#*iangenia

i’m sitting here lubed up (two glasses of wine) and you drop my favorite barbies into my lap like this…………,..i’m like in lucy (2014) when scarjo accesses 100% of her brain or wtvr

ianthe who prowled around eris autumn for a time and as such occassionally glimpsed beron, who did not respect ianthe as a priestess who wasn’t in his pocket, with his pet whore—thought nothing of iphigenia beyond that bright surge of jealousy she gets whenever a female garners the attention from a powerful male that keeps them from focusing on her. ianthe who did not die in the weaver’s cottage but [hand wave] managed to escape—went to ground for years and years—reemerged in a dying spring court, her hand mangled, her beauty flawed. thought: now that he is at his lowest, he will have no choice but to take me. except … there is a vixen in the hen house. worse, ianthe knows tamlin well. well enough to know what his budding love for another looks like even before he does—because so often did she try to snip it before it bloomed. there, it buds, near to bloom. as is spring. because of this female.

a female ianthe has seen before, once when her jealousy surged.

how many high lords has ianthe sought to ingratiate herself with? how many heirs? how many of them went willingly, if at all? (none.) how much did she have to lower herself? lords reeking of untouched desperation. high fae without title at all. just to work her way into the high courts—just to weave her seductions without purchase. yet this female, no more than a pet whore, entrapped not only beron—who even she knew better than to try for—but now tamlin. no two high lords more distinct than they. iantha could not draw comparison if she tried, save that they both hold the same title. the same power, divinely bestowed. the power withheld from her by the mother time and again. so what is it about this female to make her so special?

ianthe’s time gone to ground serves her well. she learned a thing or two, out in the middle, where all let her memory die. she learned tricks of stealth and tricks of thievery. she learned where to tuck herself away from the beasts and the creatures and the haunts. a little hidey hole carved by a god of old, there no longer—its presence still lingering strong enough to ward away all but the worst, the most malevolent. there is where ianthe takes iphigenia after stealing her from deep in the treeline, just beyond the wards tamlin has erected, only just too weak to fend her off entirely. even drugged and visibly docile, ianthe can smell it of the female: the wild buck of her magic, spring musk beneath the autumn burnish, a signal, a call, a roar. is that what makes this one special? more special than she is?

am i armanding you yet

what do they call you? ianthe asks, a palm fitted to jaw. iphigenia, the vixen slurs. she nuzzles sweetly into ianthe’s touch. iphigenia belrose. ianthe divests her of her clothes. considers. a belle indeed. a rose, too. but nothing more special than ianthe is. something of her talents, perhaps. ianthe could learn if she sampled them—and with no one to see, there is no shame in not innately knowing. in not being the one who is Special and Chosen. ianthe can learn, as she has all her life, and she can snip the bud, and she can be the saving grace of spring, and she can fulfill her purpose. she can.