Fairies?

[dirk2024]

Hmm...now I think I need to represent...for Tink!

 

[Statius]

Hmm...now I think I need to represent...for Tink!

Haha! She needs attention or she dies right? There's definitely erotica there. Can you imagine a fairy that does without constant, nonstop sex? Could be extremely absurd, comedic, or a nice twist at the end, deadly for her human victim.

 

[Statius]

*Dies*, lol not does.

 

[dirk2024]

Haha! She needs attention or she dies right? There's definitely erotica there. Can you imagine a fairy that does without constant, nonstop sex? Could be extremely absurd, comedic, or a nice twist at the end, deadly for her human victim.

Hmm...decisions, decisions...

 

[Statius]

Hmm...decisions, decisions...

Not to change the topic of the thread but every time I hear, in this case see, decisions, decisions, I can only think of The Crow. .odt quotable movie ever!

 

[TheWritingGroup]

Hmm ... can Tinkerbell's "fairy dust" make a penis rise?

--Annie

 

[Rob_Royale]

Hmm ... can Tinkerbell's "fairy dust" make a penis rise?

--Annie

Yep. The fae are adept at making things grow. See the link for Wilbur and the Elf in my sig line.

 

[ChuckWolf]

https://www.beingawakened.com/types-of-fairies/

 

[StillStunned]

I started a story once about flower fairies, I think for the April Fool's Contest last year. This was as far as I got:

Daisy was in a naughty mood. The spring sun was shining, the air was arm beneath her wings, and it had been an age since she’d fucked.

Winter had been cold and damp, as it always was. Daisy had spent it in deep slumber, like all her brothers and sisters, waiting for the sun to return.

Now it had, and all the Flower Fairies were out enjoying themselves. Lily had her bare feet in a pond, her back in the grass and a contented smile on her face. Elderflower dispensed wisdom to Marigold, who listened with her infinite patience, with only the occasional amused glance at Sage.

Daisy didn’t have time for them, though, nor for Rose and Iris, calm and serene. She didn’t even have time for Buttercup and Poppy, her closest sisters.

She was looking for Stiffcock. Or Knobweed. Fuck, even Cockhold would be better than nothing!

If you count witches and hags and trolls as fae, look out for the Dark Fairy Tales challenge. I have a few works in progress that I really hope to finish before the challenge ends, and I know that @Soixenta is working on a story about fairies that tease a troll every full moon (of course they're too small to finish the job).

And for trolls, there's Fairytale of New York.

ETA: I envisioned the character in Upstream as a Celtic river goddess rather than a fairy, but she's most definitely fae.

 

[NuclearFairy]

I started a story once about flower fairies, I think for the April Fool's Contest last year. This was as far as I got:

That's quite poetic, to the point where I expected more rhymes.

If you count witches and hags and trolls as fae, look out for the Dark Fairy Tales challenge. I have a few works in progress that I really hope to finish before the challenge ends, and I know that @Soixenta is working on a story about fairies that tease a troll every full moon (of course they're too small to finish the job).

And for trolls, there's Fairytale of New York.

For witches, it really depends on the witch. Like Baba Yaga I consider a fairy, but Circe, I do not. Circe, in addition to being from Greece, also just seems far more human to me.

ETA: I envisioned the character in Upstream as a Celtic river goddess rather than a fairy, but she's most definitely fae.

The line between some gods and fae is pretty blurry. Like The Morrigan.

 

[StillStunned]

For witches, it really depends on the witch. Like Baba Yaga I consider a fairy, but Circe, I do not. Circe, in addition to being from Greece, also just seems far more human to me.

I agree. Circe doesn't have that otherworldly aspect.

Over in the Dark Fairy Tales support thread I suggested Baba Yaga's hut, but with a woman's legs and stockings or boots.

The line between some gods and fae is pretty blurry. Like The Morrigan.

And Arawn and Rhiannon from the Mabinogion.

Other fae-like creatures: some of the antagonists - and even protagonists - from the Arthurian legends: the Green Knight, the Carl of Carlisle, Morgan le Fay (duh!), even Sir Gawain and Sir Percival as sun gods.

 

[NuclearFairy]

Over in the Dark Fairy Tales support thread I suggested Baba Yaga's hut, but with a woman's legs and stockings or boots.

So a house with chick legs instead of chicken legs? XD

 

[StillStunned]

So a house with chick legs instead of chicken legs? XD

I also suggested that the witch's name should be changed to Babe Yaga.

 

[Brandnewbuddy]

It just so happens a game came out recently that might inspire something

https://toribee.itch.io/letters-from-the-hollow

Protagonist finds a mysterious letter from a fairy and decides to respond. Letters keep coming from the smitten fae but the letters range from compassionate and tender to threatening and demanding. Even if the protagonist flees, the letters find them…and then at the end, the barrier comes down and the fairy in all their horrific splendor arrives

 

[StillStunned]

Another modern fairy tale (or a tale of fairies) is "The War of the Flowers", by Tad Williams. It's a chunk to read, but definitely worthwhile.

 

[PennyThompson]

That's quite poetic, to the point where I expected more rhymes.

For witches, it really depends on the witch. Like Baba Yaga I consider a fairy, but Circe, I do not. Circe, in addition to being from Greece, also just seems far more human to me.

The line between some gods and fae is pretty blurry. Like The Morrigan.

I'm not sure if you read my Dandelion Greene story yet or not, but it has a couple of characters that are mysterious and inscrutable, and may or may not be human, fae, god, or something else entirely

 

[NuclearFairy]

I'm not sure if you read my Dandelion Greene story yet or not, but it has a couple of characters that are mysterious and inscrutable, and may or may not be human, fae, god, or something else entirely

I'm still getting caught up on reading stories. Which is not helped by the fact that I sometimes get bitten by the writing bug midway through a page that I'm reading.

 

[Statius]

Another modern fairy tale (or a tale of fairies) is "The War of the Flowers", by Tad Williams. It's a chunk to read, but definitely worthwhile.

Everything that guy writes is a chunk lol. Used to love him though

 

[StillStunned]

Everything that guy writes is a chunk lol. Used to love him though

I listened to the entire Memory, Thorn and Sorrow series on audiobook a few years ago. It took a while to get through.

 

[KindredFlame]

Something I am playing with.

Before the White Christ, before the saints and their pale churches, she was known by different names. Some called her the Great Mother of the Earth, but only in her winter aspect, her barren embrace. Others, the Dark Moon Weaver, for her power waxed and waned with the silent orb in the sky, reflecting its shadowed face.

She was the final furrow, the deep, cold earth where all things returned, the grinder of bones and souls into the rich, dark soil from which new life inexplicably sprang. Like Mother Holle, she sorted the good from the rotten, but her sorting was absolute, irreversible. Like Baba Yaga, her hut was a place of transformation, her methods as blunt and inexorable as the turning of the seasons.

 

[Statius]

Something I am playing with.

Before the White Christ, before the saints and their pale churches, she was known by different names. Some called her the Great Mother of the Earth, but only in her winter aspect, her barren embrace. Others, the Dark Moon Weaver, for her power waxed and waned with the silent orb in the sky, reflecting its shadowed face.

She was the final furrow, the deep, cold earth where all things returned, the grinder of bones and souls into the rich, dark soil from which new life inexplicably sprang. Like Mother Holle, she sorted the good from the rotten, but her sorting was absolute, irreversible. Like Baba Yaga, her hut was a place of transformation, her methods as blunt and inexorable as the turning of the seasons.

Write it and I will come. Ha! Field of Dreams. Anyway that is an excellent piece of writing. Build on it, let me know when it's done I would read that. It's definitely 5 star writing. Fantastic.

 

[Statius]

I listened to the entire Memory, Thorn and Sorrow series on audiobook a few years ago. It took a while to get through.

Great trilogy and was my introduction to him. Otherland was interesting too

 

[Statius]

Something I am playing with.

Before the White Christ, before the saints and their pale churches, she was known by different names. Some called her the Great Mother of the Earth, but only in her winter aspect, her barren embrace. Others, the Dark Moon Weaver, for her power waxed and waned with the silent orb in the sky, reflecting its shadowed face.

She was the final furrow, the deep, cold earth where all things returned, the grinder of bones and souls into the rich, dark soil from which new life inexplicably sprang. Like Mother Holle, she sorted the good from the rotten, but her sorting was absolute, irreversible. Like Baba Yaga, her hut was a place of transformation, her methods as blunt and inexorable as the turning of the seasons.

Wouldn't even have to be an erotic piece for me to read that. Hope you realize what you have there, seriously that is a great piece of writing. Would you send a link to your published works page?

 

[KindredFlame]

I know I am going to get slated for this by the forum police, but this is all I got. It needs a lot of work if someone wants to work with it. Original inspiration and thanks go to Statius https://forum.literotica.com/members/statius.6622859/

A witch, so yeah a faerie creature. Cannabalistic too. I always think of her as formerly, pre Christian days, as an earth goddess, crone form, associated with the moon. And the cannibalism, which I've never found in a story as actually happening, as a symbol of Death and burial. Reminds me a little of Mother Holle. Always wished there were more stories about that one, too.

The gnarled roots of the ancient oak formed the very bones of her dwelling, a hut that seemed less built and more grown, a part of the forest floor itself. Lichen clung like ancient thoughts to its warped timbers, and the smell of damp earth, bruised herbs, and something else – something profoundly old and elemental – hung in the air. This was the domain of Morwen, the Crone, a being whose memory stretched back further than the first felled tree, further than the first whisper of a human prayer.

Before the White Christ, before the saints and their pale churches, she was known by different names. Some called her the Great Mother of the Earth, but only in her winter aspect, her barren embrace. Others, the Dark Moon Weaver, for her power waxed and waned with the silent orb in the sky, reflecting its shadowed face. She was the final furrow, the deep, cold earth where all things returned, the grinder of bones and souls into the rich, dark soil from which new life inexplicably sprang. Like Mother Holle, she sorted the good from the rotten, but her sorting was absolute, irreversible. Like Baba Yaga, her hut was a place of transformation, her methods as blunt and inexorable as the turning of the seasons.

Tonight, the moon, a sliver of bone in the velvet sky, cast long, distorted shadows across the forest floor. A chill wind whispered through the branches, carrying a scent that Morwen knew intimately: the scent of fading magic, of a life drawing to its close.

From the deepest part of the whispering woods stumbled a faerie creature, a sprite named Lyr. Lyr was a being of pure, shimmering joy, born of a dewdrop and a sunbeam. Its wings, once iridescent as a dragon-fly’s, were now tattered and dull, its light, usually a beacon, flickered hesitantly, like a dying ember. It had strayed too far, laughed too loudly at the wrong shadow, and now, the forest, in its ancient, indifferent way, was reclaiming it. Mortal ailments of grief and weariness had taken root in its ethereal form, and its magic, its very essence, was slowly seeping away.

Lyr, disoriented and cold, saw the faint, otherworldly glow emanating from Morwen’s hut. It was not a welcoming light, not a hearth-fire, but a deeper, older luminescence, like the phosphorescence of rare fungi, or the light from a deep-sea creature. Drawn by a primal, irresistible pull, a final instinct for succour or perhaps simply for an ending, Lyr drifted towards it.

Morwen emerged from the root-door, her form like a silhouette against the dim glow of her inner sanctum. Her hair, a tangled mass of grey and white, seemed woven from moonlight and cobwebs. Her eyes, deep-set and ancient, were like polished stones, reflecting nothing, yet seeing everything. Her hands, gnarled and strong, clutched a staff of twisted blackthorn, its tip crowned with a single, unblinking raven’s skull.

Lyr whimpered, a sound like autumn leaves skittering across frozen ground. It saw her, sensed her, and a flicker of fear, quickly overshadowed by profound exhaustion, passed through its fading light.

Morwen regarded the sprite with an expression that was neither cruel nor kind, but simply… knowing. "So, little light," her voice was like the rustle of dry leaves, the grinding of stones, "the thread has run its course."

Lyr tried to speak, but only a faint, airy sigh escaped its translucent lips. It lifted a trembling, luminous hand, as if in appeal.

"Do not fear," Morwen continued, taking a step closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like the turning of the earth itself. "There is no escape from the cycle, only passage. And I am the final passage."

She reached out a hand, not to grasp, but to gesture. Lyr, weak and resigned, felt an irresistible pull, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through its very core. It was the call of the void, the lure of the ultimate return.

Morwen led the faerie into her hut. Inside, the air was surprisingly warm, thick with the scent of loam and old magic. In the center of the earthen floor stood a great, smooth stone basin, dark as river mud, and beside it, a pestle as tall and thick as a man’s forearm, carved from a single piece of ancient yew. These were her tools, not for cooking, but for transformation, for the breaking down of form into essence.

"The earth demands its own," Morwen intoned, her voice taking on a low, droning hum. "The light must return to the dark, the vivid to the still. I am the earth, little one. I am the grave and the fertile ground."

Lyr, now barely a wisp of itself, seemed to understand. Its light pulsed one last time, a final, despairing gasp of beauty, before it settled, like a falling star, into the smooth, waiting basin.

Morwen did not tear or rend with teeth and claw. Her cannibalism was far older, far deeper than that. As Lyr lay in the basin, its form began to soften, to dissolve, not into blood and gore, but into pure motes of light, a shimmering, phosphorescent dust. Morwen picked up the heavy yew pestle. Slowly, methodically, she began to grind, not a physical body, but the very essence of the faerie. The light in the basin swirled and compressed, becoming a concentrated, swirling nebula of power.

She hummed, a low, ancient melody that resonated with the very pulse of the moon. This was the ultimate burial, the most profound return. Lyr's joy, its sorrow, its magic, its brief, vibrant life – all were being meticulously, ritually broken down, not to be destroyed, but to be reabsorbed, integrated into the primordial soup of existence.

When the light in the basin was no more than a thick, swirling, luminous liquid, like moonlight distilled, Morwen lowered her head. She did not drink with her mouth. Instead, she inhaled deeply, her ancient lungs drawing in the vital essence. The light flowed into her, not through her throat, but through her eyes, her skin, her very being. Lyr’s essence merged with Morwen’s own, a surge of vibrant, faerie-light energy that was instantly transmuted, transformed, and settled deep within her.

She felt the surge of life, not as a meal, but as a renewal, a strengthening of her eternal connection to the cycle. She was the deep earth, enriched and made fertile by the return of what had sprung from it. She was the dark moon, absorbing the light of the stars. She was the grave, yes, but also the womb, the keeper of the cycle that demanded everything be returned, to be broken down, to be reborn.

When it was done, the basin was empty, clean. There was no trace of Lyr, save for the faint, lingering scent of dew and sunbeams in the air. Morwen stood, her eyes glowing with a renewed, profound depth. She was heavier, richer, more ancient than before. In her, Lyr’s essence would rest, woven into the very fabric of the earth, until the time came for another dewdrop to catch a sunbeam, for another faerie to take flight.

Morwen returned to her resting place within the roots of the oak, an embodiment of the silent, inexorable laws of nature. The wind continued to whisper through the trees, carrying no sound of Lyr, only the ancient, unbroken song of the forest, the song of eternal return.

 

[Statius]

I know I am going to get slated for this by the forum police, but this is all I got. It needs a lot of work if someone wants to work with it.

A witch, so yeah a faerie creature. Cannabalistic too. I always think of her as formerly, pre Christian days, as an earth goddess, crone form, associated with the moon. And the cannibalism, which I've never found in a story as actually happening, as a symbol of Death and burial. Reminds me a little of Mother Holle. Always wished there were more stories about that one, too.

The gnarled roots of the ancient oak formed the very bones of her dwelling, a hut that seemed less built and more grown, a part of the forest floor itself. Lichen clung like ancient thoughts to its warped timbers, and the smell of damp earth, bruised herbs, and something else – something profoundly old and elemental – hung in the air. This was the domain of Morwen, the Crone, a being whose memory stretched back further than the first felled tree, further than the first whisper of a human prayer.

Before the White Christ, before the saints and their pale churches, she was known by different names. Some called her the Great Mother of the Earth, but only in her winter aspect, her barren embrace. Others, the Dark Moon Weaver, for her power waxed and waned with the silent orb in the sky, reflecting its shadowed face. She was the final furrow, the deep, cold earth where all things returned, the grinder of bones and souls into the rich, dark soil from which new life inexplicably sprang. Like Mother Holle, she sorted the good from the rotten, but her sorting was absolute, irreversible. Like Baba Yaga, her hut was a place of transformation, her methods as blunt and inexorable as the turning of the seasons.

Tonight, the moon, a sliver of bone in the velvet sky, cast long, distorted shadows across the forest floor. A chill wind whispered through the branches, carrying a scent that Morwen knew intimately: the scent of fading magic, of a life drawing to its close.

From the deepest part of the whispering woods stumbled a faerie creature, a sprite named Lyr. Lyr was a being of pure, shimmering joy, born of a dewdrop and a sunbeam. Its wings, once iridescent as a dragon-fly’s, were now tattered and dull, its light, usually a beacon, flickered hesitantly, like a dying ember. It had strayed too far, laughed too loudly at the wrong shadow, and now, the forest, in its ancient, indifferent way, was reclaiming it. Mortal ailments of grief and weariness had taken root in its ethereal form, and its magic, its very essence, was slowly seeping away.

Lyr, disoriented and cold, saw the faint, otherworldly glow emanating from Morwen’s hut. It was not a welcoming light, not a hearth-fire, but a deeper, older luminescence, like the phosphorescence of rare fungi, or the light from a deep-sea creature. Drawn by a primal, irresistible pull, a final instinct for succour or perhaps simply for an ending, Lyr drifted towards it.

Morwen emerged from the root-door, her form like a silhouette against the dim glow of her inner sanctum. Her hair, a tangled mass of grey and white, seemed woven from moonlight and cobwebs. Her eyes, deep-set and ancient, were like polished stones, reflecting nothing, yet seeing everything. Her hands, gnarled and strong, clutched a staff of twisted blackthorn, its tip crowned with a single, unblinking raven’s skull.

Lyr whimpered, a sound like autumn leaves skittering across frozen ground. It saw her, sensed her, and a flicker of fear, quickly overshadowed by profound exhaustion, passed through its fading light.

Morwen regarded the sprite with an expression that was neither cruel nor kind, but simply… knowing. "So, little light," her voice was like the rustle of dry leaves, the grinding of stones, "the thread has run its course."

Lyr tried to speak, but only a faint, airy sigh escaped its translucent lips. It lifted a trembling, luminous hand, as if in appeal.

"Do not fear," Morwen continued, taking a step closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like the turning of the earth itself. "There is no escape from the cycle, only passage. And I am the final passage."

She reached out a hand, not to grasp, but to gesture. Lyr, weak and resigned, felt an irresistible pull, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through its very core. It was the call of the void, the lure of the ultimate return.

Morwen led the faerie into her hut. Inside, the air was surprisingly warm, thick with the scent of loam and old magic. In the center of the earthen floor stood a great, smooth stone basin, dark as river mud, and beside it, a pestle as tall and thick as a man’s forearm, carved from a single piece of ancient yew. These were her tools, not for cooking, but for transformation, for the breaking down of form into essence.

"The earth demands its own," Morwen intoned, her voice taking on a low, droning hum. "The light must return to the dark, the vivid to the still. I am the earth, little one. I am the grave and the fertile ground."

Lyr, now barely a wisp of itself, seemed to understand. Its light pulsed one last time, a final, despairing gasp of beauty, before it settled, like a falling star, into the smooth, waiting basin.

Morwen did not tear or rend with teeth and claw. Her cannibalism was far older, far deeper than that. As Lyr lay in the basin, its form began to soften, to dissolve, not into blood and gore, but into pure motes of light, a shimmering, phosphorescent dust. Morwen picked up the heavy yew pestle. Slowly, methodically, she began to grind, not a physical body, but the very essence of the faerie. The light in the basin swirled and compressed, becoming a concentrated, swirling nebula of power.

She hummed, a low, ancient melody that resonated with the very pulse of the moon. This was the ultimate burial, the most profound return. Lyr's joy, its sorrow, its magic, its brief, vibrant life – all were being meticulously, ritually broken down, not to be destroyed, but to be reabsorbed, integrated into the primordial soup of existence.

When the light in the basin was no more than a thick, swirling, luminous liquid, like moonlight distilled, Morwen lowered her head. She did not drink with her mouth. Instead, she inhaled deeply, her ancient lungs drawing in the vital essence. The light flowed into her, not through her throat, but through her eyes, her skin, her very being. Lyr’s essence merged with Morwen’s own, a surge of vibrant, faerie-light energy that was instantly transmuted, transformed, and settled deep within her.

She felt the surge of life, not as a meal, but as a renewal, a strengthening of her eternal connection to the cycle. She was the deep earth, enriched and made fertile by the return of what had sprung from it. She was the dark moon, absorbing the light of the stars. She was the grave, yes, but also the womb, the keeper of the cycle that demanded everything be returned, to be broken down, to be reborn.

When it was done, the basin was empty, clean. There was no trace of Lyr, save for the faint, lingering scent of dew and sunbeams in the air. Morwen stood, her eyes glowing with a renewed, profound depth. She was heavier, richer, more ancient than before. In her, Lyr’s essence would rest, woven into the very fabric of the earth, until the time came for another dewdrop to catch a sunbeam, for another faerie to take flight.

Morwen returned to her resting place within the roots of the oak, an embodiment of the silent, inexorable laws of nature. The wind continued to whisper through the trees, carrying no sound of Lyr, only the ancient, unbroken song of the forest, the song of eternal return.

Well that 2nd paragraph is mine from this very thread. I posted that to NuclearFairy.