Harlan-- [ He keens, protests, pleads because he can't take it. He can't take it, but he doesn't want it to end either. When it tilts into the swelling, ever increasing pain, he turns the dial and it feels so so so so--Quentin sobs. ] I wanna die, fuck--I want it to stop, put me out. Putmeout put me out--
[ Shit. This is not what he wanted, where he thought this was going. He's pushed clients past their tipping point before, especially in his early days when he was still finding the sweet spot with his magic. Too little, and the pain takes over and makes them beg for an end. Too much, and they're not themselves anymore. He should be able to course correct and find the balance again—but Quentin sobs and pleads and Harlan is back in that fucking cabin.
It's cold, winter, sun rising through the mist off the lake, arms itchy with dried blood, Ben's corpse pale and stiff against the opposite wall. It's too quiet here and his leg is asleep but he can't bring himself to move. Maybe... maybe... There's no rulebook on ghosts. Sometimes the impossible happens. He could still come back.
Harlan does his best to shake it off, unsure how much Quentin will be able to pick up from this strange psychic connection. ]
I can't. I'm sorry, I can't, just... You're in control. Not— Not me. You can go numb if you want to. You can... let it feel like cumming again. [ What the fuck is he saying? He can't stop his mind from ricocheting, unraveling alongside Quentin. ] Let it release, and then bring yourself back.
[ The pain is getting worse, tightening, sharpening--coming to a head outside of his head. Can he feel it because of the way Harlan's brought it to focus? Or has Harlan's focus drawn the attention of the creature stitching him back together, speeding the process? Whichever feeds the other, the edge is brighter and clearer, and closer by the moment. ]
Harlan. [ Reedy thin. He's in control. He has to get control. He has to wake up. ] Harlan, Harlan-- [ At the far reaches of his consciousness, he can feel his fingers. Quentin wavers. ] Harlan, I'm waking up.
[ In the final swell, the line drops dead. When Quentin wakes up, his hands are shaking. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw: suicidal...vibes
no subject
It's cold, winter, sun rising through the mist off the lake, arms itchy with dried blood, Ben's corpse pale and stiff against the opposite wall. It's too quiet here and his leg is asleep but he can't bring himself to move. Maybe... maybe... There's no rulebook on ghosts. Sometimes the impossible happens. He could still come back.
Harlan does his best to shake it off, unsure how much Quentin will be able to pick up from this strange psychic connection. ]
I can't. I'm sorry, I can't, just... You're in control. Not— Not me. You can go numb if you want to. You can... let it feel like cumming again. [ What the fuck is he saying? He can't stop his mind from ricocheting, unraveling alongside Quentin. ] Let it release, and then bring yourself back.
🎀!!
Harlan. [ Reedy thin. He's in control. He has to get control. He has to wake up. ] Harlan, Harlan-- [ At the far reaches of his consciousness, he can feel his fingers. Quentin wavers. ] Harlan, I'm waking up.
[ In the final swell, the line drops dead. When Quentin wakes up, his hands are shaking. ]