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clairdelunelove · 2 years

Text

Vigil

quentin smith x reader, dbd survivor x reader, brief mentions of nea, bill, ace

genre: fluff, mild angst, heavy comfort, based on gameplay

warnings: mentions of blood/drugs/anxiety attacks, cursing, 6.5k words

synopsis: the period of time after escaping from a Trial is tough when most of the team's memories are wiped; quentin's included. will you be able to comfort this boy haunted by his nightmares? does he even remember you?

a.n. aHH I'm back! honestly this one was tough because I wasn't expecting to write more but thanks to a reader's ask I decided to add more for the sleepy boi! this will be a continuation of wake up! (which you can read here) let me know what you think of this one <3

I don’t deserve this.

It’s a lingering hopelessness that consumes him as he dreads every passing day. An unyielding pain resonates from his temple and travels to the rest of his head. A splitting headache. The migraine resides in a distinct place between the side of his forehead and ear. He draws a hand to cup the side of his head. The pain is irritating and he desperately prays for it to disappear. A wince leaves his lips. He’d bargain with his life to get rid of this side effect– the aftermath of completing another Trial. Pulling his hand away, he examines it and isn’t surprised to find that there’s a lack of blood.

He never bleeds after surviving a Trial.

Quentin brings both of his hands in front of him. His dark eyes scan the unmarred skin and he turns them over to continue inspecting them. No scars, lacerations, or bruises on his palm. Satisfied at the absence of injuries, he stretches his legs in front of him. His casual jeans, although clearly worn, were durable and clean. No specks of blood or mud dirtied the fabric. A patch resembling a carefully sewed tear on his pants near his thigh was apparent, however. He thumbed at the new reinforcement in his jeans. There was no sign of a broad gash on his thigh like the one he suffered from in the previous Trial.

Although, he wouldn’t have remembered it by any means.

The campfire causes a brilliant glow that contrasts with the darkened environment. A low sizzle or crackle from the fire speaks more than the individuals surrounding it. However, there’s a reason why the people around the campfire are silent. He can recognize the eerie gaze on his back. It’s hard not to ignore the drop in his stomach when he attempts to look beyond the campfire. They’re being stalked from a distance. He was always too afraid– too scared to let his eyes wander away from the campfire. It’s unnerving. Someone, or something, is always watching him. They’re observant to the way his knee bounces every passing second, his incoherent mumblings, and his wary eyes.

Depicted as a sub-realm, the campfire was the location where all Survivors were placed after escaping a Trial. The Entity ruled this component with a strict hand. All revived, dead, or sacrificed Survivors returned to the campfire. Their memories are gone. Each bit of information that they learn during the Trial is wiped clean. Knowledge was a powerful yet dangerous tool that the Entity would not toy with. With their memories gone, each Survivor would huddle near the eternal fire and never perceive the underlying threat of the whole situation. The Entity was able to conjure up the most intense emotion from the Survivors— clueless even in the depths of purgatory.

Quentin raises his head when he hears hushed conversation. He blinks his drowsiness away. The warmth of the fire lulling him to sleep was aggravating. All he desired was rest– whether it was a couple hours of sleep to bring him limited peace or eternal sleep to finally ease himself into a comfort that seemed like a luxury at this point. His curiosity perks up when the person next to him utters, however.

“No possible way. You have the wrong guy, kid.”

The oldest survivor puts both his hands up in mock defense while shrugging his shoulders. His military jacket creases at the collar and Bill Overbeck smooths a hand to lessen the wrinkles. He mumbles a curse under his breath. His calloused fingertips readjust the U.S. Army badge above his front jacket pocket. Bill’s eyebrows are raised while regarding the person he’s talking to.

“We were in the Trial together,” your voice starts strong but then dwindles down into a whisper, “don’t you remember?”

Bill, clearly confused, slowly starts to shake his head, “C’mon, if I remembered then I would’ve told ya before.”

You take a seat back on the wooden log. The rough bark grazes your skin but the pain is minimal. You hadn’t even noticed you arose from your spot on the log’s edge. Tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, your gaze returns to the fire in front of you. Hues of scarlet and auburn mix together in the flame. The fire wood steadily burns but seemingly never runs out. You can recall vivid events from your previous Trial. However, as each moment passes, a fraction of the memories vanish. A choke of disbelief gets caught in your throat. You hurriedly mumble some crucial moments from the Trial so you don’t forget it. Speaking them into the void to manifest some type of hope. Anything about Freddy, the Entity, Bill, Nea, and Quentin– you desperately cling onto. You wish you had a notebook to jot down all your recollections before they’re gone. From Quentin’s angle, it looks like your eyes are getting progressively glossy.

“You told me to let you know if I made it out alive,” you explain, “before you were leaving with Nea. We were separated from each other and couldn’t make it out in time but you wouldn’t leave us behind-”

Bill tilts his head to the side and scratches underneath his beret, “I said that, huh?”

It’s blaringly obvious that Bill is puzzled by your story or he thinks you’re on the edge of insanity. Honestly, you’re more willing to come to terms that you’re deranged rather than assuming that you fantasized about the last Trial. Your gaze focuses on Nea, who’s sitting on the edge of the wooden log with Bill. She fiddles with the leather band on her wrist. Not a single word has left her mouth and with how tightly her lips are pressed together, you doubt she would pitch in.

“And what’s this talk about a,” Bill imitates quotation marks with his fingers, “Trial?”

“The place that we were just at,” you pause, “with the snow. We were all doing generators and running away before we could get caught. It takes a while but once the gates are open then we’re free to leave.”

“It sounds like a childish game.”

Nea finally decides to speak now. Her kohl-rimmed eyes hold onto yours when she blurts out the comment. She taps her sneakered foot against the ground, a habit she picked up while evading from patrolmen in her earlier days. It seems like she wasn’t expecting to join the conversation because she quickly avoids your somber eyes.

Her mouth moves before her brain can, “even if it was a game, I would be long gone.”

“That’s a crock of shit.” Bill jabs his thumb towards his chest, “this old man would be the one escaping the game if that happened.”

You don’t tell them about the hooks. The limited chance of escape once you’re hung from it. It’s a game of probability at that point. The rusted metal hooks used to impale the killer’s prey and torture them. A timer ticks down. It seems like the timer is passive when you’re finding time to unhook another teammate. When you’re the one hanging from the hook, however, it’s distressing. You don’t let them know about the flash of panic that can overwhelm a person. The minimal time before that twisted mess of claws comes down for the final blow.

Nea snorts out an ill–contained laugh at Bill’s confidence. Her leg is folded underneath her as she perches her elbows on her knees to lean closer to the group. Yet, she mumbles a comment about him never knowing how to escape in a pinch and how she’s evaded Swedish authorities for years. Bill and Nea engage in small talk, lightly bickering over generational culture gaps and barriers.

You’re left alone with your mind. The memories of the last Trial were fuzzy but you were grateful you could remember most of what happened. There were five generators that needed to be repaired, the killer’s goal was to hook you, and escaping them was the utmost priority. It was strange. Being at the campfire, no one knew the previous information but was equipped with that knowledge once placed within a Realm. It’s also implied that your memories were the only one that wasn’t wiped out.

Why?

You weren’t completely certain why you could recall some information. The Entity wouldn’t be pleased. Knowledge of the killers and Trials would be a disadvantage for a mere pawn in this sick game to understand. However, you suppose persuading the others to listen to you spout supposed nonsense was difficult. You knew Bill and Nea were obstinate– stubborn even. Belief was a tricky phenomena. However, you knew that this small variation could make a grand difference. You needed to jot down your experiences in a book. All you had to do was keep repeating the events that occurred.

“And what’s your name, son?”

Bill gestures with his chin and draws the attention toward Quentin. The younger male had idly been plucking at his gray beanie. His slender fingers work the displaced strings into its proper place but he regards the veteran soldier with reverence.

“Quentin,” he replies and tips his head as a greeting, “Quentin Smith. Not really sure how I got here but I just know I gotta get out.”

At Quentin’s honesty, Bill chuckles and slaps the palm of his hand to his knee, “aren’t we all!”

The resolute dreamwalker continues picking at his beanie but a ghost of a smile appears on his lips. His ruffled hair glints when catching the fire’s brilliance. In this lighting, Quentin’s hair almost resembles the color of amber and streaks of blonde are visible. The color is incredible. You were only able to see tiny wisps of his hair under his beanie during the Trial.

He senses your keen gaze and flicks his own eyes toward you. Caught red-handed ogling at your teammate, you clear your throat and force yourself to straighten up. An unusual familiarity settles within him when he holds your stare. His head tilts, eyes sweeping to the way your legs are pulled close to your chest and then drags his concentration to your face. Your features are soft in the fire’s glow.

“And what’s your name? I mean,” Quentin rephrases his question into a softer tone, “can I get your name?”

“It’s (Y/n).”

At the mention of your name, you search Quentin’s face for any sign of recognition. You’re hopeful. It would be easier to persuade Bill and Nea if someone else could back you up. You only had one chance.

Quentin’s eyebrows scrunch at the center. He looks up, seemingly thinking back on your name. He purses his lips together. After the whole ordeal from the last Trial, a twinge of hope settles in your heart. A longing for Quentin to ease your worries and doubts was needed. Your fingers grip the tree’s bark beneath you as you inch forward in your seat.

However, Quentin simply mutters your name underneath his breath. He gets a sense of how it sounds when it rolls off his tongue. Your name sounds like a sacred prayer when he says it.

He murmurs a passing compliment of, “how pretty,” before tugging his beanie back on his head.

Yet, a sadness subsides in your heart to replace the twinge of hope that was previously there. You spare him a strained smile. It’s not the sharp pain that cuts deep within– not the same ache that comes with blatant disappointment that he couldn’t remember what happened between the both of you. It wasn’t fair to be disappointed in Quentin. He wasn’t at fault. Not once did he willingly submit to lose all his memories. None of the Survivors volunteered to be a tribute for this cruel game.

You just wished he would remember.

Your hands tightly grip the fabric of your pants as hot tears well up in your eyes. Tilting your head back, you attempt to stop the tears from falling. Under the span of twenty minutes you were on the verge of crying twice already. It had been a while since you were plagued by such humanistic emotions. You were no stranger to weakness. Crying made you feel powerless in the Entity’s Realm. You hadn’t even cried during the last Trial. A scoff passes through your lips at the irony.

“That’s kinda a big jacket to be yours, no?”

The log you’re sitting on slowly dips under the added weight of Quentin taking a seat beside you. He offers a half smile which turns out to be more awkward than comforting. His movements are slow, almost like he’s expecting you to turn him away. However, his question seems like he’s coaxing you to talk more. There’s a small space of distance and you’re certain that Quentin’s mindful of it so he doesn’t make you uncomfortable with his presence.

“Oh,” you twist away from him to hurriedly swipe at your tear-filled eyes, “it was actually yours. I’ll return it right away.”

“It’s mine?”

He repeats, stumped, but nonetheless waves a dismissive hand, “keep it. Although, you might need to get it tailored so it fits.”

Quentin grins and your heart tugs in that familiar direction that only he’s able to pull at. In the process of shrugging it off to give to him, you haltingly stop and cover yourself with his jacket. It brings you comfort. The collar sits just underneath your jaw. His droopy eyes are trained on yours. You know that he’s noticed the storm of emotions in your eyes and he’s trying to mitigate it.

Smoothing your shirt underneath his jacket, you allow yourself to add onto his teasing, “I would love to get it tailored but fashion is kinda limited in this place, as you can tell–”

“Where did you get those from, (Y/n)?”

It’s a small detail that the Entity seemingly glanced over but one that Quentin catches with unmistakable adeptness. Large hands come up to find purchase on your waist. He indicates the holes in your shirt. There are four jagged holes slashed onto the front that clearly appear to be claw marks. It doesn’t even register that he interrupted you mid-sentence. His fingers poke through the lack of material. The scrunch in his eyebrows become aggressively more intense at the center and his nostrils flare at the sight of the shredded clothing. Luckily, there aren’t any signs of lacerations on your skin from the marks.

There’s a shift in Quentin’s demeanor. His fingertips that were once circling around the holes in your shirt were now curled into tight fists. The sting of his dull nails digging into his tender palm wasn’t bothersome to him. He had a new worry to resolve. You raise a brow, puzzled at the sudden change because there was no way he remembered what happened last Trial. The previous twenty minutes just proved that logic. Yet, you were pleased that no matter the situation, Quentin was just genuinely considerate.

“Oh,” your fingertips trace over the rips and you nonchalantly shrug, “it was just from the last Trial. I was almost finished with a generator but was stopped and had to run away from–”

“Freddy.”

Quentin spits out the name like it was the epitome of venom in his mouth. The marks are too eerily similar to the metal claws that he’s familiar with. His breathing quickens, the entirety of his face explodes into a crimson shade, and he presses his lips together. His clenched fist itches to punch something– anything– to get rid of the rage within him. He glances at you and you speculate that he’s waiting for your confirmation.

The twinge of hope reappears.

Shifting closer to Quentin, your eyes search for him– the male that shouldered your burdens and ushered you to safety while disregarding his own. You gulp. Perhaps this was the time to expect that your confidence in him will triumph in the end. A leap of blind faith. You nod.

That was the trigger.

The memories hit him in an overwhelming rush. A hurricane of pure disorder. In his mind he’s connecting wires to a generator, vaulting over windows, unhooking Nea, mending your injuries, ducking to stay hidden, brushing his lips over your knuckles, and escaping the Trial by climbing through a hatch. He was constantly tasked with duties. Carrying out endless responsibilities to keep the team functioning. He was determined but perpetually scared. Not once had he ceased or stopped the panic consuming him. He’s always running in his memories.

Why was he running?

A choked breath cuts through the silence but he’s sure it’s from you. Hunching over, he groans when a headache spawns to combat the sudden flood of memories. The world is spinning. Strangely enough, he’s glad to be seated on one of the campfire logs and removing the risk of falling over. He threads his fingers underneath his hair to tuck it above his forehead and harshly exhales.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Quentin winces repeatedly.

He’s sweating. Sweat droplets form above his brow and he works to wipe it away with the back of his forearm. His complexion is blanched and devoid of all color. An uncomfortable feeling settles in the back of his throat. He’s overcome with nausea– a sensation he knows too well. Harshly gulping, he hopes the action is enough to push down the bitter beginnings of vomit being stuck in his throat. This always happens whenever he’s reminded of Freddy. The sudden yet frequent attacks that have him fearing that he’s out of control. The fear of impending doom. The breathlessness that leaves him choking for air.

An anxiety attack.

“Quen,” your wide eyes stare at his hands, “you’re shaking.”

Your voice barely registers over Quentin’s inner rumination but his downcast eyes sweep over to where you were indicating. You’re right. The entirety of his hand is shaking with such force that his brows shoot up. He curls his hand in so his trembling fingertips are hidden. This was embarrassing. His cheeks flame red. Before he can come up with a lame excuse, a rehearsed line that’ll sound sweet leaving his lips, your hand comes to rest on his.

“Why didn’t you say how bad it was?”

The whisper is just a ghost of your actual voice. A breeze in the evening chill. It catches Quentin off-guard because of how crushed you sounded. The broken syllable at the end of your sentence makes his heart drop. He’s temporarily pulled out of his stupor yet you hadn’t even planned on talking. The words left your lips like a runner jumping the gun in a foot race. He can hear your sniffling.

“‘Cause I’m just,” Quentin slightly shakes his head when he pauses, “me. I’m just the school blogger, geek, and quiet guy that’s cast to the side. The weirdo that can’t sleep. A guy haunted in his dreams by some freak-show. Didn’t think anyone would want to know–”

“I want to.”

Your hand tightens around Quentin’s. The warmth from the gesture is enough to block his doubts. Your gaze remained unwavering while you gently coaxed Quentin to share his backstory. The promised narrative was one that you wished to know more about. His eyes follow the trace of your fingers that fall in between the divots of his knuckles. The touch calms him.

“Can you tell me more?” You ask.

He licks the corner of his lips and presses them together, “where do you want me to start?”

“From the beginning, of course.”

It’s a smart comment. Quentin seems to pick up on your teasing too because he tilts his head to look at you. Narrowing his eyes, he softly nudges you with his shoulder while mumbling a sarcastic remark when you giggle.

“I was planning on starting from the end actually,” he quips with a lopsided grin.

“It’d be much too abrupt, I believe.”

“You’re right so I’ll share what I can remember,” Quentin chuckles before clearing his throat, “I grew up in a quiet town in the Midwest called Springwood.”

“Springwood?”

“Yeah,” he pauses before deciding to share more, “I went to Badham Preschool when I was young. It looks eerily similar to one of the Realms that the Entity puts us in. I haven’t been sent there in a while, however.”

There’s a faraway glimmer in Quentin’s light eyes. You’re shot with a flash of anger at his confession about the Entity seemingly constructing places that were relevant to some Survivors. His childhood memory, an innocent part of his life, was woven into a place of chaos and bloodshed. Your heart breaks for him. The male was expected to power through and survive every Trial regardless of the difficult memories associated with the Realm. Your thumb caresses the back of his hand and he hurriedly straightens up.

“And I found a connection between the school and Freddy,” Quentin continued without faltering, “so I studied up on sleep deprivation. Went to the library and scoured the internet on anything that regarded sleep, dream worlds, lucid dreaming, and methods to control the dream space. I had to stay awake so I drank energy drinks and other caffeinated garbage. It was crazy but I wanted to learn everything to beat him.”

His eyes are blazing now. He’s animated as he talks about his endeavors of trying to survive. You notice that his usually bouncy leg isn’t in motion. His nervous habit was surprisingly gone for now. There was a resoluteness in his voice. He hadn’t even noticed that his hand had slipped from yours as he used them to gesture while explaining.

“Does it ever stop hurting?”

Your inquiry causes his mouth to shut. His eyes, once burning with a rekindled flame, were extinguished. It’s a simple question and he knows it isn’t supposed to be cynical. Yet, he can’t help but face away from you and avoid eye contact. You were spot on. He was irrevocably hurt.

“No,” he shrugs nonchalantly to try to lessen the burn of his words, “you just make room for it.”

There's silence.

“But I couldn’t,” he finally breaks and confesses, “I couldn’t kill him.”

You watch his gaze drop. This was what you wanted to learn about Quentin. You wanted to know the struggles that he single-handedly copes with. The parts of himself that he doesn’t openly share with others. The reason behind his apprehensive glances and solitary persona.

Pulling back his hands, he settles them around yours again and gently traces the expanse of your fingers. His attitude switches. He seems to curl back into himself. Tucking himself back into the shell of what he used to be. His bottom lip wobbles. The anxiousness comes back. His knee starts bouncing as he idly fidgets with your hand. Now, he depicts the person you know during the Trials.

“And I was so, so, so close to ending everything. To finally get Freddy out of my life for good. I had a plan and lured him into the right position. He was gonna be gone and I would finally be able to sleep.” he lowers his head and whispers, “I just wanted to sleep. Shit, how long can a person stay sane before snapping when they’re sleep deprived? How much adrenaline is too much when you’re injecting yourself and you’ve built a tolerance for it? Are daily hallucinations and anxiety attacks normal? Did I even have a choice to stay awake when my nightmares would consist of him? I didn’t know the answer to any of those. The Fog took me before I landed the final blow on Freddy. I could’ve killed him. I could’ve done it so we wouldn’t have to face him now. ‘Cause of me and my mistake, other people are suffering from it–”

“You’re so giving, Quen.”

Your compliment throws him off-guard. Sharing optimism within the Realm wasn’t unheard of and Quentin garnered plenty of assurance from the other Survivors. Sure, he had a couple people comment on his considerate ways but it’s different when you say it so genuinely. There’s adoration that sparkles in your eyes when you stare at him. Distinctly, he feels the pent up aggravation and frustration ooze out of him. He stumbles over the rest of his sentence, determined to finish despite his ears burning, but ultimately gives up when you interlace your fingers with his.

“So determined even when you’re in danger, always looking out for the people around you, and you’re grounded during tough situations. You’re there when we need you but sometimes it’s alright to rely on others.” You remind him with a bittersweet smile.

“I can’t let them down,” he replies and emphasizes his next words, “I can’t let you down.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

“What happens if I do though?”

“I doubt that you intentionally would but if it happens,” you pause and offer a small shrug, “it’s not the end of the world. I’ll forgive you. It’s only fair that you’re shown some of the kindness you show others.”

“That’s all you, (Y/n),” he draws your intertwined hands closer to his chest, “only you would find a sliver of light in this hellhole. I’m just glad I got the chance to meet you.”

“Are you?”

You can’t help but question his honest feelings but you already know the answer. It’s clear that he’s grateful. You can feel his heart steadily thump against his chest. He’s warm. Your fingers are pressed to his sternum. His heartbeat is a quick yet constant rhythm that makes you yearn to listen to it for hours. You could listen to it forever, curled up against him and never having to escape another Trial. You would never need to leave his side to fight for your survival. You shouldn’t need to prove your worth to a malevolent being that didn’t deserve it. There would be peace.

“Yeah,” he breathes out because suddenly he’s short-winded, “so fucking glad. I even remember you. Isn’t that insane? You made me remember everything. You helped me. Thank you.”

His eyes are so expressively beautiful when they glimmer in thoughtfulness. Your lips curl upward at the thought and his brows raise. He’ll never shake off the effect that your smile has on him. The slight tilt in the corners of your lips he’s memorized the angle by now. He’s awestruck by your smile. It’s a pure joy that he welcomes with open arms because the reaction is so intoxicating.

“You’re staring,” you tease as your cheeks flush at his longing gaze.

“Am I?” He rhetorically asks and lifts your hand up to his lips, “you can’t blame me.”

Slowly, he uncurls your fingers while still holding onto your hand. His movements are slow and sure. Slow enough to allow you enough time to pull away, indirectly asking for your permission. Sure enough to let you know that he’s certain, craving for your closeness. Quentin presses each and every one of your fingertips to the center of his lips. His kisses are tender. His eyes are fixated on yours. You’re melting. The heart in your chest feels like it liquefied into a puddle below your feet.

“You feel like home,” he murmurs against your fingertips and a chuckle vibrates in his throat, “hell, I don’t even know where home is, whether it’s Springwood or here.”

His entire life consisted of running. Receiving news of the disappearance of someone special to him, he was quick to sketch out a plan. A scheme that would permanently beat Freddy so he could never come back. It was a race against time. Dodging the danger and risk that came from dancing with the nightmare in his head. He wanted to abandon his past and never look back on it. Just once, Quentin begged to live a life that wasn’t plagued by Freddy’s presence. He couldn’t find peace in avoiding life and was always moving in synchronization with his racing mind.

Yet, he didn’t want to run away from you.

Whenever you were around he felt alive.

From the moment you were introduced into the group of Survivors tasked with combating the Entity, he was painfully aware of your presence. He recalls seeing the sheepish tilt of your lips whenever a generator blew up on the both of you. Your hurried apology would brush past his ears as he hyper-focused on your flushed cheeks. Multiple times, more often than he would care to admit, he would longingly glance at you when the group was gathered around the campfire. The fire’s flame kissed the outline of your soft features just perfectly to the point where he had to be directly reminded to stop staring. A couple of the men in the group, like Ace, would playfully nudge and tease him to stop drooling. Ridiculously embarrassing moments like those were the ones that kept him even more awake during the night. Sometimes during Trials whenever he would loot a chest, he would sprint across the Realm to offer the item to you because he relished the smile you shot him. Your smile was his own form of saccharine– an addiction he couldn’t bother remedying. He speaks again.

“Well wherever home is, I know it’s with you.”

Suddenly, the blazing campfire that was stationary begins to move. The light doesn’t illuminate where he’s seated at anymore. His gaze breaks from yours to follow to where it goes deeper into the terrain they’re situated around. It’s engulfed in a cluster of massive trees. The fire is out of Quentin’s reach and he’s all too familiar with the moving campfire.

He’s being called into a Trial.

The male places a final kiss to the tip of your left ring finger before standing up to his full height. The campfire is still in your perspective. It surprises you when you feel a tinge of disappointment. You watch Quentin’s wandering eyes and already know the unspoken circumstances. He’ll be gone for a while. You wrap your arms around your chest, enclosed in the warmth from Quentin’s jacket.

From where you’re sitting, you have to crane your neck to admire him and utter, “looks like that’s your calling, Quen.”

“Seems like you’re right.”

He’s faced away from you. The campfire is getting further away. Quentin raises his hands above his head, stretching enough to ease his cracking joints and get them warmed up to survive a Trial. There was never enough time for him to spend with you. Usually he’d be consumed in boredom while waiting around the campfire when you weren’t around. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure about the outcome or how long this Trial would take. He figures he’ll risk a glimpse at you, hoping to etch you in his memory before he’s forcefully whisked away when there’s a gentle weight on his back.

“Promise you’ll come back safely,” you pull him closer, “please, Quen.”

Quentin hadn’t even noticed that you arose from your seat. Your fingers grip the back of his faded shirt, tugging at the fabric until it bunches in your hands. You were almost certain you were wrinkling the only piece of clothing he had. Realization kicking in, you instinctively try to pull away while hastily apologizing but his arms encircle around your waist. He dips his head down to answer you in a hushed voice.

“I promise.”

He allows you to hold onto him for another minute or so, inwardly knowing the price he’ll have to pay for arriving late to a Trial. Yet, he couldn’t be bothered by it. He was more attentive to how tightly you were hugging him. Your face was pressed against the lower portion of his chest. The weight grounded him. Gazing down at you, his hand brushes back some of your hair and a tender smile dances on his lips. You were everything he dreamed of when you were in his arms.

“Give me a second.”

Reaching behind his neck, he fiddles with a metal clasp while you pull away from him. You’re curious. With your wide eyes trained on him, he tugs at the fastener a couple times without any luck. His cheeks heat up. The heat crawls up his neck. He curses at his luck and an ill-contained giggle slips out from you.

“Pretty romantic right,” his tone is sarcastic as he teasingly rolls his eyes but he finally unhooks it, “crap, ‘bout time.”

He slips off the string necklace that usually hangs around his neck and holds it in front of you. It’s a piece of jewelry that you’ve always seen him wear. On the rare chance you see him during Trials, he’s typically clutching onto it as he runs. The centerpiece of the necklace is adorned in silver and an intricate design is carved into it.

Whirling his finger around, he wordlessly asks you to turn for him and you follow his command. It’ll be your keepsake now. Butterflies are fluttering in your stomach. Quentin gathers your hair out of the way, leans forward, and clasps his necklace around your neck. He pinches the silver part between his index finger and thumb to properly fix it on you. It sweeps across the area where your heart would be.

“Don’t let me forget you,” he voices when you turn back around, “I’d never forgive myself if I do.”

He slides his hand underneath your jaw to tilt your face up to meet his eyes. They catch the faintest glint that causes his eyes to appear amber in the dim light. You automatically nod to which Quentin grins at because of your obedience.

“Good,” he murmurs appreciatively.

He takes a step closer to you. His warmth envelops you in a gentle embrace. Your breath gets caught in your throat. Slowly tilting his head, he allows himself to trace your features with his eyes. His head dips down so he’s at eye-level with you. He’s so close. You notice his lashes touching his cheeks every time he blinks. Your eyelids flutter when he leans nearer. The ghost of his breath sweeps against your lips and you’re reminded of the same scenario that happened back last Trial. You wanted him to be closer. Your heart thumps expectedly, internally hoping that this time he won’t pull away.

Brushing his thumb against your bottom lip, he flicks his gaze up and asks, “can I?”

Eagerly, you nod. Your heart feels like it’s going to explode. The inklings of impatience began to form. Your palms are sweaty and you hurriedly wipe them against the side of your pants. You try to bounce up on your feet, in hopes of closing the distance, but he just straightens up until he’s barely out of reach. Displeasure seeps out and when he notices his lips curl into a sly grin.

Yet, Quentin doesn’t make an effort to move an inch until you breathe out, “yes, please.”

With your permission and his wish granted, he closes the distance to press his lips against yours. Time seems to slow. Your heart is beating with enough force that makes it hard to breathe. Your worries are all washed away when his lips are pressed against yours and his grip on you is delicate– like he’s afraid to cause you any harm. Clumsily, you have to remind yourself to keep your eyes shut. The first thought that crosses your mind is that his lips are soft. They’re soft enough to disguise how sickenly sweet his kisses are. It makes your knees weak. He can hear your breathing getting heavier.

“Fuck,” he cusses.

He doesn’t make an effort to pull away even if he’s running out of air. In his opinion, it’d be an honorable death. Raising yourself to stand on your tiptoes, you can distinctly hear him blissfully exhale. The sound shoots straight through you. His hand, previously tucked underneath your jaw, travels down to loosely wrap around your neck. You don’t withdraw. He wants– no, needs– to look at you. The desire tempts him to slowly open his eyes and he’s met with a view of–

“Alright loverboy, your time’s up,” Bill muses and blows a puff of cigarette smoke in Quentin’s face, “sorry ‘bout breakin’ the moment, kid. I didn’t want the Entity to shit itself and have it chew out any of our asses.”

In the corner of Quentin’s eyes, he can spot Nea openly snickering at his previous antics. Her dark eyes flash between you and him before suggestively raising her brows. Bill seems to notice her action and he cackles while slapping his beret against his knee. The dreamwalker knows that they mean well but it doesn’t help the intense burn of his ears. He secretly wishes that in his next Trial he dies and never has to step foot in the campfire grounds again. That would be a grand dream.

He grumbles under his breath, mostly sulking to hide his embarrassed grin, and the sight has you giggling. Turning to you, he basks in your brilliance before digging in his pocket. It was finally time to go. He couldn’t put it off any longer. His fingers grip a small pouch. The item is tied with rustic twine that itches if it’s held for too long. This particular pouch is one that he’s been saving for a while because of its rarity.

An offering.

Jogging up to the campfire, he drops the pouch and the flames consume it. Burnt pieces of the cloth drift in the air. He swats away the stray scraps.

“What’s that, Quen?”

With your question, he turns in your regard. He opens his mouth, about to answer your inquiry, when he suddenly stumbles over his words when his gaze dips down to your lips. His heart is still racing from earlier. The kiss is still fresh in his mind– it would be for a while. He clears his throat. Deciding to shift his attention somewhere else, he glances at his necklace and jacket around you. They’re both clearly too large for you but it’s the thought that counts. There’s an affectionate glint in your stare, depicting the concern you have for him.

He glances back down at the consumed offering. With the pouch, he was bargaining to increase the distance between the sacrificial hooks in the Trial.

Quentin casually shrugs, “gotta increase my chances of getting back to you, right?”

Your lips break into a beaming smile. He swears his breath stutters at the sight. The gesture is the only motivation he needs to start and survive the next Trial. With a final wave, he turns on his heel to jog deeper into the unknown terrain. The Entity would place him in a random Realm with an unknown killer. If it was Quentin’s former self, he would be shaking with anxiousness and wondering if it would be Freddy– the nightmare that endlessly haunted him. Now, however, he’s determined to come back. For once in his life he was eager to complete the Trial. Exhaustion didn’t slow him down. His mind was occupied with the thought of your shy smiles, hopeful eyes, and soft lips. The corners of his mouth lift in anticipation. He had someone waiting for him past the exit gates.

Similar to how he felt earlier, he was right.

He didn’t deserve this.

#dead by deadlight #dead by daylight x reader #dbd #quentin smith #quentin smith x reader #dbd survivor #video games #nightmare on elm street #nea karlsson #william overbeck #ace visconti #dbd fanfic

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clairdelunelove · 2 years

Text

Wake Up!

quentin smith x reader, dbd survivor x reader, brief mentions of nea & bill

genre: fluff, slight angst, based on gameplay

warnings: mentions of blood/gore/drugs, cursing, 7.5k words!

synopsis: being stuck in a dbd trial where the killer is your biggest nightmare is one challenge. the other challenge is being stuck in a dbd trial with your long-time crush.

a.n. a lil different from my usual posts but I’ve been obsessed with playing dead by daylight! always wanted to write something for our fav sleepy boi (he makes me so haPPY) but ran into writer’s block and life happens but here it is!

A sharp inhale causes you to sputter, choking on your own spit as you become familiar with your surroundings. Once again, you’re placed into terrain that appears recognizable yet uncanny. There’s an itch in your brain that acknowledges your prediction, but you know that nothing appears to be what it seems. The layout is always unique. Every time you think that there’s a pattern, a method to madness if you will, you’ve been incorrect. The Entity, this malevolent being that controls the Trial Grounds and Realms, shuffles the Realm that you’re dropped into. You’re prey for The Entity. Ever since you were whisked away– away from your life– you’ve never been able to escape. You were a survivor and a mere pawn for The Entity– a form of cruel entertainment for it as you battled life or death.

Escape seemed to be a fever dream as you completed each Trial. Regardless of the outcome, you were revived by The Entity and kept until the next Trial. You were left empty. With each passing Trial, your recollection of any memories is wiped clean. Yet you were encouraged, more so forced, to escape each Trial alive. If you died during a Trial, there was a price. Compensation, per The Entity would say, as it takes a piece of your soul. The innate will to live– the hunger to escape from the grips of The Entity– would be stolen from you. Each accumulated death would cause you to shrivel up into nothingness.

You couldn’t succumb to that.

You were a survivor.

“Doing alright, (Y/n)?”

A hushed and gentle inquiry snaps you out of your daze. The voice is familiar– so much so that your cheeks heat up at getting caught dissociating during a critical time.

“Yeah,” you breathe out while brushing the stray hair away from your face, “sorry ‘bout that.”

Quentin gives you a nervous smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He was one of the initial survivors that you met when you were dragged into the Entity’s cruel game. Determined yet exhausted, he showed you how to complete the basic tasks that you needed to survive. He always demonstrated innate patience even when your fingers connected the wrong wires together and caused a generator to blow up in his face. You were grateful that you’d be paired up with him for this Trial.

Sunken shadows hang underneath his eyes, and you’re reminded that some of the other Survivors in this realm bear more misfortune than you do. You’ve heard that some had previous lives of being a musician, botanist, or even a teacher before being pawns in the Entity’s Realm. Befriending them is a double-edged sword in many cases. Fear is a similarity you all share. You bond over the fear, alarm, and the anxiety of whether this will be your final day.

There are additional benefits to gaining friends. Sometimes you’ll get lucky and one of them will unhook you. You’ll get extra items from chests during the Trials. Although hearing their blood-curdling screams in a Trial sent you into a spiral of guilt, you’ve recognized that a small sliver of companionship is necessary. You’ll lose your humanity if you don’t chase after it.

You’re shaken out of your stupor again when Quentin cautiously walks to the generator a couple feet away from you. Dropping down to his knees, he lifts the side cover to get a better view of the multicolored wires.

His lips curl into a teasing grin before catching your gaze, “think you can do this with me? Without blowing it up, of course.”

He catches the playful roll of your eyes and lets out a genuine chuckle.

“I’ll do it just to spite you.” You retort but the red staining your ears gives away your embarrassment.

Making your way to the generator, you drop a single knee on the ground before wincing.

Snow?

The white ice causes a sharp coldness that you can feel beneath the tattered jeans that you’re wearing. You curse under your breath for disregarding the terrain you’re currently in. The current Realm is one that resembles a small, remote ski town. Sometimes the ice creates advantages and disadvantages. You’d have to be especially cautious in this terrain. Bearable yet uncomfortable, you knew the snow would cause your knees to become numb before you could finish the generator.

“Use this for your knees.”

There’s some shuffling before you’re handed a blue jacket. Quentin’s left in just his faded shirt. There are goosebumps starting to form on his uncovered arms. He glances at you before clearing his throat and continuing to connect wires together. A pinkish hue covers his cheeks.

A wave of gratitude washes over you at his gesture but you try to hand his jacket back, “I really shouldn’t, Quen. You’ll freeze in this place.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re literally shivering though.”

“I’m not, trust me. The Entity was actually being nice to give me suitable clothes for this place,” he shakes his head with a chuckle, “plus I have this.”

Then, in an attempt to quell your worrying, he points to the beanie on his head. The gray beanie is more similar to thin threads that are loosely knitted together to form a makeshift hat.

Raising a dark brow, he wordlessly shuts down any arguments that you have, and you’re encouraged to keep his jacket.

“Thank you,” you mutter before carefully folding the garment to place it underneath your knees, “I’ll give it back to you at the campfire.”

The iciness doesn’t quite cut through your pants anymore and you’re heaving out a sigh in relief. Quentin notices your soft exhale and knowingly smiles while sparks of electricity fizz within the generator.

Quentin never tried opening up about his past when everyone was gathered around the campfire after Trials. He’d wave a dismissive hand and continue listening to the others. Sometimes, if you dare to stare longer, you can recognize his hunched figure begin to drift off. Then, he’ll blink himself awake with such fierce intensity that it startles you.

You wish that he’d share more with you.

“Am I interruptin’ anything?”

A burly voice asks before hauling themselves through an open window. William, or Bill as you prefer, is one of the veterans that have dealt with the Entity’s savagery. Although, your encounters with Bill have left you wondering whether he was scared of the Entity or if the Entity was terrified of him.

The older soldier grins, balancing the cigarette in his mouth, when he catches the bashful looks you and Quentin give him.

He lets out a hearty chuckle before saying, “I’m just messin’ with ya’ll, no need to get your panties in a twist.”

Then, he plops beside you to tug at the generator’s wires as well. Completing a generator is a skill that a select few Survivors are adept at. You can recall a single one, Dwight, that can finish a generator with someone else’s help in no time. You’ve watched how he twists and pulls at wires with startling accuracy. However, with three people on a generator you’re certain that this will not take as long.

“Jus’ wanted to let you know who the killer is,” Bill mentions before carefully regarding Quentin, “got a glimpse of him but I’m pretty sure it’s Freddy. Can’t miss that bastard’s sweater.”

“Crap!”

The generator sputters before blowing up and Quentin hastily steps back to cover himself from the electric sparks. His fingers are reddened from being burnt by the explosion, but he brushes it off by carding a hand through his chestnut-colored hair. Quentin’s usual composed gaze is wild. Bill’s mouth is set in a thin line but otherwise he remains stoic. There’s an uncomfortable silence and your hands begin sweating at the awkwardness. Quentin’s the first to speak up.

“Sorry about that.”

His voice is small. It barely registers over the crack and pop of the generator you all are working on. Bill seems to hear him fine however, sending the other male a firm nod before speaking.

“Jus’ remember that I got your back.”

The encouragement is all Quentin needs to regain that resolute expression that he normally portrays, and he mumbles a small token of gratitude. He pulls beneath the generator once again, but you note the slight tremble in his fingertips when he pulls a rusted lever.

“Freddy?” You ask because this is the first you’ve heard about this killer.

“He’s jus’ a burnt-up son of a bitch that gets ya when you’re least expecting it.” Bill responds.

“Look, just,” Quentin pauses, “just don’t fall asleep.”

“Affirmative.”

Bill quickly answers Quentin with a salute. You’re aware that he’s well-versed with dealing with each killer given his experience. However, you’re still wondering about the prevalent connection between Quentin and Freddy. From the fierce gleam in Quentin’s eyes, you knew this unknown killer held some sort of significance to him.

A spine-chilling scream erupts from the other side of the Realm that causes you to flinch. That must be your fourth member of the team. The randomization of every member that the Entity chooses is puzzling. However, from the higher pitch of the scream, you guess that your final ally is female.

Bill puffs out a dark cloud of cigarette smoke, unfazed by the cry for help. Quentin’s weary eyes regard yours with unmasked sympathy before standing up. He huffs out a warm breath, creating a small cloud of fog in the frigid weather.

“I’ll go check it out,” he mentions.

He pats down the bottom half of his pants while waiting for an agreement. The snow leaves a damp stain on his slim-cut jeans, and you know that the fabric must be uncomfortable whenever he moves.

“Roger that. (Y/n) and I will finish this in the meantime,” Bill responds, “just watch yourself now.”

You begin to stand from your seated position, “I could come with you. This generator is almost finished.”

Your lips slant downward as Quentin casts a knowing glance before waving a dismissive hand. You both know that finishing the generators, which was a time-consuming task, was necessary to power the exit gates and leave. However, you would rather not let Quentin wander around alone. You knew he was well-versed in surviving within the Realm, but his earlier reaction left you worried.

Seemingly sensing your doubts, his lips upturned into an appreciative smile, “I’ll be fine, (Y/n).”

He takes a tentative step towards you and reaches out to brush his hand against your shoulder. His touch is cold but welcoming. Catching your bottom lip between your teeth, you slowly nod. If he believed that he was capable enough to go alone then you should trust that belief.

“Thanks, I’ll get goin’ then,” he mutters before loosely wrapping his hand around your arm, “and whatever you do, don’t fall asleep. Got it, (Y/n)?”

“Got it.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

“I’ll see you back at the campfire then,” there’s a grin on his thin lips, “and don’t forget my jacket.”

Satisfied with your answer, he rounds the corner of the old building’s remains and slowly climbs through an open window. Quentin drops to the ground and you catch his soft grunt at the impact. He jogs in the direction the scream was heard and soon the generator’s noises are present only. Your fingers connect with the mechanical levers again, the action is habitual at this point.

There’s a comfortable silence before Bill speaks up.

“You and that dreamwalker boy got somethin’ going on?” Bill questions while throwing a nonchalant glance at Quentin’s retreating figure.

He pauses at connecting the colored wires to take a drag of his cigarette, which seemingly never runs out during every Trial. You wonder if the Entity spares some of the other Survivors small favors like extra clothes because you’ve seen some in different attire. For instance, Bill’s clad in his usual military jacket but it’s speckled in blood despite not running into the killer yet.

“Me and Quentin?” You sputter and shoot Bill an incredulous look, “he’s just like that with everyone. He’s nice.”

The older man raises a brow to call you on your bluff, “hell if I know but that kid seems like he’s real fond of ‘ya.”

“Oh,” you shake your head and force out a chuckle, “we’ve known each other for a while. It’s hard on everyone here so I guess we just get along well.”

Bill lets out a sound that lets you know that he’s unconvinced. His icy-blue eyes regard Quentin’s jacket that’s folded up underneath your knees, but he shrugs and mumbles a comment about being too old for this.

Suddenly the levers that you’re pulling at get covered in a warm substance and you instinctively pull your hands away. The liquid splatters onto your face and you try to blink away the stray droplets. Swiping your cheek with your forearm, you glance down at the unexpected substance. A yelp escapes your lips when the scarlet liquid looks too similar to blood.

“Shit!” Bill exclaims and reaches out to yank you away from the generator, “start running!”

Hastily wiping his bloodied hands on his trousers, he ducks behind a crate. A figure materializes before you. Bill reaches out to firmly push you and you’re sprinting away after wrapping Quentin’s jacket around your waist. Before you leave, however, you catch a glimpse of the striped sweater that Bill mentioned earlier.

—

“You’re doing it wrong! Let me show you how it’s done.”

The dark-haired girl takes a couple gauze pads from the medkit you’re holding and presses it against her chest. Her fingers grip the surgical dressing firm enough to cause blood to bleed through. She lets out a small whimper at the pain as her brows furrow. With quick movements, she ties a knot to calm the bleeding and assesses her handiwork.

Everyone’s on edge.

Each person has gotten hooked at least once and 3 generators still had to be powered up. Time was not on your side. This was Nea’s second time getting hooked, arguably the strongest evader on the team, and she had to play cautious for the rest of the match. She was the final ally in your team. Bill offered to distract Freddy for as long as he could. You could hear his heavy combat boots thudding against the wooden flooring in the main building. You had no idea where Quentin was since the Realm was larger in scale.

Nea lowers her beanie over her eyes, seemingly embarrassed about getting caught so early on in the game.

“Hey,” you pause to gently pat her shoulder, “you did good. You bought us some time. You can’t run forever and if you can then you should get us outta here asap.”

She cracks a rare smile at your teasing and murmurs a small thanks. Turning to the side, she avoids your gaze to inhale deeply. Her forearms and elbows are covered in small scratches from hopping over splintered ledges. Even worse, the openings from where the hook pierced her are still fresh. The dressings are stained red and desperately need a change. Yet, her expression remains neutral at the injuries.

You offer a hand to help her stand up. Brushing off her low rider jeans, Nea takes your hand and gets back on her feet. She winces at the initial strain but regains her footing. Her converse has mud and blood splotches on it, yet they’re in better shape than she’s currently in.

“Let’s find a generator.” She states.

Nea allows you to help her locate one and you turn your chin up to the sky to look for the indicative flashing lights. It’s difficult to distinguish because of the gusts of snow that block your limited vision. The work is tiring, with your arm curled around her, but she hobbles to the nearest generator you can spot. It’s settled in the center of the main building so finishing it would be wise.

A couple seconds into connecting wires there’s a familiar ding that resonates throughout the Realm.

That must mean that Quentin is alright.

“Hell yeah,” Nea pumps a fist into the air to celebrate the completed generator, “we’ll get this finished in no time.”

Your shoulders relax as relief floods within you. A weight is lifted off your shoulders. That means there are two generators left to finish— then you’re one step closer to escaping. You and Nea are already working on one so technically a single generator is left.

Then everyone would be free.

The generator you’re working on is swiftly completed due to the newfound vigor. Working in synchronization with Nea to pull at levers and wires was effortless. But a new task demands your attention when a pained bellow rings throughout the air.

“That must be Bill,” you mention while Nea grimly nods, “I’ll unhook him while you find another generator.”

It was sensible for you to rescue him because Nea sacrificed her last hook already. The plan was for everyone to make it out alive. From the distance of Bill’s scream, he was not hooked very far from where you stood. You were only on your first hook, the dull sting was nothing compared to the discomfort that Nea must be experiencing.

“Make sure you crouch to avoid getting caught,” Nea advises and gestures to Quentin’s jacket around your waist, “and you should wear that to blend in.”

His dark navy jacket is monotonous compared to your brighter attire that contrasts poorly in the wintry Realm. Slipping your right arm through the right arm hole, you shrug on Quentin’s jacket to follow her advice. She knew strategies to avoid attention and surveillance. The extra layer of fabric does little to quell the frigidness, but it does bring you a sense of security.

“That’s Quentin’s, right? Smart of him to give you that, to be honest,” she muses.

She bids you a quick parting before jogging up the wooden stairs. Reaching the clearing, she scans the ground for the flashing lights on an incomplete generator until she finds one. Her index finger points to it and casts you a glance. Nea takes a couple preliminary steps and firmly presses her hand against the bandaged wound on her chest. She stands with her feet shoulder-width apart.

“You’re going to jump?” You call out to her, eyes widening at the familiar stance that Nea takes.

Bending at her knees, she snickers, “I’ve jumped from higher places. I’ll see you at the exit gate!”

Then, the elastic energy she conjures up grants her enough momentum to jump despite her injuries. It will always amaze you on how daring she is in each Trial. You listen for a resounding thump to indicate that she landed but when you’re met with silence then you’re relieved that she’s fine. Nea’s agility was unrivaled.

Running to where Bill’s last scream was heard, you try to recognize anything that was out of the ordinary. There weren’t any distinctive chests that held antidotes, birds cawing, or fountains placed to wash off infections. Trudging through the snow, you make your way to the small wooden building that’s found in more Realms. The building is infamous for killers to use because it’s convenient and lures survivors to go down into the basement. However, it’s a great place to distract the killer for quite some time. The shack had a doubtful advantage.

Pushing yourself up against the shack, you strain to hear Bill’s muffled grunts of pain.

He must be in the basement.

You slowly vault the window and attempt to land quietly. Bracing yourself with both hands outstretched, you begin to tiptoe down the stairs. There’s no indication of the killer: your heartbeat isn’t thumping against your chest or a red light isn’t illuminating the room. However, exhaustion hits you like a freight train going a thousand miles per hour. Your alertness is hindered and you feel like you’re going to faint. Sweat begins to linger above your brow bone. Bill pays you no attention when you finally get to him. A medkit that he had was laying haphazardly on the ground beside him. The hat he usually wears with pride was also on the ground. His hands pry the Entity’s limbs away from him and you can guess that all his movement caused his beret to fall.

His struggling state causes you to call out to him, “Bill! I’m here!”

Eyes finally regarding you, a wave of relief passes through him. You’re unsure of whether he was relieved that you were rescuing him or he was glad that you were still alive.

“Watch yourself, kid! Behind ya!” Bill hollers.

In your exhausted state you can barely recognize the telltale sign of your heartbeat thumping erratically. The killer must be nearby. Fatigue causes your arms to weaken as you unhook Bill and place him on the ground.

“You have time! Get going!” You advise Bill.

Before he can leave, however, he hands you the medkit that was on the floor, “hold up, I got somethin’ for ya.”

The medkit is partially used, some of the bandages and syringes are missing but it’s a miracle he was able to swipe one. You shoot him a grateful smile but he’s already bending down to grab his beret. The older soldier barely fusses over the gaping hole in his chest. You believe that past battles have taught him a thing or two about survival.

“Thanks for that. I owe you one,” Bill calls over his shoulder as he bounds up the basement stairs, “fall in behind me.”

You follow behind him when a figure suddenly materializes and you narrowly sidestep to avoid a clawed glove.

“Bull frickin horse shit!” Bill gruffs as the killer takes another swipe at you.

You watch as the metal fingertips graze the loose strands of your shirt and make small holes. There goes your only good piece of clothing. Spinning on your heel, you face away from the killer and use your momentum to confuse him. A curse slips from your lips at the last minute dodge you made, inwardly glad that Quentin’s jacket wasn’t damaged.

“Run!” You yell and your command has Bill sprinting away, “I’ll buy us some time!”

Your heart is thundering now. The increased heart rate causes an explosion of energy to erupt within you. Fingers clutching the edge of the shack window, you vault through it and tuck yourself as close to the building as humanly possible while running along it. Freddy follows close behind, choosing to vault over the window too, and gains distance.

His voice suddenly booms from within your head. Hands clapping over your ears, you try to block out the noise to focus on running away from him. Panic seizes you. A deep chuckle, that clearly belongs to him, resonates in your mind as you run within the shack. Your shoes slam against the wooden tiling. His presence creeps up on you. You can almost smell the blood on his hands. You’re losing distance.

You need to throw the shack pallet.

From your peripheral vision, you can see his clawed hand raise. An instinct to vault the window again causes you to change your running direction. However, before he can walk out the doorway, you sprint around to drop the heavy pallet. Splinters dig underneath your fingertips but you ignore it in favor of wanting to hear Freddy’s pained groan at getting crushed by it. You know it won’t do much but it’ll stun him at least.

“Eat this!”

An animalistic cry leaves your lips as you pull it to cover the doorway where he’s standing. But the pallet does not stun Freddy. It is destroyed immediately and Freddy stands in front of you. His burnt up face breaks out into pure joy as he watches your face morph into disbelief. He can taste the fear.

“This is my world,” Freddy croaks out and his mottled lips twitch into a sadistic grin, “and you’ll never leave.”

Defiance is all you wish to show. As a last ditch effort, you pretend to take a step towards him which causes him to instinctively swing. With the limited time you have, you duck underneath his arm and sprint to the window. His metal claw catches the back of your leg as you haul yourself through the opening. A sharp sting causes you to awake from your exhausted state. You let out a wail when Freddy attempts to pull you back, the weapon digging deeper into your skin, but you pry away from his grip.

You needed to get away.

Profusely bleeding from your leg, your sprint is reduced to a limped jog. A ding goes off, signaling that the final generator was complete. Hopefully the others would be able to get the exit gates open soon. You throw a glance over your shoulder– and sure enough– Freddy is following. His fedora is tipped over his eyes but his pace is steady. The gash on your leg hurts like hell. Your best bet was to distract him with pallets, real ones, to play it safe since you were already injured. Heading to the main building, you hoped that there would be a couple that your other teammates have not thrown down yet.

“Hey!”

You yelp as a calloused hand pulls you behind a set of crates. The tug is surprisingly gentle but you were jogging with so much intensity that you landed harshly on someone. A hand clasps over your mouth, ushering you to stay quiet, and another settles at your hip.

“It’s just me.”

A warm breath ghosts over your neck and you immediately stop squirming when you realize who it was. Your heartbeat thumps steadily for a different reason now. Just to confirm any doubts, your eyes dart to the side and the familiar tuft of brown hair is all you need to see.

Quentin realizes your wide eyes and offers you a relieved smile. This time, however, the gleam reaches his eyes.

The hiding spot is cramped, filled with spiderwebs, and covered in dust. Yet Quentin does not seem to mind the slot in the corner of the room. A pile of wooden crates conceals the both of you and shadows casted by the ski lodge building create more of an advantage.

Freddy’s footsteps are heard a couple feet away from you. You try your best to remain silent, give into a strategy of stealth, and muffle your pained whimpers. There’s a small puddle of blood from where you entered the building at. Panic rises at the trail of evidence you’ve left behind and Quentin seems to notice how you’ve frozen up. He catches sight of the blood, raking his eyes to where the deep gash resides behind your leg.

Quentin’s furrowed brows of concentration drop. The hand that was on your hip leaves and gingerly reaches out to your leg that’s curled on top of his. Instead of brushing against it, however, his hand returns to your hip and draws soothing circles. You suspect that the action is meant to calm you down but it only makes you dizzy.

Freddy walks over to a nearby locker, forcing it open, and peering inside in hopes of finding you. It was empty. A scoff leaves the back of his throat and he slams it shut. His claws drag against the metal lock which create a displeasing screech. Freddy’s beady eyes skipped up to the railing but could not spot you. What felt like an eternity later, Freddy leaves.

“What the hell happened?”

Quentin breaks the silence with a harsh whisper and he gestures to the grisly injury on your leg. He pays no mind to how he’s also covered in bandages or how you’re sitting right on his wounded thigh. His feathery hair tickles your cheek when he leans closer to inspect the injury.

You finally let out a sharp exhale followed by a whimper, “got caught vaulting the window when I was unhooking Bill.”

“He did that to you?”

You both know that Quentin is referring to Freddy. Quentin’s voice is throaty. Slowly nodding at his inquiry, he curses under his breath. Splatters of dried blood are speckled across his face.

He shakes his head at your apparent sacrifice and lets his fingertips skim the outer edge of the gash to check for the depth.

“What happened to you?” You question him.

Shifting on his lap, you indicate the slash on his thigh even though he’s still inspecting your injury.

“I was being stupid and threw down a fake pallet,” he exhales, “being in the Dream World does that to you.”

Dream World?

That explained the phenomena behind the pallet that was in the shack. You slowly begin to maneuver yourself off of Quentin’s damaged leg in fear of making it worse. He wordlessly helps you, placing both hands on your waist, and gently settling you beside him.

“Here,” you offer him what’s left of your medkit, “you can use it to change your bandages before it gets infected.”

Shaking his head, he points at a nearby chest, “keep yours in case of an emergency. I guarantee that I can pull a brand new medkit out of that.”

You raise an inquisitive brow at him, doubt written all over your face. Chests in the Realm were difficult to find because they were scattered around in random places. Their presence was not absolutely certain. Guessing the contents within the chest was even more difficult to predict. Items within the chest ranged from keys, maps, flashlights, or medkits.

“Don’t believe me?”

His words are teasing as a grin dances on his lips. Hauling himself in a crouched position, he winces but otherwise obscures the pain he’s in with his amiable demeanor. He leans forward, reaching your eye level, and pauses. His dark eyes skitter across your face and then to his jacket wrapped around you. The dark fabric engulfs you and only contrasts the difference between the two of you. Quentin rests his palm against the floor to hold himself there.

“You gotta have some faith in me, (Y/n).”

His warm sigh caresses your lips and you instinctively part them. Your heart tripped like you’d just sprinted a mile or two. Droopy eyes, which you were used to seeing when he lacked sleep, were half-lidded for another reason.

Your reply comes out in a hushed whisper, “I do though.”

The wailing of the exit gate being close to opening startles the both of you.

“I’ll get the medkit. You can stay here,” he drags his gaze elsewhere and reluctantly forces himself away after hearing the signal, “nice jacket, by the way.”

He catches the way you roll your eyes. His own sparkle with a gentle fondness that makes your knees weak. Crouching to remain stealthy, he swiftly makes his way to the chest that’s perched on the top of the stairs. Upon reaching it, he gestures a thumbs-up in your direction before unlocking it. He jiggles the lock to ease it open with precise quickness. You watch as he searches it.

Truth be told, Quentin manages to pull out a medkit. He rummages around the chest a couple more seconds before hurriedly coming back to you. He pockets something small. Upon seeing your impressed stare, a grin curls on his lips. He doesn’t bother boasting about it but instead starts unraveling the medical fabric for your leg.

Quentin works to wrap the gauze around the fresh wound. You notice that there’s an incessant tremble in his fingertips. When he recognizes your zeroed-in gaze on his shaky fingers, he curses and shakes out his hand. He hopes you won’t ask him what’s wrong. There’s only so much he can explain about the endless caffeine, energy drinks, and stimulants he’s taken to stay awake. No one talks about the side effects that come without sleep. The excessive anxiety that clogs his throat up in new situations. The hallucinations of Freddy hunting him. The forgetfulness of whether he ate causes him to starve for days. His ears burn. Curiosity almost gets the better of you, but you decide against it. He slows to a stop when your whimpers of pain become more audible.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he repeatedly mumbles before forming a knot to hold it in place.

Little did Quentin know; you were suffering the consequences of complete exhaustion. Your exhales were coming out in drawn out breaths. The view within the ski lodge was progressively getting blurry. Your eyelids felt like a hundred- pound weights were attached to them. Quentin’s touch on your leg is warm. Leaning against the wall was surprisingly comfortable. It almost felt as good as the bed you had in your life– pre-Entity shenanigans. Slowly, your head lolls to the side as you invite yourself to rest.

Didn’t you deserve it?

“Hey, I’m right here.”

“Are you falling asleep?”

“We’re gonna be alright, (Y/n)! I’m going to get you out!”

You can hear Quentin’s voice in the distance. It sounds so muffled— so far. To hear the rest of his comments, you have to strain yourself but you’re too weary to exert that much effort. You’re not able to recognize the alarm in his tone.

“You gotta get up, he’ll come and get us.”

Desperation claws at him when he notices the distinct signs that you were falling asleep. This wasn’t good. His fingers sweep across your forehead to softly push away a few strands of your hair. He can feel his throat close up. His voice comes out shrill. Too many times he’s experienced this. Too many times he’s lost people he’s cared for because of Freddy. Tears threatened to form because now— he was also falling victim to sleep.

Drawing his hands together, he claps loudly in an attempt to rouse you from your initial stages of slumber. He snaps his fingers after. Any type of noise to wake you up was necessary.

“Wake up, (Y/n), wake up. (Y/n) please. Please don’t do this. (Y/n), come back, you promised.”

The way he’s chanting your name in broken syllables causes you to groggily awaken. Another wave of exhaustion hits you, trying to keep you asleep, but you desperately fight it. You know this is Freddy’s doing. It wasn’t fair to allow yourself to get caught up in Freddy’s game when Quentin was trying so hard to survive. Swiping a hand over your eyes, you peer up at him in confusion.

“Quentin?”

“(Y/n)? You’re awake,” he chokes up before shaking his head to rid himself from his own tiredness, “shit. I thought I lost you.”

“Freddy will have to do better than that to get rid of me.”

A single tear slides down Quentin’s cheek as he chuckles at your comment. His eyes are reddened. Before you can ask why he’s tearing up, he pulls you in for a hug.

“Think you can stand?” He asks as he’s pulling away, “we gotta get to the exit gate before we run out of time.”

Nodding, you use the wall as leverage to stand. You could feel the start of a headache beginning to form. There was just a final obstacle to hop over before you were free. Quentin opens his medkit again to obtain a syringe. A transparent liquid resides in it, and he uncaps it before injecting himself. His movements are precise, leaving you to wonder just how often he does it. He doesn’t utter a sound.

“Adrenaline,” he answers your wide gaze, “it’s going to keep me awake.”

The two of you exit the building and head to an exit gate with Quentin’s expertise on locating it. The gash on your leg considerably slows you down but he remains patient in jogging beside you. Pretty soon, Quentin catches a glimpse of Bill and Nea at the exit gate.

They were stalling for you two.

“Son of a bitch is holding us hostage!” Nea exclaims and ducks to dodge Freddy’s slash.

Her voice rings throughout the Realm. Bill and Nea appeared to be severely injured. Bill’s hand is placed above his heart and the gaps between his fingers show dripping blood. Nea’s typical agility is slower. She narrowly avoids Freddy’s second attack.

“Just leave! We’ll be fine!” Quentin assures them.

Turning his head, he can scarcely spot the second exit gate. The gleaming lights, which displayed whether the exit gate was close to opening, was absent, however. He’s contemplating. The other exit gate was quite a journey away. His jeans were starting to irritate the open wound on his thigh. You were, similarly, limping beside him. He doubted that you two could make it in time because of your injured state.

“We will NOT leave a man behind!” Bill retorts and ushers Nea to stray further away from the exit gate, “let’s get back out there!”

“We can’t, we’re going to get ourselves killed.”

Nea yanks her arm away from Bill and edges toward the exit. Freddy pays no attention to the heated debate. His gloved hand swings at Bill and the soldier fends off the attack with his forearm. Fiddling with his empty gun holster, Bill eyes the both of you.

You lift the medkit, which was gifted to you by Bill, in the air for him to see, “we’ll be fine! He’ll force you guys out anyways.”

The veteran’s hardened expression softens at the action, and he groans due to indecisiveness, “ah hell, I’m getting too old for this shit.”

With a nod in Nea’s direction, he wordlessly agrees with her decision. The two of them cast a final glance in your direction. Bill bids you a grateful salute. Tugging off his beret, he presses it against his heart.

“We better see ya back at the campfire, kid,” Bill hollers before wearing it again and leaving.

Nea waves. She calls out to let the both of you know to find her after the Trial. Afterwards, they’re both running and escaping.

Freddy stands to block the exit.

You exhale. Their retreating figures are all you see before Quentin’s hand intertwined with yours.

“I’ve got a plan,” he murmurs, “we gotta move fast though.”

Forcing your feet to move, you gasp when you realize the ground underneath you are starting to collapse. Red divots begin to form, and you cautiously step over it. The effect is so large that the pools of blood you leave behind camouflages with it. Quentin continues leading the both of you to the other side of the map. Freddy, interested in sacrificing someone to the Entity, quickly trails behind.

“Oh, shit.” Quentin fights off the drowsiness by fiercely rubbing his eyes or shaking his head.

“It’s,” you see the other exit gate that Quentin tugs you toward, “it’s not open. It won’t open in time.”

The male remains silent and pulls the exit gate lever down to start opening it. A single red-light gleams after a couple seconds. Sweat drips down your right temple. The anxiousness makes you feel queasy. Yet, it seemed like Quentin powered the exit gates faster than usual under the escalating pressure.

He throws a glance over his shoulder and sees Freddy’s stalking figure, “let’s go.”

Rounding the corner, he tucks the both of you away and waits until Freddy checks the exit gate. Quentin’s breath hitches when Freddy inches closer.

The killer casts a glance at the unfinished exit gate. The corners of his burnt lips pull into a grim frown before morphing into a cruel smile when he hears a dim noise. That sound is too divine. He follows the low harmonic tune that catches his attention. A black smoke rises up from the opening, tempting and inviting. Stepping through a window, Freddy approaches the opened prop and uses his foot to stomp on it.

Freddy closed the hatch.

The last alternative to escape and suddenly that option was taken away. Turning on his heel, Freddy trudges back in the direction of the previous exit gate to hunt for the both of you.

“I’ve been tormented by this guy for too long,” Quentin murmurs and falls to the floor in a heap of fatigue.

“He found and closed the hatch. How’re we going to get out?”

The question is whispered into unhearing ears. You’re met with silence. Quentin taps his hands against his lap. At this rate, you speculated that he was in no shape to open the exit gate at the increased pace that he previously did. The only option that you could think about was sacrificing your own life for Quentin and hopefully give him enough time to escape. Shifting to face him, your mouth opens to offer the suggestion but quickly closes when Quentin raises a hand up to halt you.

“Don’t,” he warns with a steady hand, “I already know what you’re gonna say and it’s not happening.”

“We don’t have another choice, Quen,” you reason and gesture towards the unfinished exit gate, “we’ll both die here if nothing changes.”

“You really don’t think there’s another way?”

“There isn’t. We saw him close the hatch right in front of us.” You quip.

Quentin recognizes your increase in tone. He chooses not to say anything. There’s not much he can mention to bring comfort for you. Freddy reigned victorious in patrolling the exit gates and closing hatch. He blocked your only escapes. Bunching your hands into fists, you let them fall by your sides. The clock was ticking. A bell sings your death toll. At least you were with someone that cared for you in this twisted Realm. The passage of time, manipulated by the Entity, was your worst enemy.

Was this the end?

Would you have a piece of your soul taken away?

“You gotta have some faith in me, (Y/n).”

Quentin’s breathy voice causes you to snap your gaze up to regard him. He’s close. The cracked red ground casts an opaque sheen to illuminate his soft features. You wish that you could have known Quentin in another lifetime– one where you’re not mandated to fight for your survival.

You’re sure you would’ve enjoyed it.

Reaching into his slim-cut jeans, he digs out a key. It’s dull and the shoulder of it is bent at an oblique angle. Tilting his head, he spots the way your mouth hangs open and chuckles. The noise is like sugared honey.

Then he chooses to close the distance between the two of you and raise a brow.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner,” you’re still stuck staring at the key in his hand and shaking your head in disbelief, “I was losing my mind and you had a plan all along.”

“I told you I had one, didn’t I?” He laughs.

Dropping to his knees, he forces the key into the keyhole and turns it until it clicks into place. The key dissipates into thin air after being consumed. Quentin draws the rusted metal cover up to allow you enough space to slip through.

You and Quentin’s heartbeat start to audibly beat again and the drumming signals that Freddy is nearing. A flash of panic crosses Quentin’s face. His hand finds the small of your back.

“You go first,” Quentin ushers you closer to the hatch.

He threads his arms underneath your knees and gently lowers you into the hatch. Impulsively, you curl your fingers around the side of Quentin’s shirt. He glances down at it. Slowly, he replaces your hold on his shirt by threading his own fingers with yours. His thumb lightly caresses the back of your hand. The touch is affectionate, and your bright eyes search his.

“I’ll tell you about my life when we get out of this,” Quentin hums and brings your knuckles up to his lips, “pre-Entity. Before I even knew what the hell this was. When times were normal and mundane. Before I even knew how to power open an exit gate with record-breaking speed.”

Mirth sweeps over his features when he draws a laugh out of you. He gradually lowers you further into the hatch. Darkness engulfs your lower half.

“You will?”

“I will, promise,” he responds and bows his head until his forehead touches yours, “if you promise to tell me about yours too.”

“Deal.”

The word is spoken like a desperate prayer. Heartbeat quickening, you know it’s time to leave. A bittersweet smile curls upon your lips. It might be a while before you’re in a Trial with Quentin again. You begin to loosen your fingers out of his hold.

“I’ll see you back at the campfire, yeah?” He tries to grasp onto your lingering touch.

You instantly nod, “I have to give you back your jacket, remember?”

It doesn’t even bother you if you seem desperate now. Quentin seems to notice too because he grins in amusement. Kneeling over the hatch, he presses a fleeting kiss on the top of your head. You catch a glimpse of him when he pulls away. His tired eyes seemingly gleam in bliss. His actions embody just how Quentin was as a person: tender yet deliberate.

You allow yourself to wiggle out of his grasp and he watches as you fall into the darkness. His jacket that’s wrapped around you is soon immersed in the obscurity of the hatch. Then, he shuffles himself into the opening too. Before he drops, however, he spots Freddy’s sadistic eyes watching the scene unfold. The resolute dreamwalker sticks his middle finger up before throwing himself down the hatch and successfully escaping another Trial in the Entity’s Grounds.

#dead by deadlight #dbd #quentin smith #dead by daylight x reader #fluff #quentin smith x reader #freddy krueger #dbd survivor #video games #nightmare on elm street #nea karlsson #william overbeck

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