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 đ„ș hope you enjoy xx
words : 2.1k
đȘ 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.Â
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.Â
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?Â
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.Â
 "Y/n? You still on Earth?"Â
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.Â
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.Â
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
