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 donât understand the rules.
You donât 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 wasnât tremendously pleased with that. Get used to it, he thinks. Old man was delightfully old fashioned; thatâs 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 RenĂŠ 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 Terryâs own idea. The humor of this is particularly hilarious to him and he wasnât about to pass up making a silent mythological reference as youâre opposite him, busy tinkering with your little dessert fork, humming, content with what youâre about to put into your mouth. You donât 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. -âThat was delicious. Thank you. Youâre right, it was just as good as you promised.â- 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 wasnât about to miss out on that for the world.
Beforehand, you ate an entrĂŠe
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 âSuch fun, but time for me to leave.â ---âTime for your chauffeur to give me a lift. Time for you to give me a lift.â
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, theyâre 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 donât 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 couldâve prepared your own meal and the magic wouldnât have the same effect, with sex so early on was literally the least of anyoneâs issues, especially when there was sorcery to be contented with . Other people heâs 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 wasnât stuffy. No, no, he was casual. So relaxed in how he hosts events. That's why they could leave. Thatâs 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 youâre 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:
-âThe way to the heart is really through the stomach, huh?â-
You never catch the layers of meaning any irony in the stated proverb.
