I was walking in a forest by my home, and I found this stone. It had an engraving on it that I couldn’t read. The only recognizable word was F_Y. As I rubbed the intricate markings, it glowed like fire. It stopped and I felt weird. That was a week ago, I’ve been changing since. I’m now suave and confident, my body’s changed, and I’m popular. Only issue is something keeps repeating in my head. Just all day “Yellow Fairy. Orange Fairy.” I heard you knew some stuff and wanted to ask for your help.
This small, cramped apartment over a Chinese restaurant is not the kind of place that you would have sought for enlightenment in your old life. It reeks of hokum, and old-world hocus-pocus. But the fact remains that you are desperate enough to figure out the voices in your head that you have come here on a hunch that the man who reached out to you on an online forum knew what he was talking about.
The man sitting across from you is cute in a kind of boyish way, but his eyes sparkle with the wisdom of the ages. He tells you that in his native country he was known as an albularyo, a medicine man or witch doctor in terms that you could understand. He tells you that before that he was known as a babaylan or shaman. But as he sets the stone basin in front of you, with runes that vibrate with power along the lip, he tells you that he is so much more than those titles could properly encapsulate.
He waves a hand over the surface of the water and it becomes still, perfectly reflecting your face in the dim light of the room. He retrieves a candle, a silver spoon, and a paring knife from nearby, carefully shaving splinters of candle wax from the body of the candle into the spoon. Once he has a small pile of shavings, he holds the spoon over the basin of water and waves a lighter underneath it until the wax melts. Then, with a flick of the wrist, he lets the molten wax drip onto the surface of the water.
There’s a quiet hiss and a little bubbling, as though the wax were hotter than it should be. When the activity settles, you see two distinct but similar shapes floating on the perfectly still water. Instinctively, you know that one is the Yellow Fairy and the other is the Orange Fairy. The man, the ‘albularyo,’ the ‘babaylan,’ laughs and says that he was just checking to confirm.
He tells you to hold out your palms and he places one of the twin wax shapes on each of your hands. As you feel something, a pulse of power, of pleasure, of energy wash over your body, the voices in your head slowly retreat. "An incomplete working leaves behind a fragment of the worker’s magic, you see. And it calls out to be completed. That’s why you’ve been hearing voices in your head. But you’re not out of danger yet. Luckily for you, I know just how to cure you. You need to learn their story."
You sit there and listen as a story is woven for you. Your cock twitches in your pants, eager to see some action, but your mind is enraptured by the sage’s voice and the tale that he tells.
Long ago—the sage doesn’t specify how long—the world of the Fae was very different. It was wild. Free. It interacted with the human world much more closely. In the old days of wilder magicks, twins were an auspicious portent. Twin Fae most of all. It was in this time that Aicned and his brother Colainn were born.
They were good. They were noble. They were Seelie. And they were powerful. Men who knew of them sought their favor. They entreated Aicned for wisdom to navigate life’s winding roads and strength of will to weather the challenges of fate. They supplicated to Colainn for courage in the face of adversity and strength of body to fight for their causes. But the tides of destiny would shift and the winds of fate would bring strange men with strange gods to their shores and belief in the Fae would fade from the land.
Darkness, misery, and famine came to the land on the back of the invaders whose shields were painted with horrific instruments of torture somehow wrought into icons of religious fervor. But rebellion brewed among the Fae against this dark tyrant. Many tried and failed to rise up against the enemy and Aicned stayed his brother’s hand, knowing that they could not hope to prevail.
But they were in the way of two who would triumph. Two who had uncovered the truth: that carnality was a force strong enough to usurp the invader. They were politely asked to lend their strength to the cause. When they wouldn’t do that, they were convinced.
For you see, not even Aicned and Colainn were immune to the allure of the flesh. Clothed in the skin of attractive young men, Brogda and Cáel approached the twins.
Divide and conquer was the plan. Brogda was aggressive and assertive. He took on the more timid Aicned. Before long he had Aicned underneath him, impaled on his impressive manhood, crying and begging for more.
Cáel played the bashful, airheaded seductress. He pretended not to notice his suggestive attire, the way that the silk draped over his body slipped over his shoulder to reveal his smooth, flat chest, and tight stomach. He pretended that he was simple, naïve and in need of an education. Colainn was pounding him into the mattress of a four-poster bed before he could straighten from bending over to pick up a coin he’d pretended to drop.
Weaving the threads of their individual magicks, Brogda and Cáel bound the twins to their desires. They enslaved the twins. And warped them according to their whims. They turned the formidable and pure gifts of mind and body to carnality. And with the bolstered power that this granted them, they toppled the would-be king.
The power of the Étrad Sídhe have since eclipsed the power of the twins. They can now do on their own what the twins can only do together. But the twins still find some action every now and again, their powers working together or apart to transform the minds and bodies of the men that come into their purview.
As you hear those words, you feel the enchantment on you solidify. Your confidence feels more concrete, your body lighter and more familiar. You lick your lips as you look into the smoldering eyes of the sage who is watching you from across the basin of water.
He slides his shirt off his body, in remarkable shape despite being, you assume, thousands of years old. A small smirk touches the corner of his lip as he says, "Well, you’ve been given these gifts. Might as well put them to use. I do expect payment of some fashion, after all."
You’re more than willing to pay. He has done you a major favor, getting rid of the voices in your head. In fact, you feel so in debt to him that you wouldn’t mind "paying" him multiple times tonight. Maybe even that wouldn’t be enough. You wonder how he would feel about regular "payments." Maybe not hourly, but at least every few days or so.