[When the amygdala perceives a threat, it sends a distress signal to the hypothalamus. Sympathetic nervous system floods the body with stress hormones. Heart rate rises, pupils dilate, respiration becomes more rapid as small airways in the lungs open to allow for the most oxygen to be taken in per breath. Trembling next. Pallid complexion. It's all hard-wired, a primitive survival instinct that telepathy can't fully control or prevent, at least not by the telepath who owns the brain in question and not when in the clutches of said instinctive reaction, and later Quentin will be mortified that Julian is plenty close enough see that he's panicking. No matter what his hippocampus is saying—that Keller is all bark and no bite, that Quentin could reach into his brain and make him let go at any time with virtually no effort—his stupid amygdala is screaming no no no I don't want to die, not again. And it's showing.
It takes longer than he would like to admit to reclaim control over his brain, no thanks at all to Keller progressively giving him less and less space to breathe let alone think, and even more time to try and halfway process anything he's actually saying. Quentin projecting his problems onto others? Sure, believable. Most exhausting person in the room? Sounds legit. Self-destructive asshole? Guilty as charged, your honor. And he'd love to give his input on all this whole fascinating character study-slash-roast Julian's decided to give him, but you see the problem is he can't. Fucking. Breathe.]
Let me go!!
[There's no telepathic command behind the words, but Quentin's voice echoes in Julian's brain as much as his hoarse yelling does in the outside world. His "freeze" response of stiffly keeping balled fists at his side abruptly switches to "flight," and he furiously grabs at Julian's forearm and stupid non-existent wrist. His voice, on the other hand, is too shaky to sound truly angry or threatening, with just a slight edge of desperation. Between the adrenaline throwing his breathing a curveball and the pressure on his chest, he can't exactly manage the kind of clear, confident tone he'd prefer.]
Come on, man, I can't—you win, okay? Uncle! I don't want to use my powers on you again, but you've gotta let me go.
no subject
It takes longer than he would like to admit to reclaim control over his brain, no thanks at all to Keller progressively giving him less and less space to breathe let alone think, and even more time to try and halfway process anything he's actually saying. Quentin projecting his problems onto others? Sure, believable. Most exhausting person in the room? Sounds legit. Self-destructive asshole? Guilty as charged, your honor. And he'd love to give his input on all this whole fascinating character study-slash-roast Julian's decided to give him, but you see the problem is he can't. Fucking. Breathe.]
Let me go!!
[There's no telepathic command behind the words, but Quentin's voice echoes in Julian's brain as much as his hoarse yelling does in the outside world. His "freeze" response of stiffly keeping balled fists at his side abruptly switches to "flight," and he furiously grabs at Julian's forearm and stupid non-existent wrist. His voice, on the other hand, is too shaky to sound truly angry or threatening, with just a slight edge of desperation. Between the adrenaline throwing his breathing a curveball and the pressure on his chest, he can't exactly manage the kind of clear, confident tone he'd prefer.]
Come on, man, I can't—you win, okay? Uncle! I don't want to use my powers on you again, but you've gotta let me go.