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petrolstationflowers · 5 months

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Update 13 Dec 2023: Updated 13 Dec 2023 with a Portuguese translation by David Manaia as well as correcting the Level 10 metrics!

A mortician career for your sims! This was requested by Catrillion and was super interesting to research! Your sim can join it via the Hospital rabbithole and is available from Young Adult through to Elder.

If anyone would like to translate this, please feel free! The English strings are included in the download file, just drop me a message here or on MTS!

I used @missy-hissy's career tutorial to make this and a huge thanks to @zoeoe-sims for helping me with some infuriating bugs we finally got sorted out!

Details under the cut!

This career has ten levels and requires you to level Science and the hidden skill Styling, which can be improved by using the Styling Station to do makeovers at the salon. The skill won't show up in the skills panel, but the metric should change and you can track its level through MasterController.

Since there wasn't a strict progression for this job IRL, I've varied it a little bit to encompass all skills a fully qualified mortician and embalmer would need. There's long hours and extra studies included -- it's not an easy job!

There's no opportunities or books to read, but there are uniforms from the Medical career included, which should show up from Level 2. Carpool only shows up at Level 2 onwards, so don't panic if you need to manually send your sim to work.

Please note if you want to use this, you must have Nraas Careers installed for it to show up!

There's two custom tones:

Study Anatomy (increases Science) Practise Styling (increases Styling)

I've put the levels, hours, and pay under here if you'd like to take a look: Level 1 - At the Crossroads - 10:00 until 16:00, M-F, 10 simoleans p/h

Description: "You’ve always been fascinated by death, sneaking into the movie theatre to watch the horror flicks much too young and reading books your mother would have definitely taken away from you. You have a knack for biology and have followed Olive Specter’s SimTube channel since she first started uploading in the middle of the night. With the job market uncertain right now, why not look into becoming a mortician? It can’t be any worse than EverFresh Supermarket…"

Level 2 - Apprentice - 09:00 until 15:00, M-F, 30 simoleans p/h

Description: "After many days of scrolling through job listings and qualifications in the hospital cafe, you’ve finally found the guts to apply for an apprenticeship. It’s not the best paid and you’re still stuck in the classroom, but at least the coursework is interesting. Now just to pass the exams…"

Level 3 - Mortuary Admin Specialist - 09:00 until 17:00, M-F, 40 simoleans p/h

Description: "You’ve passed your course, got that diploma, and swaggered out of that classroom with a spring in your step… only for your first gig to be doing the admin work at the local mortuary. At the moment you’re spending your time booking appointments and sending emails with the occasional aside of cleaning the equipment, but show enough enthusiasm and you’ll soon be moving on up."

Level 4 - Mortuary Technician - 09:00 until 18:00, Mon/Wed/Fri/Sat/Sun, 60 simoleans p/h

Description: "Your first actual job is dressing and caring for the deceased, making sure they’re laid to rest in the coffin of their choosing and that their funeral is exactly what they and their family wanted. It’s delicate, gentle work, making sure death has dignity. Sometimes it’s the living that need you more; you’ll need a calm voice and be a shoulder to cry on for families who have to say goodbye."

Level 5 - Mortuary Technician Team Leader - 09:00 until 18:00, Mon/Wed/Fri/Sat/Sun, 75 simoleans p/h

Description: "You’ve proved to have a light touch with the makeup brush and know the right words to comfort the bereaved, so a promotion is in order and that means working with the parts that make up a human body. Your duties will include weighing organs, taking tissue samples, and reconstructing bodies so they’re ready to be buried. Make sure you study up on identifying diseases in organs if you want that promotion!"

Level 6 - Senior Mortuary Manager - 09:00 until 18:00, Mon/Wed/Fri/Sat/Sun, 105 simoleans p/h

Description: "Finally, proper pay! Unfortunately, it more means managing your coworkers than the corpses. You’re allowed to sign off on the higher level decisions and have more responsibility, but you didn’t get into this role to do people management. Maybe there’s another path you can take…"

Level 7 - Trainee Embalmer - 12:00 until 21:00, M-F, 50 simoleans p/h

Description: "Back to the classroom you go! Sort of. You’ve put in an application to train as an embalmer, and are splitting your time between shadowing one of your senior coworkers and attending night school. It’s long and tiring, with late study hours for not much money, but it’ll pay off in the long run (you hope)."

Level 8 - Qualified Embalmer - 09:00 until 16:00, M-F, 200 simoleans p/h

Description: "The graft has paid off, and you’ve got another diploma under your belt (as well as a bit more cash, thank the Watcher). You’ve transferred back to the hospital mortuary but this time to work as an embalmer, washing and taking care of bodies and taking all the steps to make sure they’re preserved with the right chemicals. It’ll require careful technique with not only the embalming fluid and syringes, but also your empathy; you’ll need to make sure the family, as well as their loved one, are well cared for."

Level 9 - Mobile Embalmer - 18:00 until 03:00, Mon/Tue/Fri/Sat/Sun, 220 simoleans p/h

Description: "For some reason, embalming isn’t a sought after job – which means good news for you! Work is dispatching you all across SimNation to provide your services, from vampire attacks in Bridgeport to meteor strikes in Lunar Lakes. You’re spending more time in hotels than at home, and while you’re raking in the money, maybe it’s time you struck out on your own."

Level 10 - Locum Mortuary Technician - 11:00 until 15:00, Mon/Sat/Sun, 500 simoleans p/h

Description: "You’ve had enough of the corpo grind and chucked it in; you’re freelance, baby! As a fully qualified mortuary technician and embalmer, you pick up agency shifts and choose when and where you want to work, on whatever catches your eye. If someone wants to pay you good money to preserve the corpse of Bigfoot for their collection, now you don’t have to turn them down for something more sensible. After all, if you love your job, you don’t work a day in your life!"

#sims 3 #ts3 #the sims 3 #the sims 3 cc #ts3 cc #ts3 custom content #the sims 3 custom content #ts3 custom jobs #ts3 custom careers #the sims 3 custom careers #the sims 3 custom jobs #mortician

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imayfeel · 4 months

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I'm in love with a dying man.

;; Morally Grey, Mortician, Yand! Husband. Tender, Prone to physical harm, Househusband/wife! Reader. Opposites dynamic. Mentions of bodily harm [Both variables], not intentional wounds [Reader]. Unethical thought process. Hinted insomniac reader. NSFW. Unprotected sex. Genitalia [Of Reader] unmentioned. Hinted dacriphilia. Hinted breeding kink.

He is a reasonable man, he thinks. Right and wrong, good and bad, pious and sinful; all are considered mere words of the English language to him— adjectives with no purpose but to describe actions. They hold little to no true significance towards what actions should be done, he thinks. He holds little consideration towards what the general population would consider something to be done, and in turn what is not to be done.

He is not so immersed in narcissist beliefs, in the thought process of 'what I say must be correct, for no one besides me holds any worth', he was not so much of a vain man to think so. In contrast, he did not like such people either. He merely did, and if what he did evoked reactions, pleasant or unpleasant (or perhaps none at all?), it simply weighed no burden on him. The clock will still tick, day will still submerge into night, night will bleed into day, and the seasons will go on.

Some may consider him to be a nihilist. Whilst the thought of it may be logical, he could not find himself agreeing; for one detail. He could not care of his actions, nor the consequences they may evoke (unless they were to affect him or present to him tiring obstacles), if it was not for his spouse. His spouse, who laid heavy in the backs of his minds— who's image he could not cast away whenever he were to do even the smallest thing.

It is something he finds could drive a man insane. The constant nagging thought that reverberates inside the depths of his mind, what would they do in this situation?—

But he is not a fool. Anyone in the town could call him many things, but a fool is not one of them. His spouse has the opposite nature of him, much different, much less brutal. With each daily experience, he may think of what they would have done in his place, and he imagines it easy. It flows into his mind especially well, the image of their all-too-eager tendency to jump to help anyone who seems to be in need. He is also aware that, with them being unlike him, he is also consequently unlike them. Despite what he feels— knows— what they would do, it is not in his nature to help.

He continues walking calmly along the stone pavement, thick cigar hanging from his lips, the rain pouring down harder— he stays within the confinements of his mind, paying no attention to the intruding splatters of cold rain seeping through his long black coat, down to his work suit. The droplets harshly fall off of his thick black hair, crashing almost dutifully against the ground. It is not until he passes by the small flower shop that he is brought to the real world, that he becomes conscious of his surroundings. It is late at night, though not late enough for the roads to be completely silent just yet, but even still it would be around the closing times for most stores. He lifts the cigar away from his mouth, blowing out the smoke into in the cold night air.

He thinks to his spouse, likely waiting for his return in their home, but he also looks back to the shop. He lets out a sigh, putting out the cigar as his hand grips the handle of the door and steps in, his dark eyes narrowing as they adjust to the blinding (and in his perspective, annoying,) white light of the store. The worker, an assumed part-timer, seemed to have been in the midst of preparing to shut the store soon, her head snapping up almost immediately upon the sound of the bell ringing. The sweeping of the broom stops, and she smiles, far too bright for him to stomach (a shocking revelation for him, considering the field of work he partakes in). She prepares to speak, her lips parting—

"Closed?" He asks, though his tone seems to have been more of an observation, but loud enough for her to have taken initiative of replying to. His voice is heavy and almost overbearing, with a gravelly brutality to it, but a man who rarely speaks (a man who has little words to speak) has no use for a soft voice or pleasing tone.

Caught off guard, but still smiling happily, she responds, "Not quite yet, fortunately enough. What are you looking for?" She has the typical politeness of a worker, but something about her evokes an unpleasant feeling within him. Her voice is too high pitched and bouncy. Her smile is much too harsh and wide, for what a smile should be.

His spouse is not like that, no. It would be even insulting to say so, to assume they had anything in common. His spouse had a quiet voice, the type to lull a person to sleep, the voice that was only ever soft and pleasant to hear. They could say anything with that voice of theirs, and he would, in a trance, nod along. Their smile was the same, never quite gone and always comforting, whether it be a full smile or the slightest upturn of their lips.

But, simply from looking at her, he can get a read on her character, even from this small interaction. He could almost laugh. It is interesting how a mortician can read a person despite working with the dead. She looks to be the sort of person who talks your ear off, he thinks. The type to tell you of the past 15 years of her life on the very first conversation. Why is she smiling? What is she so happy about? He could never understand, why do people find themselves happy when surrounded by weeds and greeneries? Stop smiling.

People say that when a person smiles, that is them at their loveliest. Only his spouse looks lovely when they smile. And it only made sense for his spouse to be happy around flowers and plants and trees, because only his spouse grew the prettiest and most pleasant ones.

Upon hearing her question, he pauses. What is he looking for? He.. wasn't sure. He saw flowers. He walked in. He thinks, and after a beat, he answers. ".. Anything. Flowers. A plant. Something you can keep growing in a garden." His words are short and kept that way, forever straight to the point.

The worker nods understandingly, "Not a bouquet or something to put in water, I take?" She tries to confirm, to which he gives a nod of his head. The nod sends a few more droplets of water to fall onto the tiles of the ground, she notices this, laughing a little, "My, you're soaked. Such harsh rain is not to be taken so lightly." She speaks, with a friendly and joking tone, one which he has no patience for. He merely nods once more, ".. Indeed."

She takes him through the store, pointing out a variety of things, to which he merely nods or gives a word of understanding. He is barely listening to her, merely following behind her a few steps away, his eyes wandering from item to item. His eyes settle on multiple clear boxes in the wall, each with a different mix of what he can only understand are herbs or flower petals. He stops, and the woman hears the steps stop too, prompting her to turn around. As she turns and notices where he's looking, she smiles, "Types of herbal tea. They have different uses, it's amazing how many uses plants and flowers can actually have! You just boil some water, put some of the mix in, stir, and .."

He drowns out her voice, lost in thought as he analyses the clear boxes and their contents. Different uses? He wonders. As the woman keeps on rambling, he cuts her off, "What uses do they have?" He asks. She flinches a little as he speaks up and stops her speaking, looking apologetic and flushing a little from embarrassment as she realises she had spoken a bit much, ".. Many. Some are for cholesterol, some for reducing stress, treating nausea, helping you to sleep, have antioxidants.. " She lists with a little shrug.

His ears catch on when she mentions them being able to improve sleep, "The one meant for sleep." He states, his eyes flicker to her. She perks up at realising that he was interested in buying. "Then, I'll get you a pack," she says, "we keep the packaged versions behind the counter."

She turns back around and walks across the store to return to the counter, prompting him to follow and stand in front of the counter as he waits. As she rummages around, he lifts his wrist slightly to check his watch, carefully keeping track of his time. They should be getting ready for bed now, he thinks. He would like to see them before they did, though, he did not like to worry his spouse. As he stares at the ticking hands on the watch, he's brought back to reality as the woman places the small bag of herbs on the counter and notices, "You have very rough and scarred hands," she notes, before realising what she had said, "ah— um, pardon me, not that it is a bad thing. I tend to speak without thinking." She explains, in an attempt of apologising.

Nothing like his spouse, he thinks. Though, he wonders, although after a long moment of silence, ".. Do you think my hands are injured?" He asks, his voice flat. She blinks. "Well.. I suppose, yes." She says, a little timid.

He smiles, "You should see my spouse."

The smile is gone as fast as it came, not that it was much of a smile to begin with. Not comforting or kind, as a smile commonly is, nor did it bring any warmth to his features. If you had blinked the moment his lips turned upwards, when you had opened your eyes, it would be as if he did not smile in the first place.

It was not that she was wrong. His hands were large, with thin scars littered across both the palm and top of his hands. Some lighter than others, some darker, some deeper, some mere surface level scratches. The skin of his palms were rough, strangely so.

She blinks again. Then again. Then again. But by the time she gathers her thoughts, he had already moved on from that, asking for the price. In return, she had also quickly, subconsciously, switched topics along with him. "This is the medium sized bag, so it would only be XX, though we have been trying to enforce a small sale on certain things, so it would reduce to.. XX?" She offers, to which he merely reaches into his pocket to retrieve his black, leather wallet. This reminds of something, "Ah, did you not want something that could be planted as well? If you're still interested, there are a few sprouts that could easily be placed in new soil within a pot or garden to be grown much, much larger!"

Her offer makes him pause. It seems ideal. He speaks, ".. Get me it." To which she nods and soon has both of the items packed in a small and brown paper bag. Ignoring her call as he walks out of the store to return sometime and have a good day, he's out once more. The rain has not stopped its downpour, only continuing in their dispense. He barely takes any notice of it. He needs to get home, he thinks. It is late, a little later than he would prefer. Later than he would like to be home.

The paper bag is practically soaked through, too, as he finally reaches closer to his destination. The town was a quiet and dreary place, often dark and dull, with wuthering winds and all too often storms. But they brought him in more work, so perhaps he should have been more grateful towards the disastrous weathers. Him and his spouse had moved here during a time which felt like many decades ago, but truly was only a few years, when they were new to marriage.

The corners he turns are becoming more and more familiar as he grows closer. He nears with each step. He then eventually is stood outside of the door, clicking the key into the socket of the small home as he creaks the door open, silent and swift. He stares inside, stepping in after a beat.

His spouse is there. With their back turned towards him, their focus on the oven in front of them, as they appear to be baking something. The atmosphere is warm and pleasantly quiet, a stark contrast to the outside world, with its pouring rain and dull, grey sky. There is a soft lamp lit, along with a couple of candles, illuminating the space with a comforting warm look. His spouse hums to themselves as they continue on, not noticing his presence just yet. He does not rush to let himself be known. He waits, taking his time to watch from afar.

He watches, even as his spouse lightly hums to themselves as they continue on, the plain white apron they were wearing curving around their figure softly, tightening even more so from every little action. He watches, leaning against the doorway, as his spouse seems to have accidentally made contact with the searing hot metal within the oven with their bare hand. He watches as they flinch and let out a soft gasp, dropping the utensil they were holding. He watches, as they turn and bend over to pick it back up, before flinching once more when they notice him out of their peripheral view. He watches, and his throat goes dry, as their surprised expression softens into a gentle smile.

They speak his name in greeting, quiet and polite, but never has his name ever held so much weight before. His dark eyes flicker down towards his spouse's hands, going over each small scratch and bruise and minor cut, all adorned with bandages and plasters of their fitting. The burn was a new one, pink and tender and likely painful, but even so, his spouse smiles at their husband. He sees their eyes soften as they look over his soaked appearance, taking small light steps towards him before taking the coat off of him and hanging it up. They turn back to him, with a small and gentle, but he could tell worried, smile.

His spouse smiles so much, so, to most, it may seem like the same smile being used over and over again, repeated throughout their life. But he knows much better. He knows that their smile links to the look in their eyes, the slight tremble of their eyebrows, the smallest twitch of their fingers, he easily reads their emotions despite their attempts of a mere comforting smile.

They turn back towards him, one of their hands reaching upwards towards a lock of his curly and black (also, dripping) hair. "You're soaked. Did you not take an umbrella? You could have caught a cold." They speak. If it was someone else to have said this, they may have come off as nagging. If it was someone else who was to try touch him, he may have abruptly pulled away in disgust from being in contact with another living creature. He hated mankind, hated its ugliness, hated how bothersome it was. To live in solitude is a life lived correctly, away from the two-faced and haughty civilians.

But he had never, not once, included his spouse within that large group of people (as in everyone else). Not even when they were younger, before they had gotten married, he had never once had the thought of them being a nuisance. It was a strange revelation to find himself enjoying the company of another instead of finding them to be a liability. He had never been the social type, never been the type to attract people— more-so the type to chase them away. But he had never, despite his lack of expression, his lack of sympathy or basic human emotion, they had never taken any of it as reason to leave. Though, if they did, he would have little to no reason to blame them for it.

As their hand had reached up, their fingers curling around a lock of his dark and wet hair, his hand reaches up also. His thick fingers trail across the top of their much smoother hand, the tips of them barely touching the skin and running over the edge of another plaster as he hooks his thumb in the crevice of their palm. He uses the light grip to bring their hand further towards him, letting him press a little kiss on the small burn. He merely replies, "Warm me, then."

They laugh at that. A quiet and humble thing, not at all like the squeaky and ear-bleed inducing laughter from the insignificant woman earlier. He merely watches, his fingers still around their hand. Their eyes drift towards the brown paper bag, now close to ripping due to the intense rain. He notices their shift of attention, lifting it towards them and pressing it lightly against their chest and their hands lift upwards to take hold of it by its sides. He does not speak, merely beginning to step forward, his hand still lightly around theirs— to avoid pressing down on any injuries or the burn— as he leads them along towards the sink.

They let him lead them, curiously peaking into the bag with one hand. Their eyes catch onto the "Helps with: relaxation, fatigue, restful sleep! 100% tested and proven!" tag, written in small, bold letters in the corner of the packaging. They don't speak of it or mention it, merely smiling quietly at the thought of the action. They notice the small plant as well, eyes shining. They notice the cold water spilling onto their fingers from the tap, their husband holding up their burn to the water. He's quiet, having realised that they had looked at the items, and it embarrassed him in a way.

Their smile grows as they notice his stiff shoulders, his back towards them and his eyes forward. The two of them stand still for a long and quiet moment, only the sound of the water running is heard in the silence. After a minute, they lean forward and press a small kiss to his jaw before leaning back again, their head now leaning against his broad shoulder. He does not react, his eyes focused on the water.

The water hits the tips of his fingers whilst he holds their hand up to it. He remembers the feeling of water on the day that he had proposed to them, too— though, it was less of a proposal, and more of a statement. They had still been practically children when they had wed; with him at 19, and his spouse at 18.

It had been a strange scene. In the woods, far away from either of their homes. Although, he, an orphan, did not consider himself to have a home. He remembers them, his memory exact, to have been sitting up against the thick brown oak of a tree, knees up for the flowers to lean against them. He remembers their fingers gently, yet skillfully, twisting the stems of them together into little knots and conjoining them ever so carefully.

He remembers standing in the midst of the small and cold stream, the water up to his calves and his shoes held together in one hand, hanging from his side. He stared for a long amount of time, the noise around them so silent, the noise in his mind so silent. There was little to nothing going on within his brain, feeling almost dereslized and apart from the real world inside this moment. He was not a man to speak without thinking, and neither was his spouse, but his mind failed him. The words had left his lips before he had the chance to process—

"Let's get married."

Even after he had spoken the words, his mind was still in turmoil. He had not the chance to react before his, soon-to-be (at the time), spouse had turned their head towards him with their soft smile and given him a tiny nod of agreement.

He had been dumbfounded. Not once before in his life had he ever felt so lost in his thoughts and emotion, as it typically was the case of the lack thereof, but this time, it was the opposite. The emotion was much too strong and complex. He had not spoken a word after that, and neither did they. He had laid awake in bed that night, his mind full of different thoughts, yet at the same time, nothing at all— I am going to marry them.

It was a small marriage, but not unexpected of two children either. He had no family nor friends to invite, and, despite being well loved within the town, neither did his spouse. The marriage had been the talk of the town for weeks, and probably had continued to have gone on even after the two of them had moved to this town. Someone who had little to no involvement, who was avoided and barely even known, marrying someone who was every elderly person's favourite, who did not complain or grow annoyed no matter how many tasks the locals bashfully asked for them to complete?— "What a shame for such a bright child! A miracle if it were to last above a year!"

It was not like they were wrong, either. He was aware of how golden they were, of how the children rushed to play with them, of how people greeted them with "Good morning!" or "Good afternoon!" at each turn. Though, what use did it have, when at the end of the day, when both of them had snuck out to meet one another, it was him who's shoulder they had put their head on and quietly spoke of how lonely things were, even in the loud town.

The town was small, but a place which involved themself into the business of all others. A place which he disliked since childhood, and neither of them had much to miss there. He was glad they had moved, this town was much more quiet, much less chatty and arrogant. Though, even here, his spouse was loved dearly by the neighbourhood children, would politely converse with their neighbours, would be seen as a regular at the small bookstores and gardening shops. It was amusing, even, seeing townsfolk try to hide their stares as they ask themselves, "That man is their husband?", seeing the local children ask his spouse if they really were married, and who to, then shrinking away at meeting his eyes.

Still, here, they lived quietly, in a small home where he was sure they were free to enjoy whatever pass times and hobbies they enjoyed. Where he did not have to worry too much for them, knowing that they would be there when he returned home each day.

He's brought back to reality as he notices the raw pink flush of the tender skin gradually going down, switching off the tap and opening a cabinet to reach for bandages. He places one hand on their hips, bringing them in front of him so that their back is pressed against his front. He wraps the bandage around the burn before cutting it off with scissors. His eyes flicker down towards the flesh that connects their neck and shoulders, unable to hide the constant underlying emotion of desire that he represses within him whenever he merely glanced or thought of them.

He leans his head down and presses a kiss there. Then another. Then another. And then he is pressing multiple kisses to their neck.

He was not a man who necessarily had much need for hedonistic activities such as sex. But it changed dramatically whenever it came to his spouse. Especially as he hears the soft sigh drawn from their lips at the sensations, as they melt into him and he feels more of their weight leaning back on him. It isn't long before his tongue starts tracing over the flesh, his teeth digging in ever so slightly, his hands travelling. And by the way they were reacting, their long lashes fluttering slightly, eyes shut as their head leant back, he took it as yes.

It was not long before he had his large arms hooked beneath their knees, hands resting on the pillow on either side of their head, his cock buried deep inside of them. Their knees are folded towards their chest in a mating press, their nails dug deep into his broad back, scratching almost violently as he fucks them brutally—

They married a brutal man, after all.

Perfect like this, he thinks. The only time he can see them unravel, the only time he thinks they could bring themselves to every physically harm someone, as he feels the burning of the scratches on his back. It was amusing, even, to see them fret the night after over the almost animalistic marks.

As if they did not notice their own body was covered in bites and marks. He drags his lips over their neck, his teeth sinking in as he leaves a love bite, making them flinch. "Nnh.. W— Wait—" They protest, although in vain. His tongue runs down and over their collarbone, down to their chest. His tongue flicks one of their nipples before grazing it with his teeth, making them shiver and let out a whine. All the while, his hips meet theirs repeatedly, his thick cock pounding into their warm and soft insides.

It's maddening, just how soft and warm it all is in this moment. Their bare flesh pressed against him, their tears of ecstacy, their nails dug into his flesh. He presses his lips to their cheek, kissing the tears as his tongue swipes against their hot and wet cheeks. They look so perfect, he thinks, crying for him. The only way he prefers them crying, with their mind foggy from pleasure.

And soon, he can feel his own climax rising too. He mutters, "Seem to be getting along with those neighbourhood kids so well, makes me want to give you one of your own." He can't even tell how much of it is teasing and how much of it is him speaking from what he subconsciously wants. With one last thrust, his thick and hot cum had filled them up, before he had pulled out to watch the scene before him.

Perfect, he thinks again. Their legs shaky, their half-lidded eyes glossy with tears, their chest and neck littered with all sorts of bloody bites and hickeys, his cum dripping from their pretty hole. The sight was enough to tempt him into a second round, and a third, and a fourth. He had all the libido in the world when it came to his spouse to fuck; all night if they had merely said the word, and once they did, he would be unable to stop. A brutal man he is, but also one which when left unrestrained, would not be restrained.

He was a tall man, at 6 foot 3, paired with a strong and broad physique and long lasting stamina. His back, torso, arms, all littered in scars, just like his hands as he had been previously reminded of. He was, by both nature and appearance, brooding and stoic, whilst his spouse was softer hearted. Though, despite the possibility of being able to continue on, he takes notice of the drowsy and tired out look of his beloved. His spouse was much less used to physical excursion as he was, but even so, he could not help but thrust two of his thick fingers inside of them, shoving the dripping cum back inside.

His lips whisper gruffly, his hot breath fanning over the shell of their ear, "If you can get so sleepy from me fucking you, would this not be more ideal to do every night rather than using tea or medication?"

Even so, they can't help but let out a soft sleepy protest, mind all fluffy and drifting off. He holds them close, tucking an arm beneath their back and placing another on their waist to turn them onto their side in order to hold them to his chest. He lets out a sigh as he feels them drift to sleep, and he enjoys this. He enjoys the nights they spend together, albeit that being every night. Each night, despite what had gone on during the day, they had found themselves entangled together in bed either way.

He had not felt complex emotion in many years.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #gender neutral reader #obsession #x female reader #x male reader #yandere boy #mortician #yandere mortician #oc x reader #Spotify

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