[ A snowflake falls on Quentin's cheek, a sensation he feels through any numbness somehow. The cold hits him all over again, like it's new, like he just reentered the place. He shivers, eyes wide and looking around - something's wrong but it's not. He takes a deep breath. And he waits, not realizing anything changed at first.
Ash is taking a really long time, he thinks. He wants to express some urgency here and text him back. He thinks he does even. Various ways to ask "Where are you?" in nice terms that grow in increasing in urgency. It's snowing. It's really cold. He had pushed himself to stand before the ten minute mark, already taking a few steps into the snow to venture in after Ash.
Quentin reads the text with a hitched breath and his entire being tenses. There comes a point in every dream, usually almost instantly with him but it's not always the case despite trying to train it that way, when it switches into lucid dreaming. This is one of those moments. There's an ache in his chest that feels tight as panic sets in. He's gotten this text before, in real life. Mint chocolate chip? That's his favorite. Cookie dough, second. Quentin always says both. One scoop each. Did that ever since he was a kid. ]
Shit.
[ He doesn't respond to the text, instead opting to hit call on Ash's number, hanging up, hitting it again. As if doing it will will his sleeping body to hit it. (It doesn't). He grips and un-grips the hand not currently clutching a phone now, nervously taps it against his thigh while the other hand's thumb is rapidly hitting the call button. Ring. Hang up. Ring. Hang up. ]
Hurry up, hurry up, come back-
[ If he uses the outside exit, would it work as a dream exit too? ]
[ Quentin knows his dad would actually go looking for him. The man would do anything for him, which is something he always knew but doesn't think he appreciated fully until it was too late. He knows he's safe, back home, and won't be killed like Nancy's mom - probably was going to be saved for last so the man had to suffer completely, losing his kid and everything. Quentin trapped them both here with the Entity before he could manage killing the last kids left.
And Alan Smith suffers anyway. He watches the messages come in with increasing horror and glossy eyes. Then there's one that let's him keep his composure. He swallows, hard. Takes a deep breath and looks away from the phone, expression irate. Nancy wouldn't be looking, she knew too much to go to his dad like that. ]
You're slipping! [ It's a completely mocking tone just called out into the snowy void, which isn't exactly a good idea. He knows. He knows. But he says it anyway, out of spite.
He takes more steps into the snow, leaning down and grabbing a handfuls of it and stuffing it down his shirt. The cold sending a sharp shiver up his body but he's still asleep. It didn't work. He bites his finger, hard until it draws blood (not working either) as he wanders further in and looks around for something to use as a weapon. ]
[The sound of the wind answers Quentin back. Gnarled branches stripped clean like old bones rattle against the roof of the delipidated wooden shack he wanders past, the noise shrill and scratchy like nails on a chalkboard, like claws on rusty metal pipes. Blood wells up from the newly bitten hole in his finger as he continues to walk, trickling down. A droplet hits his phone… and rolls up the screen, almost imperceptibly, as if being drawn in via magnet. It’s sucked into the receiver, disappearing in the blink of an eye.
Suddenly, Quentin’s phone begins to vibrate harshly. He’s getting a call. The screen dims as the caller’s name lights up at the top —DAD — and the green bar at the bottom flashes, inviting him to swipe his thumb across.
It doesn’t stop. Even as the wind continues to pick up and the cold turns frigid, his phone never stops ringing.]
[ It shouldn't sound like that. He's been to Ormond a million and one times now. He knows how it sounds. The howling wind, the sound of crunching snow, the fire in the distance crackling. The sounds here are distinct. Quentin finds himself staring at the shack as he passes it because he also knows that sound he's hearing is distinct from somewhere else. Somewhere he'd rather not be.
His finger hurts more than it should and he balls his hand tighter around the phone until the sound of it going off and vibrating makes him flinch. He looks down at it, hoping it's ringing in reality and it's enough to snap him up. The name isn't Ash though. He lowers it at first, holding a breath and trying to continue his futile search for something to jolt him up. He picks up a stick and test swings it, only for it to crumble. He throws it down.
It doesn't stop. His eyes water from stress and his nose starts running from the cold. He huffs and swipes across the phone with his pointer, just smearing blood across it and then rubbing it quickly against his pants and trying again with his thumb. He holds it to his ear. His tone comes out harsh, volatile. Go on, Freddy. Do the spiel. ]
[The raspy voice that answers Quentin back isn't Alan Smith's — small miracle — but it's a familiar one all the same.
"Give daddy some sugar."
Something fat and wet plods at Quentin's chin like a worm. Extending from the receiver of his phone is a pink tongue, inhumanly long and flexible. It scrabbles around in the air like a snake that's been yanked out of its habitat, obscenely dragging itself along the seam of Quentin's lips, torn between trying to push its way inside his mouth and wrap itself around his neck.
The high-pitched, grinding shriek of metal against metal trills through the phone. Beneath it, the voice laughs at Quentin from out of the black as the tongue continues to extend out of the speaker to an impossible length.]
[ It's a small miracle he doesn't use his dad further against him more. The voice would still get to him a small fraction, even though it wouldn't hit as hard as Freddy would have liked with the dreamer being too self-aware in here for the charade.
He walked right into that 'daddy' line, didn't he? ] UGH! [ Quentin makes a loud sound of disgust and openly screams at it, turning his head in a flinch.
Quentin jerks his head away from the phone as far as he can manage, trying to throw it on the floor. He backfires, causing himself to gasp for air by yanking something now wrapped wormed around his neck. He bites down at what's against his lips, which turns out to be a horrible idea. He just retches, which is not great for breathing. He keeps his mouth pressed together tightly and resorts to grasping at it frantically with his nails and tearing the slimy flesh away from his face in pieces.
Quentin's foot stomps his phone to broken shattered pieces in an attempt to cap the length and stop that grinding metal sound making his head throb. And then keeps stomping some more once it's broken beyond recognition. The tongue away from his face and he keeps hitting it, over and over, stomping the pieces hoping to pulverize it completely. The disgusting squishing of meat all over his shoes and coloring the snow. ]
[Something in the snow catches Quentin by the foot. It holds him in place, gripping his shoe tightly as a pool of blood starts to form under the remains of his phone and the still-twitching pieces of tongue strewn around the ground. They sink down into the puddle like rocks and disappear with a nasty squelch.
The shape in the snow takes form as it uses Quentin's leg to pull itself out of the puddle. A hand formed out of solid blood wraps itself around his ankle. It's joined by a second hand, then the rest of the arm it's connected to. The figure uses Quentin's ankle and the ground for leverage as it hauls itself up out of the puddle, pulling him closer as it crawls forward.
It takes its time getting to its feet like it has all the time in the world. Technically, it does. Hours could go by in a dream without a second passing in the waking world. Years, too. In here, they have nothing but time.
"So much for the cat and mouse bullshit."
Freddy Krueger's smile unfolds on his face like a gash as he looks down at Quentin. He opens his arms wide as he takes an easy step forward, then another, as if preparing to welcome Quentin home with an embrace.
[ His breath hitches in a panic, trying to pull his foot up from the snow and get away from the growing pool of blood beneath him. Both hands grasping at his leg then trying to pull his shoe off and ditch it- he almost does, getting halfway out before his leg is grabbed and causes him to scream and fall over. His other foot kicking at the hand then at the figure hauling itself out from the pool of blood like a bug crawling out from the soil. ]
Let go of me!
[ Krueger takes his time, of course, like he has all of it in the universe. He's immortal. Death didn't matter to him even before this place. If he can keep you asleep, he has forever. Quentin, in opposition, acts like he never has any time left. Everything is always quick and desperate in the dreams. He can take slow cautious movements but they're still movements. He tries to never be still. Because he'll get far worse than death with the slightest hesitation.
Quentin's been avoiding him for what must be a while now. His methods of cutting sleep completely out here are effective. Far better than it would be in the real world. The constantly cycle of rejuvenation here keeps him from having to worry about full consequences. What will happen if he downs nothing but pills for days on end? Doesn't matter. He'll be back to his defaulted state after a trial. He never hits that sweet spot where his brain shuts down and he goes full comatose. He sleeps just enough to not hit the dream. Or passes out in a trial with Susie, where Freddy can't go. It had to catch up with him eventually. Other people tap into his supply now.
The smile is met with a quivering bottom lip and a flash of pure fear before his pupils dilate and he's trying to look anywhere but at him for something. Anything. He crawls backwards on his elbows when Freddy takes that first step and then scrambles to get on his own, slipping in the slick blood and ice. Hands coated in blood and snow and slick with saliva from Krueger's first trick, along with the intense throbbing of a self-inflicted bite on his finger. He slips, once, twice and still unable get complete purchase to steady himself just settles for kicking Freddy in the crotch once he gets closer. ]
No! Go back in the puddle! [ He inhales sharply and yells as loud as he can ] -ASHLEY! [ Where is he? Wake him UP. WAKE HIM UP. ]
[The kick lands, and Freddy doubles over with a rusty and rattling wheeze, holding his stomach. His shoulders quiver with barely suppressed laughter. He’s still making the sound when he looks up at Quentin, grinning like he’s managed to pull the most fantastic prank on him. Like it’s a joke just between the two of them no one else would ever be able to understand — just them.
He’s still laughing when he straightens back up and continues to stride toward Quentin, all slow and casual and downright pleasant, a nice big smile that shows off each one of his rotten teeth. Some of them have chipped away to almost nothing; others are jagged, whittled down to cannibal points.
When he opens his arms to Quentin, it isn’t just a gesture: it’s an invitation. Quentin could run if he wants, but where can he go? The wind howls as if to underscore this point, blasting fresh snow around them.
“Keep that up and you’re gonna get spanked.”
Freddy’s blades flash silver as they twitch at his side, swishing with the rapid click-clip of a well-sharpened pair of scissors.
“What would your father say, hmmm.” And his raspy voice drops an octave in delicious, salacious excitement, like he has a secret he can’t wait to share with Quentin, sing-songing. “I’m gonna tell on you.”]
[ Sometimes it seems like things hurt him in the dream. Hits land. Other times, the man seems completely immune to any effort he puts in. This seems like one of those times. Quentin managed to get to his feet, glaring at him with disgust and hate while in return he receives this mocking laughter. This almost intimate laughter that doesn’t make it into a trial. It’s just for him. It sounds like knives on a chalkboard the way it makes him tense.
He looks behind him, briefly, be hesitant to allow Krueger a second where he’s not in view so he can change something. Exit. Where’s the exit? Waking up on his own is almost impossible but he has to try. The area around almost invisible with the snowy wall blocking the view of any escape. The sharpness of the wind carrying that icy chill feeling like pins and needles against his skin. He can run. But which way would Quentin go? He picks one, randomly, and starts hastily backing towards it to put some distance between them.
He looks back at him when he speaks again, looking like he wants to gag. Quentin’s shoe did come off during all that and he throws it at his pursuer, aiming to knock his stupid musty hat off. It’s an invitation he never accepts. ]
Fuck off! [ Back up more, his back hits one of the large rocks and he moves around it, trailing a hand along like a kid keeping hold in a hedge maze. The way Krueger is talking is so pleased with himself. ]
You can’t tell him shit! You’re trapped here with me. [ He says it back in a loud angry mock of his sing-song tone. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Ash is taking a really long time, he thinks. He wants to express some urgency here and text him back. He thinks he does even. Various ways to ask "Where are you?" in nice terms that grow in increasing in urgency. It's snowing. It's really cold. He had pushed himself to stand before the ten minute mark, already taking a few steps into the snow to venture in after Ash.
Quentin reads the text with a hitched breath and his entire being tenses. There comes a point in every dream, usually almost instantly with him but it's not always the case despite trying to train it that way, when it switches into lucid dreaming. This is one of those moments. There's an ache in his chest that feels tight as panic sets in. He's gotten this text before, in real life. Mint chocolate chip? That's his favorite. Cookie dough, second. Quentin always says both. One scoop each. Did that ever since he was a kid. ]
Shit.
[ He doesn't respond to the text, instead opting to hit call on Ash's number, hanging up, hitting it again. As if doing it will will his sleeping body to hit it. (It doesn't). He grips and un-grips the hand not currently clutching a phone now, nervously taps it against his thigh while the other hand's thumb is rapidly hitting the call button. Ring. Hang up. Ring. Hang up. ]
Hurry up, hurry up, come back-
[ If he uses the outside exit, would it work as a dream exit too? ]
no subject
DAD
Hey, where are you? Call me when you can.
DAD
Quentin, call me right now.
DAD
Quentin
DAD
Please call me
DAD
Just got back from Nancy's house, she's looking for you, everyone's looking for you. You're not alone, please just talk to me
DAD
Quentin please
DAD
CALL ME RIGHT NOW
RIGHT NOW
RIGHT NOW
RIGHT NOW
RIGHT NOW
RIGHT NOW
[On and on until all Quentin's phone can do is vibrate.]
no subject
And Alan Smith suffers anyway. He watches the messages come in with increasing horror and glossy eyes. Then there's one that let's him keep his composure. He swallows, hard. Takes a deep breath and looks away from the phone, expression irate. Nancy wouldn't be looking, she knew too much to go to his dad like that. ]
You're slipping! [ It's a completely mocking tone just called out into the snowy void, which isn't exactly a good idea. He knows. He knows. But he says it anyway, out of spite.
He takes more steps into the snow, leaning down and grabbing a handfuls of it and stuffing it down his shirt. The cold sending a sharp shiver up his body but he's still asleep. It didn't work. He bites his finger, hard until it draws blood (not working either) as he wanders further in and looks around for something to use as a weapon. ]
no subject
Suddenly, Quentin’s phone begins to vibrate harshly. He’s getting a call. The screen dims as the caller’s name lights up at the top —DAD — and the green bar at the bottom flashes, inviting him to swipe his thumb across.
It doesn’t stop. Even as the wind continues to pick up and the cold turns frigid, his phone never stops ringing.]
no subject
His finger hurts more than it should and he balls his hand tighter around the phone until the sound of it going off and vibrating makes him flinch. He looks down at it, hoping it's ringing in reality and it's enough to snap him up. The name isn't Ash though. He lowers it at first, holding a breath and trying to continue his futile search for something to jolt him up. He picks up a stick and test swings it, only for it to crumble. He throws it down.
It doesn't stop. His eyes water from stress and his nose starts running from the cold. He huffs and swipes across the phone with his pointer, just smearing blood across it and then rubbing it quickly against his pants and trying again with his thumb. He holds it to his ear. His tone comes out harsh, volatile. Go on, Freddy. Do the spiel. ]
Hi Dad.
cw: you know
"Give daddy some sugar."
Something fat and wet plods at Quentin's chin like a worm. Extending from the receiver of his phone is a pink tongue, inhumanly long and flexible. It scrabbles around in the air like a snake that's been yanked out of its habitat, obscenely dragging itself along the seam of Quentin's lips, torn between trying to push its way inside his mouth and wrap itself around his neck.
The high-pitched, grinding shriek of metal against metal trills through the phone. Beneath it, the voice laughs at Quentin from out of the black as the tongue continues to extend out of the speaker to an impossible length.]
cw: đź“žđź‘…
He walked right into that 'daddy' line, didn't he? ] UGH! [ Quentin makes a loud sound of disgust and openly screams at it, turning his head in a flinch.
Quentin jerks his head away from the phone as far as he can manage, trying to throw it on the floor. He backfires, causing himself to gasp for air by yanking something now wrapped wormed around his neck. He bites down at what's against his lips, which turns out to be a horrible idea. He just retches, which is not great for breathing. He keeps his mouth pressed together tightly and resorts to grasping at it frantically with his nails and tearing the slimy flesh away from his face in pieces.
Quentin's foot stomps his phone to broken shattered pieces in an attempt to cap the length and stop that grinding metal sound making his head throb. And then keeps stomping some more once it's broken beyond recognition. The tongue away from his face and he keeps hitting it, over and over, stomping the pieces hoping to pulverize it completely. The disgusting squishing of meat all over his shoes and coloring the snow. ]
no subject
The shape in the snow takes form as it uses Quentin's leg to pull itself out of the puddle. A hand formed out of solid blood wraps itself around his ankle. It's joined by a second hand, then the rest of the arm it's connected to. The figure uses Quentin's ankle and the ground for leverage as it hauls itself up out of the puddle, pulling him closer as it crawls forward.
It takes its time getting to its feet like it has all the time in the world. Technically, it does. Hours could go by in a dream without a second passing in the waking world. Years, too. In here, they have nothing but time.
"So much for the cat and mouse bullshit."
Freddy Krueger's smile unfolds on his face like a gash as he looks down at Quentin. He opens his arms wide as he takes an easy step forward, then another, as if preparing to welcome Quentin home with an embrace.
"Come to daddy."]
no subject
Let go of me!
[ Krueger takes his time, of course, like he has all of it in the universe. He's immortal. Death didn't matter to him even before this place. If he can keep you asleep, he has forever. Quentin, in opposition, acts like he never has any time left. Everything is always quick and desperate in the dreams. He can take slow cautious movements but they're still movements. He tries to never be still. Because he'll get far worse than death with the slightest hesitation.
Quentin's been avoiding him for what must be a while now. His methods of cutting sleep completely out here are effective. Far better than it would be in the real world. The constantly cycle of rejuvenation here keeps him from having to worry about full consequences. What will happen if he downs nothing but pills for days on end? Doesn't matter. He'll be back to his defaulted state after a trial. He never hits that sweet spot where his brain shuts down and he goes full comatose. He sleeps just enough to not hit the dream. Or passes out in a trial with Susie, where Freddy can't go. It had to catch up with him eventually. Other people tap into his supply now.
The smile is met with a quivering bottom lip and a flash of pure fear before his pupils dilate and he's trying to look anywhere but at him for something. Anything. He crawls backwards on his elbows when Freddy takes that first step and then scrambles to get on his own, slipping in the slick blood and ice. Hands coated in blood and snow and slick with saliva from Krueger's first trick, along with the intense throbbing of a self-inflicted bite on his finger. He slips, once, twice and still unable get complete purchase to steady himself just settles for kicking Freddy in the crotch once he gets closer. ]
No! Go back in the puddle! [ He inhales sharply and yells as loud as he can ] -ASHLEY! [ Where is he? Wake him UP. WAKE HIM UP. ]
no subject
He’s still laughing when he straightens back up and continues to stride toward Quentin, all slow and casual and downright pleasant, a nice big smile that shows off each one of his rotten teeth. Some of them have chipped away to almost nothing; others are jagged, whittled down to cannibal points.
When he opens his arms to Quentin, it isn’t just a gesture: it’s an invitation. Quentin could run if he wants, but where can he go? The wind howls as if to underscore this point, blasting fresh snow around them.
“Keep that up and you’re gonna get spanked.”
Freddy’s blades flash silver as they twitch at his side, swishing with the rapid click-clip of a well-sharpened pair of scissors.
“What would your father say, hmmm.” And his raspy voice drops an octave in delicious, salacious excitement, like he has a secret he can’t wait to share with Quentin, sing-songing. “I’m gonna tell on you.”]
no subject
He looks behind him, briefly, be hesitant to allow Krueger a second where he’s not in view so he can change something. Exit. Where’s the exit? Waking up on his own is almost impossible but he has to try. The area around almost invisible with the snowy wall blocking the view of any escape. The sharpness of the wind carrying that icy chill feeling like pins and needles against his skin. He can run. But which way would Quentin go? He picks one, randomly, and starts hastily backing towards it to put some distance between them.
He looks back at him when he speaks again, looking like he wants to gag. Quentin’s shoe did come off during all that and he throws it at his pursuer, aiming to knock his stupid musty hat off. It’s an invitation he never accepts. ]
Fuck off! [ Back up more, his back hits one of the large rocks and he moves around it, trailing a hand along like a kid keeping hold in a hedge maze. The way Krueger is talking is so pleased with himself. ]
You can’t tell him shit! You’re trapped here with me. [ He says it back in a loud angry mock of his sing-song tone. ]