Blow Out the Coroner
Blow Out the Coroner
Author: plainapple
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Woody/OFC, OFC/Other
Wordcount: 1,166
Warning: Het, Het, Het, Het, Disturbing Het, Het
Disclaimer: This is fan fiction, I make no claims to the copyright ownership of Psych or to its characters.
Any resemblance to other persons, living or dead, especially if they’re original female characters, are entirely coincidental. Seriously.
Summary: Woody is a kinky coroner.
A/N: senor_coconut_1 is even kinkier. Happy birthday!
The morgue was kept cold, enough that she’d have goose bumps even if it wasn’t for the steel table beneath her bare back. She wanted to arch up away from it, to wrap herself in the coarse sheet that covered her, but Woody had been clear; move, and the game was over.
She could hear him, hovering just above her. He was leaning down, she thought, she was almost sure she could feel his breath through the thin white cotton, just above her mouth, then her neck, then her breast. Her nipples tightened in response, she imagined how they must look, poking out through the fabric. Lewd. Needy. She suppressed a shiver. She had to stay still.
When Woody finally spoke it took all her self-control not to startle at the sudden sound. “Name of deceased, Jane Doe,” he said, his tone deceptively cavalier. She’d almost believe he was bored if she didn’t know better. The sheet was pulled suddenly away from her body. Her breath faltered - she was completely exposed.
“Age,” said Woody, “Twenty eight to thirty five, height, five feet four inches. Hair, red - apparently her natural color.” She felt her cheeks heat at the comment, and hoped Woody wouldn’t notice.
“No immediate cause of death apparent,” Woody continued. He slid a hand beneath her hand and lifted it a few inches, then let it drop back to the table. “Rigor mortis has passed, beginning exploratory autopsy.”
This time she did shiver. She was sure, nearly sure, that Woody wouldn’t actually cut into her but… when she felt his latex covered finger slide over her chest in place of a scalpel her shoulders relaxed in relief. Woody traced his finger in a wide ‘Y’ down either side of her breast bone, then down the center of her chest. His hands slid across her, mimicking the act of peeling back the skin, but gave up the act when he touched the swell of her breasts, kneading each in his meaty palms. Her lips parted and pulled his hands back, drawing his fingers together to catch either one of her nipples between them. He massaged them, gently at first, then with increasing pressure he tugged them, twisted them, daring her to make a sound. She winced, bit into her lower lip, but stayed quiet. Woody chuckled in satisfaction.
One last firm squeeze and his hands were gone. She heard him move to the end of the table. She felt him flick the toe tag he’d had her tie to herself before the scene started before he grabbed her ankles and tugged, dragging her easily across the smooth surface until her legs hung over the edge. He pushed her thighs apart. This time she was sure he could feel his breath.
“No noticeable odor of death,” he said. “Smells like…” he inhaled, “Fresh buttered popcorn.”
Then his tongue was there, tasting, probing, while his hands gripped tighter into her inner thighs. His nose nudged her clit and she couldn’t help herself, she groaned, hoping he was past caring. He pulled his head back immediately and she gave a choked cry of frustration.
“Ah-ah,” he scolded. “Now that doesn’t sound very dead to me, does it?”
“Please.” she whispered.
“Sorry, you knew the rules.” He slapped her lightly on the side of her leg, “Up you get.”
She opened her eyes for the first time, squinting in the harsh white light of the morgue. She sat up, slowly, reluctantly, avoiding giving Woody so much as a glance.
“Oh, don’t take it so hard.” He said, “I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me.”
She stood, feeling the grooves of the cold white tile between her feet. Woody clambered gracelessly onto the table. She turned, surprised, and noticed for the first time that is cock was out, hard and red in his fist.
“Well don’t just look at it.” He told her, “Climb on.”
She nodded and crawled up across him, straddling his wide body and lowering herself gently over him. She felt him nudging at her entrance, then thrust up as his hands flew out and gripped her hips. “Ride,” he demanded.
She threw her head back and obeyed. Woody was relatively short, but thick, each time she plunged back down on him she felt impossibly stretched. He stared up at her, licking his thin lips and watching her with dark lidded eyes. He looked triumphant. He was pleased that she’d lost. She frowned, but couldn’t bring herself to stop, not when she could feel his cockhead just there with each push of her hips. She was so close she barely felt the second pair of hands circling her waist from behind. "Who?" she gasped.
A voice whispered low in her ear. It was rough, like too much whisky and cigarettes. It did things to her. "I'm the old man's inevitable heart attack." it said.
"No, you can't..." she cried, but her objection was cut off by Mayhem's hand creeping down to her clit, coaxing her to orgasm even as Woody’s eyes went wide and panicked. His body thrashed beneath her, his hands grasping helplessly at her thighs.
She sobbed, in pleasure and despair.
"Hush." whispered Mayhem, "You knew it would end like this."
She couldn't deny that, but still, "I didn't know it would be you." she said.
Mayhem chuckled. "Silly girl." he chastised, "Don't you know by now? Mayhem always comes when you do."
She shivered. She did know it, all too well. He'd proven it time and time again and, god help her, she loved him for it.
"Now," he instructed. "Climb off the stiff's stiffy and come with me. There's an overpass I want you to throw me off, should be good for a three car pile-up, at least."
She nodded and obeyed. She'd resigned herself long ago to her fate: she was the Mistress of Chaos, and she always would be.
She didn't bother dressing, there wasn't any point, no one ever saw her until it was too late. Besides, as her lover often reminded her, nothing distracted drivers like a hot naked lady by the side of the road.
"Oh, by the way," Mayhem said as he took her hand and lead her to the morgue's doors. "Happy Birthday." He gestured behind them and she glanced over her shoulder. A cheery pink cupcake with a lone burning candle sat at the base of the table she'd lain on.
"Make a wish." Mayhem told her.
She smiled, puffed her cheeks, and blew. Her breath carried across the room and brushed the flame, not enough to blow it out, but just enough to encourage it towards the sheet pooled next to it on the floor. It easily caught alight. Her eyes danced. Soon the whole room would be charred.
"Oh, Mayhem." she said, "You always get me the sweetest things."
His only answer was a low, sinister laugh as he pulled her into his arms.
Author: plainapple
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Woody/OFC, OFC/Other
Wordcount: 1,166
Warning: Het, Het, Het, Het, Disturbing Het, Het
Disclaimer: This is fan fiction, I make no claims to the copyright ownership of Psych or to its characters.
Any resemblance to other persons, living or dead, especially if they’re original female characters, are entirely coincidental. Seriously.
Summary: Woody is a kinky coroner.
A/N: senor_coconut_1 is even kinkier. Happy birthday!
The morgue was kept cold, enough that she’d have goose bumps even if it wasn’t for the steel table beneath her bare back. She wanted to arch up away from it, to wrap herself in the coarse sheet that covered her, but Woody had been clear; move, and the game was over.
She could hear him, hovering just above her. He was leaning down, she thought, she was almost sure she could feel his breath through the thin white cotton, just above her mouth, then her neck, then her breast. Her nipples tightened in response, she imagined how they must look, poking out through the fabric. Lewd. Needy. She suppressed a shiver. She had to stay still.
When Woody finally spoke it took all her self-control not to startle at the sudden sound. “Name of deceased, Jane Doe,” he said, his tone deceptively cavalier. She’d almost believe he was bored if she didn’t know better. The sheet was pulled suddenly away from her body. Her breath faltered - she was completely exposed.
“Age,” said Woody, “Twenty eight to thirty five, height, five feet four inches. Hair, red - apparently her natural color.” She felt her cheeks heat at the comment, and hoped Woody wouldn’t notice.
“No immediate cause of death apparent,” Woody continued. He slid a hand beneath her hand and lifted it a few inches, then let it drop back to the table. “Rigor mortis has passed, beginning exploratory autopsy.”
This time she did shiver. She was sure, nearly sure, that Woody wouldn’t actually cut into her but… when she felt his latex covered finger slide over her chest in place of a scalpel her shoulders relaxed in relief. Woody traced his finger in a wide ‘Y’ down either side of her breast bone, then down the center of her chest. His hands slid across her, mimicking the act of peeling back the skin, but gave up the act when he touched the swell of her breasts, kneading each in his meaty palms. Her lips parted and pulled his hands back, drawing his fingers together to catch either one of her nipples between them. He massaged them, gently at first, then with increasing pressure he tugged them, twisted them, daring her to make a sound. She winced, bit into her lower lip, but stayed quiet. Woody chuckled in satisfaction.
One last firm squeeze and his hands were gone. She heard him move to the end of the table. She felt him flick the toe tag he’d had her tie to herself before the scene started before he grabbed her ankles and tugged, dragging her easily across the smooth surface until her legs hung over the edge. He pushed her thighs apart. This time she was sure he could feel his breath.
“No noticeable odor of death,” he said. “Smells like…” he inhaled, “Fresh buttered popcorn.”
Then his tongue was there, tasting, probing, while his hands gripped tighter into her inner thighs. His nose nudged her clit and she couldn’t help herself, she groaned, hoping he was past caring. He pulled his head back immediately and she gave a choked cry of frustration.
“Ah-ah,” he scolded. “Now that doesn’t sound very dead to me, does it?”
“Please.” she whispered.
“Sorry, you knew the rules.” He slapped her lightly on the side of her leg, “Up you get.”
She opened her eyes for the first time, squinting in the harsh white light of the morgue. She sat up, slowly, reluctantly, avoiding giving Woody so much as a glance.
“Oh, don’t take it so hard.” He said, “I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me.”
She stood, feeling the grooves of the cold white tile between her feet. Woody clambered gracelessly onto the table. She turned, surprised, and noticed for the first time that is cock was out, hard and red in his fist.
“Well don’t just look at it.” He told her, “Climb on.”
She nodded and crawled up across him, straddling his wide body and lowering herself gently over him. She felt him nudging at her entrance, then thrust up as his hands flew out and gripped her hips. “Ride,” he demanded.
She threw her head back and obeyed. Woody was relatively short, but thick, each time she plunged back down on him she felt impossibly stretched. He stared up at her, licking his thin lips and watching her with dark lidded eyes. He looked triumphant. He was pleased that she’d lost. She frowned, but couldn’t bring herself to stop, not when she could feel his cockhead just there with each push of her hips. She was so close she barely felt the second pair of hands circling her waist from behind. "Who?" she gasped.
A voice whispered low in her ear. It was rough, like too much whisky and cigarettes. It did things to her. "I'm the old man's inevitable heart attack." it said.
"No, you can't..." she cried, but her objection was cut off by Mayhem's hand creeping down to her clit, coaxing her to orgasm even as Woody’s eyes went wide and panicked. His body thrashed beneath her, his hands grasping helplessly at her thighs.
She sobbed, in pleasure and despair.
"Hush." whispered Mayhem, "You knew it would end like this."
She couldn't deny that, but still, "I didn't know it would be you." she said.
Mayhem chuckled. "Silly girl." he chastised, "Don't you know by now? Mayhem always comes when you do."
She shivered. She did know it, all too well. He'd proven it time and time again and, god help her, she loved him for it.
"Now," he instructed. "Climb off the stiff's stiffy and come with me. There's an overpass I want you to throw me off, should be good for a three car pile-up, at least."
She nodded and obeyed. She'd resigned herself long ago to her fate: she was the Mistress of Chaos, and she always would be.
She didn't bother dressing, there wasn't any point, no one ever saw her until it was too late. Besides, as her lover often reminded her, nothing distracted drivers like a hot naked lady by the side of the road.
"Oh, by the way," Mayhem said as he took her hand and lead her to the morgue's doors. "Happy Birthday." He gestured behind them and she glanced over her shoulder. A cheery pink cupcake with a lone burning candle sat at the base of the table she'd lain on.
"Make a wish." Mayhem told her.
She smiled, puffed her cheeks, and blew. Her breath carried across the room and brushed the flame, not enough to blow it out, but just enough to encourage it towards the sheet pooled next to it on the floor. It easily caught alight. Her eyes danced. Soon the whole room would be charred.
"Oh, Mayhem." she said, "You always get me the sweetest things."
His only answer was a low, sinister laugh as he pulled her into his arms.