#is it anticipatory of the holidays after Halloween?

[lux-scriptum]

Using my journal isnt helping so tumblr as my journal it is

[songofthesibyl]

Calan Gaeaf

In my frustrations about the next Tamlin Week, particularly grappling with what to do with the “bites/chest” day, the answer suddenly became clear, and I wrote it out in a white heat in a few hours—I even incorporated both prompts. I needed to get it out, so am posting it now.

This is a Tamlin POV of chapters 43-45 of A Court of Thorns and Roses—Feyre’s last trial—and includes dialogue from those chapters, as well as chapter 17. Calan Gaeaf is a Welsh holiday akin to Samhain/Halloween, a time associated with the Ballad of Tam Lin.

The feeling of scratchy wool against his skin comforted him as he stood surrounded by darkness, and the shallow breathing of strangers. It was the night of the final trial. Nerves were taut, tension was thick in the air. It was difficult to breathe, even without a hood covering him. It felt the same as his mask that was itself a second shift, a second skin. He couldn’t help but imagine it off, though, as easily as the hood could come off.

But he was bound by both. And he preferred the scratchy fabric to Amarantha’s tongue against the side of his face. A feral lick of the length of it, even over his mask, that promised similar caresses to come. She was getting bolder, impatient. Now that it was the end. Confident that Feyre would lose, and he would break. That there was no force in the world that could defeat her. The High Lords all brought to shame, him most of all—he had gotten to know it well these weeks, as Feyre’s forced gyrations against Rhysand, her vomit nightly on the floor, driven past the point of reason, nearly blacking out and rising again for more torment. Night after night. Shame, too, in his own inability to stop it, his own weakness that had led to Rhysand’s lips against hers in renewed bonds of ownership. The shame had hung heavy on him—he could not bear to look back at her as he returned obediently to his own perch. 

But he could still feel her, still taste her on his tongue, and he needed this, in the room they had briefly shared, steeped in darkness, the roughness of the shroud. Scraping off Amarantha’s touch and her anticipatory claiming. And the softness and comfort he had indulged in that had almost condemned him and Feyre both, so close to the end, after so long holding out.

Always weakness, at the end.

There was panic in the air, and soft whining. Two breaths other than his own. Struggling, as if sucking on the fabric of their hoods, suffocating. As he, they were players in this final atrocity. They knew what awaited them. He thought of Lucien, held by Rhysand, his pain reverberating throughout the throne room. It was to be another game.

He had not slept for fear. Lucien had remained mercifully out of Amarantha’s sights, focused as she was on Rhysand’s own nightly game. His fury at watching Rhysand torture Feyre was boundless, but Amarantha’s anger at Feyre’s arrival had been subtle, almost unnoticeable at first. But he was always by Amarantha’s side, and was learning to know her, much as he hated it. A rising anger that was Feyre’s continual survival. An annoyance at finding Feyre and Rhysand together, though that had been no different than any of his other torments. She had hardly spoken after, and dismissed him early. And while she had predictably gloated over Feyre’s presumed defeat, the edge was still there. He had been taken from his room, hoodwinked, without a word from her. 

He strained to hear her now, through the stone. The whimpers of his companions, however, grew louder, and the guard watching over them snapped at them to keep their mouths shut. Only the breaths now, short and shallow.

He focused again, willing all of his dulled fae senses to hear. At making out Amarantha’s viperish drawl, the fog returned, his senses pulled back in forever recoil—but then Feyre’s voice came through, sharp and clear, and piercing him as always, as if his powers had already fully returned.

“I love you.”

He furrowed his brow in confusion for a moment, realizing quickly Amarantha must have glamoured someone as him as part of the game. Under the hood, he mouthed Feyre’s words in response. Her next words were as clear.

“No matter what she says about it, no matter if it’s only with my insignificant human heart. Even when they burn my body, I’ll love you.”

His breathing now matched his doomed companions. He was attuned now, and could hear the rest.

“You’ll be lucky, my darling,” he heard Amarantha say, “if we have even enough left for you to burn.”

Silence, for a beat.

“You never figured out my riddle, did you? Pity. The answer is so lovely.”

There was a wave of anxiety, a churn of his stomach over that. 

“Get it over with,” Feyre said.

“No final words to her? Very well, then.”

The door was opened and they were shoved through. He was disoriented as the rest, but he knew it was the throne room. Quieter than usual, though. The final play was starting, and they all knew it as well as he. But their parts remained unseen, in front of them. He sought Feyre’s direction, and breathed in deeply, sensing her closeness before he was shoved to the ground. His disorientation cut through with the violent clap of Amarantha’s hands. That, too, he knew well from the nightly performance.

Feyre was close. He sucked on his lips at the remembrance, before straightening himself, and waiting. 

“Your final task, Feyre. Stab each of these unfortunate souls in the heart. They’re innocent—not that it should matter to you, since it wasn’t a concern the day you killed Tamlin’s poor sentinel. And it wasn’t a concern for dear Jurian when he butchered my sister. But if it’s a problem, you can always refuse. Of course, I’ll take your life in exchange, but a bargain’s a bargain, is it not? If you ask me, though, given your history of murdering our kind, I do believe I’m offering you a gift. Well? I wouldn’t want you to miss this, old friend.”

Jurian. He heard the swish of fabric that must have been her lifting her arm. 

He wanted to laugh at her words. Murdering our kind. Feyre had killed but once, and had expressed genuine sorrow and remorse, had lost sleep over it. Whatever hatred in her heart had not been at its core, and melted easily, a spell of protection she had woven over herself, like the layer she applied over a finished painting. Yet so easily had spring arrived that year, how quickly winter’s frosts had melted. In mere months, the fae had become her family, her safety, her home, as she became his. Amarantha had hated, had killed more faeries and High Fae than Feyre had. No less than himself, than many others in this room. It was not the humans Amarantha hated. It was the heart. And that she was wrong. 

He heard movement. There was no begging for another way, Feyre knew better than that. This was it. He admired her strength, as much as it pained him. Even if she managed to get to him—Amarantha would make him last out of the three. Feyre would have to kill again before it was over. And he knew how difficult it was for her, every time, as it was for him. But this was a game Amarantha especially liked to play.

“Not so fast.” 

There was the sound of fabric again, close. The hood of one of the condemned fae. To make her look, and them look back. To make it more difficult. If Feyre supposedly hated the fae so much, to look into their eyes would make no difference. They might as well have been eyes of wood. But Amarantha knew better.

The fae, a male whose voice he did not recognize, pleaded for his life. He thought of Andras, in the forest, his skin gone. How horrified he had been. It felt as if his own skin had been torn off, that it had been his hands that had torn Andras. That had made the desperate scratches at the faces of his people desperately trying to tear off their masks.

He had sent them, for two years, until he could no longer bear it. It had taken him forty-six years to start sending them out again. Feyre only had a moment to decide, and this fae was not willing as they were. Not that they should have been. None of them should have. This poor, wretched, scared child. It was what they all were, under the skin.

Please, the fae pleaded, to the sound of weeping in the distance. Please.

The increase in urgency in his voice. Feyre had made a move closer. He could hear her, feel her, smell her breath, its struggle for evenness. To not let Amarantha see. To steel herself. She had told him of her first kill. Alone, herself a child, in the woods. A rabbit. She had slit its throat. There had been no pleading from it, and it had fed her and her family. Yet she had gone back to the forest to weep. 

Andras. He had only stared at her, she told him.

“Don’t! Please!”

The sounds, familiar to a killer like him. The last desperate, panicked pleas. The fae’s death was approaching, and he railed against it. But it was as inevitable as Andras’. He heard the plunge, and the scream, and the cry of a loved one. And the clatter of a dagger on the ground. Wood. Ash.

“Very good.” There was no surprise or shock in Amarantha’s voice. “Now the next. Oh, don’t look so miserable, Feyre. Aren’t you having fun?”

He shuddered inwardly, as he did whenever Feyre’s name was on Amarantha’s lips. But was brought to attention by a soft female voice beside him, beginning a prayer. A prayer for the dying. Immediately he was at the manor again, a few months and a lifetime ago. And he was reciting it. And he heard Feyre’s voice—

It will be all right. It will be all right. 

Land of milk and honey.

My wings.

Feel no pain.

I regret that there was such…hate in my heart. I wish I could undo it, and—I’m sorry. 

“Let me enter eternity!”

Oh, Feyre.

Fear no evil. There was resolve in the female’s voice. Death was coming, but she had accepted it, only leaving a sharp intake of breath at the plunge, and the sound and smell of blood splattering on the floor. A second later, the dropped dagger.

She had done it. 

Slit the rabbit’s throat. 

Shot Andras. 

There was only him left, and she could not kill him. You do not have to kill again, he wanted to say. After today, never. Never alone in the woods. Never weeping.

He was given sight, his hood finally removed. Feyre in front of him was pale-faced, eyes shining with tears. But wearing her own clothes, and still standing. She stumbled back, though, upon seeing him. 

“Something wrong?” Amarantha said, dripping with satisfaction. 

“Not…not fair.”

“Fair? I wasn’t aware you humans knew of the concept. You kill Tamlin, and he’s free. And then you can have him all to yourself. Unless you think it would be more appropriate to forfeit your life. After all: what’s the point? To survive, only to lose him? Imagine all those years you were going to spend together…suddenly alone. Tragic, really. Though a few months ago, you hated our kind enough to butcher us—surely you’ll move on easily enough. Jurian’s human lover did.”

He knew his presence threw her, but Feyre was smart, and strong. She had passed the first two trials. She had endured Rhysand, all the mountain had to give her. She had entered the mountain with a knife and her love and nothing else. He communicated all this, through his eyes. She had the answer already. He had given it to her. As she had proven with her hunting, her art—she was a quick study. Think, he willed her. Lucien’s ham-fisted comment about his heart of stone that had been so overt he thought all of Prythian had heard. The Attor, unknowingly revealing it as he focused on concealing her. When his and Feyre’s bodies lay entwined, did she hear it?  Could she feel it against hers, or had she dismissed the silence as a quirk of the fae? 

Yet his heart within the stone beat fiercely now. He could see it in her eyes—not a blind panic, or a desperate rationalization, a way to not stab him yet still win. Impossibilities—she was trusting her instincts, that had never misled her. That had brought her on a path, towards him, and their freedom. From tyranny, from fear. 

The months, years, of his own torture, of what he himself had wrought, suddenly ceased to weigh on him. No one else was watching, waiting. He forgot Amarantha existed, every horrible, rotten thing. Only the light of Feyre’s presence. His complete belief in her. He had never met someone so brave, she buoyed him, lifted him up.

The light of realization finally came. The path that would lead to him. There was no weight at all, he felt his heart would burst through the stone.

Feyre approached him. One step. Another. Then breathed in, and took the dagger. He could not help but smile at the resolve on her face. The defiance. They had won. His breath quickened as he braced himself, ready for his heart to finally be free. 

And the gift, he realized, in that moment. Of her love, and, before she even struck, their moment outside of all of it, when he was finally free of all fear.

“I love you,” she said, and stabbed him.

Despite his readiness, the force of the blow, the pain was still a shock. He cried out, involuntarily, the ash deep inside him, until it pierced his rib cage and took his breath, a horrible thud shuddering through him as it hit the stone. He fell forward with the force of it. The ash worked quickly, even as she withdrew the dagger.

He clutched his chest, panting. Blood began to pour from the wound. But not from his heart. He hadn’t burst through. His heart still had its faint, pathetic beat, unperceived deep within the stone.

And it was heavy. And he remembered his surroundings again. Two dead bodies on the floor. Three ash blades, the last dropping with a pathetic thud by his side. A crowd murmuring at the realization of what he already felt, deep within himself.

And her.

He pressed his hand firmly against his wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding, what was going to happen now.

The blood trickled through his fingers.

He could hear voices in the distance. Saying that Feyre had won, demanding Amarantha free them.

The wound was beginning to close, but not quickly enough. He could barely breathe, let alone move. The flecks of ash still embedded in his flesh. Amarantha wanted him healed. But slowly.

“I’ll free him whenever I see fit,” Amarantha drawled, answering them. “Feyre didn’t specify when I had to free them. Just that I had to. At some point. Perhaps when you’re dead. You assumed that when I said instantaneous freedom regarding the riddle, it applied to the trials too? Foolish, stupid human.”

He had known, they had all known. But Feyre’s light, and the look in her eyes, and she had done it. She had defied Amarantha, the entire mountain, and freed them. He could get up. He could get the dagger, and stab her.

He was free. He was not afraid. But he couldn’t breathe or move, and his blood still trickled. 

No. 

She did it, he told himself. You can get up. Stop this. Get up. Please. He pleaded, then cursed himself anew. Why was he still so weak?

Why was he still so weak. 

He heard Amarantha’s approach, and out of the corner of his eye, watched Feyre undo the steps she had taken towards him.

The edge that Amarantha had kept tethered began to be loosed. “And you,” she spat, “you. I’m going to kill you.”

There was a cry, that he could not place. And then Feyre joined him on the floor. 

“I’m going to make you pay for your insolence.”

Feyre’s scream tore through him, rattling him to his core as Amarantha lifted, then slammed her back down onto the stone floor.

No. No, this would not happen. It would be different this time. Feyre had survived, she had endured, she had passed the trials. But Amarantha was not holding back now. Because the game was finally over. And the real reason for the trials was clear. Feyre had his love. And this was what happened to those he loved.

No. Not again.

But his blood still flowed out of him. The ash still held him fast.

Get up, get up, pathetic beast.

“Admit you don’t really love him, and I’ll spare you.” She stalked closer. “Admit what a cowardly, lying, inconstant bit of human trash you are.”

Feyre’s screams of agony rang through him, shattering and piecing him back together as Amarantha did Feyre.

“You think you’re worthy of him. A High Lord? You think you deserve anything at all, human?”

Amidst Feyre’s screams was the awful sound of her bones breaking, one at a time.

Get up get up get up.

“What are you but bones and worm meat? What are you, compared to our kind that you think you’re worthy of us?”

Amarantha became shrill in her indignation and fury. Feyre had proven her wrong, and she knew. And was making her suffer for it. She had always promised him it would end like this. But he thought—he had thought—

Amidst futile cries of protest from the crowd, he caught sight of Rhysand, taking the dagger at his side. He hadn’t been so grateful for his presence in a long time. Even as a distraction from Amarantha torturing Feyre, while he willed himself strength that had not been his to master for over forty-nine years.

“You are all pigs—all scheming, filthy pigs.”

Amarantha was on Feyre now, stepping on her broken ribs and eliciting more screams. 

Maybe this itself distracted her. Maybe Rhysand would get his chance.

“Your mortal heart is nothing to us.”

Be ready, he thought. Wait for Rhysand to act and get up.

Please.

But she did not even have to look at Rhysand to send him flying back against the wall. He rushed again. But her wall of protection was up.

“You traitorous piece of filth,” she barked at him. “You’re just as bad as these human beasts. You were planning this all along.”

He heard Rhysand’s body slam against the wall and the sound, final, of the dagger clattering to the ground. The sound, over and over again, of his body hitting stone, until he finally groaned with pain, and even in her state, Feyre begged Amarantha to stop.

“Stop. Stop? Don’t pretend you care, human.” She continued, stretching Feyre to the point of breaking. Her cries of pain. He had never wanted Feyre in any pain. He never wanted to ever make her cry. He had just thought—but he had known what would happen, hadn’t he? What always happened. If he had just given in, long before. When Amarantha first came to him after he became High Lord. Before that. If he hadn’t accepted Rhysand’s kindness. If he had just accepted his place in things. They had all tried to tell him. 

“Say that you don’t love him!”

He had never heard such violence in her. Ever.

He looked at Feyre, sobbing with pain, blacking out, and waking up again. Screaming as her back was arched. Again and again. 

There was no more sound from Rhysand. As if he was not there at all.

And finally, the last of his resistance left him. He could hardly move, his wound still wide, blood pooling onto the floor. He had to crawl. As he always had, as he was always meant to.

He was not worthy of Feyre. He knew she would never forgive him this. But it was all that was left to do. 

He clutched his wound anew as he made his way to Amarantha. She had spared Lucien. Maybe—

“Amarantha,” he said, the sound of it hateful to him. “Stop. I’m sorry—I’m sorry for what I said about Clythia all those years ago. Please.”

Bones. Screams.

Amarantha ignored him, too intent on her purpose. “Say that you don’t love him,” she demanded. “Admit to your inconstant heart.” 

He raised his voice, with the last of the strength he had. 

“Amarantha, please.” The effort caused an increase in blood flow, forming another pool underneath him. “I’ll do anything.”

She dismissed him. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Their wings were torn. He begged his father. They killed the sister first, and made her mother watch.

“Say it, you vile beast.”

Hundreds of years, and how strong he was. He had always been this underneath. So be it.

He began to open his mouth to beg again, when Feyre looked at him, once again clear-eyed and radiant. And it was as before, and it was only the two of them in the room, and there was no pain. His blood cooled on his hand as he beheld her. Once again, he fought to rise. To speak to her, and ignore Amarantha. It was their love that would save them, as it had condemned them. He could see it, impossibly bright, within her. 

“Love.” She coughed, choking on blood. “The answer to the riddle is…love.”

And all at once, it was back. He breath strong and clear. He lowered his hand, knowing it but unable to believe it for a moment. He looked at her, wide-eyed. She had done it. They—

But then there was a crack through the world, and it was gone forever. 

His love, his future, any goodness in his life. This is where it had all began and all ended. 

Wings torn from their bodies. His mother’s severed head. Lucien’s eye, and scarred flesh. Andras, skinned, alone in winter woods. The two fae lifeless beside the third—

That was supposed to be him. 

But Feyre had freed him. His heart beat strong, his blood flowed within him, and remained inside. Crackling with powers he had not remembered ever having before. Not his power. It was the crack of bones, the tearing of wings, every beating heart he had sent beyond the wall that he had felt cease. Feyre’s screams. His power screamed to him.

It was too much, it was everywhere inside him, there was no room, it had to get out. It was blood, rushing, boiling. All he could see was red.

Vile beast.

He had always shown Feyre who he was. What Amarantha had not covered with a mask, that he would know he was the same as her. So he showed her now the face she longed for. He no longer begged, but snarled, as an animal. 

Amarantha backed away in response, all fury gone, only fear in her eyes.

“Please.”

He launched her against the wall with his magic, and finished shifting, pinning her there with his paw. She thrashed against him desperately, flailing limbs like an overturned beetle. 

He heard noises, vaguely, around them, and raised a shield just as she had moments before. Lucien’s voice cut through the crowd, calling his name. He hardly needed to see the sword to catch it, as inevitable as this was, this dance between them of centuries.

He had never been more than a beast. Never meant for more than to be locked in grip with her. Owned, claimed. They were the same. She was right about him all along. More cruel than her, more hateful than his father and brothers combined. It’s what she always wanted. His admission, his embrace.

There was no heart to pierce. He lifted the blade instead, ignoring her screams, and drove it into her skull as easily as the ash dagger had run through him, only stopping at the thud of the stone wall behind her. 

And then, as intimately as he had bit Feyre the night before, he took her neck in his teeth, clenching down until he had pierced her through, and spit her out.

Finally penetrated by him. Finally his lovely claws, finally his mouth on her. Locked into an eternal embrace, lovers unto death.

He withdrew then, and noticed with a sudden strangeness, as the mask clung to his face, the blood from his bite still fresh in his mouth—how open and exposed he still was. How heavy his heart remained in his chest.

[bow-of-aros]

Day Twenty-One: Costume

Summary: It's the annual CCRP Halloween bash and Ted's bored out of his fucking mind. Then, Paul walks in with no costume. Typical.

-

Okay I know that summary isn't one of my best but my brain is melting rn. I have so many assignments due it's not even funny so I wrote this one really fast. Hope that y'all enjoy!! <33

-

It was the CCRP holiday party, the one time it was actually acceptable to drink at work. Technically, they were limited to one drink per person, but Ted was nothing if not good at sneaking booze.

He’d gone as Elmo because it was the last adult-sized costume in their local Spirit Halloween. It’s what he gets for finally looking for a costume on Halloween.

Bill was here as Prince Charming, Charlotte was a Pink Lady from Grease, and Mr. Davidson was Batman.

All in all, some very lackluster costume choices. Ted hadn’t been expecting anything better, so he just leaned back and took a sip of the punch that he’d managed to spike.

That’s where he was when Paul walked in.

Paul wasn’t supposed to be here. In fact, Paul had said in no uncertain terms that he was absolutely not coming to what he’d called a completely unnecessary gathering after work hours when we could be at home.

Yeah, major stick in the mud, right?

The world righted itself a bit when Ted noticed that Paul wasn’t wearing a costume. Just his plain old business wear without even a name tag to spruce it up.

He wasn’t even trying.

And he was… Walking towards Ted?

This night just kept getting weirder.

“Hey, Ted. How are you?”

Okay, now he knows that something was wrong. Paul never engages in inane small talk.

“Cut the shit, Paul.” Maybe the alcohol in his system loosened his tongue just a bit, “We both know that you don’t want to be here and you definitely don’t want to ask me how I am.”

The last bit was said in a mocking tone and the last thing that Ted expected was for Paul to relax against the wall at his words. That’s exactly what happened though.

Like he said: It was a weird night.

“You’re right,” Paul sighed and Ted tried not to let his jaw drop at his words, “I don’t want to be here. But I want to be at home even less right now.”

At Ted’s look of confusion, he elaborated, “Richie has his friends over tonight for a horror movie marathon and he does not take jumpscares well.”

“Ahhhhhhh,” Ted nodded in understanding, “Petey’s over there, right? They having a good time?”

“Yeah. He looked like he felt pretty bad when I left the house which I appreciate, but he’s definitely having fun.”

Ted just smiled before looking Paul up and down, slipping into a more sardonic grin, “So, what are you supposed to be? Boring office man who doesn’t know how to have any fun?”

Instead of taking offense as he’d expected, Paul matches his grin and says, “Ha ha, very funny. You know, our costumes match, in a way.”

That doesn’t make any fucking sense, but Ted will bite.

“Oh yeah? And how’s that?”

“Well, you’re Tickle-Me-Elmo, right?”

Oh. Oh shit.

“Paul, you don’t have to do this.” Ted was already holding back anticipatory giggles which did not bode well. Maybe he should’ve listened to the one-drink-per-person rule.

The dam broke the second Paul’s fingers started wiggling against his stomach.

“Nonono! Paul wahahahait!” Ted curled around Paul’s hand, clinging onto it and yet not doing very much to push it away.

“Actually, Ted, I’m pretty sure that you’re supposed to say ‘Tickle me!’” Paul didn’t let up, but he seemed a little lighter than before, so Ted figured that he could deal with this, “Get it? Because you’re Tickle-Me-Elmo and I’m the tickle monster!”

Ted was going to actually die if this went on any longer. This was not how he’d planned on tonight going, but at least he could blame his red face on the laughing instead of on Paul’s proximity.

When he looked up through teary eyes, he saw something he’d never seen before: An honest to God smile on Paul’s face.

Sure, he’d seen the occasional wry grin or twist of his lips, but never a smile like this one. His eyes were fucking squinting!

It was weirdly adorable.

Then, Paul started moving to his sides and Ted’s thoughts lost some of their coherency as his laughter took on more of a frantic tone.

Maybe he could stand this for a little longer.

For Paul.

[dumturtle]

new year, old habits → quirtle

TAGGING → Quincy Davis (@quincydavis) & Turtle Dum

TIMELINE → New Year’s Eve 2020

SETTING →  A Wonderland Party

SUMMARY → Quincy tags along with Sydney to Wonderland for the new year, and as the countdown to midnight winds down, finds herself spending time with an old flame...

Turtle tended to view New Year's Eve differently than most of his friends did. It was a year's birthday, but just like birthdays, he didn't feel the need to view it in such a strict box. A new year could begin whenever he made a conscious decision to reset some part of his life, as far as he was concerned, but his views didn't stop him from enjoying celebrating in the more traditional ways. He'd been particularly glad when he'd heard that Quincy would be joining them for the holiday as Sydney's guest; he didn't see how he could possibly end up letting the calendar force him into starting something new when he was ringing in the holiday with someone old. She was his favorite presence from his past, though, and as midnight drew nearer, he found himself scooting closer to her on a couch, drink in hand and curiosity on his mind. "You wouldn't have rather spent a night celebrating the new with your potential new beau?" he asked. He hadn't checked with her to see how things had been progressing on that front, but her aura had been clouded when she'd spoken of it before, and even after she'd broken his heart all those years ago, he'd never been able to stop himself from worrying for her peace of mind.

Quincy was the type of person who loved any excuse to dress up, drink something bubbly, and spend time with friends and family, and so of course New Year's was one of her favorite holidays. Sure, Halloween had fun opportunities for fun, sexy costumes, and Christmas meant lots of presents, but New Year's represented a fresh start, which was something people always needed, Quincy's best friend included. Sydney had been going through a draining, emotional year which had come to a particularly turbulent climax, and so when the opportunity to spend part of the holidays with Sydney arose, Quincy took it without a second thought. She loved her family but there was something extra fun about getting to spend the day with her best girl and get herself pretty so that she could get compliments from more people than just her father. Like Turtle, for example. If she could get a compliment from her ex turned friend who was just a little too pretty for his own good, that would be ideal. As he joined her on the couch, she smiled on instinct, but that smile froze at his question. She chewed on her lip for a second and then shook her head. "Nope! New Year's is kind of a big one for me, I'd rather spend it with two of my favorite people," she smiled, reaching out and touching his knee at the word 'favorite' so he'd know she meant him. Touching him was a bad idea though. Turtle was already needlessly hot, but with how much Quincy had been needing physical intimacy lately, breaking the touch barrier was enough to make her pull back her hand and sit on it. "And besides, he's nice and it's been fun, but not seeing him during this break made me realize that... well, if I'm being honest with myself, I might have been letting my desire to rip the band-aid off and start dating again, and my hormones, make the bulk of my dating decisions for me," Quincy admitted with a laugh, taking a sip of her champagne to cover up the fact that she was embarrassed by oversharing.

Turtle hummed thoughtfully under his breath at Quincy's words; it was a familiar tune, one that had developed over the years and that often came to him when he wasn't sure what to say about a specific topic. It had never really cleared his head before; it simply let him pause, instead of letting himself become confused by lingering too long on a topic. Quincy's love life had never been a great one for him anyway. He hadn't yet found someone else that made him feel the same kind of completeness he felt when he was here in Wonderland, and he'd known the whole time she was with Emmett that the way they fit together wasn't harmonious. It was too soon, though, to know if he should agree with her assessment of Khalid, or if that was just a sliver of past selfishness snaking its way into his present. "Absence didn't make the heart grow fonder," Turtle finally concluded, sensing Quincy didn't want eyes on her as she talked about it, so letting his eyes follow the bubbles rising in her champagne flute instead. "Some people are just meant to be the tea you enjoy at a party, some are meant to be the cup you keep using your whole life," Turtle shrugged, not judging her in the slightest for chasing that feeling. It wasn't as if he hadn't done the same thing before himself. He waved his hand towards an upside down clock in the corner, its hands rapidly approaching new years. "A new start comes for me whenever I want it, but for those of you who subscribe to the calendar... your fresh start comes in just a few minutes, he told her, raising his own champagne glass towards her to clink in a toast. "Maybe that's the sound of a reset for me," he proposed, letting his glass tap against hers again. He didn't actually want to start over just yet, but he did like the idea of maybe seeing Quincy smile f he said the right thing. "A new chapter beginning with a favorite person of my own, even if I'm getting a slight head start."

Quincy could've hummed along with Turtle's pensive hum, but she didn't. She knew the sound well though, and usually right after he did it, he let loose some morsel of wisdom. It wasn't often Quincy conceded that people were smarter than her, but in all honesty, she probably thought Turtle was the smartest person she'd ever met. She hadn't even realized how much she needed someone to tell her that her wanting to cut Khalid off after only a few months wasn't selfish or crazy until she'd started ranting about her current date-mate to her ex. Which, yes, she did realize was rude of her, but Turtle was more than her ex at this point, right? He was one of her best friends, and he knew her better than just about anybody. If he thought she was being too rash, he'd tell her. But he seemed to agree and she let out a little sigh of relief. "No, no it didn't," she said quietly, swirling her champagne glass. "And I guess sometimes you don't know until you drink for the cup." She looked up to him with a smile on her face, already feeling better and validated about one of her first big decisions in the new year. She was glad she'd tried with Khalid; it meant she was ready to try again, and that she knew what she wanted and what she didn't. Her eyes followed his hand towards the upside down clock and her grin grew wider -- how very Wonderlandian, to have an upside down clock. "To a fresh start," Quincy nodded, clinking her glass against Turtle's. She laughed when he proclaimed he had a new year's start ahead of her own and she swatted his knee with her free hand. "Wait, no, that can't be it! A new year is totes special! You need more of a moment, to really mark a new chapter! If it's not when the clock strikes then it has to be, like, something else!" She paused for a minute and cocked her head to the side before asking, as casually as one possibly could, "Like, I don't know, do you kiss somebody at midnight for the New Year down here? Or is that just an Auradonian thing?"

Turtle had always been introspective, and tonight, he wasn't under any sort of outside influence yet, sans a few sips of champagne. That meant his mind was almost too clear, was vibrating on a frequency he wasn't used to. That frequency couldn't help but make him wonder if perhaps he had any sort of ulterior motive for not wanting Quincy to continue dating Khalid. He didn't think so, though; he simply wanted what was best for her, and the energy coming off of her whenever she talked about him wasn't as bright and vibrant as he knew Quincy could be at her happiest. Still, perhaps a person more normal than him would think they didn't want to see an ex they still cared so deeply for with someone else, particularly someone who seemed to be more of the same. He shrugged, letting his gaze move from the clock to the portrait beside it, a collage of eyes that he always felt like was staring at him. The eyes didn't seem to be boring into him, though, so his assessment of his own motives must be correct. "The first high of the year usually comes with the caterpillar," he told her, wracking his brain for other traditions that he could possibly share with her when her question stopped him in his tracks. "Tweedletown and Wonderland are part of Auradon now," he replied instantly, not sure why the words flowed out of him so readily. They didn't tend to do things the same way here by any stretch of the imagination, but perhaps a kiss to start the new year wasn't the worst of Auradonian offerings. Perhaps it could be cleansing for Quincy, after a failed attempt at a new relationship, to fall into a sort of time warp towards an old one. One that had taken him entirely longer than it had taken her to let go of, granted, but... "Lips, I think, are the second or third most used bodypart for most people, depending on whether or not you enjoy having conversations with your eyes closed. It's only fitting that they get to be one of the first parts to celebrate an ushering in of something new."

Quincy loved feeling smart and like things made sense to her, but she also enjoyed trying to figure out something that didn't follow the type of logic she was taught; for example, the first high of the year coming with the caterpillar was a sentence that left her delightfully grasping as pieces to put together and form a puzzle. Even more simultaneously confusing and happy-making, though, was Turtle's placement of his home as part of Auradon. In the context of the traditions they were talking about, it sent an anticipatory tingle up Quincy's spine to settle on her smile. Not that she automatically assumed Turtle would want to kiss her as the clock struck midnight. Just because it wouldn't be out of sorts for a Wonderlandian to do didn't mean Turtle has to do it, or even that he would with her. For all Quincy knew, he was two seconds from getting up and finding someone else in the festivities to share that moment with, but ever since Turtle had sat down next to her, all other people around them had lowkey vanished to Quincy. Maybe it was just because he always made her feel like she was right to believe in herself, maybe it was because he was insanely hot and she hadn't gotten much in a while, or maybe it was because deep down something about Turtle had always calmed her and excited her at the same time, but either way, kissing him felt like it would be the perfect way to begin a new year. Just one kiss with an old friend and then everything would be off to the best start it could have. "Right? I totes agree. And as someone who talks basically, like, all the time, my lips are more than ready to jump into the new year," Quincy said softly, her eyes looking over at the clock. Midnight was basically any moment now and if she was going to get a kiss, it was now or never. Normally she would be a little more direct and aggressive but taking her history with Turtle into consideration, kissing him out of the blue was lowkey a no-no. She wanted permission before she made her move. "Do you think yours would want to celebrate with mine?" she asked, taking a quick sip of champagne.

Turtle supposed that, if he were the sort of person to follow linear logic, he could see where Quincy's question came from. Typically, though, his thoughts didn't go in a straight line; lines swirled around and around in circles, creating beautiful patterns, instead of going from one spot to the next. Dots didn't connect, they usually collapsed, one on top of the other, until a flat piece of paper in his mind contained a dot that, should it become 3D, would stand exceedingly tall at this point from how often he'd grouped them together instead of drawing lines between them. Still, though; just because his brain wouldn't have gone there on its own didn't mean he didn't like the path that Quincy had proposed for them. Turtle loved the feelings of his brain on a high, and physical contact usually brought a high with it. In fact, back in the day kissing Quincy had felt better than any drug ever had, and he didn't know if their new status quo would allow for such an intense feeling anymore... but he also couldn't picture how it wouldn't still feel nice, all the same. "Wonderland wouldn't be a very welcoming place for you if I said no to that," Turtle told her, draining the last of the champagne from his glass in preparation for bidding 2020 goodbye. He could only choose so many old things to bring into the new year with him, and if the chance to kiss Quincy was traveling to 2021, then he certainly didn't have the space to bring in old, 2020 bubbles as well. He set the glass aside, licking his lips to make sure they weren't dry or cracked from smoking earlier, but all he tasted was sweetness from the champagne. And then, before he had time to think anymore, to wonder one last time if this was a good idea... people were counting, the upside down clock was chiming, and Turtle's hand was cupping Quincy's cheek, then sliding into her hair, as he guided her mouth towards him, ready for the celebration of lips she'd proposed.

It was hard not to cheer when Turtle ended up saying yes -- especially when he easily could've said no, he'd have had every right given their history -- but how happy Quincy was about it made it feel like a big deal, when it sooooooo wasn't. No, it was just exciting that she would be sharing such a nice moment with her sups hot awesome friend, that's all. Her sups hot awesome firne who's fingers across her skin make her cheek feel like it was on fire, and then his hand was in her hair and their mouths were touching and her hand found its way to his chest, clutching onto his shirt. She could hear the cheering around them as midnight came and went but everybody else sounded a million miles away as she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, craving closeness as her whole body thrummed with a runaway heartbeat. Her other hand settled on his thigh as her tongue roamed, making itself at home in his mouth and claiming his air for probably far too long before finally pulling away, her face red at how overeager she'd been.

"Um...my lips were well taken care of, so I guess my tongue really wanted to celebrate too. And my hands," Quincy giggled, wondering how to explain herself, but it was hard to think too straight when her brain was still thinking about how good he smelled and how strong he felt under her touch. It was like she'd tripped down a rabbit hole of Turtle -- the only thing to do was fall, and so she blurted out "Does, um, any of the rest of you feel like celebrating with any of the rest of me? Because all of me feels like celebrating with all of you. Somewhere more private?" before she could stop herself. She really didn't expect the first thing that she'd do in 2021 to be shooting her shot with her ex but now here she was, and all she could hope was that no matter what happened next, she hadn't royally messed up their friendship in the new year.

The world held an infinite number of possibilities, some more likely to occur than others. Some much more likely to occur than others. 2020 Turtle hadn't foreseen this sort of thing occurring, couldn't have seen Quincy clutching onto his shirt or sliding her tongue into his mouth or even resting her hand on his thigh... But 2021 Turtle couldn't stop seeing it, couldn't think of anything but, really. His tongue deserved to celebrate, too; his hands wanted to reach out and touch her, or at least to urge her hand to explore more freely. It was a new year, a blank slate, and Wonderland was a place where anything could happen... And even before Quincy's words told him she wanted this to happen, his body was in agreement, wanting it too. "Definitely somewhere more private," Turtle agreed, surprised by how breathless he was already. He gestured towards the eye painting on the wall, the one he'd been inspecting just before midnight; now, he felt like it was watching them, staring at them, maybe even judging him. "The painting's been ruder than usual this year, he doesn't deserve any sort of show," he offered as way of explanation, but it was more than that. He knew that he couldn't stop now; he was like a bottle that had been uncapped, and he needed to be consumed, to be enjoyed before he could go flat. He didn't want this to go to waste, and he didn't want to share it, either. He didn't want prying eyes to make it more than it was, or roaming hands and eyes and everythings to find someplace they fit that wasn't on him. Turtle stood from the couch, thinking to extend his hand to Quincy and guide her off to a private place... then a part of his spirit that he hadn't connected with in some time made him scoop her up in his arms instead, whisking her off towards his room where they could continue this party on their own.

Somehow she hadn't actually expected Turtle to say yes but once he'd agreed to find somewhere more private, it was like Quincy's whole body sprang to life, all at once. All of it except for her brain, anyway, which was trying desperately to reach her and remind her that she had come to this party with Sydney and hadn't seen her in a minute, or that she deserved better than a one-night stand, or that whatever was about to happen could still totes end up messing up their friendship. However, her body was simply too loud as it cheered her on in and drowned out that good sense. After all, Sydney was here with her boyfriend; Quincy would hardly be missed. And as for it being a one-night stand, how could it be when Turtle would be around in her life for much longer than one night? They'd made it through weirder and worse in the past than giving in to how much their bodies wanted each other and come out friends on the other side, they could make it through this. "He really doesn't, especially considering how much of a show it's going to be" she practically purred, not even looking at the painting in question. To be fair, it was an unfair ask for anyone and anything but Turtle to hold her attention right now. The only way a wall could be interesting at all this deep into the unraveling of her deepening want was if Turtle pinned her against one. Her thighs ached to close around him just thinking about it. She was completely prepared to take his hand and follow him into whatever happened next, but she let out a gasp of delight and excitement when he swept her up in his strong, comforting arms to a night in Wonderland that she already knew she'd never forget.