#aprilquentin

[prophxtslash]

April Event: Quentin Smith Edition!

Somehow, We’ll Be Ok

Pairing: None, but hinted Harringsmith. Also, there is unrequited feelings on Logan’s part, because fuck them.

Word Count: 1057 words what the FUCK was I thinking?!

Theme: Angst, ends bittersweet.

Warnings: None, but I threw in my dear Logan, hope that’s alright, kings. Also, Logan is now a therapist, apparently.

My main boyf….I know I’ve been lazy these past 2 days but I had to do sumn for him…Also yes, this is mostly projecting, I know, I had to write something self indulgent. This shit’s so long, so it’s under a read more. 

Quentin is more tired than usual, and no one’s said anything. 

Sure, he had insisted that he was, in fact, more than alright, and that he just needed to get some fresh air, as waiting by the campfire had only fueled the ever gnawing anxiety of being torn away from safety and thrown into despair and fear. The phantom pain of the Ghostface’s knife from the last trial hadn’t completely faded, and Quentin brushes his lower back delicately, as if ensuring that the weapon wasn’t lodged in his back still. A shiver runs along his skin as he exhales, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. 

A leaf crunches from his side, causing Quentin to look up. The masked face of the Prophet stares down at him, a slight tilt to their head. Quentin smiles a little and scoots over, offering room for them to lean against the tree. The Prophet slowly sits down, shuffling to keep a bit of distance between them and Quentin. Silence ensues, with the two enjoying each other’s company, despite the taboo of the situation. Survivors and Killers weren’t exactly supposed to get along, given the clear resentment that the two groups feel towards one another, but over time, some had begun to mingle with one another, tiring of their own group’s company, searching for a fresh face. 

The Prophet speaks first, much to Quentin’s surprise.

“Are you alright?” They ask, pointedly keeping their gaze towards the ground. Quentin blinks, astonished at the Prophet’s concern. Why do they care? The two of them meeting here is already bad enough, but asking if he was doing okay? Quentin’s not sure whether or not to laugh or cry at the bizarreness of the situation. 

“To be honest? No,” He whispers, facing forward, “I’m not okay.”

The Prophet digs their fingers into the dirt, making a fist to keep it in place as they raise their hand. Once raised a ways up, they release the dirt, watching it fall back to the earth. They repeat the process, while asking, “What’s wrong?”

Despite the danger of letting a killer know too much, or even worse, to see you vulnerable, Quentin couldn’t find a reason to care. 

“That’s the worst part,” Quentin sighs, frustration creeping into his voice, “I couldn’t tell you. I just get so down and depressed for no reason at all. And despite wanting people to care and talk to me about it, I can’t bring myself to open up. The moment anyone asks me what’s wrong, I’m falling into defensive mode and bottle up. I insist I’m fine and will move on as fast as I can, just so I can avoid feeling vulnerable. Not to mention, I don’t want anyone to be brought down because of how I’m feeling, or even worse, I don’t want anyone to pity me. Sorry. It’s stupid.”

The Prophet says nothing. Embarrassed, Quentin makes a move to stand up.. Before he can get far, the Prophet’s hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist and startled by the harsh contact, Quentin flinches, fearing the worst. The unreadable mask reveals nothing, but their grip loosens.

“Please stay.” The Prophet whispers, their hand still wrapped around Quentin’s wrist, but loose enough for him to easily escape. Quentin hesitates, simply staring at the Prophet. Sighing, the Prophet raises their free hand to the chin of their mask, lifting it up to reveal the face underneath. 

Whatever Quentin had pictured beneath the crying mask couldn’t have prepared him for the real thing. 

Large forest green eyes stare up at him, long eyelashes fluttering each time they blinked. Shaggy raven bangs dust their forehead, with the rest of their hair falling in soft waves and resting on the top of their shoulders.Quentin can’t help but wonder how they are able to see so flawlessly during trials. A sharp, tan jawline gives them a handsome, almost distinguished look, as well as soft, pink lips to pull off their look. A few scars are littered along their face, yet the one running down the corner of the right side of their lip has Quentin wondering what had happened for them to receive such a permanent mark. 

As if flustered, the Prophet retracts their hand, turning their head to avoid Quentin’s stare. Quentin opens his mouth, struggling to find something to say. He settles on, “Why?”

“You had been honest with me,” the Prophet mutters, keeping their head turned away, “I needed to reciprocate, to show that I can be honest too.”

Despite the danger this brings, despite the complications of this whole situation, Quentin can’t help but feel touched.

“Proph--”

“It’s Logan.” They say quietly, finally bringing their gaze back to Quentin, “My real name’s Logan.”

Quentin blinks owlishly, his eyes completely focused on Logan, and Logan alone. The line the two had agreed on initially didn’t even exist now, and Quentin wasn’t sure if he should be afraid or not.

As Quentin opens his mouth to respond, a voice rings out, calling Quentin’s name. Turning, Quentin sees Steve searching the outskirts of the campfire, a worried tilt to his calls. A fluttering heat rises to Quentin’s cheeks, his heartbeat picking up in speed. For a moment, Quentin forgets that Logan is there as well, as he misses the heartbroken look that crosses Logan’s face, their eyebrows pinching upwards in a sorrowful expression. 

Quentin turns back to Logan, an apologetic smile on his lips. 

“I-I have to go. Thank you for listening..” Quentin trails off, his eyes scanning Logan’s face, committing their face to memory, as to remember that beneath the mask, beneath the gore and horror they wrought, a breathing, living human being is there. 

“I’ll see you around, Logan.” He finishes, patting the killer on their hand before jogging towards the fire, nervously grinning at the way that Steve’s face lights up the moment he sees him. Once caught up, Steve wraps the boy in a tight hug before releasing him to head back towards the fire together, his hand grazing close to Quentin’s. 

Quentin doesn’t see Logan lingering behind in the trees; he doesn’t see the killer slip their mask back on to hide the anguished look on their face, nor does he see the way they clutch at their chest, right above where their heart is. 

[highdwightofmylife]

Sorry to bother you gwiff but could i get literally anything with Quentin? A bitch going through a lot rn and i crave my sweet boy 😔🤙

honey u never bother me i love u so much when u speak to me my heart goes boom boom

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble, pawing the exhaustion from your eyes as you approach him. Quentin is sat on one of the logs, staring into the campfire with a blank look on his face. He looks tired. More than tired. He looks ready to keel over. 

His dark eyes shift up to look at you and a small, guilty smile stretches across his lips. “Sorry,” he shrugs. “I just keep thinking, and... And you know where thinking gets me.” 

“I know,” you perch on the log beside him. Quentin seems to immediately sink into your warmth, pressing the side of his thigh against yours and gently leaning on your shoulder. You feel his head loll against your shoulder and lean your cheek on him. 

Everyone is asleep. You can hear David snoring just a few metres away from where he’d sprawled out on the grass, Nea is curled up by the fire like a cat. It’s quiet and calm, and the crackling of the fire makes your eyelids feel all the more heavy. 

“D’you think there’s gonna be a trial tomorrow?” He asks, voice low. He’s scared. His insecurities and terrors always seem to come out at night, and only when he’s alone with you. It’s nice that he has this trust in you, but you’d rather he didn’t have to feel so fearful at all. 

“No,” you respond, though you can never be sure. Quentin makes a noise of confusion, and you elaborate. “Tomorrow... You and me are going to lake.”

“But what if there is a tri-”

“We’re going to lake,” you repeat, with no room for argument. You don’t know that. You could never know if you’d wake up at the campfire with Quentin, or you’d be whisked away to one of the many realms to be hunted. You couldn’t know. That didn’t mean you had to give in. “I know you love the lake,” a yawn slips out of you. “We can invite the others, or... Or it can be just you and me.”

He stays quiet for a second. You’re not quite sure whether he’s buying into your hopeful promises, but finally, he speaks. “Just us,” he mumbles, and you smile. Quentin sighs softly into the fog and moves to sit up, and you miss his warmth almost immediately. But it’s alright, because he leans over and presses his lips to your cheek and offers his hand. 

“I’m gonna have another go at that sleeping thing... You coming?”

[sleepymissy]

can i request headcanons or an imagine (whatever you think would work better) for quentin getting paired with the fem! reader for a project and they both fall asleep while studying at his house?

[ @plagued-rat ] sorry for the wait boo! i wanted to post this today because on @highdwightofmylife's advent calendar, the 5th of april is dedicated to quentin so i thought i'd leave it for this special day 🥺 hope you enjoy xx

words : 2.1k

🔪 Quentin Smith x S/O ( study naps )

Through his half-open window, there's an ongoing breeze that soothes the air within a bliss of freshness and surely enough, a gentle reminder to focus, concentrate, keep track on reality. It was a delicate nudge, though you were certain that your other peer needed the wake-up call more than you. And if Mother Nature could not handle the transfer between nature and humanity onto the boy's skin, then the decision fell upon your shoulders to kindly call out his name.

Ache! your limbs cry out in the midst of shuffling from the position where you lay down next to him - stomach awkwardly rested above the soft cotton-felt cream sheets - and up you go into a sitting formation, legs cross and the smarting that coats your digits is hard to ignore. The pen forever clings beneath your numbing fingers, though the pain can only increase when you drop it down, the clash echoes in your ears; it's the only sound that sings in the room.

It's not that you're scared too, oh no, why would you be? Fear does not fall into your mentality on the rate that you are present, though take your awkwardness more as a concern, worry. Second-guessing introduces herself quite more often than you want in situations that decisiveness does not exist. You've met the breeze longer than the boy that lays beside you, like a ragdoll, he's silent and at peace. His cheek squishes against the open book, brainstorm handwriting and orbs no longer to see again. But sleeping isn't an option when projects are awake; humans fraternise with procrastination and it's always difficult to get out of.

"Quentin?" A whisper that anyone will have to put the effort in to hear, "Quentin, wake up," You now usher, the way your fingers dance on his shoulders are just about as light as the spring leaves that fall in Elm Street.

He stirs.

You repeat your actions, letting go of the anxiety that maybe this isn't a good idea, maybe you should leave the poor boy alone and let him sleep. He deserves it, right? It truly makes sense by his face and personality. It's not as if strangers collided together in the heated moment of the teacher pointing out who goes with who in the projects, you know Quentin, and Quentin knows you. Call it acquaintances, but you're at least hoping for a thankful friend at the end of the assignment. 

He is fatigue. The yawns last longer than the school hours that drain your energy into burnt wire, and he speaks sluggishly more than a man on his tenth shot of vodka. The dark circles that call the under areas of his eyes home aren't as vibrant as the irises that slowly flutter open, slightly...carefully. Your shaking slows down when all in the midst of the awakening he groans.

You are fast to pull your hand away the moment Quentin Smith is somehow conscious again, and it takes him not one, but two glances between left and right to get his head out of the clouds and back with his feet planted on the ground, "Shit, sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay, projects can be kinda boring sometimes," An assurance of a smile tugs upon your lips when you analyse him, the way he struggles to sit back up, already growing his second yawn after rubbing his eyes for the third time. Hoarse, his voice isn't always so raspy, but you don't complain; it's always a bummer when naps get sliced short and you're left with the shock of reality. There's no alarm until now that you realise he's looking at you, apologetically, but quietly he thanks you because god only knows if his father even saw him slacking - Quentin would be laid six feet under. 

You unnecessarily cough to interrupt the silence, "Well, I've already written the first part of the project; it wasn't too hard," It was hard. Oh, it was very frustratingly hard. But you make sure to not let that show to the boy in front of you who slightly sways side to side as if his head is far too heavy to keep up with, you can't tell whether he will fall left or right though you flip the coin inside of your mind.

He never collapses.

"That's awesome! Wow, thank you," He starts off, pausing to allow his digits to fall through his hair, the cologne he wore from school still lingers on his skin and it's nice and genuine, "I promise you I'm not a bad partner, I'll try and do part two...maybe you can relax for a bit?"

Another breeze cascades into the room, the posters hint of a slight glare from the sun's smile. You wave your hand around, "No, it's fine, we can work on part two together, okay?" It's better that way, right? Sleep can wait, it's tough but you know that if the project isn't done then it'll completely change around your grades; and you trust Quentin that he'll try as well. You know he isn't a bad student, in fact, you're quite certain he may be just as intelligent as you. Hell, even smarter. He's a good student and you're incredibly thankful you got him out of everyone else.

The dark brown bundle of curls follow asynchronous to the choreography of his head that agreeably nods, "Yeah, of course," And a yawn breaks the quiet buzz in the room, though the moan that slips through causes your head to tilt curiously, an accidental stare that falls too long on the angelic moves he delicately displays; the way he picks up his book, the pen that twirls from his fingers like ballroom dancers, how he rests his back up against the headboard - knees prop themselves up and spread a little too much - while his messy curls collide with the wall when he rests his head back, adam's apple bobs calmy when he swallows.

Fatigue washes on you too but something else itches in your brain, your heart; nothing to hurt you despite the fact that it bothers you more than the project that smugly smirks up at you. It's as if it knows why you keep looking, always watching over him, you roll your eyes. Yeah, he's cute, and what about it? and you nearly curse yourself out. Why, seriously, why? 

But...you're smarter than this, staring for too long causes a scene and you would hate to get caught, so following after his moves though yours lack in the gentleness when you sit next to him, uncomfortably moving around with your suddenly heavy skin and bones because your book torments you from a metre away. (Quentin likes the pout and groans that escape the lips of yours, though he doesn't show it.)

It's been an hour since. Study, study, study, cool breeze, pens scratch, no, no, keep writing, listen to his words, not his voice, come on, another yawn but not from the boy beside you, but dear God did it come from yourself. At least the scenery is sheer. You try and try and try, in fact, your digits grip more around the pen like a snake when finding it's prey although its fangs pierce its own skin and scales, but there's no venom, just a reminder organisms can have a dumb choice of tactics they experience. It wakes you the slightest; you now understand what Quentin was going through, this goddamn project is just as boring as sitting through a lesson of mathematics where teachers keep hitting the board covered with trigonometric equations but the sentences that leave their lips don't make any sense. 

 "Y/n? You still on Earth?" 

You jolt yourself awake even more frantically than your wish, a jump of unexpectancy mixed dangerously with oblivion causes a chemical reaction towards your alarming eyes as they take a quick notice to dart over at your project partner, murmuring numbers of apologies as you anxiously laugh, "I...uh...Yeah, sorry, I'm still here,"

But Quentin's smiling; he sees himself in you. He likes that.

The wind hums again, "You can sleep if you want, I'm okay to do part two," And there's something charismatic when he speaks, a Greek God if you have to put it, it's hypnotising and a sense of comfort follows by with it, you want to sleep, what a dangerously amazing idea. 

You still throw in the last of your conscious when you shake your head, "No, no, we gotta do this, I don't even think we're far off from finishing anyway," Ceasing to prove your exhaustion right, fingers even place your pen on the empty lines on your paper, prepared more than ever like a long-distance running race, though it's too quiet and peaceful that you aren't so sure that you're going to be awake for longer than ten minutes.

Quentin knows this too, knows that using energy to stay awake only takes it away faster. That's why he doesn't push you and begins to speak again.

You were listening for five minutes, you actually shocked yourself when you replied to his comments - even agreeing with some as you scribble gibberish into your writing book - and it's nice for that amount of time despite the idea that you two were actually talking about irrelevant nonsense, I feel like a milkshake. The ones down the road are so good. You mean the corner cafe? You go there too? Of course! Maybe we should study there then.

Maybe, but you really like Quentin's bedroom, and he agrees with you too. But you still kindly nod your head. In that very conversation that when you two locked eyes, a gentle and nice smile to warm the breezy scenery up from the brunette changed your emotions with how you saw him; you enjoy his presence and you want it more.

It isn't until the present time where it's back to just Quentin muttering explanations and idea of the project while you're trying to listen that your brain startles because it can't stay upright. 

You're giving up on consciousness.

Orbs are nowhere to be found the moment eyelashes begin to bat, and the smarting in your palm is numb to the core when the hand releases the exaggerating aching grip, you feel yourself dying down like time glides slower from the hands on the clock that doesn't move at the same legal pace that they should. It's a soft thud, quieter than the pen tracing and dancing on Quentin's paper but your head lays on the headboard and the words that spill from his tongue are inaudible; his voice turns into a blur and an echo, two collide at the same time, and the air that wooshes isn't a bother anymore, it hugs you with a warm embrace. At last, you're content.

He doesn't realise you have slipped into a presence of sleep, he still talks and writes but your sub-conscious cannot keep your head propped up, it too is filled with fatigue and a desire that the cold breeze is no longer a sense of warmth that it enjoys. At one point he is writing then the next he stops, pauses, freezes...the patch of hair connected to you as a whole tickles his neck when the side of your pretty face falls onto his shoulder, it's a nice tickle too, ethereal like angel wings and he tries his hardest to gaze down at you from the position you've caught him in surprise by and he's scared; he would hate to wake you up again. You do not startle though, and that's enough consent for him to raise his two fingers and, as if you were vintage, tucks the strands of hair that curtains over your face back behind your ear in a fragile manner. He watches your chest rock up and down, slow and gentle. And the Sunset's approving stare lightens a fraction of your face where the reflection on the closed part of the window paints a splash on your right eye and cheek. It's mesmerising.

It's enough to put the boy in a trance too when his pen that lays next to yours doesn't get used again that day and he prudently rests his head on top of yours, and the soft hair underneath kisses his red rosy cheek heavenly while his fingers and your fingers accidentally touch. Flustered, baffled, his shyness is present but he doesn't seem to mind. And you're warmer and comfortable to be around than the breeze that Mother Nature still sends through his half-open window.

Quentin agrees with you too. The project can wait.

Dead by daylight requests are welcomed!

- missy

[highdwightofmylife]

can we have soft quentin hcs? 🥺 👉👈

Soft Quentin HCS

Quentin is very soft spoken when he’s with you. He’s very gentle and polite and is always just... So sweet.

But when he’s in a trial, and you’re both faced with the killer, you get to see how much this boy just doesn’t give a fuck. You’re both working on a gen and and Frank comes sprinting over. Quentin barely even moves. He gets fucking stabbed and then “bye loser” and keeps working on the gen in pain while Frank fucking runs off to get someone else before Feral Frenzy runs out.

Quentin struggles deeply to sleep because he never truly feels safe enough to do so. He doesn’t want to sleep alone because he requires someone he can trust to wake him up if he’s experiencing nightmares. That’s where you come in. Your presence alone is enough to relax his body enough for him to catch a few hours, and he always snuggles really closely in. Just... Be warned, because if he does have a nightmare, this boy will kick. 

And if he does kick you in his sleep and he wakes up to find that out, he is so apologetic. He will kiss you better and get so panicked and worked up because the last thing he wants is to hurt you.

Quentin gets hyper separation anxiety from the people he really trusts, and once you’ve become his s/o, he’s going to worry about you constantly. He’s had a traumatic life and he’s so scared you’re going to be snatched from him, so if he wakes up and you’re not there, he’s flung into panic mode. There will be tears. Please leave the boy a note if you have to go somewhere before he wakes up.

He’s always taking your hand and kissing your knuckles and if you ask him why he gets all blushy and just kinda mumbles that he loves you

[highdwightofmylife]

(glances at clock)

(is suddenly aware it’s 4am)

HAPPY QUENTIN DAY

Post y’all Quentin stuff