#magical regency | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ezlebe · 1 year

Note

If you’re still taking requests I don’t have any concrete ideas but something to do w/ painful amounts of miscommunication

Tom stares across the castle field that Duchess Caroline calls a garden, watching a line of birds on the wall near a group gossiping at the far end. He lifts tea to his mouth, barely tasting it, as a particularly large raven hops down the side, a bit closer, then closer, and exhales a harsh breath when the bird cheekily tilts its head right down at the gathering of royals.

“Dare I ask?”

Tom glances sideways in haste and nearly upends his tea onto his vest, as he exhales a wheezy cough.

“Wasn’t his commitment up a week ago,” Shiv says, brows raising underneath the brim of an oversized, overfeathered hat, “Or did he not pass whatever your test was?”

Tom is unsure how to answer – he had given the task and Greg had passed it with unsurprising ease, but he has yet to give up the charm that binds him to Tom in bondage. He still wears it around his neck like a locket, when he’s not taking advantage of being an acting familiar slip into places as an overgrown pest, and fetches Tom’s mail, and his tea, and spellcasts with the reserves he’s afforded from Tom’s end of the thrall.

“He did,” he says, feeling it’s the simplest, least telling answer to give.

Shiv hums in a short tut, lifting a glass of mulled wine to her lips. “We were friends, weren’t we?”

Tom glances over with a furrow of his brow, blinking rapidly, and feels his mouth twist into a bemused grin. “Aren’t we now?”

“I thought so, too, but you’re woolgathering and equivocating, rather than letting me in.”

Tom sighs softly through his nose. “The familiar thing is complicated, Shiv.”

“If you say so,” Shiv says, voice roundly mocking, as she conjures an umbrella to lean into on the grass. “But if you ask me, it seems everything but the familiar thing is complicated.”

Tom slowly flattens his mouth expression. The avoided truth to the issue is he had once reacted very badly to the idea of Greg moving on elsewhere, trading off his bondage as apprentice and familiar, rather than fulfilling it, and Tom worries some that is what is keeping Greg from approaching him to formally hand back the charm. He had let his temper grab ahold of him and wrench at an already frayed trust, and though Greg had gotten his druthers in a rather admirable, underhanded use of gathered knowledge, it is more than apparent he’s developed a certain manner of carefulness around Tom.

It hadn’t even been the first time Tom had treated Greg in a less than gentlemanly manner, but the less said about how he had toppled Tom’s wedding plans to a woman he now hesitantly calls friend the better. He thinks that reaction had been slightly more justified, if not by much; besides, that case had nothing to do with any personal, undignified attachment, which was almost entirely the basis of the latter, and present, matter.

He’s pulled in powerful warring directions. He does not want Greg to give the charm back, and he doubly does not want Greg to move on with his life; wants nothing more than for Greg to give the charm back, and he doubly wants Greg to move on with his life with him.

Tom shifts his feet and forces a barking laugh. “What do you know?”

“Oh, nothing,” Shiv says, her smirk sharp, a brow lifted on the same side as the curve of her lips. “Only that dear Cousin Greg is treated far less like a bonded servant and more like a beloved pet.”

“Neither is an equal, Shiv,” Tom says, managing a lofty tone that sounds like a joke even to his ears; granted, he has, once or twice, threatened an oversize birdcage.

“Oh, sure,” Shiv says, voice dropping somewhat harshly, plainly taking the words in a different direction, as she punctuates herself with a scoff through her nose. “And what would I know about that?”

Tom rolls his lips together, catching frost on the edge of a sleeve, and offers a carefully neutral tilt to his head.

“That is to say,” Shiv says, some seconds later, once the silence has thawed by degrees in a somewhat literal manner. “Why give it back, when with it he lives so comfortable.”

“He would live just as comfortably – ”

“I doubt you have told him so,” Shiv interrupts, tilting her head with a pointed tsk. “Does he even know your vulgar little secret?”

Tom feels his jaw tighten with a hasty look across the lawn, only to see Greg has flown of elsewhere, and he cannot be sure quite where unless he abuses that facet. “Siobhan, that’s a – ”

“No, he probably does,” Shiv says, with a dismissive tilt of her chin, shifting her grip on the umbrella to dig into the ground closer to her side. “You’re not a subtle warlock, Tom. You never have to tell.”

Tom presses his tongue hard to the backs of his teeth, while forcing a smile, then he takes another sip of tea that’s practically ice in the cup. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of, but I believe you can stuff it like a hog, Miss Roy.”

Shiv makes a drolly pinched face, tutting under her breath with a tilt of her head. “Mister Wambsgans, that’s hardly polite.”

“Shiv!” Roman yells down the steps, standing atop them in rare advantage. “Mother wants to see you.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Shiv mutters, lifting her umbrella with a shake to open it up against the sun and her brother alike. She turns to Tom, head tilting, “Could I still beg you to come pretend at urgency in a few minutes?”

Tom exhales a thin sigh. “Wouldn’t that be just more impoliteness?”

“I will weather any sacrifice to my ego,” Shiv says, turning with the umbrella across her shoulder, walking up the steps and voice fading with every foot put between them. “If it frees me from my mother. I believe she’s in the parlor just beside the library.”

“I’ll think on it,” Tom says, lifting his voice, and catches her hand lift in a slight turn.

A familiar wash of energy tingles across Tom’s back just before he hears a flutter of wings, and he looks across his shoulder to see Greg now standing at it.

“There you are, bud,” he says, lifting dwindling tea to greet him. “You get anything interesting from the Prince?”

Greg shrugs while he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, shedding black bristles and down that disappear before they hit the stone tile. He then leans in close, voice low and expression lit with a familiar entertainment of secret. “His grandmother is concerned he’s Jack the Ripper.”

“Good Lord,” Tom tuts, reaching up and tapping at the edge of his chin with a knuckle, as he raises a brow across the garden. “Here I thought Logan had a low opinion of his kin.”

Greg softly huffs, eyes curving up and ducking his chin into his shirt collar. “You could still use it for the paper?”

“That’s terribly cruel,” Tom says, feeling a smirk curve his mouth, tilting his head at the far off procession, then back to Greg. “What has the Prince done to you?”

“Um, nothing?” Greg says, shrugging while scratching into his lower lip. “But it would sell?”

“It is a fun bit of terrible gossip, isn’t it?” Tom says, turning toward the steps into the great house, and feeling Greg fall in beside him. “It would absolutely rankle the Crown, even if no one in the readership believes it. It’s like saying the Ripper is Cousin Kendall; could you imagine?”

“He would, um –” Greg offers some odd coughing choke that sounds vaguely like it could be in horror. “That noise he makes?”

“I know it,” Tom says, huffing out a laugh at the top of the steps, gesturing with curves of his hands in front of himself. “Exactly, really – ”

Greg makes the same noise again, but now with his hand mimed as if around an over large knife.

Tom breaks into a louder laugh, certain he’s drawing the attention of other guests, but the only one he’s looking at is smiling just widely back. He reaches out and claps Greg hard in the shoulder, unable to resist lingering at his elbow. “Your last moments are that!”

“Awful, very awful,” Greg agrees, curling his arm under the other across his chest with a too-serious nod.

The inside of the house is not quite so busy as the garden, quieter with a different sort of guest, a few servants, and one of Lady Collingwood’s peacocks. It seems to know where it’s going with some impunity, so perhaps it is some manner of familiar, though there’s no noticeable magic coming off of it outside the general sort carried with animals.

Tom catches Roman walking into the library with an unfamiliar man, and glances to Greg with a prompting hum.

“A royal, I think, from a land between Russia and Persia,” Greg says, voice low, though they’ve well disappeared behind the doors. “Roman sought him out.”

Tom offers a short grunt. “Roman?”

Greg scratches against his lower lip, head tilting while his shoulder comes to meet it in a shrug. “Money?”

“Always a safe bet,” Tom says, peeking in the next door, and finally catching Lady Collingwood and Shiv at a standoff near a settee. He watches them a few seconds, then looks at Greg through the corner of his eye. “I ask you to avenge me, should I fall next victim to Roy ego.”

Greg offers a flat sort of smile, rather than playing into the joke, while he drops back a step.

“It’ll just be a moment,” Tom says, as appeasing and just as dismissive as he can be, while he takes a step forward into the parlor. He’s well aware that Shiv has a tendency to put Greg in a sulk, as he’s more sore than Tom, at this point, about her previous indiscretions. It’s a bolstering, ego-feeding sort of regard, but Tom came to a grudging conclusion over a year ago that he was, in someway, actually thankful. The realization had been during a weeklong holiday to his family that he grasped that he didn’t miss Shiv like he should, and never truly had, because being without Greg gave him an ache like a missing limb.

“Ah, Miss Roy!” Tom greets, lifting his voice while entering into the room. “There you are!”

Lady Collingwood whips her head around with a briefly pinched, furious moue, though it quickly melts into a more tight politeness. “Mister Wasguns, we are — ”

Tom manages not to react to the mispronunciation, fairly long practiced at it. He drops his head. “Lady Collingwood, I apologize, but it is an emergency.”

“Tom,” Shiv says, brows going up while lifting her head; it’s not quite open thankfulness in her eyes, but it’s somewhere markedly close. It must truly be a irksome conversation.

“Your eldest brother is out there looking for you,” Tom says, ignoring the poisonous look that Lady Collingwood is leveling him, promptly stepping back when Shiv takes the out, so immediately that it is somewhat startling, raising from her seat with a reach for her umbrella. “He’s out there yowling and making a real fuss of it like a bandy-legged donkey.”

“Of course,” Shiv says, exhaling a short, put-upon sigh, as she looks back to Lady Collingwood with a drop of her chin. “I apologize, we’ll have to pick this up later. You know Connor.”

Tom clears his throat with an additional nod, quieting his own snort; he’d somewhat forgotten about Connor. He manages to ignore an impulse to look back into the room, following Shiv’s frosty steps out into the hall. “So…” He says, offering his own smile. “Good talk?”

“Oh, what do you think?” Shiv snaps, mouth pressing while she flattens her hands down her jacket with a harsh breath through her nose. “I am loathe to admit it, but you were correct, if in some different way – our mere speaking is impolite, as she’s now decided I’ve compromised my dignity.”

Tom sucks briefly at his cheek, face scrunching while looking down the hall toward the crystal chandelier. “Is that better or worse than a spinster?”

“A spinster is, at least, seen as a grown woman,” Shiv says, inhaling a deep breath while turning on him with a toothy, irked sort of smile.

Tom opens his mouth, but ultimately answers with only with a short turn of his his head. His own family had been none too happy at his short engagement, but he had the benefit of being many hundreds of miles away from them while the dust settled on the ruins; at this juncture, he… mostly assures to them through many letters that he’s fulfilled with his career.

“In any case,” Shiv says, while reaching up to trace her fingers along the brim of her hat, sparing a quick glance back toward the parlor, then forward again to Tom. “I believe I do actually have business with Connor I was avoiding.”

“It is astonishing how few want him in parliament,” Tom says, slipping a hand into his vest, as he steps back to leave room for Shiv to turn down the hall. “Even Greg said no, and politics are the only thing he doesn’t try to dig his nose into.”

Shiv declines to even wave off the commentary, responding only by marching down the hall with a clack of heels.

Tom tuts low, wandering a few steps back and leaning to peer into the library. It’s oddly loud with chatter; hardly a shock that Greg is loitering, who certainly wandered in with purpose after seeing Roman and his companion, not to mention his general predilection for information, but the youngest Roys are a surprise. He would have thought they’d be outside – he had always preferred the sun and stables as a child, but his parents rarely entertained the… caliber of guests as Lady Collingwood.

His presence surely tips the small library into full capacity, wandering in and pulling his hand from his vest to pour a thin amount of mystery liquor from atop the cabinet. He sniffs rather than downs it, uncertain what it could be – cognac, of some sort. He isn’t sure how it might go into the gullet outside being a reason to linger; he lifts the glass and confirms not particularly well.

A softly accented voice raises with low curiosity. “And him, there – that one is your cousin?”

“A cousin, yes,” Roman says, then snorts, rolling his eyes away from Greg at a far away bookshelf. “But barely a Roy, of no relation to Collingwood at all, and currently shackled under contract as a fucking familiar. I’m not sure why he’s here, or anywhere, except to – oh, Mister Wambsgans, could you coerce your cawing pet to fetch us a biscuit. I want Eduard to see his tricks.”

Tom suffers an irked tug underneath his sternum. He briefly loses focus on maintaining his own act of a proper gentleman, a sneer alighting on his lips. “It would be beneath any bonafide warlock to act in service to a glorified spiritualist as you. Get your own damn kekse.”

Roman shifts his shoulders in a tight hunch in the chair, uncomfortable, but not exactly surprised, at the dismissal. “You’re such a bore,” he says, eyes quickly glancing to, then away, from the bored-looking Eduard. “And a bitter bastard. I’m glad you were kicked from of my sister’s bed.”

“You and me both,” Tom agrees, forcibly earnest, quite satisfied at the uneasy blink it gets him.

Tom does notice with a discomfited prickle that any consideration this Eduard briefly directed toward Greg promptly dissipates due to him being revealed as such a… perceived lower class. It digs further under his skin, the longer he sits with it, and it’s not that he wants anyone really glancing twice at Greg, but that a stranger would listen to the likes of Roman and so blatantly agree that he’s not of status enough to attend his own family’s tacky garden party.

The treatment has drawn Tom’s attention before, and he always dismissed it as a temporary stopgap – a self-dug hole for Greg to climb himself out of – but now there’s quite literally no reason for it. Greg has fulfilled his contract and even has a testament coming from the crown, so he… He should certainly no longer be reduced to the perception of a familiar. The situation is going to get Tom spell sanctioned if it goes on much longer.

He had been simply too sore after having to give the task to Greg at all, and too selfish, as he had even been relieved it didn’t get brought up, but now he’ll have to be the one to ask for it. He knows, at least, that Greg has nowhere else to go – he certainly isn’t going to go to his immediate family, even further away than Tom’s own homeland, and he’s thin on trusted friends – so that’s a temporary comfort. Tom will be able to hang onto him for a bit longer, work up to a next course of action, if he can, though it’s a…

Tom glances across the room, as he steps now toward the large windows along the wall. He sees Greg has wandered to the shelf ladder, climbed up two rungs, towering by consequence, and a pinching grin on his face while peering down at Sophie and Iverson. He watches Greg stretch along a shelf, pointing to some clapper, while Sophie, who makes a face, yanks at it with a shaky spell from multiple feet above her head.

Greg suddenly looks over and catches Tom dead on, curling an arm along the ladder top to wag his fingers in hello. He’s a rather devastating sight, practically posing on a pedestal in his straight trousers, primly buttoned shirtsleeves, and fitted vest commissioned by Tom himself, simply because he wanted to see him in forest green silk. He startles and plays at losing his balance, all of a sudden, or perhaps he really does, hopping off the ladder back to the rug.

A sickening ache grows beneath Tom’s sternum, and he leans against the window sill, as Greg bids goodbyes to his youngest cousins to join him on it with a more muted, but still smiling face. He seems almost tipsy, knees knocking, fingers twisting in his watch chain, as he drops his head against a pane of glass.

Tom nods toward the children, now exchanging words between bowed heads over the puzzle. “Are they about your maturity level?”

Greg exhales a weak huff, peeking out of the window. “I am, uh – perhaps a bit lower,” he says, tugging his watch out entirely toy with the clasp. “More nearer you.”

Tom allows a laugh around the edges of a tsking scold. The droll feeling slips away with a lurch when his eyes catch on the fine silver chain around Greg’s neck, just barely visible through a shifting gap of his cravat. He wets his lips and leans an inch or so away, as the sight of it wars with a desire he has to reach out for Greg, and worsens the ache; a part of him overwhelmingly doesn’t care, and has led to countless trespasses before – grabbing at limbs and standing too close, closer than even now, teasing at taking more, but he… He cannot ignore the truth of that small, insignificant chain; it is drawn tight between him and what he really desires from Greg, holding that cursed charm that acts as its lock. He doesn’t want to lose Greg, flighty as he can be, nor his use and his wit, but is it truly better to never know whether Greg even enjoys his company or if it’s just some damned leash?

“Tom?” Greg says, head tilting, lazily tugging at Tom’s sleeve with a pinch of two fingers. “Are you – um, do you need anything?”

Tom feels a sigh deflate him and flattens his mouth. “I don’t need anything, Greg.”

Greg furrows his brows, pulling back his hand to toy at the edge of his own sleeve. “Have you… seen the greenhouse, yet?”

Tom scoffs and rolls his eyes, eyes drawn sidelong down the stacks while Roman and Eduard leave their seats at the far end. “Greenhouse?”

“I saw it from the sky,” Greg says, as he points to the sky with a lift of his eyes in the same direction.

Tom finishes off the cognac with a mild grimace. “I suppose I could do to wander.”

Greg takes to the skies while Tom trudges on the path through the garden, probably thinking he’s leading in some way. The greenhouse rises crystalline and bright on the other side of a pond feature, bright spots of color amidst the green inside, and it is odd that Tom hasn’t yet been out to it. Greg swoops down on the last few paces, talons biting into Tom’s shoulder upon landing, and exhales a choking sort of warble that Tom can understand is a message that Willa was at the pond.

The greenhouse is no Crystal Palace, but it is still overly large, as big as the stables, with domes and iron curlicues that must be held together with magic. He is perhaps overly careful with the door, as he pulls it open, feeling Greg hop off in the same moment to once again become a man; it’s a questionable choice, as the heat and humidity inside is considerable, and Tom thinks a bird might be more suited to weather it.

“So, um… What did Shiv say?” Greg asks, not waiting even a second before revealing his impertinent hand, as the door closes behind with a soft turn of the handle and cuts them off from the estate. “Back in the house?”

“Nothing in particular,” Tom says, exhaling a dismissive breath, looking up with some genuine interest building in a creeping greenery that dominates the building. He doesn’t look back at Greg, keeping his voice bland, as he reaches out to tap a wide, oversize leaf that bobs under his fingertips, “Something about Connor’s parliamentary plans. Why?”

Greg offers a short, quiet sigh, as he looks over then away. “It seems to, uh – to have exasperated you?”

“I am not exasperated,” Tom says, drawing out his voice as a wash of temper briefly flushes him. “Good God. Maybe I have sun stroke.”

Greg offers a dubious mutter. “The sun improves mood.”

“Stop reading so many books,” Tom says, sweeping his jacket behind him while setting his hands along his waistband. “No one cares that much about the sun, Greg. Maybe I enjoy a cloud or two – and so should you; your skin contracts burns to such a degree that I’m surprised standing in this oversize magnifier hasn’t immediately transformed you to an oversize Devil of a man.”

Greg bites an evident grin between his teeth. “It’s warm.”

“It is,” Tom agrees, with a heaving sigh, coming to a stop in front of a truly ugly sort of plant. It’s as tall as him with a bloom like a pitcher and a smell like a Whitechapel alley. “What the hell – why can’t the Duchess just have a proper fucking orangery?”

“You should have an orangery,” Greg says, with a particular note of enthusiasm that more realistically means that he should have an orangery.

Tom attempt briefly to really entertain the idea, but there is a fairly glaring problem. “And where, pray tell?”

“The roof,” Greg says, as if this is a truly perfect location of where to stick trees in a London townhouse. “Of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Tom says, rolling his eyes, as he uncrosses his arms with a gesture above them. “The part of the house where all the snow and smoke goes.”

“You could spell it to stay warm, Tom,” Greg says, tutting slightly, a petulant turn to his mouth, as he runs a hand through his hair. “This is spelled.”

Tom laces his own hands together at his coat tails, turning to continue his walk. “Not me – it’s all your idea, bud.”

“My idea – ” Greg takes a breath, hurrying to catch up and peering into Tom’s face with eager eyes. “Could I, really?”

“If you do all of it on your own,” Tom says, raising his brows, with a quick glance to the side to make eye contact, then pointedly looking best he can through Greg to the next eyesore of a flower. “And tell me nothing about it. I want no part in an inevitable visit from the constabulary about rooftop height limits and unpermitted gardens.”

Greg deflates as expected, mouth flattening with dashed hopes, then his eyes abruptly brighten. “Could put something in an extra room.”

“Your room was the extra room, Gregory.”

Greg is quiet for a pair of beats, knotting his brow while looking down the path. “That’s… an idea.”

Tom furrows his own brow slightly, glancing quickly to Greg and back, and rationalizes best he can that probably means little; it’s not as if Greg could take advantage of a pseudo-orangery if he wasn’t still living there with Tom. He is only… He has a lot of plans, Greg does, and very few of them go anywhere in particular on purpose.

“Oh,” Greg says, reaching out across Tom’s chest with a bold hand to stop him. “Look!”

Tom stares at the tall bushes heavy with bruise-purple fruit. “What on god’s green earth are those?”

“I don’t know,” Greg says, kneeling down and picking a ripe, fallen fruit up with a rub of his thumb against the skin. He stands up, lifting it closer to his face. “I think it’s a –”

Tom promptly phases the fruit into his own hand. “Don’t eat it!”

“I wasn’t going to,” Greg insists, straightening and plainly half an instant from taking it back.

“You were so, I saw your face,” Tom says, wagging a finger at him with his unoccupied hand. “You looked eager as Mondale under the cook’s feet.”

“It, well – it’s clearly a fruit,” Greg says, staring down at it with a pinch building at his lips.

“So are hollyberries,” Tom says, pressing his fingers into the edges of the fruit with a furrow of his brow. It’s firm, with slight give, and he tuts again while turning it over on his hand. “Though it would be unusual for Kendall to set anyone up for his own the poison tree – not really the type.”

“Like, you could – ?” Greg says, producing an ornately decorated penknife with turn of his palm – a raven in scrimshaw across the ivory handle. “Maybe?”

Tom grunts under his breath and takes the knife with a flick of his thumb to open the blade. “If this opens up and releases a miasma that kills us both, I’m going to find some way to haunt you for eternity.”

“I am quite accustomed to it,” Greg says, cheerful and without missing even a quarter beat.

Tom scoffs low and briefly mimes stabbing Greg with the penknife, a laugh at the edge of his breath when Greg winces back with a peeking grin in the gesture. “You watch it.”

The fruit yields easily enough to the knife, almost startlingly so, and Tom finds himself pausing a cut halfway through it. He decides on a whim to slice around the diameter of it, like he might a peach, and twists, blinking down at a thoroughly unexpected, segmented white center.

“What do you think?” He asks, offering the inside toward Greg with a pointed lift of his brow. “You still want to eat it?”

“I – I mean, I don’t know?” Greg says, grabbing at his elbows in a particularly obvious rejection, bending slightly at the waist to peer down at the fruit. “You could try it.”

“I really haven’t the slightest idea what this is,” Tom says, picking out a pale wedge with a squish between his fingers, feeling what must be a seed inside it. “Any of your books?”

“None I can recall,” Greg murmurs, taking the wedge with an uncertain curve to his mouth. “It smells sweet – ” He then abruptly shoves it in between his teeth before Tom can stop him. “Oh!”

Tom suffers his heart jumping into his throat. “Spit it out!”

“It’s really good!” Greg enthuses, instead, reaching and summarily curling his long fingers against the back of Tom’s to push the fruit into his mouth. “Try it, Thomas.”

“Has it poisoned you so quickly?” Tom demands, stumbling back, the warmth of Greg’s hand making his face flush with heat that he hopes looks like anger. “We don’t know what it is!”

“Then, uh – ” Greg pulls now to draw the fruit to his own chest, still in Tom’s hand, in a way that leaves only inches between them. He lifts his other hand to try to pluck another wedge out from the evident shell. “Then gi-give more to me.”

Tom feels heat flash against his jaw, watching Greg eagerly scarf down the rest of the fruit from his own hand. He knows that he should raise more concern regarding belief it could still be lethal, but feels choked, not wanting to interrupt in a way he refuses to directly mentally dwell.

Greg takes the last piece, smaller than the others, and looks up with a wide pair of eyes. He offers it between them, and his voice is soft with the sparest manipulative note. “Tom, you must –”

“Do we want to know?” A voice drawls behind Tom.

Tom looks over his shoulder while Greg hunches and stumbles to get behind him, the great and powerful coward, as it is revealed Mister Hosseini and Miss Pierce have found them to offer mocking tilted heads from under the vines. He entertains the idea of throwing the rest of the rind, or peel, or whatever this is, but stays his hand.

“Do you enjoy the mangosteen?” Pierce asks, eagerly approaching, a wicked grin on her face. “It was such a pain to import them, but Ken thinks it’ll earn him favor with the Crown.”

“They’re, uh – pretty good,” Greg answers, all but speaking directly into Tom’s back.

Pierce seems to hear it, judging by her laugh, and lifts a shoulder. “You’re not wrong, but it’s still a waste of his time. Stewart?”

Hosseini bends to grab one of the riper, fallen fruits with a quirk to his brow. He tosses it up, then catches it, handing it over Pierce with a click of his tongue. “Anything to keep him distracted, I think.”

“Not wrong,” Pierce laughs, grating and pitchy, as she turns a shoulder to drive right between Greg and Tom to continue down the length of the greenhouse. She looks over the opposite shoulder, back to them, as Hosseini picks another couple of fruits. “Just like you two, hm?”

“Distracted is such a polite term,” Hosseini says, head turning, a smirk across his lips, as he takes a slightly less rude path to their other side by way of crossing in front of Tom. “It is so easy to forget the translucent walls, isn’t it?”

Tom glances sharply toward the glass, biting hard to the back of his cheek. It’s warped and slightly opaque, so not quite perfectly translucent, and he looks back with a harsh tut, only to see backs turned and that he’s been thoroughly dismissed.

He looks down with a start when Greg drops, but sees he’s only, evidently, taking more fruit with swift cuts at the stems. It wasn’t exactly a pass, but Tom might agree that it was enough of one, though only to later blame Hosseini for it, if it comes up.

“Look at you,” Tom says, once there is four clutched awkwardly in one big hand, threatening to roll out onto the ground. “What a greedy Greg.”

Greg stands with a high lift of a brow. “Will you try some? If the Queen eats them.”

“Her opinion is moot,” Tom says, watching the fruits disappear, then the knife, in whatever manner Greg is choosing to hide them. “I’m just relieved we’re not on our way to an infirmary.”

“It would have been worth it,” Greg says, far too seriously, “Far better than when you had me eat those poor birds… fluttering around as-as if they were still alive.”

“Will you ever get over that?” Tom says, slipping a hand along the inside of his vest, after a short, startled step around an errant rabbit. He clears he throat, lifting his chin toward the house on the far end of the field. “Are you about ready to part with the estate?”

“If only,” Greg says, tutting some under his breath, then reaching up and rubbing at the center of his brows with a dissatisfied scrunch of his nose. “Or, that is… Um, could we take some advantage of our current geography to go directly to the carriage?”

“You’re such a boor,” Tom says, lifting a hand and pressing at Greg’s shoulder to direct him to the house, then catching himself and jerking it back down to his side. He manages a loud scoff, hoping the sudden lurch of his entire being is only obvious to him as the sufferer. “Have I truly taught you nothing?”

Greg sulks through his next steps, entire body hunching with reluctance. He manages to recover slightly, as the milling party comes into view, pasting on one of those ambivalent half-smiles to meet Kendall lifting a hand in a greeting toward them.

“You two look about to give me bad news.”

“Too true, we’re off,” Tom says, stretching his shoulders back with a glance across the garden, down the grass and into the ponds along the curve of the shallow hill. “You’ll have to continue this lively fete without us.”

Kendall huffs out a snort. “Sure.”

“I did want to ask –” Greg clears his throat with an earnest nod. “Could you put together perhaps a, uh – a compendium of the spells in the orangery?”

“Oh,” Kendall says, a brow lifting, as he reclines in his seat with a considering tilt. “I could, cousin. Are you heading for the country once you’re free from Wanbsgans?”

Tom feels his jaw tighten, a hand curling around the buttons of his jacket, as the other fists in his pocket.

Greg, however, only tuts short. “I don’t believe I-I ever will be, so no.”

Kendall’s other brow joins the first, eyes briefly glancing to Tom while his mouth purses in bemusement. “Oh.”

Tom only barely acknowledges the judgmental glance, more piqued and staring openly at Greg. He doesn’t – what does that even mean? Is he just openly accusing Tom of being unwilling to fulfill the contract, now?

“I’ll get it right over,” Kendall says, slow, shifting in his chair to flatten his heels onto the floor.

“And anything on, uh – on facsimile sunlight?” Greg says, raising his brows with a lean down that makes him a somewhat ludicrous picture over Kendall. “If you could? I think it must be needed in winter.”

“Yeah, makes sense…” Kendall says, clearing his throat with a bob of his brows and glance away. “You think… drainage?”

“Oh,” Greg intones, brow furrowing now with evident concern. “I… yes – it hadn’t even –“

“We agreed there is no room,” Tom interrupts, finally managing to find his voice at the minuscule chance he might really have to deal with some sort of mad spelled greenhouse installed in his home. “You have a hard enough time at your height, Gregory, how do you think a tree would enjoy it?”

Greg scrunches his face up, dropping his head with a marked roll of his lips against his teeth. He seems to have folded, by the grabbing of his elbows, turning a more resigned look toward Kendall. “I’d still like the spells.”

Kendall offers a narrow sort of look, aiming it hard at Tom, again, then jerks his chin up with a more flat smile. “Yes, sure. It’s no issue.”

“We might move, sometime,” Greg says, looking across his shoulder, to all appearances comfortable with verbalizing this fact of him so forever chained by Tom and that he might be forced to move house with him to somewhere with greenhouse space. “You’re… uh, always complaining of the bad air.”

Tom manages a short breath and a low mutter of condescension, forcibly relaxing the hand against his vest with a sense of unease. He certainly should have addressed this a week ago.

The carriage back to the house is long and quiet, as Tom largely pretends to doze on the door, while Greg stares out the window while flicking his watch open and closed. It’s not particularly unusual, and often Greg even has a book, and Tom does actually doze, but today his mind instead runs in circles like it generally saves for the witching hour.

He doesn’t have a plan – he hadn’t actually had one for the task, to be candid, too busy dreading loosing Greg from the bind that could very well be between their souls, dreaded any change and no change in most equal shares, dreaded his own biased regard leeching into every aspect of it. He is positive that it seemed like a hack job, but Greg hadn’t noticed, nor the required witness in a Crown official.

Greg summoned and destroyed and busied himself over damned numerology, then looked pleased as ever when he got a full pass. He hadn’t slipped the chain from his neck to give back the charm in the presence of the official, like Tom had expected, nor broached it after their evening out, like Tom later expected, nor over the breakfast that he fetched into the dining room, as Tom, rolling it over in his head at midnight, decided would certainly be it.

It hadn’t been.

“I think I am going to have these put in a tart?” Greg says, as he resummons the mangosteen, then promptly, presumably disappears them straight into the kitchen. “In the, uh… the hopeful case I refrain from eating them – all of them fresh; you like tarts?”

“Everyone does,” Tom says, as he peels off his jacket with a shallow sort of sigh. “Greg, we –”

“I just hope that the pastry is good,” Greg interrupts, exhaling a thoughtful sort of sigh. “The last one, for Easter, was just a – it was stale, I believe? I do not know how, but it was.”

“We really have to address – ” Tom turns, with a hard swallow as he hangs his coat, and looks back only to blink at nothing behind him. “Gregory! Where’ve you gone?”

“The sitting room?” Greg says, low yet a bit uppity, from just down the corridor.

“I was talking to you,” Tom says, tutting slightly, and makes to follow the voice. He finds himself smoothing down his vest with a short breath, tugging at the hem, as he turns into the room. “Leaving me muttering to myself there like some drunken tramp.”

Greg sweeps his eyes toward Tom, then a bit away, in that manner which is him rolling them.

“We need to get something out of the way,” Tom says, reaching out and snatching away the book Greg has already open in his hands. He looks down at it and turns it around twice before fully realizing it’s one of those senseless spellbooks with the pages all different directions, and that he almost certainly stole it from the estate. “It should be quick – you can get back to all the… forest fae riddlesome tongue twisters you’d like after.”

Greg flattens his mouth in mild irritation, eyes fixed on the book, as it switches between hands.

Tom puts the book down on the end table, slightly rattling a lamp, and paces back across the room. He sets his hands against his hips, curling them into fists, and paces across twice more before he manages to open his mouth again, forcing himself to look at Greg, who seems now markedly more concerned than annoyed with him.

“You’ve fulfilled your term as a familiar, Greg,” Tom says, forcing a loud, jaunty voice that he hopes also sounds firm. “And since I am aware there could be some… concern about how willing I am to emancipate you, I want to assure you that I am –” He briefly glances on Greg’s face, sees it quickly falling shocked, and paces another pair of steps. “I do want to. Just hand it over already.”

“Hand it over?” Greg repeats, one of his hands slowly lifting over the charm sitting under his shirt.

“Yes, come on,” Tom says, hearing his voice only pitch by a note or two, “You passed the test, buddy – that’s the deal! I can’t keep you locked into this indentured magical yoke forever.”

“Have I not…?” Greg visibly chews at the inside of a cheek, as his eyes gain a darker edge that Tom sees only rarely, truly just enough to know the next statement is about to be argumentative. “I have spent three years now a-at your side, Tom – do you appreciate me so little?”

Tom finds himself at a loss, mouth agog while his mind runs through words that have abruptly run somewhere like the opposite direction that he was prepared to go in. “That’s not it, Greg, I…” He clears his throat, shifting his hands from fists to flat palms across his hips. “I appreciate you plenty – that’s hardly in question.”

“Then why ask me to go?” Greg sets his mouth, grabbing at his own elbows with a short hunch into himself. “Why not just let me stay?”

Tom ignores the irksome echo of Shiv’s point in the back of his mind. “No one said anything about you leaving, Greg. Everything else will be the same.”

“It won’t be the same,” Greg says, brows knitting along his forehead while he slips a finger along the chain around his neck. “You won’t b-be bound to me.”

“Exactly, and I – ” Tom pauses, blinking hard and slightly tilting his head. “What do you mean… me bound to you?”

Greg makes a petulant, irritable face, then refuses to answer for seconds, while his eyes drop to the ground between them.

Tom exhales a weary puff of a sigh. “Greg.”

“Do you want to replace me?” Greg asks, not quite answering, diving straight into an obvious, yet still rib-cracking ploy for sympathy. “Take another familiar?”

Tom presses his tongue hard into the backs of his teeth for a pair of seconds. “No, I don’t, you were a… special case,” he says, nearly taking a step forward, then instead taking one back and winding one of his hands into fist. “You know well enough I never had a familiar of any sort, and I do doubt I ever will again.”

“Then why – ?” Greg shakes his head with a sullen press to his mouth. “Uh, why change anything?”

“Because…” Tom takes a breath, briefly looking down to the whorls of colors on the rug beneath their feet, then forcing his eyes back up to look into Greg’s petulant expression. “I don’t simply appreciate you, Greg, I care for you. And I do not want to have to introduce you anymore as just some servant.”

Greg looks up with a blink, brow furrowing, then relaxing, fingertips pinching together in front of him.

“I don’t want this curse between us that turns you half a beast made for my benefit, or compels you to obey. I want…” Tom looks steady on at Greg for as long as he can, then glances away while he exhales a croaking laugh. He has wanted that, a bit, is the trouble – a way to keep Greg perfectly perfect and under his thumb, but… it wouldn’t really be Greg, who is slippery and somewhat earnestly sly, always operating on his next opportunity, and Tom might say he adores how hard it is to wrestle him. “I want you to do what youwant, even if… I do not like it, but at least you will do it without a spell ready around your neck to punish you.”

Greg shakes his head, as he lifts a hand to tap at the impression of the charm beneath his shirt. “You’ve never used it for any of that.”

“Yet,” Tom says, firmly, squaring his shoulders with a harsh gesture between them in a turn of his arm. “I haven’t yet used it. I could at any moment.”

“You once threw a tea service at me,” Greg says, glancing with some significance toward the platter at the far end of the room, gleaming ignominiously in its place under the portrait of some highland. “And it was… not great; the teapot is… um, quite large. And you shoved me down that hill, too, which was cold and unpleasant. But you never used this, really – I’ve been curious sometimes if you even did it right.”

“And now here you’re asking me to shove your face in a pile of horse shit, Gregory,” Tom says, slumping down onto the edge of the settee with a harsh, lengthy sigh. “It shouldn’t matter. You passed your test. You’re a real warlock, whatever the hell that means in this century.” He throws out his hands. “You’re free.”

“Can’t we maybe…” Greg tips his head with a sweep of his eyes in a manner rather plaintive. “Alter it?”

“Alter it?” Tom repeats, sharply, feeling a brow raise high up his forehead.

Greg briefly chews at his cheek, turning one of his hands smally up to show the palm, as his fingers curl inward over it. “Have it all be the same, our magic bound and all, but… without those parts you think are bad.”

Tom rolls his eyes patronizingly in the direction of the textured ceiling above Greg’s head with a scoff. “Obviously, Greg, but that’s more the sort of thing they do for – ” Marriage. “…Handfasting,” he manages at the end of a croak, and he drops his eyes with a thick swallow. “Do you mean that?”

Greg blinks and his brows twitch, a rosy tinge bursting up his neck that means he understands the meaning, but with plainly far less surprise. “Wecan, then?”

“Yes, we…” Tom trails off, barely managing a word, while suddenly feeling… somewhat very manipulated, in a way, though in that it has ended in a rather pleasant outcome. It’s an almost sentimental sensation at this point. “That is, if you’re welcome the idea.”

Greg breaks into one of those brilliant, giant smiles. “I, ah-h – I came up with it.”

Tom feels rooted to the floor, yet also like he needs to take very many steps back. “You did, yes, you proposed – ” He nearly chokes, voice tightening and pitching, ”Proposed it, this notion of continuing our… altering the deal.”

“I’ve wanted to… to at least, to address it,” Greg says, relaxing around the shoulders now that he’s gotten his way, and slipping down to sit onto the opposite wingback chair. “Since I realized exactly… um, what it mean that there was an expiration?”

“Oh,” Tom intones, trying to keep his voice and bearing steady, but mostly feeling his heart beating a heavy pattern against his ribs. He doesn’t know how to ask if Greg means this as… a truly amorous sort of handfasting, or simply one of opportunity and general companionship. It’s hard to tell with him, but Tom… He does rather desire the former, if only he could say so. “Did you?”

“Actually, I-I think even longer than I’ve really understood about it…” Greg rubs across his upper lip with the back of a knuckle, then uses the same hand to flick oddly with his fingers. “Because often I – I entertained saying something… unpleasant about Shiv, to deter you from going through with it with her, even if whatever it was hadn’t been true, as long as it kept you separate.”

Tom feels his eyes go wide, and he can only offer a short, startled tilt of his head.

“I was… somewhat inconvenienced at the idea, um – ” Greg shrugs, flush in his face worsening while he spreads his hands palm up in a small gesture at his middle. “I was relieved not to need to fabricate something… I’m not gifted at it.”

”You were inconvenienced?” Tom takes a thin breath, reaching up and sweeping his fingers harsh against his mouth. He hopes that might count as some confession, in a way, “Even so long ago?”

“Even since, ah – since your first engagement, yes, but… it was superficial?” Greg rolls his head against his shoulder with an avoidant turn of his eyes. He clears his throat in a weak, almost preoccupied cough. “And cooled sli-slightly with the new publishing position, admittedly, but it – uh, it’s gotten stronger, again, far more profound now that we’re all collectively much happier, I think; aren’t we?”

Tom stares for a few beats, sucking at the backs of his teeth a jerky sort of nod – first engagement, Greg says, of course, because he…

A loud, cracking bang goes off upstairs, followed by a scatter of glass onto the pathway just outside the door.

“Oh!” Greg jumps and looks up, hands gripping his seat and eyes wide at the ceiling, then turns his head at the next one. “Ar-ar-are we being attacked?”

“No,” Tom says, tightly, taking a deep, if tremulous breath in through his nose.

“…Oh,” Greg repeats, blinking twice while still peering at the ceiling. “Are these, um… yes, we are happy bursting windows?”

“Could you, for once – ” Tom hears another window shatter upstairs and covers his burning face, shoulders hunching at the follow shriek of some poor maid, then Mondale barking up a storm. “Just don’t talk.”

“I think that was the stained glass,” Greg mumbles, his voice changing pitch with some evident judgment.

Tom growls under his breath. “You’re still talking, you waste of ears – ”

Greg tonally clears his throat, as cool, spindly fingers abruptly shove under Tom’s palms to replace the grasp on his face. He murmurs something low and utterly indecipherable, prompting a yanking, if somehow palliative feeling to sink into skin and along bone, until Tom feels… limp, but not badly so, every bit of focus plunging into the cradle of Greg’s grip.

“Wha’d y’do?” Tom manages, hearing his voice but not quite feeling it come from his own tongue.

“A spell,” Greg says, lowly and somewhat furtive, as if that is something other than the only answer he could have given. “I may have memorized it from, uh – from one of my grandfather’s tomes. It was used to calm berserkers of the Vikings.”

Tom is distantly certain he should not like to be compared to such a Viking, but he’s feeling far too pleasant to really care too much about it. “Ah.”

“How does it feel?” Greg asks, plainly curious, while his fingers beat a soft tattoo to Tom’s jaw.

“Like opium, in a way,” Tom says, taking a deep breath, then exhaling with a hum, and lets Greg push him down more supine onto the settee. He open his eyes, as cool hands pull away, and reaches out to sluggishly grab at a wrist. “…You’re serious, really – ?”

Greg gently furrows his brow, then crouches back down next to the settee. “I said so.”

“But you…” Tom feels his mouth somewhat flatten, and it is… so, so odd to not feel in such a temper about these words. “You always… You want to leave.”

“It, like – I wasn’t…” Greg drops his eyes, shoulders falling, with a quiet puff of a sigh. “I wasn’t fond of what you were doing in the sense of the soul, you know,” he says, as his arm turns and twists until he can grasp onto Tom’s hand that was around his wrist. “For Uncle Logan, the way it… You must remember. And I was, um… uncertain of how I felt about the work; where I fit in? Even when I tried my hand with Kendall. But it wasn’t the you part, not really, not like that – I-I’m sorry you thought different.”

Tom exhales a bemused note of a hum. “Not me?”

Greg leans in, all of a sudden, to press his forehead to Tom’s with a shallow breath. “Not you.”

Tom stares into Greg’s eyes for a few beats, then swallows thickly, tilting his chin to make hesitating contact with Greg’s parted lips. He lets go of Greg’s hand, pressing it to the side of his neck, looping fingers against the fine chain that holds the charm. He thinks about tugging it, between breaks for breath, but it wouldn’t do much more than bruise Greg’s feelings on the subject; the returning requires ceremony, a meeting of magic and complementary words of spellcasting to jointly break the bond.

He can, perhaps, understand where Greg might have found parallel with another sort of ceremony.

“Do you, truly… truly, Gregory,” Tom begins, rubbing at the soft skin of Greg’s neck with the back of his knuckle, “My sometime Praktikant… want to be just as trussed up as this with me into some uncertain ever?”

“Tom,” Greg sighs, barely above a breath, a smile soft across his lips when he next presses them across Tom’s mouth. “I said so.”

Tom tilts his head to deepen the kiss, taking more firm hold across the flat of Greg’s nape and digging fingers up into his soft hair. He’s not sure – no, he knows that he won’t truly believe that until it actually happens, but… it is a pleasant promise to hear.

Greg pulls away with a sharp glance toward the window, blinking rapidly, eyes going wide with a curse under his breath.

Tom tries to tug Greg back with a yank at the baby hairs along his neck. “Hey– ?”

“I-I have to, uh – to fix the window,” Greg says, pressing another hasty, chaste kiss to Tom’s mouth, before he tragically pulls entirely away. He stumbles up from the floor, swaying with a hand pressing to the settee arm, as his other hand points toward the street. “There seems to be… an argument? Over the taking of our colored glass outside.”

Tom smacks his lips, a powerful line of annoyance biting into his spelled pleasant mood. He pushes himself up and squints toward the window, where some heads topped with varying hats are indeed gathered out beyond it on the stoop. He watches them for a few lazy moments, then murmurs a soft spell under his breath, which prompts a bundle of fur atop of a lady’s head starts to scurry about her; she stumbles and shrieks, then so does the man just next to her, as the fur bounds across the crowd.

A noise of muffled protest comes from the entryway. “Thomas, don’t – they-they’re atop the glass!”

#tomgreg #au where theyre magic again #you know all that research i put into the regency au i did none of that here #like even the prince being the ripper thing that's from the 1960s but lbrh an 1888 atn would do it #for hotgirlhirsch who is the reason i even finished it tho theyre not the asker obviously

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notmoreflippingelves · 3 months

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OTP ask 😉 ! Krisnix: 10, 14, 30, 39, 42 ; Estelanor: 2, 5, 18, 30, 51 please?

So I ended up splitting this up into two different posts, because I ended up rambling a good bit. The Krisnix was already done. And I am putting the EoA OT3 beneath the read more.

(It is rather lengthy and I didn't want to scandalize the EoA fandom too much with my unhinged thoughts about a "problematic" OT3 ship that (probably) no one else has ever thought about before or since. So here goes...

Esteban/Elena/Victor

2. What would they do if the other woke in a manic state after a nightmare?

Of the three of them, Victor is the least likely to have "nightmares" in the traditional sense (i.e. one the evoke fear and/or anxiety), but it isn't too uncommon for him to have dreams that make him sad. Mainly dreaming about the happy days early in his marriage with Ash--when Carla was still small and they were a proper family. Or he'll dream about being cast out of Avalor with his family shortly after the invasion and being unable to return for over four decades. Or he'll dream of the other two during the Dark Times™ and wake up feeling melancholy that Elena was isolated in the amulet and Esteban under Shuriki's thumb for forty-one years. Victor can't help but feel a little guilty and sad that he wasn't there to keep the others safe or even just provide a little humor--and even guiltier when he remembers that he spent decades feeling jealous of Elena and resentful towards Esteban, so its unlikely that the selfish person that he was then would've done anything different if he'd had the chance.

Even though he is least likely to have nightmares himself, Victor is probably the best at calming either of the others down if they have nightmares. (He does after all have practice doing so with Carla). He will carefully stroke the hair off the sweaty brow(s) in question and quietly croon the same lullaby that he used to sing Carla to sleep with. He doesn't have Elena's vocal talents, but his singing voice is soft and gentle and the words of the song are reassuring. And it's usually only a matter of time before the others drift back off to sleep.

Unsurprisingly, Elena has nightmares A LOT. Most often, she dreams of her parents wrapped up in Shuriki's green smoke or the dark, cold silence of her amulet prison. But occasionally, other dreams creep in. Shuriki victorious and making Elena watch as every one of her family and friends are killed in front of her with her powerless to stop it. Orizaba blotting out the sun for good and all Avalor being trapped in the dark. Elena's emotion magic failing to revive Esteban after he teleported in front of Cahu's sand grain for her--even though she has forgiven him even if only in the dream.

She is also, however, pretty good at comforting the others when they have nightmares. Without fail, the first thing she will do is use the "glow" spell on the scepter to bring some light back into the room. (This is particularly effective when Esteban is the one who has had the bad dream, as he does not handle waking up in the dark and afraid very well). She speaks very calmly and very slowly--and asks first before offering consoling cuddles. (Again, Esteban does not always want to be touched depending on the dream he's had and what sort of mental place he's in after it). Sometimes, she will use her scepter again--specifically the "illusion" or "truesight" to bring a up a vision of something calming and comforting.

(It is worth nothing that I do headcanon Elena and Esteban have a bit of a strong psychic link due to their crystal well connection. So I think one or both might be able to "sense" the other having had a particularly bad dream. And on the nights where they are apart from each other, they will not let distance stop them from comforting each other. Elena can and will wake up one of the Guardians to fly her whenever Esteban is. Esteban will reach for his staff and teleport to Elena's side. And after they do this, they make a point to "check in" on Victor as well to see how he is doing/make sure he feels included).

Esteban, meanwhile, has the most frequent nightmares of the three. Shuriki and the Dark Times™ is naturally the most frequent source and subject of his dreams. Esteban is forced to recall the horrendous things that she did to Esteban's family, his country, and to Esteban himself. And more than that the things that she made him do that horrified and disgusted him and broke him in ways that he did not even know that he could be broken. It's almost a relief when he has a nightmare that does not concern Shuriki in some way and instead focuses on one of the other frightening times from his life--those times when he dreams of his parents ship going down, of Elena and Luisa disowning him, of Ash and Zopilote inevitably realizing that they could just kill him to drain Takaina's magic out of him and into themselves, of Cahu turning his abuelos to stone and Esteban not being able to teleport in front of Elena before the same fate befell her.

As he is usually the one (though not always the only one) who needs be comforted after a nightmare as opposed to doing the comforting, he has the least amount of practice at post-nightmare calming. Nevertheless, he has a few go-to strategies. He will usually teleport to the kitchen and back and come back with a jug of water, a few glasses, and some wash cloths on a tray. He will pour a some water into a cup and hand it over to the person(s) who had the nightmare(s). He'll also dampen the wash cloth with the cool water and then trace smooth, sinuous patterns with it across forehead(s) and the back of their neck(s). He'll also encourage the other(s) to count to ten and back with him, while also leading them into slow, deep relaxing breaths until they calm down.

5. Describe their cozy night in.

(I'm basing this primarily on the scenario of my w.i.p. where Esteban has moved out of the palace into a house of his own and most of the OT3 times happen at his new home--to avoid scandalizing the rest of the Flores family or putting Carla in a weird spot).

Victor cooks dinner for the other two, but Esteban retains custody and control of the pepper shaker so that Victor doesn't go overboard with the seasonings yet again. Elena is only allowed to help with gathering ingredients, chopping vegetables and setting the table, etc. because otherwise she is a kitchen disaster (also Esteban and Victor still feel a bit weird about ordering their queen around even if they know she's always happy to help.) After dinner, they sit around and have a quiet evening together. Victor has been promising for awhile to teach Elena how to play (i.e. cheat at) poker--much to Esteban's discomfort--and how to throw knives --much to Esteban's even greater discomfort, so they will often go into the other room and be chaotic, while Esteban works on paper work by the fire. (I tend to headcanon that post-canon redeemed Esteban either stays on as Naomi's assistant chancellor, takes over the bookkeeping and inventory for Luisa's chocolate shop, or does both--so either way there is always a lot of paperwork for him to do. ) When they're each done for the night with their little side projects, Esteban, Victor, and Elena regroup. Usually, there will be guitar playing (Esteban and Elena canonically play, and Victor probably knows how to as well) and singing and/or dancing. Other times, one of them (usually Esteban) will read aloud to the others from the latest popular novel.

When they start to get tired (but not too tired...if you catch my drift), they make their way into the massive bed in the bedroom and... [redacted].

18. How likely are they to have fur babies? How many and what kind?

I am assuming that "fur babies" refers to pets and not like an omegaverse situation, lol. This is actually an interesting thought as like...I'm not even 100% sure that cats and dogs exist in Avalor. I'm pretty sure they do given that there are some in Sofia the First and the little dog sculptures that come to life in the Valentina episode. But like...apparently, jaguars are extinct in the Sofia-verse, according to sunbird oracle and I don't think we see regular cats or dogs again at any other point, unless I am forgetting something. So like...it's possible that they don't????

But I'm just going to assume that cats and dogs do exist even if we don't see them.

Something about Esteban just screams "has allergies" to me, but I'm not sure I can put my finger on what exactly. Other than just me projecting onto him even more than I already do. But even if he does have allergies, it's very possible that the crystal well cured him of this, so that he can enjoy the furry darlings in peace.

I would say that Victor has dog energy, Esteban has cat energy (if he's only just now gotten over his allergies), and Elena has both. Assuming the royal household doesn't already have cats and dogs, they will probably soon acquire some for maximum cuddles.

I would like to think that Victor and Carla will get a dog at some point. It was a probably a tough and resilient stray from the wrong side of the tracks--not unlike the Delgados themselves. Victor probably wasn't too sure about it at first, but honestly, he can never say no to Carla and it's not exactly an unpleasant thing to agree to. There will inevitably be puppies at some point, because the thought never occurred to Victor to get the dog neutered once they agreed to take it in (And if the thought did occur to him, he probably would've resisted anyway because "why should we deprive the dog of one of life's greatest joys.") Victor and Carla will probably keep one of the puppies, and Elena who fell in love with the puppers at first sight will probably keep at least one more for herself (and the rest of the royal family)--and they'll make sure that the others go to good families.

Another thought that I had is that perhaps Elena uncovered an illegal magical animal trafficking ring in Avalor and put a stop to it. And maybe one of the animals that they discovered was a jaquin--specifically one that has been raised in captivity and/or had its wings or claws damaged in some way. They probably originally intended to return it to Vallestrella to live with the other jaquins, but it was eventually determined that due to its special circumstances, the poor thing might not survive out there on its own (even if under the protection of the other jaquins), so it actually makes more sense for it to live in the royal palace. Elena takes excellent care of her new "pet that isn't exactly a pet" and makes sure that it can socialize with Skylar and the other Guardians--as well as with the royal family and friends.

30. Your OTP gets to pick out each other’s outfits; what is each wearing?

Victor and Elena are both very into Esteban's little adventure outfit (God, they're so me-) --with the three whole buttons undone on his shirt, no jacket or cravat, the scarf belt wrapped around his waist and those sinfully tight trousers. So, the two of them (ganging up on Esteban as a group as they often do) are often able to persuade him into their outfit of choice. And unless there is a particular reason for Esteban to dress more formally, he can usually be persuaded. It's nice that he's able to dress more casually now than before, and he knows how good this looks on him.

(On a related note, Victor absolutely *hates* Esteban's yellow jacket that he wears for formal court functions. And so he does have a long-standing fantasy of asking Esteban to wear it to bed one of these nights so that Victor and Elena can literally rip it off him and tear the hated thing to shreds. But Victor hasn't acted on this impulse. Yet.)

Victor is also very into Elena's little adventure outfit with the tunic and ye olde skinny jeans. This is slightly for thirsty reasons. (He doesn't really get to admire her very nice legs when they're hidden beneath her skirts, but he can when she wears trousers.) But he is also aware that Elena is more comfortable in this kind of outfit than in her more usual "queenly" attire. Also a more casual look suits her very impulsive, headstrong and easily-distracted personality. Far easier for her to climb a tree on a whim this way. And Victor loves seeing Elena at her most "Elena," and she's very comfortable in her skin in this outfit . (Victor has not yet had the privilege of seeing Elena in her skintight fencing gear yet, or he would have a new favorite. And this would be entirely for the thirsty reasons. No one could ever say Victor Delgado is a saint. Not even close.)

Esteban, meanwhile, likes seeing Elena dressed like the queen that she is. The finest of gowns, the most extravagant of jewels. All should see her and be instantly struck by her beauty, her radiance, her goodness, her majesty in any and every sense of the word. Every Avaloran citizen's heart should swell with awe and pride as they clasp eyes yet again on the greatest queen in all the Ever Realm. Of Elena's canon outfits, I would say that Esteban's favorite is probably the red ballgown that she wears for official court functions throughout the show (and the one that her face character wears in the Disney parks). Red is after all, Elena's signature color--just as it is Esteban's own--and it is a very flattering one on her indeed. He would probably try to get Elena to accessorize the dress a bit more than she usually does. (A necklace that matches her crown, a jeweled broach at the center of her belt, rings on every finger, etc) though I can't say that he would be super successful.

Victor's only has two canon outfits and neither of them are particularly great. (The Dracula-core malvago cape is certainly memorable but not particularly flattering or the kind of thing that Esteban or Elena would care to see him again). So I am going to let Esteban and Elena find something new and better for him. Victor won't mind. He's always liked the finer things (too much for his own good), and he's delighted to be the "sugar. baby" for two royals who have very refined and expensive taste (Esteban) and love to spoil their loved ones (Elena).

Essentially, I think they would look for a more flattering and more upscale version of his "regular" canon outfit. Shirt with waistcoat, trousers and cravat. Elena and Esteban will make sure that Victor has his share of jackets too, but unless there's a particular reason why Victor needs to wear one (weather or a formal occasion), I think they'd prefer he go sans jacket with just the shirt and waistcoat. Victor is rather broad-shouldered and from the little we can see through his jacket, he seems to have some nice biceps on him too, so it would be nice to have something that will show off his arms a little better.

Based on my initial impression, green ( to match his eyes) and black would probably be the most flattering colors for Victor. And given that we see him wear these colors in his "regular" outfit, we can presume that Victor likes them reasonably well. So I think Esteban and Elena would probably focus on a lot on these shades when adding new pieces to their novio's wardrobe.

I think that they would particularly look for a patterned waistcoat, like the kind we often see in the Georgian and Victorian time periods (or even like Julio Guzman's Magister of Trade vest on the show itself). Nothing too over-the-top mind, but given that Victor is a rather flamboyant person in general, I think he deserves something a little flashier and more ornate now that he can. Preferably ones in green, black, or both is kind of the vibe I think they should strive for. A few examples below:

I also think Victor is confident enough to pull off a black blouse with his waistcoat. He's a retired thief and an ex-malvago, so he definitely has more-than-a-bit of a "bad boy" edge to him and that would be reflected in his wardrobe. I also think Elena and Esteban would probably find that very attractive (even if Esteban would never admit it). So they make sure that he has a black shirt or two in addition to the basic whites. And neither of them complains too much if Victor desides to forgo the cravat entirely and leave the top few buttons his black blouse undone beneath his waistcoat.

51. What’s a non verbal way they say I love you?

Well, Elena canonically has her emotion magic, so literally all she would need to do is *feel* a profound sense of love for either of the others and her dress would turn pink and they would all know what was meant. That being said, she is very open and affectionate in general, so she is constantly telling the others verbally or through little gestures how much she cares about them. I feel like physical touch is her primary love language considering how physically affectionate we see her with her family and friends throughout the show. So, she is constantly reaching for the others' hands, kissing their cheeks, placing a hand on their shoulders, booping noses, etc. Victor naturally responds to this right away as he also a very physically affectionate person. It takes a bit more getting used from Esteban (even platonically, it was a lot), because he's naturally more reserved and because he's profoundly touch-starved (to the point of being overwhelmed when he first started getting more physical contact from people he likes). But now he thrives on it.

Victor shows his affection for the others in a lot of a different ways, most of them somewhat casual. He uses pet names for the others a lot. (Esteban has gone from "El Segundo" (derogatory) to "mi/nuestro El Segundo" (affectionate) to Victor. Meanwhile, Victor calls Elena "mi reina" ("my queen") and "jaquinita" ("little (female) jaquin")--which is just so cute I could scream.

Additionally, cooking with or for the people he cares about (see also: Carla) has always been a big thing with Victor. So he would constantly be doing things like trying to learn how to make various foreign dishes (ex: ramen or sushi from Satu, souvlaki from Corinthia) that the other mentioned trying/enjoying on foreign diplomatic visits. Or making (over-peppered but otherwise very tasty) soup whenever the others are feeling sick.

He also spends a good bit of time trying to make the others laugh--especially Esteban because his laughter is so comparatively rare (and therefore so much more precious). Cue Victor telling the worst fucking jokes you've ever heard to try to get the others to chuckle. (Elena thinks Victor is genuinely hilarious because her sense of humor is just as bad). He also is known to play particularly imaginative pranks (including ones on himself) to try and get the others' attention. Esteban is frequently just rolling his eyes at Victor, but there is a very amused twinkle in them when he does so.

Esteban's love language is a combination of acts of service, little gifts, words of affirmation, and physical touch that is perhaps best described as noticing and remembering things. This is partly due to the fact that "noticing and remembering" everything was quite literally his job as chancellor for over four decades. But another major factor is that Esteban spent most of his childhood wanting and waiting to be noticed and remembered himself, so he's especially sensitive to wanting to make sure that his partners feel seen and valued.

He never needs to be reminded about birthdays, anniversaries, holidays coming up. He is always on top of things and has been making careful plans for weeks (if not months). He will, however, very carefully and gently remind the others about the upcoming important date if he fears that they have forgotten. (They often need the reminder. Elena in particular).

And not even just the "big" things. He'll remember a book that Victor casually mentioned and then go search for it so that he can read it too and discuss it with him. He'll remember that Elena can sometimes get anxious whenever she has to make a big speech in front of crowds, so he adds a little note to the top of her scroll that says something like "You've got this, prima. It is a wonderful speech, and I know you will deliver it well. But even if by some bizarre chance it does not go well, I am still extremely proud of you and grow prouder every day." And of course, this is just the little pep talk Elena needs.

He notices Victor moving his head more carefully and rubbing his neck. Cue Esteban drawing him a warm bath and offering to massage Victor's tired back and shoulders until he feels better. He's not *consciously* tracking Elena's "courses," (that would be a bit too creepy and invasive for them both), but he is nevertheless mindful of the subtle changes in Elena's mood and health as any given month goes on. So he is nevertheless ready with a box of Abuela's chocolate, ye olde warming pad, and ye olde ibuprofen before Elena even asks for it.

Basically, Esteban is just always paying attention and always looking for a million quiet little ways that he can make his dos queridos ( and all of the rest of his family and friends to be fair) feel cherished and noticed in every way.

#vicestebalena #my beloveds #elena of avalor #victor delgado #esteban flores #elena castillo flores #i was trouble finding the exact waistcoats i was imagining in green so i had to recolor the first two ( from original blue) in photoshop #which is why they look slightly off but i hope you see and understand my vision #most of the roccoco/regency/victorian waistcoats i could find in green were either solids or too “light” a color than would suit victor #victor can be a little fancy boy as a treat but he shouldn't ever be a complete fop (that's esteban's job)#elena and victor have very similar senses of humor imo. as in terrible #do i have much canon evidence for this? not really apart from elena's bad jokes and how cringefail (affectionate) 'don't look now' is #but i know it in my heart to be true #victor's sense of humor is a bit more l.e.w.d and elena is a bit more likely to over-explain a terrible pun #but overall they have super similar vibes and they crack each other up while esteban rolls his eyes and suffers in the background #ironically victor is probably the most grounded and emotionally mature in this relationship for the most part...#but he has the sense of humor of a 12 year old who just discovered innuendoes for the first time #additionally victor doesn't do any knife throwing in canon but i just...I know in my heart he can and that he's really good at it #i mean he was a thief on the run for over 40 years without magic; he had to have learned how to defend himself #this trio is everything to me tbh #and to think this all started b/c i thought estevictor would be h.o.t and then discovered estebalena not long afterwards #and then accidentally put a brief vicelena moment in the estebalena i was working on #and then my third eye was opened and i realized i could in fact have them all at once and that it would be so so good #i just think after all esteban has been through he deserves to be smothered in affection and attention and validation #and the others are happy to deliver and to receive the love that esteban is so desperate to give in return #ask memes

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