#oddyseas

        ❛  what look?   ❜  the maiden of lament seems to shed her courtly formality with @oddyseas,   so intent on curiosity.   being scrutinized under the guise of good humor was a rarity.   the translucent parade of maidens with the court often looked to the poetess for a sick amusement.   to stumble over her words,   to make more of a display of herself as the royal fool than their lady of lyric.   the pair of fae sit on horseback on the edge of the mistlands,   the veil undulating in the air before like gloom-struck oil in water.   ❛   i have no idea what you could possibly mean.   ❜   yet the aforementioned looks remain affixed to her features.   a thirst for wonderment as she dismounts from her skeletal stead.   

        she was no lady of ravens with warsong on her lips,   only favored by the crone in question.   pallid fingertips dance along the movement of the enchanted barrier,   marring her touch with magic.   ❛   do you ever get the sense that you do not belong where you are?   ❜   turning away from the rising gates,   doolin would be on the other side as it always was to welcome her back into a mortal embrace.   ❛   maybe that's a silly question for someone like you.   when you can dream up your own worlds...   you can make reality in your own image.   ❜   what was that?   a tinge of jealousy.   envy scarcely suits her;   or so she believes.   so much of her history was built upon it no matter how she wished to deny it.  

ANOTHER DAY IN MYSTIC FALLS, another attack on the doppelganger. that was what it felt like. another vampire, a werewolf, a freaking hybrid of both, or even the doppelganger that came before her : there was always someone after her. someone with a reason to kill her, someone out for her blood. would it ever end? or would this be her life forever? sometimes, she considered door number two. she could just take the easy way out. she could turn into a vampire. but somehow she knew that wouldn't be the end. they would keep coming for her. and then it would be an eternity of being hunted like katherine. or she could live out her hundred years ( if she was lucky ) and just be done with it all.

“ somehow, i don't believe that. ” she doesn't mask her annoyance, which is no surprise, because the irritated look takes up almost permanent residence on her face. you'd look prettier if you smiled more means nothing to a daughter of aphrodite, beautiful regardless of how ugly her heart is. it's her own pride that keeps her from turning away, something about alice needing her help making her smug, even if it might have little to do with mikayla's own abilities and more to do with the fact there's nobody else.

she wasn't wrong. it took considerable effort to get her into a state of undress. for a man, it was easy. the jacket came off first if he was wearing one, then the shirt and trousers, and in most cases, it ended in some type of undergarment. woman on the other hand . . . it took donovan years to learn how to quickly and efficiently ( as possible ) undo a corset, and that step usually came after layers of hoop skirts and petticoats. she was still wearing her chemisette, which meant they hadn't even gotten to the fun part yet. he should have waited until they were more intimately acquainted before he asked about the mirror. he watched as her gaze turned from lustful to vengeful and he realized that he had made a terrible mistake.

patroclus would have normally holed up in his apartment with his studies on any other night, but he had been convinced by his peers to attend what would apparently be the biggest party of the year. he hadn't given that much weight though because that’s what they said about every greek party. the theme, however, was supposed to fall in line with the summer solstice and there was going to be a bonfire too. ( something about an offering to the gods. ) he was handed a mask that looked like it had come straight off the set of some witchy or faerie production and told to dress however it inspired him.

❛❛ one would think you'd have learned by now. . . ❜❜ snarling smile creeps, baring the speared edge of the fury's fangs, which most certainly would bite ( just to taste a prince's iron ; his strange red ) it's not what she should be thinking. she is rage embodied and oath bound to remain at odds with him. . . but what a pretty sight he is from up close; her golden whip tangled around his wrist and chorded throat. how it puppets him to look the perfect warrior, pledging fealty to a mistress with a fist to the heart.

narrator:  a demon is comfortably laying down on a sun lit rooftop,  ankles crossed and arms behind his back.  said demon  —  whose name is crowley  —  happens to be in the united states of america, a place he notably despises and avoids at all costs if he can.

'  ehhh,  souls are alright.  bit susceptible,  maybe.  '   he responds to @oddyseas with eyes closed,  almost on autopilot,  without really thinking or moving an inch.  the voice is close,  female sounding and..  slightly muffled,  perhaps?  although by what crowley can scarcely say.   '  stars are much more interesting,  if you ask me.  '   if he manages to keep a treacherous shard of longing off his voice is only because he is dead sober.  it's just no fun getting drunk on his own,  after all.

narrator:  crowley left london in a mysterious haste,  after recording a lousy excuse on voice mail. and is now indeed sulking,  miles and miles away from his angel.