[ so wound up tight, jayce flinches to the touch before quickly melting under it. gods, that was harrowing. he wants to burrow beneath the hands in his hair and only come out when he's changed skins. so much has happened that he's still catching up, going through every move and every memory with the gift of clarity and peace of mind (although he hardly feels at peace). his mouth and beard still a gory, splattered mess of blood and pieces of stray sinew still caught in the wires of his facial hair. he wanted to scrub at it in the tub until he was raw. he hated, again, the chaotic turmoil of enjoying the consumption that were at odds with what he should be feeling: disgust and fear. he doesn't feel it. the lack is distressing. ]
no subject
—I heard another voice.