#fae!terry silver

[terrence-silver]

Hi, Fae!Terry AU fan here! Spooktober seems to be a good time for this ask 😉

Could you write about Fae!Terry meeting his Beloved at some gala or charity auction and enchanting them to just leave everything behind and go home with him?

---

-"You can't just leave like this! This is insane!"-

-"I have to."-

You answer, staring at the reflection of the ladies room lobby mirror, your fiancé of three years firmly by your side, one arm leaning against the marble sink, staring you down and refusing to move; a stalemate that has been going on for longer than you bothered counting, entirely certain the two of you missed the speech, the auction, the charity exhibit and the first course meal in the dining hall by now. But, you couldn't help yourself. You retired here because you needed to retire here. He followed suit, his collar disheveled and his bowtie undone, appearing distressed and untidy and you didn't blame him. You on the other hand felt nothing but the uncanny desire to walk out of here and never return. A yearning as overwhelming as the need to blink. To breathe. -"Why? Who the hell is he!? Has he been threatening you!? You sleeping with him or something!? Are you in trouble?"- He questions vehemently, having done so for the better portion of this gathering, his face so close to yours you could feel the spittle in his breath hit your cheeks. A woman rushes out of one of the flushing stalls, clearly disturbed by the commotion taking place in the hallway, her heels clicking against the tiles as she hastes, clutch purse in hand and you barely register her. She's like a ghost. The door slams shut behind her and your fiancé lowers his tone to a seething, discreet murmur, not wishing to draw any more attention to the situation than was necessary. -"If you're in some sort of trouble, please, tell me and we'll call your parents. We'll call the police! Security! We'll call whoever you want."-

He demands, running an exasperated hand through his hair and truth of the matter was, you were in no trouble whatsoever. Nobody was threatening you. In fact, this evening was nothing but wonderful. Beautiful. And now, it was time to leave. Go home. You wanted to go home.

-"No. I don't even know him. I'm perfectly fine. Don't call a soul."-

You explain, feeling your own voice grow silent as you proceeded staring at yourself in the mirror, fingers gripping the sink and then letting go suddenly, relieved of pressure. Free. You appreciated your fiancée being so adamant in trying to help. You really did. But, nonetheless, this would end here and tonight. You trusted him to be able to say goodbye to your parents for you. Your family. All your friends. Everyone who ever knew you. Give them as much closure as he possibly could've. -"For fuck's sake! This is how people end up on the back of a milk carton!"- He snaps suddenly, slamming his fist against the toilet counter. They do? They end up on the back of a milk carton? Really? You didn't figure that would ever happen to you. In fact, you were convinced your photo wouldn't end up anywhere, anytime soon. With that thought, your body moves towards the exit. -"I have to go. I have to."- You manage, wrangling your wrist free with a strength you didn't even know you possessed when he attempted to grab at you to stop you as you fingers reached for the door knob and the isolated quietude of the ladies' room is soon replaced by the chattering crowd in the corridor lobby you slide through walking in a straight line, running into several shoulders and several bodies on your way out, the distant echo of your fiancé's shouting fading into all the noises around you, the cool air outside the venue offering clarity. It was like magic --- you knowing exactly which vehicle in the long line of cars to approach in the lot out front.

A Rolls Royce with tinted windows rolls down and a hand beckons to you.

A ring with a sapphire calls out to you from a man's pinkie finger.

Him.

He's been waiting for you here. You know he has been. A face speaks out you from behind the lowering glass.

-"You know, if I were him,"-

He begins, smoothly, a pair of full lips moving and quirking up into an inviting, warm smile. -"I'd never let you walk out of there like that. I'd drag you back by force, if I had to. But, to each their own."- He pushes a cigar into his mouth, lighting the tip, smoke engulfs his features like a veil. You saw him sitting a few seats removed from you at the auction, one Terry Silver, esteemed donor and the frequent bidder who outbid everyone at the hall with ease, taking an open enjoyment in doing so, your eyes meeting by chance during the intermission for drinks and since that moment, this outcome right here seemed inevitable. You knew this is how this night would end. You going home with him instead of your own fiancé. There was no guilt in it. No regret. No fear. No hesitation. Only assurance. If someone put a wall between you and this end goal you were certainly you try to ram yourself against it in an effort to break through it. -"The very fact he let that happen, well, says a lot about his character, almost like people show you exactly who they are under pressure."- He adds and his hand moves forward from the interior of the backseat, unhinging the door open for you, revealing the spacious leather seating he was cozied up on, legs crossed. The chauffeur of the car remaining invisible, somewhere up front. Part of you was almost convinced there was no driver to begin with, but it didn't matter. You were right where you wanted to be. Bright eyes sparkled up at you from inside of the car and Terry gestures for you with a cocked head, extending his hand for you to take it, ever the gentleman.

-"C'mon. Get in."-

He coos with a chuckle and you don't think twice. You don't have to think at all. The doors shuts and the car does a turn away from the lights of the building and the courtyard riddled Bentleys, Porsches and the odd Limousine, speeding away into the night, far away from the venue before anyone is fast enough to stop you. As if they could stop you even if they managed to be expeditious enough to reach you in time.

[terrence-silver]

Can you write more of the Fae!Terry AU? Like a little story or something? The idea that he has traces of the supernatural and the otherworldly to him, however tucked away, is just inherently fascinating to me.

You don’t understand the rules.

You don’t know what sharing a meal with him means.

And of course, this is the most mundane of things; being invited over for a first date, his chef preparing a candle-lit meal, liquor from the cellar being poured into a tall, star-lit glass, twilight on the balcony overlooking the quiet pale Malibu shore, you amazed by your surroundings, he, pretending he wasn’t tremendously pleased with that. Get used to it, he thinks. Old man was delightfully old fashioned; that’s what he played into, wining and dining you --- maybe expecting a quick fuck after it, like a gentleman does. If only just that. A fidgeting René personally comes out of the kitchen to ritualistically wish you a fine evening as the uniformed assistant carts out the creamy, red velvet Pomegranate cake and sets it down from its glass container, protected under a transparent decorative dome; that one was Terry’s own idea. The humor of this is particularly hilarious to him and he wasn’t about to pass up making a silent mythological reference as you’re opposite him, busy tinkering with your little dessert fork, humming, content with what you’re about to put into your mouth. You don’t realize that eating anything under his roof, on his territory, means never, ever leaving here again. Hades did it with Persephone, in times immemorial, so why should he be any different? He was going to flatter himself and say that this was a sort of Underworld, after all, masked in modern pale beiges and a minimalist facade, changing, with how the times change. The same way he changed. -”That was delicious. Thank you. You’re right, it was just as good as you promised.”- You coo, complementing him, dazed, wiping your mouth, a plate entirely empty in front of you. Terry observed you scoffing down each and every mouthful with particular interest; he wasn’t about to miss out on that for the world.

Beforehand, you ate an entrée

A main course.

Soup.

A cold appetizer.

Well filled, you gave over your control to him, never realizing you did.

Now was about high time for you to say something like ‘Such fun, but time for me to leave.’ ---‘Time for your chauffeur to give me a lift. Time for you to give me a lift.’

The words never come and Terry Silver counts on it.

There will be no second date.

The thing about ancient spells placed with special intent was, they’re unbreakable, and every place he inhibited was his territory. His sphere. His court. His pocket world. A link between the beyond and the now; you don’t understand, undoubtedly, why being here felt so safe, good and right; even though, validly, sleeping over (and never leaving) after merely just a first night together, was something of an eyebrow raiser, commonly. Terry chuckles. An eye-raiser? Here? Here, where everything was freely indulged in and everything was possible? Where nothing was for free? Where you could ask him for a glass of iced Filico Jewelry Water poured into carved crystal and be tied to him forever if he so desired? You could’ve prepared your own meal and the magic wouldn’t have the same effect, with sex so early on was literally the least of anyone’s issues, especially when there was sorcery to be contented with . Other people he’s brought here always prepared their food. Their tofu and their cheese screws. Terry had them preparing theirs; like they do on the cooking shows, playing into the supposed nonchalance of the act to add unto his image; The Billionaire who wasn’t stuffy. No, no, he was casual. So relaxed in how he hosts events. That's why they could leave. That’s why they could be fucking rid of. Released when their use was up. You? You get fed by his order. Multiple times, as he encouraged you, sitting back leisurely, watching you without blinking --- and you never want to go home. There was no home to be had anymore, but here. With him. The mansion balcony evaporates into smoke and fog and you’re in the bedroom, infinitely tired after your meal, led by his hand, laying you down on the black satin sheets and sinking into you, exposing your nudity. Only then does Terry say, jovially:

-”The way to the heart is really through the stomach, huh?”-

You never catch the layers of meaning any irony in the stated proverb.

[terrence-silver]

@msfbgraves​

―

-”You can’t leave me.”-

-”Why not, Terry!?”-

-”Because you’re mine.”- He coos into the phone. -”I have your name.”-

That’s where that conversation ends, cryptid as it may be, once the line breaks, no doubt because he ended the call, and you stuff the phone into your packed bag on the Metro headed out to Glendora --- and from there, to wherever. Terry’s been on this business for months. Talking about binding. Spells. Old magic. Being jinxed and cursed. The ancient rules that pertained to it. Destined mates. The power behind promises, given words and oaths. And it is not that you didn’t believe in anything. Oh, you did. Within reason. It just wasn’t every day that your significant other admitted to being partial Fae and that you’ll never be able to abandon him even if you tried. This wasn’t a break up. You loved Terry Silver to bits, strange as he tended to be at times. This was just being a bit hurt and spiteful and out to prove to yourself, that no, in fact, you could leave. He was being silly and you cared for him too much to enable him with untrue statements which you endearing wrote off as him being old, and older people believing in the occasionally eerie and archaic. Then, the train stops, abruptly, and you nearly slump back into your seat. All the passengers evacuated outside by the annoyed and frankly baffled looking conductor. Okay, alright. Happens. Coincidences happen, especially when one projects them into reality. This will be fixed in five minutes. Then, two hours pass in the scorching heat. You call an Uber. The driver never shows up. You’re stranded just outside of LA, between two endless highways. 

Half an hour later, the sky along the vista at the lone check point gets murky.

The conductor declared that the next train will be here within the hour while repairs are made, but that plan falls short too when it starts pouring with rain when you just about decide you’ll proceed on foot. Except, a hailstorm of wind and thunder blasts across the air and the summer downpour is intense (The climate out here was always extreme and volatile), steam coming off of the heated pavement. You cradle your purse. Your only connection to Terry. You’re tempted to call him and you sit there, on the station bench, looking at your phone’s display, your ID tucked into the transparent cellophane protective mesh. Curiously, you turn it. The place where your name and surname should stand oddly vacant. Did..did the rain somehow...soak your documents and melt away the letters? What the...That’s it. Enough is enough. Now you were just paranoid and messing with your own mind. The train broke down and it is raining a little. So what? You’re venturing outside, into the storm, with your duffle bags in tow. Ten steps later, wet as a mouse, lighting strikes, an terrifying explosion of brilliance splitting the clouds, casting a shimmering net over the firmament, hitting a nearby tree out of the blue. You jolt back, hands over your head protectively. The branches are up in smoke and the nearby stranded pedestrians scream from the station as your heart leaps into your throat, some of them already recording with their phones and pointing at the sight in amazement. The lone palm tree is up in flames within seconds. It burns, facing you, like a gunslinger about to draw a pistol at you.

You whimper and turn, nearly running into a nearby Rolls Royce Phantom.

Black as midnight. The window rolls down. You’re crying and out of breath.

Where...where did this car come from? You knew this car. Who else but...

-”Come back home, darling. Why are you tempting fate, huh?”- The silver, gleaming top of Terry’s head peeks through the tinted barrier and you just stand in the rain, hyperventilating for a moment and looking at his borderline tender expression as a chauffeur slides out of the vehicle collecting your discarded bags on the concrete and ushering them into the trunk, literally, collecting bits of your life off of the ground.You don’t even know when, but you’re being wrapped into an oversized coat and familiar hands are tucking you inside along with the luggage. You’re shivering like a leaf as someone tries to hitchhike only for the driver to rush past him, splashing him with a water puddle. You’re on the leather backseat with Terry, shocked. He tilts his head, suited up, holding you --- he smells rich, deep, like cinnamon, liquor and musk --- you feel your lids grow heavy. Your clothes are dry on you. When did your clothes get dry? This feels like one of those inexplicable nightmares too bizarre to regale to anyone accurately. Maybe you’d wake up on the Metro train, finding you merely dozed off into a really troubled nap and that the day outside is sunny, headed to your intended destination after all? Maybe you’d call up Terry and say you’ll be returning tomorrow, now that this test was taken. Decided upon. -”You should feel lucky you didn’t board a plane.”- Terry purrs, nuzzling into your neck, embracing you, kissing along your jaw with a lover’s gentleness. -”Can you imagine falling out of the sky because you were trying to leave me when it wasn’t your place to ever leave me?”-

[terrence-silver]

Name Taking

@msfbgraves

🧚🧚🏻‍♂️

Fairies were known to steal --- so the old stories went.

They wouldn’t steal in the physical sense, in a way that would warrant calling the proper authorities. Running off with a cow or the livestock, covertly, hidden throughout the night like ordinary thieves, no. They’d they only take what is called in Gaelic its toradh, or rather, its substance, virtue, fruit, or benefit. The outward appearance is left, but the reality is gone. Thus, when a cow is elf-taken, it appears to its owner only as suddenly smitten by some strange disease. In reality the cow is gone, and only its semblance remains, animated it may be by an Elf, who receives all the attentions paid to the sick cow, but gives nothing in return. The seeming cow lies on its side, and cannot be made to rise. It consumes the provender laid before it, but does not yield milk or grow fat. 

That’s the first thing Dougal thinks of when faced with the namelessness of one of his guests.

She is, perhaps even stranger than their tall, statuesque, supposedly American visitor who introduces himself as Terry Silver, short from Terrence. She, unlike him, speaks not a lick of Irish. In fact, she doesn’t speak much at all, leaving most of the speaking to Terry and when she does, it is done with a lick of accent he cannot place and he most notably has a knack for placing the speech patterns of tourists. Of course, it is not Dougal’s job to snoop and he makes no habit of it --- not always, anyhow. He’s just careful and analytical. Have to be around these parts, where nobody comes often. He merely politely accepts it when their imposing lodger introduces her as Mrs. Terry Silver. A bit archaic, isn’t it? Might be the old fashioned sort, this Terry, but then again, not even Dougal’s own grandfather introduced Mamó as Mrs. so and so and Dougal certainly wouldn’t introduce Kathleen as Mrs. Dougal Clarke lest he be playfully whacked over the head for it. And referring to someone with a consistent endearment such as Beloved in a quantity too frequent to be natural was equally suspicious. Not natural. -”He took her name, do you figure? Stole it?”- He whispers down in the cellar, away from all ears, where he’d be left unheard, pretending to be tinkering about the Whisky bottles even though he already procured his best for them, his voice deliberately low. It wasn’t wise to accuse someone of theft, least of all an inhabitant of the netherworlds. Might anger them. Kathleen was diligently preparing roasted lamb in the evening, being hospitable and bent on impressing their guests with the best food they could possibly muster. They don’t indulge in such a lavish meal unless it is Christmas day or a holiday, but with the innate oddity of their guests, they feel they must, or else ---

-”It’s none of our business, Dougal. Sweep in front of our own door.”- 

She answers with an old proverb, cutting him off, lifting a cooking pot that stands discarded and saved for special events, big enough to prepare a horse in. -”Maybe they’re just the discreet sort. Big on privacy. You know how people out West are?”- She shakes her head. Comforting herself, was she now? -”They’ll leave in a fortnight anyway, you silly man and we’ll never see them again. They’ll go back from wherever they actually came from. Why does it matter?”- Kathleen quips as she walks up the stairs with distinct purpose and back into the house and it doesn’t give Dougal any sort of comfort, in fact, it leaves him restless. He’s heard of tales of people being taken and usurped by the Fair Folk, aeons ago, when he was a boy himself and he was certain his parents were trying to frighten him with stories of possession, but he’s never seen it so acutely portrayed in the flesh as he did now, with this Terry Silver and Beloved. Even his own name sounded like something out of myth. Silver Terry. Silverhaired Terry. Terry of the Silver locks. The faeries took children and infants back in the old days, that much Dougal has heard, but he’s never heard of them taking women. Lovers. Wives. Mates. He tries to observe his guests huddled by the crackling fireplace, keeping cozy and warm, the TV above head muted and entirely ignored --- they seemed commonplace enough. Very much smitten, yes. Not in love in that surface level way Dougal has seen before. This was something profound, like a deep current trickling below the surface --- burning hot like the flames behind them. Terry Silver seemed like the type of fellow who’s sharp blue eyes were always following his Beloved, intensely. By god, Dougal was convinced the man barely blinked. Did that not hurt him or cause him discomfort? He didn’t dare imagine what would happen if someone had Beloved’s attention for all but a second. Their Fae King guest seemed like he would jump up and smite them all with righteous violence.

It gets somewhat worse when he and Terry merely talk, man to man, after dinner.

Beloved sweetly offers to help wash the dishes with Kathleen in the kitchen.

Kathleen rejects as gently as possible and Dougal knows why.

Don’t have her doing anything that might provoke Terry’s ire.

No, no, don’t separate them, don’t separate them, don’t separate them.

Somewhere during the night and after dessert, even though Dougal isn’t sure how the conversation came to be, Terry flips out a leather wallet from his pocket and shows him a picture of himself as a young man. Dougal never could decipher just how old their guest was upon first glance, even though he had all the markers of an advanced age, including his wrinkles, gravely voice and grayed hair, or furthermore, how old he was compared to his own companion. He dared not imagine that Terry is his own age or older. Younger? No, That’d be downright ridiculous.The man in the picture looks a certain way, though. Hair dark as night, tied at the nape, appearing to have not changed in ages. The same pale blue eyes. A looker. Tall cheekbones and a chiseled face bearing an impossible, regal intensity, bordering on hypnotic --- he’s never quite seen anyone look like that. Elven, the thought instinctually crosses his mind as Dougal nods and smiles politely. That’s how elves look. If he ever had to imagine or describe one, that’s what he would describe. An elf. Aos Sí. Sidhe. The shining ones. Young Terry Silver on the photograph looked --- well, too beautiful to be entirely human and it was safe to say his current self appeared no different. That’s usually not how old men and elderly local farmers looked around these parts or anywhere else, to Dougal’s knowledge. He lacked a gut. Bald patches. Any hanging bits natural for an older fellow. He must’ve stolen your name for real then, he thinks, trying to suppress his thoughts directed at Beloved, seated right next to her man, sharing tender glances. Must’ve taken your toradh. Must’ve done it because he loves you too much to be parted from you, separated by two worlds. The old magic tying you to him forever. That thought follows Dougal into bed as Kathleen’s fast asleep after a hard day’s work, horses in the stable.

-”God’s sake, do you figure ---”- He ponders, laying on his back, only to be cut off.

-”Sleep, Dougal Clarke. Enough conspiracies for a day. Leave some for tomorrow.”-

Kathleen snorts from her side of the mattress, voice groggy and drowsy.

They were best friends outside of being spouses, so he supposed he could tell her.

-”Do you figure he just had to take her name?”- Dougal continues, staring up at the darkened ceiling he repaired after a leak just last year with the help of some of the local repairmen working for an hourly rate, hands neatly clasped over his own chest and his buttoned up pajamas, looking over at his wife’s back turned to him, placing special emphasis on the ‘had’, signifying a lack of choice on Terry Silver’s behalf. This name taking, or act of name theft was not in the way a husband takes his wife’s name, ascribing her his own instead, but in the way someone takes a bit of one’s very being, attaching it to themselves --- a hook connecting two souls, from plane to plane. The fae were known to be possessive, envious and territorial and their guest Terry seemed just like the type, judging by his body language alone. Not a man to be crossed, around his woman, especially.. -”That if he didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to be together?”- Dougal gulps, figuring he loved old legends and that for most of his life, it the was the prime entertainment of the rural folk in this county, brought over from an older time when all people had was each other’s stories, company, a good day’s work, church and the tales they’d collectively weave when someone had no morning news to tune into on the television or when the world itself appeared much larger --- unknown. Maybe his imagination was just overly vivid and it was an individual thing. Their Californian guests were in a separate bedroom all of their own upstairs, so he supposed nobody would hear him whispering his theories. He never pondered fairies in immortal love and how their courtships would look like if imagined, though. Not until this very instant. -”And now, they can be. Together, that is.”- He adds once Kathleen turns in bed, feeling his own voice tremble, facing him, her cheek against the pillow, leaning her face on the back of her hand --- she always had a soft spot for all things romance. He knew she indulged him in his fairy-talk. He indulged her in her penchant for the things of the heart. She smiles.

-”Aye, love. That’s a nice thought. I like that.”-

[terrence-silver]

Twig as a Fairy.🌱✨🧚🍀🍂🐍🍁🐦x

[terrence-silver]

Honestly, the idea that Fae!Terry would pass through the veil and into the Fae-realm to however briefly, in a place where time is frozen or slowed down, show beloved an illusion, an astral projection, a mirage, a youthful mask he wears over his current aged maturity in order to portray, in ways photographs cannot, how he used to look in his prime, in the 80′s, and have himself be touched, kissed, looked at, pleasured, admired, because he is forever bitter that he’s met them so late in his life and that he had no control over the issue, is just...a thought that aches.