You're barely conscious, awareness teeters on the edge of the horizon. Ever-shifting and amorphous. Your eyes are at half-mast, eyelids laden with sleep adjacent. Your head is throbbing, pulsing, heartbeat bouncing off the walls of your skull. There's a deep ache behind your eyes. Moon-jo dances in your vision, oscillating between clear and misty. Two of himself syncing in and out of themselves, just slightly out of line.
Your tongue is heavy. It's too thick for your mouth. Blood gushes from the corner of your lip, and your tongue fails to wipe it up. It fails to do anything at all. Your entire body is rendered useless. Everything feels all wrong like someone has put all your limbs on backwards. You're on your knees between Moon-jo's legs. He looks so big, imposing. A shiver slugs up your spine.
"Jagi-ya," he utters, voice measured and dragged out like a body through steep mud. It's so loud. You groan in response, blinking slowly. His lips stretch into a knife-edged smile.
A hand—Moon-jo's hand—finds your jaw holding you in place. For a moment, he simply observes, admiring, his grin never wavering. Then, there are fingers prodding at your lips. His fingers press into your split lip, and move to smear old blood onto your chin. The pain is sharp, but you can do nothing but whine, low and murmured, too weak for much else.
They push past your lips, and he tastes like coagulated blood and sterile skin—bare skin. His skin. His gloves were discarded somewhere along the way. You don't recall seeing him remove them. Your eyes meet his when you manage to peel them open—weird, you don't remember closing them.
His eyes are so empty, two black holes that you sink endlessly in, so lifeless they seemingly suck up all light.
His fingers probe around your mouth with aimless precision, trawling over your molars one by one. Bottom set first before flipping over and doing the same with the top. His fingers stall to stroke your tongue, coating your mouth in him, in his touch. Then his fingers are trailing over your incisors, the top ones, and he lingers at your left canine, pushing his index into the point of it. Hard enough you can distantly tell it'll leave a mark.
His fingers withdraw from your mouth, and your eyes slowly but surely shut. You hear something rustle, things being moved, his body missing from in front of you. You're knocked out by the time he's lugging you up by the armpits.
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