Rq/krav Teeth

"You won't need these anymore."

She is dressing him and stripping him in equal measure, and he is captivated. Kneeling, so She can reach. So he can be below Her.

(She didn't ask it of him, but the glow of Her eyes when he bowed was fond and approving. He would lie prone for Her, if She wanted.)

She is dressing him: Preparing him for his new job, his position as Her reaper, Her soldier, Her servant. Hers, wholly. He is skeletal, She is above him, Her crest is on his breastbone in smooth etching. She is above him.

She is stripping him: The first pull barely has time to hurt. He registers a /wrongness/ in his jaw where his bottom left canine might be, a sick cracking sound as She pulls the tooth downward 90 degrees and then /tugs/. He is fixed together with so few things, in this state, that it leaves without much resistance. The ache comes after the act, and he sobs a breathless, small sound, the dull thrum of the extraction resonating through his bones. He steadies himself, and stays.

"I won't take them all, darling," She assures him with a hand over his cheekbone, and oh, how unfair that he can feel the hurt in his mouth but not the kind chill of Her fingers, "just five. Just enough."

Palm still resting on his face (fingernails curled, just barely, into where his eyeball might have been), She extracts from him further.