Just as the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the cottage, I saw the ball of faelight that Ianthe lifted to illuminate the room.
Saw the horrible face of the Weaver, that mouth of stumped teeth opening wide with delight and unholy hunger. A death-god of old—starved for life. With a beautiful priestess before her.
A Court of Wings and Ruin
This is the story of what happens next.
for @eatsbooks because this is basically making our favorite dolls kiss <3
thank u for being my friend and making me laugh and talking about characters with me. I think it's been about a year now which was definitely planned and is not incidental at all. here's some weird smut I wrote that you've already read.
sloppiest kisses for the aforementioned sabrina as well as beautiful geniuses @olenvasynyt @tovibeornottovibe and @jon-snows-man-bun for beta reading
snippet is under the cut; read on ao3 here but mind the tags!
“I would serve you,” the priestess says, “if you would have me.”
Have me, have me. That voice, sensuous with desperation, caresses Stryga's ears. An offer of service, freely given. It echoes through her and into her.
Stryga used to command temples and shrines. Great swaths of this continent once sought her favor, willing and devoted and filled with life to give.
How long has it been since she was met with words rather than screams?
Stryga reaches her hand out to see the offering on her fingertips. A fine-boned face, delicate in its makings. Full lips, tapered nose. Hair soft as down. The quality of her features is of a superior sort—far better than the typical material Stryga works with.
All this, and yet her god would let her stray.
"You would defy the one you have served?" Stryga asks. "You would turn heretic?"
"I offered her everything." The sting of rejection bitters her voice. "But she did not want it."
"That one has always had her favorites." No doubt Stryga had been the same once. She threads a hand through the priestess's hair. Runs the strands through her fingers. Delights when the priestess arches into her palm. "It is power you seek?"
"Not power," she says. "Purpose."
Purpose. What does a god know of purpose? A god simply is.
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bernie sanders vc: i am once again asking for your stryanthe support
@eatsbooks @mistandmemories thank you both for encouraging my niche yuri agenda
you know that scene in ACOWAR where Feyre throws Ianthe into Stryga's cottage? yeah I just thought Stryga and Ianthe could be hot and weird and horny about power and religion and eating and being eaten (figuratively at first then literally). I started this in October then ignored it for a while but I've been working on it again recently so...soon? maybe?
“I know what you are,” the priestess dares to speak. Her voice is sharp as a dagger, with all the beauty and terror of a thunderclap. There is dread in it, but just so, there is also an insatiable desire.
“What is that, little priestess?”
With reverence, she extols, “You are a god.”
God. A strange word, though it echoes familiar. Yes, Stryga supposes she was once—before the confines of her entrapment rendered her a simpler, lonelier thing. “But I am not your god.”
Her mind probes out, like a needle, searching its way through this trembling thing’s desires. She finds: the pain of old hurt fashioned into sharp teeth. Ruthless, carnal want. A servant with cravings as insatiable as her own.
Whispered rustle of silk fabric, then the hollow thump of knees hitting the floorboards. “I would serve you,” she says, “if you would have me.”
Have me, have me, the words echo through Stryga. She used to command temples and shrines. Great swaths of this continent once sought her favor.
How long it's been since she was met with words, rather than screams.
Stryga reaches her hand out to touch the offering. A fine-boned face, delicate in its makings. Full lips, tapered nose. Hair soft as down. The quality of her features is of a superior sort—far better than the typical material Stryga works with.
"You would defy the one you have served?" Stryga asks. "You would turn heretic?"
"I offered her everything." That voice caresses her ears, sensuous with desperation. "But she did not want it. She did not see fit to let me touch her power."
"That one has always had her favorites." Stryga threads a hand through the priestess's hair. Runs the strands through her fingers.
"So it is power you seek?"
"Not power," she says. "Purpose."
Purpose. What does a god know of purpose? A god simply is.
Stryga merely was.
Somewhere over the years her confinement became a home, and time spun round itself until she could no longer pick apart memories of one wayward fae from another. All those who come to her are the same, more or less: aimless, half in love with death already.
Until now.
Stryga says nothing as she traces the priestess's jawline, then the long curve of her neck.
"I see, now"—that lilting speech presses through the long column of her throat and into Stryga's palm—"that I was meant for greater things. I was meant for you."
