lukuo's sharp, glittering eyes. This was the psychology wing of the school -- her home away from dorm. It did not take long for her to reach their destination, an inconspicuous door that looked like any other but did not escape her scrupulous sight. She looked to her left and right down the long hallway. The walls faded into shadow, far off in either direction, and the only audible noise was the tiny jingle of her earrings against her solid black horns as she turned her head. Good. She raised the keys she held in her hand to the doorknob, wasting no time as deft fingers found the correct one, inserted it and turned. The knob gave way and the door opened soundlessly, as she knew it would. She slipped inside and waited for her partner in crime to join her before shutting the door and turning on the lights.
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]you're gonna be the one that saves me</font></div> 333!! happy atti. :3 <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]and after all, you're my wonderwall</font></div> Attrius thought of Madame Bovary and of Juliet, and of poison running through your bloodstream, and of passion doing the same. Dressed in only boxers and a tee-shirt (Pyemme had stolen his hoodie) he stalked down the hallways behind 'Emme, his golden-furred and blonde-tressed partner and crime, a giggle trying its best to bubble up from his lips. He forcibly swallowed the noise that threatened to break the pregnant silence, and lurked on. Att grinned at the thought. DUDE I'M A LURKER, LURKETY-LURK LURK. There was a little red dragon that lived coiled 'round Atti's heart that was named Beast. Meth had planted it there years ago, setting fire to the voatile gasoline in his soul. And every now and then, it would poke its deathly little head out and try to bite him. It had missed, for the most part ever since he was with Pyemme. But he'd killed before because of it, and he hoped to put it to rest for once and for all. He would remember the strangest things out of the blue, though: a night when he had bit Pyemme so hard during sex he'd drawn blood; the sound of him fighting off imaginary enemies in the thick of a nightmare; the time he had tattooed 'Emme with Magic Markers - snakes and hydras down her arms, fire and moko across her shoulder and upper back, a raven in flight at the small of her back. The pair had put each other's clothes back on, and there was a quiet sort of love about it that made Attrius very happy. Fastening and tucking seemed so much more intimate than unbuttoning and unzipping, as though you were privy to putting the person back together whole, instead of unraveling them. He winced suddely as Pyemme switched on the light, his eyes instinctively closing against the brightness that stabbed through his eyelids to the back of his head. <font color= "#abcce4">"Ow-ow-ow. That hurts."</font> When he finally opened his eyes, he sneaked up around Pyemme, wrapping his now-unbandaged arms around her from behind. <font color= "#abcce4">"Doot-dee-doo. We're super-secret special agent spies now, yay."</font> <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;">Omg. I should have named this thread "who stole the crack?" x]</div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;"> <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Sorry, sorry!"</span> the lukuo said quickly, trying to suppress a small laugh when the light stung Atti's eyes. It was a common phenomenon called schadenfreude, when one found amusement in another person's misfortune. She mentally face-palmed and tsked quietly at herself, then turned to walk away-- --and was quickly foiled in her intent as the arden's arms closed around her shoulders and held her tightly. She struggled and whined playfully for a moment, then resigned herself to his embrace and gave a small, contented sigh. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Super secret special agent ninja spies!"</span> she added with a giggle. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"We lurk in the shadows in the dead of niiiiiiight."</span> She drew out the word "night" because it seemed a suitably nighttime and spooky thing to do. With the lights on, it was no more evident than before exactly what kind of room they occupied. There was one round table to their left, surrounded by official-looking swiveling chairs. The whole left side of the long, rectangular room, in fact, looked like a migrated conference room from some sort of business center. The right side of the room, however, was filled with worn yet comfortable-looking furniture, including, but not limited to, two couches in need of re-upholstering and several mismatched armchairs. Most important of all objects present, of course, was the tall, gray cabinet against the far right wall. Pyemme wriggled enough that her arms slipped free of the arden's grasp, and she lifted one hand to point at the cabinet. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"There's the objective. We must recover the goods and bring them back to headquarters."</span> She thought for a moment. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Atti... by any chance do you know how to pick locks?"</span></div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]you're gonna be the one that saves me</font></div> maybe you still can! xD <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]and after all, you're my wonderwall</font></div> <font color= "#abcce4">“Ninjas are awesomesauce,"</font> Atti commented, jokingly taking a samurai’s stance, his knees bent slightly and his legs spread evenly. <font color= "#abcce4">“They get to sneak around like... uh. Aardvarks."</font> The half-Yki made a funny face, seemingly not even really remembering what a terran ‘aardvark’ was. Att leaned on his wrist, the arm curled back in a philosopher’s stance against his chest. He might have been a philosopher, if not for his long hair (which really wasn’t that long) and career in tattoo artistry. Existentialist as he was, Att was still one for truth and matter, and though some would imagine him fiercely religious from his mother, he was certainly not. As Pyemme wiggled away from, he followed her and bent over to look at the lock on the cabinet, his long hair spilling around his face. The figure of a savior. A false one. He surveyed the room – scattered, moth-eaten armchairs and couches in one part, and immaculate desks and chairs in another. Pyemme’s eyes were like his and his father’s. But hers and Att’s were too bright, too strong. Craid's were bleached-blue, faded, weak. He used to know. He knew. Atti could feel things, sense things, understand the madness laced in his mother, the monster in his father, the poison in the eyes of others. Sometimes, Saina used to look at him and see someone else. Sometimes, she saw nothing more then her son. Both times, Attrius remembered, the look was dark. “Atti... by any chance do you know how to pick locks?" <font color= "#abcce4">“Yeppo."</font> A wicked grin flashed across his face momentarily, and he giggled sneakily. The boy unsheathed his Yki-claws, the crescent-curved talons slipping from his ink-stained fingertips. He inserted his right index finger into the lock, and turned it hard. When he pulled out his finger, the nail was undamaged. <font color= "#abcce4">“Oooh,"</font> he murmured dreamily, looking at the prizes that lay inside in neatly-organized plastic bottles. <font color= "#abcce4">“Treasure."</font> <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;">Do you like the Moldy Peaches? </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;"> Pyemme really had no right to be surprised. With his background so steeped in felony, it was only fitting that Atti should be able to pick locks with amazing ease -- and no tools, at that. But she had to exhale sharply through her nose, twisting her lips up into a half smile in an expression that was equal parts awe and disapproval. She walked up behind the raven-hued arden intending to survey the substances inside the unlocked cabinet, but suddenly felt the strongest craving to touch him, anywhere. She buried her muzzle into the fur of his spine, just below the base of his neck, nuzzling against him gently to feel the warmth of his body against her. Then just as quickly, the deed done, she pulled away and walked in front of the shelves, putting her curled fists on her hips and tapping her toe as if she expected them to perform. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Hmm,"</span> she said thoughtfully as her hand darted out to pluck one white canister up. She twisted it between the fingers of each hand, an experienced pharmacist, reading the label. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"You have trouble sleeping, right?"</span> In her hands she held chlordiazepoxide (powder solid), a multi-purpose medication in the same clinical boat as common aspirin -- no one knew quite how it worked, but studies showed that it was safe and effective. </div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]i love you, a bushel and a peck</font></div> ...yes. xP "who's got the crack" fits perfectly. I AM A GOAT. <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]you bet your pretty neck, i do</font></div> Calling oneself an intellect would be arrogant, and Att would not do such because he was not that proud. He might, by others, be called an intellect, but would never assume that title. Quotes remained in his head, remembered like monologues by dead actors. Behind him was only sorrow and pain, and vicious words and actions fighting in the dance hall. If he looked further back, into these dead words, he could avoid his past entirely. It was a pitiful attempt, but it was the only thing he could do. Last night, he had slept a nightmarish thing, and tossed and turned and woken up with the ghost of words on his tongue and the terror hot on his back. He had gone out in the still early morning light and smoked, willing his nerves to calm. And Pyemme had saved him. He felt like falling apart when she touched them – all he ever wanted to do was to hold her and for them to stay forever always. But matters pressed him harder than the one he longed for, and he peeked in the medicine cabinet, coiling his arms around his lover again, looking over her shoulder. His breathing was rather deliberate, as if he had to consider each individual breath to make sure the air wouldn’t touch and tarnish her. Att allowed his brain to relax and drift, tightly coiled tendrils of thought loosening and stretching lazily out in his head. <font color= "#abcce4">"Yeah. Trouble sleeping."</font> <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;">OH GOD IT'S GUYS AND DOLLS! *hits the deck* </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;"> Pyemme nodded slowly and put the anxiety drug on the shelf in front of her, separate from the others for easy recovery. The next drug she looked for was marginally harder to find, buried in the back of a lower shelf, obviously not in a position to be retrieved by casual perusers of the drug case. She found it after a moment of searching through a small group of alphabetically-organized bottles. It wasn't as large as some of the others, and yet it was nearly full. Tranylcypromine. She reached for another bottle, a huge one that had suffered much loss, in contrast to the other. A popular anti-depressant known as Wellbutrin, buproprion. She held one bottle in each hand and compared them. Turning around, she looked up at Atti with a big grin on her face and held the canisters in the air like sacks of treasure. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"So, would you say you're depressed-"</span> she held up the bigger bottle, the buproprion, <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"-or depressed and crazy?"</span> She gestured with the smaller bottle. They were two completely different drugs that worked by targeting different processes of the brain, and if taken at the same time (or even within two weeks of each other) they were incredibly dangerous. But alone, they could be life-saving. She felt that sharp pang of Atti-hunger again and couldn't help but fling herself at her lover, pressing her body tightly against his and wrapping her arms around him, medicine canisters still in hand. She had to stand on her tip-toes to maneuver her face anywhere near his, and was only able to plant one small kiss on his soft muzzle before dropping again to flat feet.</div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]stand here besides my baby</font></div> 33 i know. 'mazing, isn't it? xP <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]watch the crumbling walls</font></div> He had been looking at the exact same sight for over three years. The thought was baffling, momentarily, as the boy stared down at the black, scuffed-up high tops that he had bought at the thrift store when he was sixteen. They had the same tear — about a half inch down on the left side of the right sneaker - that he had gotten the night he left Travis – walking down the stairs, he had tripped on a piece of glass from the bottle he had thrown. Some things didn't change. Atti caught a glimpse of his face in a mirror down a turn in the room, and he smiled as Pyemme kissed him. Forever. His hands found their way into the depths of the pockets he’d sewn onto the sides of his boxers, a cursory reaction he had when there was nothing else to do with them. His eyes were paler than usual, perhaps reflecting the artificial light - his gaze flicked temporarily upwards and the bulbs twinkled their sprightly reflections amidst the burning ice of his eyes before he looked at the familiar sight of his shoes once more. <font color= "#abcce4">“I think,"</font> he said, stifling a broken laugh. <font color= "#abcce4">“That I’m just depressed. Of course, you being the professional, it’s up to you to make that observation, I’d think."</font> His dark fingers danced like spiders across the cabinet door for but a moment before he looked back at ‘Emme again, a lovesick grin plastered over his face, swinging his foot above the ground idly. <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;">3 </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;"> The lukuo looked at both of the bottles she held in her hands, trying to recall everything she knew about each drug. Admittedly, it was little -- she knew what the brand-name drug representatives wanted all doctors to know, how fantastic and miraculous their drug is. The literature was all so positive and fluffed up and joyful because otherwise, who would prescribe it? But she knew a few little facts besides, and had to wonder whether Atti knew much about his own medical history. Or if he even had a medical history. She put the smaller bottle behind her on the shelf. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Do you have high blood pressure, that you're aware of? History of seizure? Irregular serum levels in the blood?"</span> There was one more thing that she should probably ask about, but she didn't know if it was appropriate or if it would upset Atti's momentary happiness. Certain people, when they went on anti-depressants... well, their symptoms became worse, in a way. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Do you ever,"</span> she started, then paused. She normally had the ability to be straightforward even in the tensest of situations, but at the moment she found being direct incredibly difficult. Her blue eyes sought out Atti's matching ones and held them for a moment. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Do you ever think about committing suicide?"</span></div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]stand here besides my baby</font></div> 33 i love this post. <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]watch the crumbling walls</font></div> The essence of a Tim Burton rendition of a kid at Christmas overcame Atti's expression for the first time in weeks. The half-Yki's eyes glowed like the two brightest lights in the tree, and he clapped his hands together in front of his face as if someone had set a giant, gift-wrapped box down in front of him. <font color= "#abcce4">"None of those, nope."</font> He'd gone through quite a few changes in the past five years, especially from when he'd first met Pyemme. There was something strangely satisfying about the poison that infused his blood. Knowing that the sound of his own thrumming heart would always stand between him and complete silence seemed pretty amazing to him. His perception of the initially unwelcome transformation from savage to culturally refined had undergone a quick and drastic evolutionary process. White-of-your-eyes horror. Depression. Uncommitted opposition. Cautious excitement. LOVELOVELOVE. Of Pyemme, of course. At 'Emme's question, Atti sighed and pushed his lower lip out, pretending to sulk. With the smooth, supple movements of an acrobat, he hooked his knees over a seperate cabinet and let his body drop down, arms stretching lazily towards the ground. <font color= "#abcce4">"Nope,"</font> he mewled coyly, shaking his smiling, topsy-turvy head, his hair flopping in front of his face. <font color= "#abcce4">"Not for... uh. Five or so years. 'Specially not since I met youuuuu."</font> <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;">I love pharmaceuticals. xP </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;"> Pyemme had to raise her eyebrows, screwing up her delicate face to give Atti an awkward look. He was hanging upside down on one of the cabinets... in particular, the cabinet she needed to visit next in order to prepare his drugs. She stuck out a thumb and pointed it over her left shoulder, directly toward a poster in the wall. it said NO HORSEPLAY IN THE LAB, and had an illustration of a horse in a labcoat, goggles around its neck, leaping straight over a bunsen burner and knocking over several vials and test tubes spilling green liquid all over. Psychologists did not pride themselves on their overly developed senses of humor. She smiled at the contortionist and folded her arms, drugs in hand. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"That's good. I'm glad."</span> The lukuo didn't exactly know what she would have done if he had said yes to her question -- probably nothing. Probably she would have frowned and not said anything, feeling that she was somehow responsible for maintaining her lover's desire to live. It was a good thing he said no. He had more inner strength than she gave him credit for, sometimes. Deciding against disturbing the acrobat's silly feats, she reached for the cabinet door that he was not obstructing. She had to fish around inside the dark shelves for a moment before her hand lit upon the thing she needed. It was heavy, but she finally managed to pull it out, carrying it to a nearby counter top in both arms and setting it down with the utmost care. She placed the medicines next to it. It looked almost like a square blender, but instead of a pitcher with a lid on top, the pitcher was merely a glass box with doors on either side and top that slid away. A scale. She walked back to the cabinet and stared at Attrius for a moment. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Will you move?"</span> she asked, jokingly impatient with her curled fists on her hips.</div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]you can have it all</font></div> 33 <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]my empire of dirt</font></div> He was a little bit of everything. Religion and science, philosophy and realism. The deadened glare from the asphalt, the sound of small bones snapping under a larger weight, all of the terrible little things that lived in the world, they reflected in him. But there was life, and vitality as well, and there was fierce love. Atti could play the guitar and fiddle like the devil himself, despite his informal training and inability to play anything else. But that was some excuse to create, and that sound, among other things, showed that the Dark Prince was something more then a causeless deviant. He was someone far too smart for his age, but far too young to know the horrors of the world. But he had. Genocide was born in his blood. He was a deviant, a black sheep, the lost son that no one really wanted. Exiled by his father for his defiance. Led through his dark valley by a devil in womanÂ’s body who would later bear his nightmares. She had been no angel, and neither was he. No one here was holy, not even his religious-fanatic mother. Saina (Maria, her true name, rang in some sing-song prayer) had been either a beast or a saint. Regardless, she had been beautiful. He had her looks. Everything was soft, velvety black, hydrogen bombs and the cold glare of a jealous moon. Atti snickered at his loverÂ’s words before swinging off of the cabinet. <font color= "#abcce4">"IÂ’m dizzy now, puijhuijs."</font> He snuggled next to her to gaze at the scales as though she were MaÂ’at weighing feathers. <font color= "#abcce4">"Have I ever taught you any Ykili? We need to have a day when we just do that, yÂ’know."</font> <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;">*3* </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;"> She threw the cabinet door open to reveal a shelf not full of drugs, but of instruments. Scales, weigh boats, scoops, canisters, sanitary things in metals and plastics. She took a deep breath and smiled pleasantly to herself, so happy to be an experimental psychologist. Even if the pendragon brain was a complete and utter mess, and no one was absolutely sure exactly how it functioned, the scientific process was so exact, so certain. The tools of the trade were perfect and accurate. Science... it was something she could lean on. It would never let her down. Suddenly Pyemme felt the broad touch of Atti's body on her own, affectionately. She shook her head. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"You haven't. Teach me some right now while I measure out your doses?"</span> she suggested as she reached out toward the instruments. She gathered one of everything she needed, inspecting each for cleanliness, despite the fact that she was likely the one who had cleaned and put them away. As usual, the tools were perfectly kept in good condition, not necessarily sterile but at least uncontaminated. Lastly she gathered 14 tiny plastic boxes, and a black sharpie. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"Teach me how to say 'I'm probably going to get arrested for this' in Ykill,"</span> she said with a giggle as she made her way back to the work area.</div></td></tr></table>
ooc. emz needs to make a new table. :3 ic. He smiled inwardly at Pyemme weighing out his medication – how funny that sounded! His lover already a fledging psychologist? But he was content with now, with being here and with her. As she spoke, he placed a light kiss on her neck, lips barely grazing the warmn. Teach her? Indeed. No other manner of speaking would have suited; the prince of Pyemme was pledging his life anew, his heart once more in the hands of his damsel and his sword ready and waiting for the moment when he would be called to spring to her aid. Each word, each token of perfect homage, was a jewel that needed desperately to fit its wearer. Atti cared not whether his language was pretty or ugly; it was what he had been taught as a child, alongside with English. Her interest in it was all that mattered, really. "Y’n gjerile deymd se dus ijjetsup vej shyt," he laughed. "When we get back," he began, softer, "Can we just crawl into bed and cuddle and take a nap together? No... fooling around? Just snuggling?" he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind. His feet seemed rooted to the spot, and his heart was in his throat - and faintly he thought that perhaps it had stopped, but then it was beating again, erratically and elatedly - and she was so beautiful, and he knew. He knew. Nobody would ever take this lady, this blue-blooded damsel, this lover and fighter and goddess and queen, away from him. They belonged with one another, and if their scarred hearts did not prove it, the glances they gave one another did.
