Of course, it's the least orthodox means of getting laid; that was simple enough to figure out, when he's closing shop and taking off the hat, slipping out of the over-robe, both to the coat rack, hands to push his hair from his face.
Why else would he abandon the place of a God, and immediately go to being a Mortician? The dead were beautiful, he'd cooed, his reasoning, the mourning were desperate,his voice high, drunk on enthusiasm, and the death was arousing.
The gift of reapers, feel the dead as they were alive, without the warmth, with every bit of the movement, the pulsation, there wasn't a reason in the world for him to resist,and there wasn't means for them to try to. The skin, the pulsation, the softness, the softness, the softness, and lack of intimacy, the upmost intimacy, the absolution ofcontact.
When he's in the morgue, the air is frigid, and the heat under the suit kisses unbearability, and it's not frantic, but hurried, to pull off the tie, the waistcoat, pull off the braces. There was passion in him, of course, granted- just an absolute lack of passion for the living.
It's the least orthodox means of getting laid; that's simple enough, when he pulls open a drawer of the morgue, one of the prettiest and freshest available to him, taken out with care- being gentle, almost as one would a lover. She was young, at that, a widow; she'd died beautiful, throat cut to near-decapitation, it would've been so much better to pull from under the maxilla, he'd hissed through his teeth, when he's setting her down in the examining table.
To run his hands over the cold meat, the flesh, to feel the way her heart would've beat, slip his hands under the autopsy incisions, feel the had-been movement of what would've been breath, the tremors of a heartbeat, the shiver of the esophagus, swallowing saliva. There's definite passion in fucking a dead woman, nor was it alwayswomen- it was always the pretty ones, the ones most intact, the most gruesome and least rotted.
It's almost gentle, when he unbuttons his trousers, and presses into her corpse, prepared by himself earlier, just for this, to feel what would've been the reactions of the flesh, the tightening, the raise of a spine. The corpse was unmoving, the corpse was quiet and still and absolutely, positively dead- the gift of the reapers, to feel the dead as though they still breathed.
He's careful, and not so much, when he's groping at her tit, careful not to scrape the skin, or thrusting into the meat of her cunt, so as not to bruise it further, but there's no kindness, when he grabs at the wound that killed her, fingers digging into the esophagus, the throat, fingering them, desperately feeling the emptied capillaries and veins; it's needy, to feel her dying breaths, contractions, the choking and begging for air.
God forbid he last longer than a few minutes; with something of this caliber, it doesn't take long, and this time, he doesn't care if it's inside the body.
He's the Mortician, carer of the body, send her off to Heaven with beauty and dignity-
What bullshit, as he tugs his pants back up, properly, adjusting his shirt to place. She was a noblewoman, before she'd died, and he notes, they're usually dealt a much more unsightly ending. It was granted, however, that the poor couldn't afford a mortician.
Mass graves were an absolute waste. He'd snort, both hands to push his hair out of the way, to tie it back- and now, was the shining hour to bring her to perfection, and life again. It was frowned upon, that much was granted. To bring the dead to life, a false sense, bizarre and broken dolls, his magnum opus.
She was a noblewoman, he'd note, and she was a dead woman.
It's the least orthodox means of getting laid, when he breathes life back into the cold, unbreathing mouth of a dead woman, but it's certainly a means, when he digs his fingers into either side of the squirming flesh of her slit throat, fingering the esophagus and windpipe, and pulls it entirely apart.
