why don’t you sleep on it?
Sade Olutola

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@sacrisomnia
why don’t you sleep on it?
anyway finally gonna make this my starter call!! if you want me to poop out a small starter to try and get a thread going, just give this a like. if ur a multi, pls let me know what muse you'd like it for. b(^-^)b
aw man did i miss the makeout party
oh right anyway hoping to get some more writing out soon...might put out a lil starter/plotting call? try and get some actual threads going :')
hands bein 7 ft tall like ok buddy we get it
height comparison goes crazy
hands bein 7 ft tall like ok buddy we get it
writing gonna be slow again. because of woke.
i should probs try to actually get some threads going at some point huh
@meatriarch asked: ❝ just give me a heads-up before you try to stab me next time, okay? ❞ | ( danny lmao could be funny with an accidental encounter or something, the kiddos always in shambles/catty under duress i fear )
"Jesus! Yeah, sorry man, I--shit," Quentin heaved, snatching the icepick back to himself. He could feel his heartbeat jackrabbiting against his breastbone. "Sorry."
He had been hiding right next to the door, waiting for those approaching footsteps, only aborting his swing at the last second when he realized it wasn't one of their captors. It was Danny, thank god. Worn and torn but still alive.
"You doing--doing okay? Not dying?" Quentin glanced over him, trying to identify any potentially lethal injuries. Didn't seem like it, luckily. God, though, Quentin had been centimeters from delivering a killer lobotomy. He didn't blame him for the attitude--Quentin probably would have snapped the same.
"Have you seen any of the others?"
outlast trials au is so bad for quentin. taken right after surviving freddy so he's only like, 18. freddy becomes a prime asset and tunnel visions on quentin every time they're in the same trial. (that or he becomes smth like the skinner man?).
basically its like dbd but there's no infinite respawn and its the 50s. awful terrible no good time.
@smugliar asked: "Do you even know where you're headed?"
"I'm headed to the--the exit. The train. It was...this way?" He blinked blearily into the vicious fairgrounds. He couldn't actually remember the way back to the exit.
Everything was working against his senses. The siren's caterwauling, the fake wind searing cold air against his open wounds, the hole drilled through his right hand and rendering it unresponsive, the raising voices of every ex-pop and grunt notified of their impending escape. Everything was collapsing in around them as they stepped through intestinal slush and bleeding concussions.
This was only their...second, maybe third, trial at Futterland. It was still difficult to piece the environment together, to recall what doors were barricaded and which were at least breakable. Quentin at least knew they needed to cut through the diner, past the tubs of hearty soups and out the back door.
Or, wait, maybe he was wrong? Maybe they had to go around the diner instead? Right or left? Right and left? Maybe they ignored the diner entirely?
Quentin looked at Ace, whose mouth was slacken red and nose pulpy. "We just...okay. We just have to get to the carousel, right? Right. Past the diner. We can, fuck, okay, we can get there." It was only them two. The two other reagents sent in with them were far past the point of syringes. Quentin felt awful, always, but right now they needed to focus on themselves.
Out the corner of his eye, past the animatronic ticket booth and an overturned swan boat, rusted with gore, he saw one of those doors that could be unblocked only from one side. He had undid the latch before they entered the tunnel. He inclined towards it.
"There, let's just go through there, follow the outer wall. We don't have a time limit until we call the train. Let's just...take it careful, sound good?"
i will try to get some stuff written by tomorrow augh
ok but which vtm clan would ur muse belong to
@fcused asked: ❛ It’s four o'clock in the morning, what are you doing? ❜
"Oh! Shit," Quentin fumbled his notebook shut, his pen bookmarking the page he was on. "Shit, you scared me."
Connie cast a wan shadow over him, the early light limning her hair into a russet halo. She looked more awake than he felt--which was not a hard comparison to achieve.
"I was...studying? We got that big chem test next week, so, you know," he bluffed. Technically it wasn't a lie, as he had started out studying. But then his thoughts strayed with his pen, and eventually transitioned into drawing cats and skulls with a mediocre hand. She caught him while he was in the early stages of outlining Nancy's visage--not a romanticized leftover of a severed intimacy, but just a symptom of his homesickness. Phone calls and mailed polaroids were only so much.
"Can't sleep, anyway."
Sleep only ever came in snatches for him. No matter what bed, what room, what floor, what state, he still lay there in a cold sweat, paranoia prickling the back of his neck, fearing Krueger's face on the other side of his window or his nightmares. Forever worried that once he fell asleep he wasn't going to wake back up. An unkillable dread he had no reason to have over a dead man. Still, it left him antsy. So he's been doing this; passing the tired hours of the morning at one of the benches outside the library, pretending to study.
Quentin gestured towards her, amicable: "What about you? Also looking to get ahead of the academic curve?"
it'd be funny (tragic) if after goin thru all that to survive freddy, quentin still ends up dying at the hands of a serial killer. but this time on the other side of the country from his parents and nancy (who didn't want him to go) and with possibly no body to recover. very 'killing off the final girl of the first film in the next one' of him.
@melodire asked: ❛ You can’t blame yourself. ❜
He could, was the thing. He really, really could. It was remarkably easy. If not out loud then in the silence of his dire mind, the guilt and self-pity fracturing dreamless horizons. It started with Krueger and only aggravated with time and fog.
Quentin picked at a thread in the fray of his jeans, "Can't help it," he muttered, "I mean, Dwight wouldn't have been...if I hadn't just..."
Getting sacrificed was one thing--getting personally gutted or flayed or garroted or skinned was another. Quentin, via a series of poor decisions and exhausted inattentiveness, had inadvertently subjected Dwight to a death via violent enucleation. And all Quentin could do was watch, white-faced from the other side of the pallet, as the Skull Merchant hooked her nails deep into the corner of Dwight's eyes.
Dwight said he didn't hold anything against Quentin, but Quentin wagered it had more to do with the fact that it didn't really matter in the long run. They all died. They all lived. The dichotomy of life and death meant nothing here, so it was pointless to get petty over it.
Still. Quentin felt awful. But at least Kate was one of the best people to indulge in for comfort. He leaned his head against her shoulder, light as a sigh.
"It doesn't get easier, does it?"
my favorite interpretation of how vigil works realistically is that quentin is your personal cheerleader when he's around. he is hyping you up like I know you got this king you have the power to bodyslam michael again I believe in you go get 'im tiger