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writing-good-vibes · 5 months

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turn off the shyness

corey and mr allen go on a dirty weekend. that's it, that's the plot. this is somehow an au of my own au, because i'm not 100% sure if it canonically happens in the homewrecker universe. but it is a great opportunity to explore how they would work in a self contained situation that is, by definition, very intimate.

WARNINGS for corey cunningham x roger allen relationship, age difference, infidelity, smut, hotel sex, alcohol consumption, overstimulation, (very) mild exhibitionism, and a gratuitous number of sex scenes. 4k word count.

taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus(if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !! or if you don't want to be tagged anymore, that's okay too, just let me know !!)

sources for dividers: [X], [X], [X]

Corey hadn't left Haddonfield very many times before. When he was a kid, vacations had been few and far between. After his dad died, it was just him and Momma, and vacations cost a lot of money that they didn’t have. It’s not like he had any other family to visit, either. Just him and Momma, and long summers spent at home watching the neighbour kids play in a sprinkler across the street from his bedroom window.

Speaking of Momma, he’d told her he was going on a weekend trip with one of his community college classes. He’d even got one of his friends from American Lit. to forge a headed email for him, as proof. She certainly wasn't happy about it, not one bit, and took every available opportunity to chastise him over it --

Momma was in a good mood, or as good a mood as Momma could be, so Corey decided he’d take his chances.

Corey sidled up next to Momma’s chair, watching her while she watched Pioneer Woman on the FoodNetwork. He stood for a moment, waiting, until he felt that sort of lull that meant it was okay to stay. Sitting down, he settles with his back against Momma’s chair, close enough to brush against the bobbly plaid of her pyjamas with his arm.

“Can I talk to you about something, Momma?” Corey asked.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing, I just wanted to tell you about how college is going…”

Momma scoffs, “College!”

He rambled vaguely about a few of his classes, carefully emitting any mention of friends, the one thing about his college education that Momma was interested in. Eventually he found his opportunity.

“You want to kill your mother, is that it?”

-- but Corey insisted he needed the extra credit and Momma begrudgingly – very begrudgingly – allowed it, though she still chastised him over it right up until he left the house, backpack heavy on one shoulder.

She'd be a nightmare when he got home, launching a full interrogation, demanding a blow-by-blow of his weekend, but he can cross that bridge when he comes to it. He had the whole weekend to mull over a convincing story to tell her.

But, that Friday morning, he walks down the block, out of sight from where he knew Momma was watching from the window, thinly veiled by the voiles, and waits on the corner, trying desperately not to look out of place as he scans the street, one way and then the other.

Just after 8AM, just as Corey’s starting to get restless, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up next to him on the corner.

Corey leans down to peer through the window. "Hi," he says, unintentionally breathless even as he tried to play it cool,

Mr Allen flashes him that roguish smile, "Want a ride?" He nods towards the passenger seat.

Corey lets himself smirk and jumps in; the leather seat smooth beneath him as he throws his bulging backpack into the backseat.

The drive to Chicago takes a few hours. At first they talk, like they always do, about work and school, about football and last night’s episode of Jeopardy!, and about some cookie cutter versions of their futures, where the other man is conspicuously absent. Once they run out of small talk, but before either of them felt like saying anything too personal, Corey’s focus drifts to the window and he spend the rest of the drive staring at the endless fields and dead-end towns just like Haddonfield that they pass through. He watches more intently when he notices the scenery get slowly more populated, and when the high rises start to spring up as they reached the city limits.

They’d stopped only once, at a gas station. Mr Allen pumps the gas while Corey wandered the aisles of the store, wielding a crisp $20 bill from Mr Allen’s wallet. The drinks fridge hummed low and constant beneath the tinny sound of the radio playing through the store as Corey contemplated what Mr Allen might want.

Back in the car, Corey handed Mr Allen a bottle of coke and then watched out of the window as they drove on, drinking his own bottle of milk.

When they pull up to the hotel, Corey cranes his neck to look up at the most lavish building he’d probably ever seen; classic Chicago School architecture, rising up and morphing into a corporate modernist skyscraper. Mr Allen stays here on business trips, he tells Corey. In his expensive suit, Mr Allen absolutely looked like he belonged there, while Corey stood awkwardly behind him, in his cheap sneakers and Target branded jeans. Corey knows exactly how he looks.

The receptionist checks them in and, if she does suspect something, she does a very convincing job of pretending like she doesn't. As they head up to their room in the elevator, the fear of being caught that churns in Corey's stomach mellows, turning into that ache of nervousness that he always has before his clothes come off and he can just stop thinking.

Fortunately for Corey's nerves, there’s no time wasted when they got to the room. Mr Allen closes the door behind them, already pulling off his tie, "Make yourself at home."

Corey kicks off his shoes at the door, wandering further into the room as he sheds his jacket. Floor-to-ceiling windows provide a close-to-panoramic view of the city stretching out around them. Corey, wide eyed and staring, had always hated feeling small, but he thinks he could get used to it in a place like this.

When he finally turns away from the window, Corey’s rapt attention is instead caught by Mr Allen stripping off his own jacket, then his shirt.

The space between them quickly closes and, in the time it takes Corey to pull his t-shirt over his head, Mr Allen’s in front of him, warm hands on his warm, bare waist. Before Corey can ask, he's pulled in for a kiss.

Stumbling back, they find the bed and Corey gasps when his back hits the crisp, clean cotton sheets. He doesn’t have time to even pull in another breath, before Mr Allen kisses him again, his clean-shaved skin smooth against Corey’s own as he wraps Corey up against him.

When Mr Allen finally breaks away, standing to remove his belt, Corey sits up on his elbows and manages to heave his stolen breath back in.

More clothes come off – Corey wriggling out of his jeans, his briefs, his socks, all thrown to the floor and around the room with giddy, reckless abandon. There was no need to tame the mess, no need to keep undies in arm reach or find a quick excuse to leave without his flushed cheeks being noticed. Corey's glasses end up on the night stand and he blinks his wide eyes at Mr Allen through blurred vision.

Corey doesn't really need the hand in his hair to know what he's supposed to do anymore, but he wants it there anyway, twisting through his combed-flat curls, pushing him downward. Dropping to his knees next to the bed, he goes for Mr Allen’s black underwear, but the older man stops him.

Eager as always, Corey's mouth drops open when Mr Allen runs a thumb over his kissed-pink lips instead. "There we go," he says, his index and middle finger slipping inside.

Corey swirls his tongue, sucking obediently as the digits probe further, pressing towards his throat but pulling back before he gags.

Another finger and Corey feels the skin-warm metal of Mr Allen's wedding ring, plain gold and dulled from being worn every day for a decade or more; a permanent, boring fixture in his life. Corey lets his teeth graze the edge, then catches it again when he pulls his head back, watching the older man through his lashes as the ring slides over slick skin. Once it was freed, Corey rolls the band in his mouth, feeling the weight of it. It tasted like pennies and was probably worth more than all the clothes in Corey's closet combined.

Mr Allen makes a noise rather unbecoming of a man like him -- or the man Corey thinks he is -- sending a surge of bashful pride through Corey’s gut. He pinches Corey's jaw, thumb and forefinger digging into the hollow of the younger man's cheeks. Corey sticks his tongue out, the ring glinting in the centre.

With his wet fingers, Mr Allen takes the ring and contemplates the piece of jewellery. He doesn’t remember the last time he took it off. It was dripping with saliva.

"You don’t need that, do you?" Corey pouts.

For a long moment Mr Allen doesn't say anything at all, simply rolls the ring between his fingers. Then he wipes the spit off on the clean-for-now bed linens and places it on the night stand, beside Corey’s glasses. "Not with what I’m going to be doing with you."

Corey’s pout splits into a grin.

Later, Corey comes with a whine, head thrown back against the bedsheets, his ankles around Mr Allen’s ears.

"You can order room service, if you're hungry," Mr Allen says, as he comes out of the en suite wearing one of the hotel bathrobes. He tosses a damp wash cloth to Corey, still lay dazedly on his back in bed.

Corey stretches, feeling it all the way from his toes to his fingertips before he relaxes again, looking up at Mr Allen, "Really?" He sits up and wipes at the cum on his stomach and between his thighs with the cloth.

"Sure, anything you want," Mr Allen insists, pulling his laptop and a stack of papers from the brief case he’d brought with him. "I do actually have some work to do on this ‘business trip’,” he chuckles, settling in to a chair by the window and booting up the laptop. “But you can watch TV and get some food while you wait." Looking over as Corey rolls onto his stomach and over the edge of the bed to retrieve his underwear, Mr Allen winks, "Then we'll have some more fun later. Okay, baby?"

Baby? Now that was new. Corey couldn't decide if he likes it or not. Baby sounds so… domestic. Romantic. Sleazy.

Corey nods agreeably, gives a shy smile in Mr Allen's direction anyway, "Okay," before he grabs his briefs and rolls onto his back again to pull them on.

The room service menu is so long that Corey doesn't even know where to start with it. He reads through it twice before he can make a decision and picks the phone up off the nightstand, only to change his mind again at the last minute. When he finally does order, he asks Mr Allen if he wants anything, but the older man declines, "Get a couple of beers, though, Corey."

When room service arrives, Mr Allen answers the door and brings in the covered plates himself. He even lets Corey eat in bed, sat up against the headboard and watching some Western he found on the channel guide.

The movie is almost over when Mr Allen closes his laptop and stands from the table. With his half-drunk beer in hand, he wanders to the bed where Corey is still watching the TV, though his cleared plates and two empty beer bottles had been discarded on the nightstand.

Mr Allen leans forward, catches Corey by the ankle and drags him down towards the foot of the bed.

Corey gasps in surprise but allows the manhandling with a pout, rearranging himself until his legs rest either side of Mr Allen's trim hips.

"Now, you don't need these, do you?" Mr Allen tuts, his finger sliding along the waistband of Corey's underwear.

Corey shakes his head, a grin splitting his pout, and twitches under the delicate touch.

Then, more deliberate, Mr Allen hooks his thumbs beneath the elastic, tugging it down. Corey lets him, lifts his hips and pulls his legs up to his chest, watching Mr Allen's firm hands peel the briefs off him and drop them to the floor.

He should feel exposed, when Mr Allen spreads his legs again, but he doesn't. He should feel exposed, still loose and wet from earlier, but he doesn't. He should feel exposed when Mr Allen leans over him to reach for the lube, but he doesn’t. While they're chest to chest, Corey slips his hands lower, unties the hotel bathrobe. Mr Allen's length is half-hard already, and it twitches when Corey wraps his hand around it.

The TV is still on. Another movie, older this time, and Corey's eyes are fixed on the screen as he watched. Mr Allen has a beer on one hand and a firm grip on Corey’s soft hip with the other, a faint show of dominance while Corey lifts himself up on burning thighs before letting himself sink back down. Corey’s mouth hangs open, gasps escaping him now and then when he hits just the right spot.

Following the younger man's gaze, Mr Allen sees he's watching the leading man intently. Stoic. Weathered. Brooding. Handsome. Not dissimilar to the lover beneath him.

"I think you have a type, baby," Mr Allen says.

Corey turns to look at him over his shoulder. Mr Allen nods towards the screen, "Men like that."

His eyes flit to the screen and then back to Mr Allen before he ducks away bashfully. He shakes his head, then nods, then, "Just you."

Mr Allen smiles; Corey will be the death of him with flattery like that, his wet-behind-the-ears earnestness. He takes a final swig of his beer before discarding the empty bottle along with the others on the nightstand. His hands start drifting, up the line of Corey's spine to his shoulder blades and back down again, a rough thumb rubbing at the dimples on his lower back.

Going slow is getting old though, and Mr Allen tightens his hands on Corey’s hips, pushing him forward on his hands, manoeuvring him until he's face down-ass up.

Mr Allen kneels behind him, teasing, teasing, teasing, "Look at you, you can take it so well, can’t you?"

Corey nods; face pressed into the pillow, a shuddering gasp leaving him. “I can take it,” he reiterates, “I can take it, I can take it…”

The sun has long since set over the city, and the nightstand is piled with even more plates courtesy of another call to room service --

Mr Allen had let the young concierge in the room this time, rolling a stainless-steel trolley in with their food.

Corey sat up in bed, the sheets tangled scandalously low on his hips, watching as the dinner plates are offloaded onto the table.

There was a professional sort of tension as the dirty dishes from the nightstand were cleared away and replaced with the requested bottle of scotch and two crystal tumblers.

“Thanks,” Corey said, though he wasn’t looking at the concierge beside him, but rather at Mr Allen. The older man was wearing the bathrobe again, looking practically modest in contrast to Corey’s obvious nakedness. Corey shifted, letting the sheet fall a half-inch further, chewing on the inside of his plush lip.

The concierge gives him a measured look, eyebrows twitching just slightly, before leaving with the trolley. The door closed loudly behind him.

Corey reached for one of the tumblers, and catches sight of the gold wedding band beside the whiskey bottle.

-- but as both of them had been distinctly preoccupied since, neither had thought to get up and turn on a light. Instead, they're shrouded in darkness, with only the TV still playing in the background to cast a neon blue glow over their bare bodies.

Corey hasn't been able to think straight for hours, long since gone stupid with how good he felt, but over Mr Allen's shoulder he can see the blurry twinkle of lights from downtown. They look like stars.

"Please," Corey gasps, hips bucking and writing as he clings onto the older man, "please keep going, I don't wanna -- Please, I don't wanna stop yet," he almost cuts himself off with a sobbing moan but manages to get his words out, voice warbling and strained.

"Take it easy, baby," Mr Allen reassures him, stroking his damp curls away from his forehead. "That's it, good boy. It's okay, I won't stop."

Corey cries, desperate to chase the feeling even as overstimulation makes his legs shake, his cock aching even though he's already cum too many times.

"Fuck, if I could keep you like this forever I would," Mr Allen grunts above him. "Wanting it so bad you just cry and cry and cry."

Corey's like a live wire, buzzing with the electric pleasure of orgasm and it's too much, too much, too much --

As he comes down again, twenty minutes and another orgasm later, he’s twitching and sore and almost satiated. Corey wonders if they should slow down -- they have all weekend, after all -- but then Mr Allen's fingers are in his hair and the thought leaves him abruptly.

Cold tiles send a chill through Corey when he goes to the bathroom to freshen up before going to sleep. Most of their mess had smeared onto the bed sheets, but there was more still covering his stomach and dribbling down his thighs that he had to clean up.

And that's not all, Corey catches his reflection in the mirror over the sink. A whimper, half pained and half pleased at what he sees. Face still flushed with heat and painted with tear tracks. Lips swollen and wet. Hair damp with sweat and combed through thoroughly with fingers. Pink stains daubed onto his chest that'll darken into hickeys. The evidence of being wanted and needed and used. He almost doesn't want to wash it away, because without it, it’s to easy to think that none of this was real.

He swills his mouth, spits into the sink and scrubs his face even pinker.

Besides the rumble of traffic on the street below, all is quite when Corey turns out the bathroom light and plunges the whole suite into darkness. Mr Allen had turned the TV off while he was gone.

Feeling his way through the dark, Corey makes it to the bed and hesitates while he figures out which side to get in on. As his eyes adjust, he realises that Mr Allen is on the right-hand side, so Corey takes the left, like he knows Mrs Allen does when they're at home.

The silence as they lay there only aggravates his insecurity. So many nights lonely and crying, or flushed and yearning, or angry at the whole damn world for never cutting him a damn break.

He’s ready to roll over and just try to sleep, when he finally felt an arm reach out through the darkness. Wrapping around his waist, he let himself be pulled in. He sunk into Mr Allen's arms, cheek pressed to the older man's toned, salt-and-pepper chest.

Neither of them spoke for a while and Corey felt himself slipping away into sleep but now there was an ache in his stomach that he couldn’t ignore. This was too perfect, he thought, too domestic and it sent a wave of guilt through him. He was just playing at being a grown up. He was being a stupid, selfish homewrecker. He was --

"You're a good boy, Corey." Roger's hand was in his hair, twisting his curls between his lithe fingers. More tender than before, not guiding him this time but simply an absentminded gesture of... something. Something that Corey knew he shouldn't be thinking about. "I hope you get to college next fall."

"I hope so too," Corey mumbles. "I wanna get far away from Haddonfield... far away from Momma."

"You don't get on with her, do you?" Roger hums

Corey squeezes his eyes more tightly closed at the familiar sting of tears. "You don't know what she's like. She’s so… I dunno know how much longer I can last."

Roger’s wandering hand leaves Corey’s hair, instead stroking gently at his furrowed brow.

"And Momma’s gonna kill me if she finds out about --,” Corey cuts himself off, half because he’s fighting against the lump building in his throat, and half because he’s never – they’ve never – dared to call them “us”. For both their sakes, there was no “us”.

But Roger understands. “Oh, baby…” His voice is soft and deep as he shushes Corey.

“She won’t find out. No one will,” Roger promised. “It’s our secret, right?”

Corey’s stomach aches again, “I like being your secret.” His tears are starting to dry on his cheeks and Corey throws his thigh over Roger's hip, rocking softly against him. The motion feels a little like being rocked to sleep.

Getting off is a faraway thought as Corey drifts away into a dream he won't remember.

In the morning they wake up to the sun bouncing into their room, reflecting brightly off the skyscraper across the street. Corey stretches, back arching off the bed and he feels how his hips ache so sweetly.

Roger stirs beside him, and Corey's eyes drop to where his erection tents the cotton sheets. On his elbows, Corey edges down the bed, dragging the sheet with him, until he’s level with the older man's cock, hand circling the base as he pressed a kiss to the tip.

Roger hums appreciatively, his hand finding its way into Corey's hair. "Someone's eager," he mumbles. "Aren’t I lucky, having your pretty mouth to wake me up.”

Corey’s always been a people pleaser. And he always swallows afterwards.

Corey smiles coyly, feeling stupidly proud of himself. He licks at his swollen lips as he crawls back up the bed, settling against Roger’s chest. Roger’s jaw is rough with a shadow of stubble, but Corey nuzzles gently against him anyway, kitten kisses pressed almost hesitantly until Corey catches Roger’s lips. Open mouthed kisses, fleeting and languid all at once, get Corey giggling, though he doesn’t pull away, letting their noses bump against each other as he keeps going back for more.

"What's so funny, hm?" Roger asks, his hands palming, squeezing, groping the flesh of Corey’s ass.

"Nothing," Corey insists, stealing another kiss. "I'm just really happy." So happy that he wishes they could stay like this forever, where he feels warm and wanted and the sunrise paints everything golden.

They shower together in the en suite, in a shower big enough for four people, let alone two. The tiles are cold and wet against Corey's chest, and he shivers every time the tip of his cock brushes the condensation.

After Roger finishes up, he goes to call room service for breakfast. Corey stays longer, letting the water cascade over him until he has to come up for breath. He sighs, low in his throat, at the heat.

The bathroom is hazy with steam by the time he get out and dries off in front of the vanity mirror. Bruises have bloomed where he’d expected, just low enough on his chest to be hidden by his t-shirt.

Roger looks Corey over when he leaves the bathroom, finally utilising the second bathrobe. “Your hair looks good like that, why don’t you keep it natural more often?”

“Oh,” Corey pauses, hand automatically going to smooth his hair down but feels only shower-damp curls. He thinks about the tin of pomade in his backpack. “Momma say’s it’s untidy.”

“You should stop listening to your momma.”

They eat together at the table, pancakes and bacon drenched in syrup, and Roger tells him about the swimming pool and how there are three different restaurants to choose from in the hotel alone. They could go for a swim later, Roger says, and then Corey can choose where they eat.

But first, they go back to bed.

#corey cunningham #corey cunningham x roger allen #cunningallen #is this a mess? perhaps.#did i just need it out of my hands? yes.#is jeopardy the only american game show i know of? also yes.#would i advise eating so much food and then having vigorous sex? definitely not lol.

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writing-good-vibes · 6 months

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ahhh so this isn't an announcement or anything, but i just wanted to post !!

i know i haven't written so much lately, and i think subconsciously i was trying to avoid a burnout episode, which i think has worked a little bit (to the surprise of me and everyone else lol) !! also just in my life i've been up and down a lot emotionally so focusing on writing has been difficult.

while i have fics i will be finishing (and others i wants to start lol), i feel like having a casual little ask box session, so feel free to send some asks about the usual suspects: corey and his conveyer belt of failed romances and fucked up dynamics 💔😈

#ask #corey cunningham #corey cunningham x michael myers #corey cunningham x roger allen #bo sinclair x corey cunningham #corey cunningham x reader #new corey pairings welcome too !! guys. gals. nbs. others.#i just wanna think about stuff and have fun with it !!

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hersweetrevenge · 2 months

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roger bringing corey with him to be his caddie when he plays golf with the guys.

#corey cunningham #corey cunningham x roger allen #cunningallen #send post. log off.

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writing-good-vibes · 6 days

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Did you you decide to do that story where Roger….husband,father and Adulterer teaches Corey how to swim

ahh i can't lie i have been thinking about this story, thank you for asking and giving me an excuse to talk about it more !! also, i love that description of roger lol

this story only really exists in my head at the minute, but hopefully i'll put it together in a better way than i'm about to, so that it can exist as a bonus chapter for the main story. basically, besides it being about learning how to swim, it's also about corey and roger hugely blurring the line between flirtation and fatherly support.

to set the scene: they do make it to the pool -- one of those big blue hotel pools with glass windows looking out at the city and a sauna off to the side -- after their post-breakfast activities. corey stays firmly at the edge in the shallow end, watching roger swim laps.

corey tries to insist he's okay where he is, but roger keeps playfully trying to lure him further into the pool and swim laps with him ("work up that appetite of yours") and corey kind of has no choice but to admit he doesn't know how to swim.

honestly, swimming really hasn't come up that often in corey's life, so he is just a little embarrassed at having to admit this for basically the first time to someone (even though plenty of people can't swim).

this admission takes roger by surprise to be honest, he really just assumed it was a given that corey -- an adult -- would be able to swim. but he reigns his reaction in, tries not to let corey see his surprise, because he knows it would only embarrass him further. "hey, that's okay. how about i teach you, hm?"

roger taught jeremy to swim when he was 4 or 5, not that long ago really, and the similarity in the situation is absolutely not lost on him.

they start with the total basics, letting corey get used to just floating in the pool, first on his back and then with his face in the water. before they get to more effective swim strokes, roger stands a few feet away and lets corey doggy paddle his way over to him. corey, pink-cheeked with embarrassment or exertion, complains "i can see you moving", because roger isn't being half as sneaky as he thinks he is about taking a few steps back as corey gets closer.

when they move onto "real" swimming, corey almost shivers when roger puts his hand on his stomach to keep corey up so he can kick his legs. neither of them mention it when roger's thumb just barely slipping beneath corey's waist band. neither of them say anything when roger's fingers glide down the back of corey's thigh when he tells him to keep his legs straight.

maybe roger shouldn't feel as proud as he does when corey swims his first clumsy length of the pool, but he does. he taught corey that, he literally and figuratively held corey's hand, he gave corey this milestone.

corey keeps close to the edge the whole way, but they do end up in the deep end and roger absolutely shouldn't like it so much when corey clings to him instead of the pool-edge when he realises he can't reach the bottom to stand up.

their kiss tastes like chlorine.

#ask #corey cunningham x roger allen #cunningallen #oops this got way longer than i intended but this idea has been in my head this whole time so 🤷‍♀️#the whole situation just confuses corey even more #daddy issues up to his eyeballs #something something is he realising he kind of just wanted roger to be his dad??#he is attracted to roger (for a whole bunch of psychosexual reasons that we wont go into right now) --#-- but he didnt know how good and validating it would feel to have this sort of father/son moment --#-- basically corey just desperately wants to feel loved in any way roger will give it to him #corey is by no means a *good* swimmer after this lesson. but he *can* swim a whole length of the pool at least #the way swimming is not taught as a life/survival skill to everyone is wild to me (me being someone who also is not a confident swimmer)

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writing-good-vibes · 9 months

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[from @cupcakeofdeath000]

ahh you know what, i totally agree !! i'm playing fast and loose with how bo fits into haddonfield, but lets go with less murder (for the most part) and more with the redneck mechanic, just for the time being lol.

i love the idea of roger and bo, two people who couldn't seem more different yet (to corey) fulfil similar roles, fighting over who gets corey, even if neither of them really care about him. it's not like either of them want a relationship with him, is it?

corey and roger's relationship is complicated at best. roger is cheating on his wife, and has no intention of leaving her for his silly little piece on the side. corey knows that, but he's also never had this much attention before. roger is so nice to him, and makes him feel good about himself and having this affair makes corey feel like a grown up, like he has control over something in his life.

but that's not to say it's only corey who catches feelings. roger doesn't love corey, not at all, but he feels a certain affection for him. corey is likable and awkward, he's willing to do pretty much anything roger asks of him. he knows corey could be swayed if someone else starts taking an interest in him (which is exactly what roger did). if corey has another "admirer" he's less likely to be as dutiful for roger.

i can see, if roger and bo knew of each other's relationships with corey, that they might bicker over it, in a (as dubbed by @/slutforstabbings) "desperate househusbands" situation.

maybe roger claims he's worried for corey -- bo is hardly an upstanding member of society. or maybe he surprises himself with how possessive he feels over corey -- telling bo to back off and find someone else to mess around with. or maybe roger even feels a little betrayed (as if corey doesn't feel betrayed every time roger doesn't have time for him because of theresa) -- his realisation that corey isn't the blushing virgin he liked to think he was. roger knows corey has feelings for him, i think a part of him enjoys having someone swooning over him (in a way his wife doesn't anymore, after being married for so long), and he doesn't really want to lose that if corey finds someone else to.

bo is less attached to corey on an emotional level than roger is. bo likes corey because he's fun to play with, and because corey so obviously has the hots for men like bo. i think bo would only get possessive if roger did first. if roger ever told him to back off, then firstly, bo would laugh in his face. then secondly, it'd increase bo's desire to keep corey around tenfold, if only to spite roger. i think corey could easily catch feelings for bo, but to a lesser degree. with roger the emotional boundries between them have always been blurry. bo is very clear about what they are. he's a "pat on the ass when you leave" kind of guy. but bo is very good at sex, and he knows it. he wants to be the best corey has ever had -- if only to spite roger, of course.

and, like you said, michael really couldn't care less what corey does. he certainly doesn't care enough to fight another man over it. he keeps corey around because he's useful, he's interesting, but who else he fucks is none of michael's business.

neither roger nor bo can can hold a candle to michael in corey's eyes anyway. michael is corey's answer to god. corey will always have michael to go back to. it isn't necesarily love, it can't be explained as simply as that, buy michael fulfils so much for corey that no one else ever has - not roger, and not bo. michael doesn't lie. michael represents death, something corey has been trying to get away from for a long time until he just couldn't keep running anymore. corey gave in, and there's no escaping now.

#corey cunningham #bo sinclair #corey cunningham x michael myers #corey cunningham x roger allen #bo sinclair x corey cunningham #god i really put corey through the ringer don't i? he goes from one bad situationship to another #at least he'll *always* have michael 🔪💗#if you want corey in a (mostly) healthy relationship --#-- that is what my x reader writings are for. give him someone who really does love him for once 💗 haha #someone please !! love my boy !!#cunningmyers #cunningallen

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writing-good-vibes · 2 months

Text

another lonely valentine's day

💗 happy valentine's day !! 💗 what better way to celebrate than to make our favourite babygirl suffer? this takes place in an au where the accident never happened, and corey is still working towards his college dreams by mowing lawns, having affairs and babysitting.

WARNING for corey cunningham x roger allen relationship, age difference, infidelity, unhealthy relationship dynamics, smut (non-penetrative and oral sex), angst from a guy who is upset that his married boyfriend doesn't love him, some mildly stalkerish behaviour, and some arguable hurt/comfort. 4.5K word count.

🎀 very cute dividers by @/gigittamic 🎀

taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (just let me know if you want to be added or removed !!)

"Corey?"

Corey sighs and checks the time. It had only been ten minutes since he put Jeremy to bed.

"Corey?!" Jeremy calls again, louder this time, his voice high and lifting at the end of his name. It grates on Corey's nerves.

"What is it now, Jeremy?"

"I'm thirsty!"

"You've just had a glass of milk."

"I want another one!"

They had a deal -- since Jeremy had gotten in so much trouble for his silly prank last Halloween and Corey had very generously done some self-serving damage control -- that Corey would let Jeremy do whatever he wanted (within some reason, as negotiable on the night, but usually involving too much energy for Corey's liking), and stay up as late as he wanted after he went to bed, in exchange for leaving Corey alone for the rest of the night. And if he didn't, Corey would tell Mr Allen just how much of a little shit Jeremy had been for him. It was a system that worked, even if it meant telling a couple of white lies about the evening's activities.

Jeremy was always a brat, it must have been coded directly into his DNA, but he'd been extra irritating before going to bed tonight. He tended to talk Corey's ear off anyway, asking personal questions that Corey would always lie in response to whether he strictly speaking needed to or not, and tonight he had extra ammunition.

"Don't you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Why not? It's because you're so ugly, isn't it."

"No, I just don't have one. I could if I wanted to."

"No you couldn't. Girls don't like boys who are ugly and poor. That's why you're bossing me around on Valentine's Day."

The back of Corey's neck itched. Sure, that's why he was spending his Valentine's Day babysitting the brattiest kid he'd ever met. Because no one wants to go out with him. Not because Jeremy's dad says "Jump," and Corey asks "How high?"

He shuts Jeremy up by letting him watch a playthrough on youtube of some horror videogame that one of Corey's friends back in high school would talk about nonstop. Turns out the game is way less scary when some hunk just talks over it, and although some of the music starts to freak him out a little, Corey surprises himself when he laughs along with Jeremy at most of the scares, even at the rabbit.

After traipsing back upstairs with another glass of milk, warm this time, Corey leaves Jeremy with a warning not to bother him again. Our deal, remember?

"What are you doing on Valentine's day?"

"Nothing," Corey replies, much too quickly. He can hear Mr Allen stifle a chuckle on the other end of the phone. Corey's cheeks burn, "Um, I mean, I don't have any plans, yet." Yet. As if they're lining up round the block to take Corey out and he just hasn't decided who's worth his time. "Why?"

"Well, Theresa and I were wondering if you'd be able to babysit Jeremy for a few hours?"

Corey bites his lips so hard he can taste blood. He soothes it with his tongue, "Sure, no problem." He kicks himself later for being such a sucker.

Mrs Allen is flustered when he arrives, putting the final touches of lipstick and perfume on while she explains the usual ground rules. Corey knows the drill. She looks beautiful, with her hair loose and curly around her shoulders and red flowers on her dress. He tries to imagine his own momma getting dressed up for a date, but he struggles to remember Momma and Ronald ever going anywhere without him. They hadn't even had a honeymoon.

Corey hovers awkwardly, trying to keep out of the way as Mrs Allen buzzes around, from the mirror to the coat stand by the door. While she puts her coat on, Corey's eyes wander as Mr Allen comes downstairs in a pressed suit. He waves at the older man, who gives him a wink that dangerously toes the line of 'friendly', before he disappears towards the kitchen.

"Oh!" Mrs Allen starts, before lowering her voice. "There's a box of chocolates in the kitchen for you, Corey. Roger put them on top of the fridge so Jeremy wouldn't see them; a little treat for you after he goes to bed."

Corey checks the time again. He hasn't heard a peep from Jeremy for a while, which is a good sign.

But the TV isn't holding his attention tonight like it normally does, and even though the Allens always tell him he can use their Netflix, he just can't settle on a movie.

Instead he scrolls through Roger's profile for a while, looking at his watch list and what he's been currently watching, what's been recommended to him and his most popular categories. Corey makes mental notes of where their tastes are similar and where they differ, thinks of how he can subtly integrate all of this into a conversation, to show just how interesting he is, how compatible they are.

His rumbling stomach puts an end to his media-stalking for now. Momma had made meatloaf for dinner, as grainy and bland as always, and Corey hadn't been able to stomach much of it. Not with the butterflies fluttering in his gut as he watched the clock, desperate to get out of the house a soon as possible tonight.

He lets a movie start playing, some 90's thriller than everyone in his American Lit. class used to rave about, before pulling himself off the couch and wandering into the kitchen.

The Allens' fridge is always fully stocked. Fruit and vegetables in the crisper, health foods that Corey's never even heard of before, branded candy and juice and condiments fill the door, cuts of meat that they probably actually knew how to cook instead of turning them to rubber or relying on boxes of lean cuisine. They even have an ice maker. There's a couple of bottles of Heineken -- because Roger only drinks Heineken in the house -- at the very front. It feels like a trick, Corey takes one anyway.

On top of the fridge, amongst juice boxes and tin that could be cookies but Corey guesses might be their sewing kit, is a red, heart-shaped box of chocolates. Just like Mrs Allen promised. Corey holds it in his hands, rubs his thumb against the satiny pink ribbon that wraps around it.

In middle school, Corey had gotten a Valentine's candygram one year. He walked into homeroom and found the pink paper heart and a cherry flavoured dumdum sat conspicuously on his desk.

There was a chorus of hushed giggles from behind him. Over his shoulder he sees Kelly and her friends, whispering. Whispering made Corey nervous. Then, Kelly waves at him shyly, a knowing smile on her face. He waved back, face burning.

He ate the lollipop over lunch, and folded the pink paper heart and put it in his pocket, carried it around with him all week. Sometimes he'd take it out to look at it, reading the message over and over and over again -- Be my Valentine?

Momma found the heart when she collected his laundry at the end of the week, emptying out his pockets onto the kitchen table, picking up the pink paper heart with her probing fingers.

Corey didn't hear the end of it for weeks.

There's a gift tag pre-attached at the bow on his Valentine's chocolates and Corey flips it open, expecting a list of the candies that are inside, but that isn't it. It's a message, handwritten in black biro in neat print-capitals. The words start to swim in Corey's vision, merging into an inky pool until he pushes his glasses up to wipe at his eyes, trying to hide his tears from an invisible audience. He isn't fooling anyone, because his lip starts wobbling instead.

He brings the candy back into the living room with him, along with his beer and sits criss-crossed on the couch, then rips the ribbon off in one go.

Corey sinks half the box before he can stop himself.

The rest he tries to savour, rolling each chocolate in his mouth, letting them melt on his tongue until he can figure out the flavoured centre while he watches his movie. The truffles are his favourites, then the pralines, followed by caramels, vanilla cream and pecan clusters, then finally the strawberry ones come last.

Between eating, he drinks his beer like a palate cleanser, finishing it only to go get the other bottle from the fridge. Two beers down, Corey can feel the buzz under his skin, in his tear-pink cheeks, and the relief of tension leaving his unsettled self.

If he takes the candy box home, Momma would ask too many questions that he didn't want to answer -- that he didn't even want to think about -- so he throws the empty tray in the trash can in the Allens' kitchen and chews a stick of bubblegum to cover the alcohol on his breath. It wasn't fool proof, but it was the most he could do.

Upstairs, Corey listens for movement from Jeremy's room. The hallway is dark, lit only by the lamps downstairs glowing up through the spiral of the staircase. Corey circles the warm light, never quite letting it catch him, as he dips into Jeremey's room to turn his TV off, then continues on to the master bedroom.

It's dark in there too, as Corey stands in the doorway. The bed is made neatly, sheets tucked cleanly under the mattress but rumpled in places where someone had sat down to pull on a stocking or tie a shoelace. He looks around familiarly, at the contemporary beige art on the walls and at the framed family pictures on the dresser, goes through the jackets and dresses that line the closet, and the messy draws full of almost designer sweaters and workout clothes and underwear. Mrs Allen's expensive lotion sits on the nightstand, next to where Corey always discards his glasses.

Laying in their bed, on Mr Allen's side, Corey looks up into the darkness. His cheeks are wet and getting wetter, and he rolls onto his front, muffles his sniffling in Mr Allen's pillow and breathing deeply the faint, shouldn't-be-comforting scent of the older man's cologne. Dark and woody, but classic in a way that compliments the rich floral perfume Corey always smells on Mrs Allen's pillow.

Part of him hopes Roger will know, hopes he'll feel the dampness there on his pillow while he tries to sleep, hopes he'll catch the taste of salt, and know exactly what he'd driven Corey to.

It's long-past midnight by the time Mr and Mrs Allen get home.

Corey hovers awkwardly by the door while Mrs Allen kicks out of her heels, hangs her coat on the stand, her conversation slower now as she thanks him again for babysitting. Corey preferred her like this, when she no longer had to worry about making their 7:30 reservation, or whether Jeremy was ready for bed before they left. When she isn't so tense, it made it a lot harder for Corey to interpret her tension as something else, something worse.

She counts his money out for him, but as he zips his coat up and prepares to cycle back home in the cold, Mr Allen stops him.

"Hold on, Corey, I'll give you a ride." The first words he'd spoken directly to Corey all night.

"Oh, no," Corey insists, hesitating anyway. "It's okay, really. I don't want to --"

"It's no trouble. We wouldn't want you out alone at this time. Unless you've got a secret black belt you haven't mentioned?"

Corey laughs, his real boyish laugh that Mr Allen likes so much.

Mrs Allen leans up, whispers something in her husbands ear, a perfectly French-manicured hand patting his chest once. Corey averts his eyes.

Then, Corey and Mr Allen are stood outside in the biting February air.

"Did you enjoy your night?" Corey asks as they pull out of the driveway. He rubs his cold hands together in his lap.

Roger turns the heater on high. "We did, thanks."

"What was the restaurant like?" He doesn't normally ask questions, doesn't normally like to know the answers, but he's feeling just a little vindictive tonight. Curious, too.

Roger catches his eye through the rear-view mirror. He smirks. "It was nice. We've been wanting to try it out for a while, actually. We don't go out as much as we should anymore."

"I just watched a movie," Corey says with a shrug, like it's no big deal. Like it's how he was going to be spending his Valentine's day anyway. "One that my friends at college always recommend, but I never get time to watch movies. Momma -- my mom -- she's always so picky about movies." Corey can hear himself start to ramble, clutching at the straws of interest. "And Jeremy was okay tonight," he lies, then changes his mind. "Well, he said I don't have a girlfriend because I'm ugly. But he didn't get up after he went to bed."

Roger sighs, "Ignore him, you know what he's like. Theresa coddles him, but he's a little terror sometimes, same as any other boy. And besides, you know that's not true -- you're not ugly." His hand leaves the wheel and lands on Corey's thigh.

The younger man hums, suppresses how utterly pleased he feels at being told that. You're not ugly, and god if Corey won't be thinking about that for who-knows how long. He doesn't say anything when Roger takes a right turn, heading for the long route back to Corey's side of town.

A stupid, sappy old love song comes on the radio. Corey reaches out to change the channel, settling on WURG, where Willy the Kid is hosting the Anti-Valentines show till late. Heartbroken love songs for all those unlucky enough to be without action tonight.

"You liked the chocolates?" Roger says. It ends in a question mark, but Corey hears a period.

"Yeah, I ate the whole box." He did like them. They were perfect and thoughtful and he's so very, very grateful because he shouldn't expect anything at all.

They pull into the empty lot of the Dollar General and Roger turns the car off, letting the sudden silence -- the stillness of the night -- settle over them. A distant streetlight casts a sickly orange light into the car, the light and shadows chiselling Roger's features deeper, more stern. Corey chews his lip until he tastes blood.

Still, it's Corey's hands that wander first. Because he's been so lonely, waiting all night long for Roger's attention. Looking after Roger's son and drinking Roger's beer and eating Roger's cheap Valentine's present, while Roger was at an expensive restaurant, eating his $80 steak, with his wife who deserves so much better. Corey doesn't though.

And Roger, not for the first time, thinks What the fuck am I doing? when his lips meet Corey's through the darkness. The younger man tastes of bubblegum and beer, but beneath that he can taste those damn chocolates. The taste suits him; sweet and boyish, a little bit cheap.

Any lingering thoughts of Theresa, of how it shouldn't take more than half an hour to drive to Corey's house and back, of how she's waiting for him with a promise -- whispered in his ear as he picked his car keys up off the the table by the door -- are quickly replaced with thoughts of them getting caught, of one of Haddonfield's finest driving by and seeing them, of a sharp tap on the window that makes Corey look up, mouth open and eyes wide and looking every bit the pretty boy he is, of talking their way out of a night in the cells for public indecency because This isn't what it looks like Officer, I swear!

And then Corey's pulling away, twisting himself around in the passenger seat so he can lean down, and Roger can't really make himself think of anything else but the way Corey is so obliging. Undoing Roger's belt, his fly, Corey pulls the older man's boxers down low enough to free his cock, slapping heavy against his toned stomach; Corey presses a wet, pouty kiss to his tip. "I missed you."

"You did?"

Corey nods, wrapping his hand around Roger's length, his fingertips just about touching. "So fucking much."

Another kiss, kittenish licks, Corey's soft hand stroking him slowly, working him like Roger isn't already rock hard for him. Roger closes his eyes, lets himself enjoy Corey's ministrations, learnt precisely by what Roger -- and Roger alone -- likes. They shouldn't be taking their time, however Roger is downright incapable of stopping Corey's hand as it smears his own precum down his shaft, slicking the younger man's movements, but not enough to take away the hint of hot and heavy friction that keeps Roger on the edge.

"I'll make it up to you, hm?" Roger manages, and Corey finally goes down on him, mouth wet and warm and always welcoming, as if to say, Go ahead.

With a sharp inhale, Roger starts, "I'll take you out somewhere. Somewhere nice. I know a restaurant that you'll love, where they do the best desserts you've ever had in your life. You'd like that, right?"

Corey hums in agreement; the vibration makes Roger throb even harder, pulsing against the soft roof of his mouth.

Roger always sounds so sure of his words, so assertive in his thoughts. It makes Corey believe him all the more, makes him want to nod and agree to whatever it is Roger tells him he thinks. Like how he always says Corey was such a tease, all those weekends he'd take his shirt off to mow the lawn, skin glistening with sweat right where Roger could see him. And how Corey had known exactly what he was doing with his wide-eyed virgin routine, as though Roger could have ever said no to him. And that Corey's so easy, so eager, so desperate. That Corey will always say yes.

"Or we could go to a bar. Shoot some pool, have some beers, catch the game. We could have a boys night." He grabs Corey's hair, applying a pressure that is more a suggestion -- more, deeper, please -- than a command.

"And then back to the hotel. Somewhere we can get room service, of course, I know you love that. And I'll take such good care of you. You know that, don't you, baby?"

Roger's getting close and he knows it, especially when Corey swallows, his throat tight and hot and clenching around Roger's cock and he's almost --

He pulls Corey off him, a thin trail of saliva dripping from his plush lip to Roger's spit-shiny head, and watches as the younger man wipes the rest of the drool from his chin with the back of his hand.

"I think you feel guilty," Corey says, voice level and surprisingly measured. There's no elaboration on what Roger should be feeling guilty about, just Corey's wide eyes and swollen lips, and Roger's left to fill in the blank space that Corey leaves behind.

Guilty about making me babysit. Guilty about driving me home. Guilty about doing this with me and then going home to sleep with your wife too.

The list goes on and on and on, and Roger tightens his grip in Corey's hair while he thinks, feeling the smooth, waxy strands twisted between his fingers. Corey will fuss over it in the rear-view mirror on the way home, combing his own fingers through those locks, back into his neat side-part, and Roger will watch him for too long, wishing he could see Corey's hair in it's full glory, not just sex-mused but his natural, bouncing cherub curls, more often.

Roger's hand is still in Corey's hair but he doesn't move, just waits to be told what to do.

"Get in the back."

It's only marginally less cramped in the back seat and darker still, the warm orange glow of the streetlight even fainter as Roger pulls Corey into his lap, lets him burrow into his neck while Roger slips a hand between his legs, palms the growing bulge over rough denim. Corey keens into it eagerly, legs twitching as he tries to keep himself from clamping his thighs around Roger's hand and humping it.

When his whines get louder, a strong hand grabs the back of Corey's knee, moving him to straddle Roger's trim hips, makes sure he's settled before teasing the zipper of Corey's jeans down, once again feeling that hard swell in his underwear.

There's a growing damp patch on the white cotton, sticking it to the leaking pink head of Corey's cock. Roger thumbs the wetness, smearing it through the fabric over Corey's burning skin, and Corey doesn't want to wait. He desperately pulls at the elastic of his briefs, pulls them down and hisses with relief when his dick springs free, resting against the pudge on his lower stomach, leaving a streak of precum on his auburnish happy trail.

Roger clasps one large hand around the both of them and Corey moans like it hurts; he grips tight, squeezing just right to press at the sensitive spot beneath his tip every time Corey's length slides against his.

Corey bucks in Roger's grasp, enough that Roger doesn't even have to stroke them anymore, just holds them still and grinds up against Corey's needy frotting. The developing rhythm is less co-ordinated than Corey can usually manage when he's on top, but the newness of the sensation, the way he can never quiet repeat the same motion or hit the same spot twice is maddening.

With all their clothes still on though, it's almost like it was back then, back when the most they did was dry hump on the couch while a football game played forgotten in the background. And it's not fair, Corey thinks. This is it? This is all he gets?

Roger once told him, "More is just never enough for you, is it, baby?", and although Corey had been kind of preoccupied at the time, the thought had burrowed it's way into his mind, repeated on a loop in Roger's low voice while Corey twiddled his thumbs in class the next day. Momma always told him something similar, when she'd decide he was being ungrateful over something or nothing -- it was always nothing -- that she didn't know what more Corey could want. A roof over his head, food on the table, his mother's love, always. Did he not already have enough? What more could Corey want? Boxed chocolates, empty promises and messy back-seat fumblings.

Roger is proven right. It's Valentine's day and Corey wants more.

"That's it, good boy. Feels good doesn't it?"

As Roger's hand slips further down the back of Corey's jeans, beneath his underwear, Corey catches his wrist, slowing the movement of his hips but not pausing, and tries to direct Roger's fingers closer to where he wants them.

Roger pulls back, resumes simply palming Corey's peachy ass. "Not tonight," he says firmly, and Corey makes a dissatisfied noise against the crisp white cotton of Roger's shirt.

"Please?"

Roger chuckles, "No, Corey." Still firm, but letting Corey down gently. "I know you want to play, but we can't. Not tonight."

"But I really want to, really badly," Corey pleads, scattering kisses up Roger's neck. It's not often Corey has to do the convincing. Rutting harder to prove his point, leaning back so Roger can see that playful little smile on his lips that always get him going, "And it's Valenti --"

"Corey," and it's a warning this time, given in a tone that Corey's never heard Roger use on him before. It's a tone he'd heard him use with Jeremy, though.

Corey shuts his mouth instantly, which is what he's always done best, and tries to ignore how his cheeks burn. The way his skin itches makes him want to scream.

After being told off, he can't bring himself to look back at Roger's disappointed face, so Corey looks down at their cocks instead, both wet with spit and precum, which is somehow less awkward. The spark in his gut rekindles slightly at the sight of Roger's dick, smaller than his by less than a half inch but big enough to knock the breath out of him, rubbing against his own.

Roger's hand has resumed stroking them together -- quickly, efficiently, like he's doing them both a favour.

A loud squeak breaks through the near-silence when Corey reaches out to brace himself against the window, his hand slipping in the condensation made up mostly of his own panting breaths. Another time, perhaps, it would have made him laugh, and his breathy laugh would have made Roger laugh and then --

Roger comes hard in his hand because he really can't let his shirt get dirty, and Corey follows with a shuddering groan, a half-word that could have been anything -- Fuck, Roger, Sorry -- warbles out with it.

"It's okay," Roger answers. "You're okay."

Corey licks Roger's hand clean, sucking the mess from his fingers. Tongue working between each digit till they're soaking wet. Tentative, playful nips at fingertips, biting just barely at his knuckles, never hard enough to leave a mark. No evidence gets left behind.

Feeling each ridge of Corey's teeth, Roger remembers the look on Corey's face from earlier, how his cheeks burned and he shrunk in on himself, making himself small and docile. If Corey bit down hard right now, sinking straight to the bone, then Roger would probably deserve it.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Corey whispers, lips brushing Roger's wet fingertips. Even in the quiet of the car, Corey's voice is smaller than it deserves to be. His big, brown eyes are glazy when they meet Roger's cold blues.

Roger stays quiet, feeling the warmth of Corey's heavy breath between them. In, out, in, out. He holds Corey's flushed face in his wet hand, strokes his thumb softly against his cheek, feels the barely-there stubble under his palm, watches Corey's eyes flutter shut, his lip twitch with the hint of a smile, his brow crease, fat teardrops well under his lashes until they spill down his cheeks.

"Let's get you home, hm?"

Mr Allen drops him off right outside his house -- "You're coming to do the gardening tomorrow, right?" -- and watches as Corey climbs out of the car and up the front porch steps. Joan lurks at the window, the curtains twitching closed once Corey gets to the door.

With one hand on the door handle, Corey turns to wave. Mr Allen is mostly shadowed in the driver's seat, but Corey half-smiles at him anyway, still looking even as Momma pulls him into the house by his scruff for being home so late.

As Corey lies in his bed, he stares up at the darkness of the ceiling. Or maybe his eyes are just closed because his fingers, slippery with the lotion from his nightstand, are shoved down his underwear. The gift tag from his chocolates -- For my Good Boy, ❤ R -- burns a hole beneath his pillow.

#corey cunningham x roger allen #💗💌 corey's love letters 💌💗#corey cunningham #i am a sweet tooth corey truther #corey baby that married man doesnt love you !!!!!!!#and they're such a cliche 🙄 fooling around with the babysitter ?? derivative #but i will never give corey a break #and thats a bona fide anna promise 😎#canon divergence my beloved !! they need more time together to make each other worse and ruin their lives even harder #some bonuses for the dedicated readers who also read my tags:#the game playthrough corey and jeremy watch is for f/naf #corey defo had a f/naf stan friend at school who would explain all the lore as it happened. like early days f/naf #corey watched his friend go through the trenches of the 1 - 4 timeline #the 90s movie that corey watches is the tal/ented mr rip/ley #the chocolates are russell stover. i added the pink bow though because 🎀aesthetic🎀#you know that gif of jude law in Wilde 1997 ?? yeah that one.#cunningallen

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writing-good-vibes · 1 year

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meetings in parking lots

corey and mr allen meet again, one last time. i've found my niche, it seems, and instead of working on a good project i write this. i feel like this and my previous fic are in a sort of self contained au.

WARNINGS for corey cunningham x mr allen relationship, angst, smut, car sex, more direct implications of sex work, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mentions of child death, mentions of court proceedings and mentions of cheating.

Mr Allen is on his way to work when he sees Corey, dishevelled and half-stumbling down the sidewalk outside the Tramer car dealership.

He'd seen Corey hundreds of - or thousands, it feels like - times since the accident. At first it was during the trial, where he'd watch Corey shift uncomfortably in his cheap suit. Rarely would Corey look up from the plywood desk he and his lawyer sat behind, but when he did his eyes were wet and wide behind his glasses, refusing to make eye contact with anyone at all.

Then, after the verdict was read, Corey might of been a free man but he certainly didn't act like it, the way he barely left the house. Mr Allen was still on leave from work and had far too much time on his hands. He counted the wood slats of the Cunninghams' front porch and every window pane, waiting for Corey to leave.

Outside the psychiatrists office, Mr Allen sat and wondered what Corey was saying in there, if he was still as remorseful as he made out in court. Wondered if he talked about other things too, about what goes on at home. If he elaborates on the snippets of information he'd sometimes give Mr Allen when he was feeling vulnerable enough.

Occasionally, Mr Allen would see Corey following Joan around on some errands - the grocery store, the bank, Hobby Lobby - in the days before she set him up at the call centre. He'd keep his head down, always hiding behind his mother even though he was several inches taller than her. People always looked at him, sneered and whispered behind his back. The comments made to his face were frequent at first, but slowly they became few and far between, especially when Joan was there. For all Corey had told him about her, she barked back at anyone who tried to provoke her son in public.

Mr Allen, in all his bitterness, was starting to feel sorry for him.

This wasn't like those other times, though. Not at all.

"Corey?"

The younger man looks over at the car, pulled to a stop at the curb. He stoops down to look through the passenger window, taking an uncertain step forward until he locks eyes with Mr Allen.

They both look older. Corey has a boyishness about him that isn't easily lost, but the stubble on his jaw and the coldness of his eyes do a good job of diminishing it. And it truly is his eyes that shock Mr Allen the most. Corey had been a lot of things but cold was never one of them. Corey looked downright dangerous.

Mr Allen pushes the thought from his mind, supresses the surprising sense of fear that rises in him like bile, "Want a ride?"

A heavy pause descends upon them and that childish nervousness he always had seems to pass through Corey again, makes him look more recognisable. But then he nods curtly, pulls open the door and climbs into the passenger seat.

It's then that Mr Allen really takes in Corey's appearance. His clothes are dirty, there's a still-wet scrape on his cheek and he has dried blood around his nostrils. Mr Allen gestures to his own nose, "What happened?"

"I got jumped." Corey doesn't elaborate, and Mr Allen doesn't press for details.

For a few blocks, they ride is silence. The rumble of traffic around them buffers the awkwardness. Corey looks straight ahead, watching the brake light of the car in front of them.

"It's been a while," Mr Allen finally manages.

"Yeah..."

"How are things at home?"

Corey closes his eyes against the déjà vu that washes over him. How many summer days had started with a question like that? "Fine. My momma's fine. Ronald's still around; I work for him at Prevo now."

It's nothing, barely a glimpse into Corey's life, but it feels personal - too personal - after so long. Having knowing his schedule like the back of his hand, Mr Allen is relieved to feels like he doesn't know anything about Corey at all.

Mr Allen hums, something noncommittal but polite. He doesn't offer anything in return, even though he has enough to tell, and Corey doesn't ask. Silence falls over them again and if it weren't from the lingering taste of fear in his mouth, Mr Allen could almost forget who was sat beside him.

He's concentrating on the road when he feels Corey lean in closer, over the centre console. Feels his hot breath on his neck.

"Do you remember the first time?" Corey murmurs. A familiar hand drifts towards his belt, tracing the buckle. My first time, goes unsaid.

Mr Allen pushes him away, back into the passenger seat, with a hand on his chest. He shakes his head. He remembers, but he is not going to entertain this conversation.

"There's an empty lot down by the railroad. No one would see us."

"That isn't what this is," Mr Allen grits out. "I didn't pick you up to get my rocks off."

"Why not? Am I not good enough for you anymore? I was good enough when you were cheating on your wife with me," Corey's lip curls into a half smirk before it drops again and his eyes return to the road.

"And then you killed my son," Mr Allen snaps, hands tight on the wheel, "so I think we're even." He glances over at Corey.

Corey lets out a huff through his nose, and Mr Allen isn't sure if the younger man is going to laugh or cry. His eyes are wet. He's skittish in the way his confidence waxes and wanes.

Silence descends once more.

At the next junction, Mr Allen pulls off and heads, wordlessly toward the railroad. As they get closer, Corey gives clipped directions; "Left here", "Straight on", "On the right, there."

They drive down an alley between two warehouses and into the empty lot. The lot itself is small but secluded, backing onto the train tracks and surrounded by rarely-visited warehouses.

Corey doesn't wait, as soon as the handbrake is on he is climbing over the console and into Mr Allen's lap. He pulls the seat lever without warning and Mr Allen jolts as the seat slides back and reclines enough to give Corey room to move. Even then, it's cramped, especially with how broad Corey has always been and even more so now; Corey's knees dig into the door on one side and the console on the other, and he has to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the roof.

The younger man rocks his hips, he looks so languid doing it, but the force he uses feels desperate. Mr Allen can already feel his erection through Corey's filthy jeans.

Corey leans forward and breaths heavily against Mr Allen's neck, hands clutched on his shoulders as he grinds. "Just like old times," he says, and the words spill into a childish laugh.

No sooner had he started, he drops to his knees in the footwell, wrestles with Mr Allen's belt.

It had been a while.

Mr Allen can see it in his eyes; a second of hesitation, just like the first time and every time after. The look passes before Corey slackens his jaw, minds his teeth, and takes him all the way down.

With no reason to keep up appearances so much, Corey had stopped styling his hair. Instead of being smoothed back like Mr Allen was used to, it hangs in curls over his forehead. Mr Allen brushes them back with his fingers, a gesture that makes Corey look up at him from beneath his lashes. Mr Allen smiles down at him.

When Corey finally retreats, drool dripping down his chin that he wipes away with grazed knuckles, he climbs back up into the passenger seat so he can kick off his shoes. He takes his jeans and underwear off in one go. If Mr Allen thought his jeans were dirty, his underwear was just as bad. God, what happened to this kid when he got jumped?

But there's no time to dwell on those implications because this is happening, and for all Mr Allen has been through, he thinks he may as well enjoy it. He makes no attempt at his own clothes, watching Corey's manic movements instead.

The younger man is naked when he clambers back to Mr Allen; bruises litter his chest and back, his neck looks raw like someone tried to strangle him, the scrape on his cheek is starting to scab up. Mr Allen can't help but marvel, just a little bit, at how this young man who used to blush crimson at being called a good boy is now here, sucking his own fingers to lube up in an empty lot.

Mr Allen grunts like he's been winded when Corey finally sinks down onto his cock. He lifts himself up just as quickly, before setting a determined pace. Corey's chest heaves as he pants, he moans every time he finds just the right angle.

Mr Allen stares. This isn't the same Corey who would pout and whimper. This Corey is filthy, working only towards his own end.

They haven't kissed yet. Corey had always been hesitant to kiss, as though it was more complicated than their fucking. He'd wait for Mr Allen to make the first move, every time, but when he was hazy with how good he felt, he'd melt into it, never the first to break away. Kissing doesn't even cross Mr Allen's mind this time.

Corey groans, one hand pressed against the driver's side window. The other, wrapped in a dirty bandage, is braced against the seat behind Mr Allen's shoulder.

Mr Allen has never felt more like a spare part than he does right now. "Look at you," he says, trying to give himself some semblance of purpose during this encounter. His thumbs rub circles on Corey's wide hips, around to the dimples on his back. "You've always been so easy. It suits you."

Corey's breath hitches, he moans and keens and doesn't try to hide even one single sound that leaves his lips. He comes without touching himself; keeps going until Mr Allen grunts and he can feel the warmth of his release inside him.

Mr Allen zips his fly back up while Corey slows gets dressed in the passenger seat, "You used to be such a good boy."

"Good boys don't fuck married men," Corey's nose scrunches into a frown.

Mr Allen shakes his head. Maybe the younger man is right, maybe he knew that back then too. Knew that Corey wanted to be wanted, no matter the cost. "No, but good boys let married men fuck them." It's a half-joke, Mr Allen excepts a laugh. Corey always laughed at his jokes.

Instead, Corey half-smirks again, "Did Mrs Allen ever find out what you did?"

"No," he sighs, "After everything that happened, an extramarital affair barely made the Top 5 of things we had to worry about."

"That's a funny way of saying you got away scot-free."

"Scot-free? My marriage still got ruined. Scot-free..." he shakes his head. "Things would have been a lot worse for you too, you know, if anyone found out."

"Worse for me? Worse than being called a kid killer?"

"You want 'jealous homewrecker' added to that?" Mr Allen asks, and Corey squirms. "Because they could have had a field day with that one: so obsessed with a married man that you kill his child."

Mr Allen is being cruel, and he knows it. Corey is about as far from being a jealous homewrecker as he could get, the way he'd revered the Allen family like they were the pinnacle. The way he still worried about keeping their yard looking nice even when he was on his back.

"You started it, all of it," Corey retorts. Then, mumbling, "I'd never even been kissed before... now look at me." He pulls his shirt on over his head.

Mr Allen drops Corey off down the block from his house, so his momma doesn't see them. The last thing he needs is more of an interrogation than he's already going to get for having stayed out all night.

With one hand on the door handle, Corey looks back at Mr Allen and that half-smirk returns to his lip, "So, do I still get my $50?" The smirk spreads out into a grin. It's so unlike Corey that Mr Allen can only stare for a moment.

Corey doesn't look back as he walks up the street, away from Mr Allen in his expensive car. Out in the fresh air, his mind races; Mr Allen is somehow the least interesting thing to happen to him in the past 12 hours. Corey has something - someone - else to consume his thoughts, someone... ineffable.

Absently, he folds the fifty dollars, shoving it in the back pocket of his jeans. Muscle memory.

Corey locks himself in the bathroom when he gets home, even with his momma knocking incessantly, demanding he let her in. He strips down to his underwear and runs the sink. Looks at himself in the vanity mirror and bites his lip to stop himself from just screaming.

Swill. Spit. Scrub.

Roger knew who Laurie Strode was. Everyone knew who Laurie Strode was, but he'd never actually met her before.

Lindsey introduces them at Velkovsky's, says Laurie's granddaughter is seeing Corey and she wants to hear his opinion on the matter. The revelation surprises him, although he knows it shouldn't.

"Corey had always been a good kid," Roger says, "Some kids are assholes, but not Corey." He expects Laurie to say something, but she stays quiet, intent on listening to every word he says.

He recounts the months and months of dirty looks and faux-outrage he'd witnessed. Thinks about it and, after seeing Corey again, truly understands the anger he felt towards those people. Corey was his to hate, no one else's.

"I saw him yesterday, on my way to work, and I thought 'I'm going to offer him a ride, finally put this misery to bed'," he regrets his choice of words, can feel his hands clam up as he continues, "but then I looked at him, really looked at him, and it's not him. Not in the eyes, anyway."

Laurie nods. Roger can see that she understands what he means, understands on a level he didn't think anyone else would.

He takes a deep breath, mulls over his words. He'd barely admitted it to himself, but he knows Laurie will understand this too, "I know the kid who mowed our lawn didn't kill my son, but the guy I saw yesterday could have done it without a second thought."

A moment passes and the three of them sit there, letting their thoughts settle around them.

"Did you give him a ride?" Laurie asks, there's a hint of humour in her voice, dredged in despair. She thinks she knows the answer.

Roger shakes his head, "I couldn't. I drove away."

#corey cunningham #halloween eneds #corey cunningham x roger allen #corey cunningham x mr allen #bisexual corey truther #oh how the turn tables. corey is using mr allen this time (sort of)#using roger (safe) to process his emotions about michael (dangerous)#cunningallen

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writing-good-vibes · 1 year

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HALLOWEEN (1978 & H40 TRILOGY) MASTERLIST

[masterlist of all of my HALLOWEEN ('78 AND H40) works !! anything marked with an * contains mild to explicit nsfw writing.]

stand alone works

saying don't be afraid -- michael centric

mother is the name for god -- corey centric

tell me i'm your one and only: the cunningallen homewrecker au (corey x mr allen)

tell me you'd like boys like me better *

meetings in parking lots *

turn off the shyness *

another lonely valentine's day *

the ballad of michael and corey: the cunningmyers road trip au (corey x michael)

you are now leaving illinois

loving you is like loving the dead * -- dd;dne

somethin' 'bout a horse, and a man, and a cadillac

holy water *

such dirty, domestic bliss *

you know what they say about dead men *

you're awful, i love you * -- dd;dne

corey cunningham x reader

it's soft and it's sweet *

in the back of his mom's mercury * -- post accident era

strawberry flavoured boy * -- post michael/cunningmyers era

miscellaneous

corey's love letters masterlist -- valentine's prompts

you're not the only one that i'm holding close * -- poly; corey x reader x bo sinclair

#corey cunningham #michael myers #halloween ends #halloween 1978 #halloween h40 #corey cunningham x roger allen #corey cunningham x michael myers #cunningmyers #cunningallen #masterlist

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hersweetrevenge · 1 year

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some more thoughts about corey's affair with mr allen. i feel like corey's irrational concern about staying on the allens' good side makes all logic leave his brain.

he's worried that jeremy will tell his parents he's a shit babysitter, but i really think that if that did happen, corey could probably have just spoken to roger about it and everything would have been fine.

if corey just told told him that jeremy had been playing up and he just couldn't handle him, then i honestly think roger would have believed him. he knows how besotted corey is, he knows how genuine he is. he also knows how awkward corey can be. it wouldn't have been the end of the world for corey to admit he wasn't up to babysitting again. like he said, he isn't a babysitter, he mows the lawn.

but, he is desperate to be seen as responsible and he feels like he has to be a perfectionist because how else will anyone love him, let alone respect him, if he's anything but?

#corey cunningham #halloween ends #corey cunningham x roger allen #tbh i think even in canon where there is no affair. corey seems friendly enough with the allens #that i think he could have just told the truth #especially to roger who seems pretty chill and understanding. if you consider his novelisation lines #where he says jeremy is an expert at grating on your nerves. like he knows jeremy can be a handful #cunningallen

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writing-good-vibes · 1 year

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tell me you'd like boys like me better.

literally nobody asked for this but here i am. do i think corey would set out to be a homewrecker? no, it's canon that he really admires the allens. do i think he would be easily persuaded by an older man that he respects? yes. do i think mr allen is being an asshole in this story by taking advantage of corey's daddy issues and need for attention/affection? also yes.

WARNING for corey cunningham x mr allen relationship, smut (nothing graphic but it isn't mild either), daddy issues on corey's part, a legal age gap and some (very) mild implications of prostitution/sex work.

Corey knows exactly what his momma would think if she knew about this.

At best she'd think he'd turned to homewrecking in a desperate bid for attention. She'd wail and yell and ask, "Don't I give you enough? Is your mother's love not enough for you all of a sudden?" He'd never get another moment alone for the rest of his life.

At worst, however, she'd be accusing Mr Allen of taking advantage of her poor sweet boy. Her poor sweet boy who doesn't know any better, who couldn't possibly have ever agreed to do any so filthy with that sleaze.

But what momma doesn't know won't hurt her, Corey thinks, and he intends to keep it that way.

To be honest, he isn't completely sure how this all happened. Corey needed the money for engineering college, he'd been taking as many cash-in-hand jobs as he could, but the Allens were the only family who gave him regular, weekly work. He'd started doing their yard work in the spring, just as their perfect flowerbeds were coming into bloom and their lush green lawn was needing to be cut more regularly.

As spring turned to summer, Corey quickly started to grow comfortable with the Allens. Theresa was like the mother he wish he had, balanced and hospitable, and Roger was, perhaps not surprisingly, more attentive than Ronald had ever been towards him.

Midwest summers are humid and, without thinking much of it at the time, Corey would take his shirt off to combat the temperature while he toiled in their yard. He wasn't the fittest guy in the world, but he was in shape, something which hadn't meant anything to him until this summer --

Actually, Corey does know how it all started. It started with a beer.

One such summer day, as he is shovelling the last of the lawn clippings from the mower into a trash bag, Mr Allen appears at the back door. He has two beers in hand and sits down in one of the expensive wicker garden chairs on the patio.

Corey switches the shovel to one hand and waves tentatively.

"You finishing up?" Mr Allen calls over.

"Yeah, pretty much," Corey brushes the stray blades of grass from his hands onto his basketball shorts. "I can put the hose on, water the flowerbeds before I go?"

Mr Allen shakes his head dismissively, "Don't worry about it, I'll sort it later."

Corey nods attentively, grabbing the trash bag and walking back to the patio. As he approaches, he realises his predicament and a wave of self-consciousness crashes over him. His t-shirt is draped over one of the garden chairs, the one next to Mr Allen.

Corey grabs for it while trying not to get too close. When he pulls the shirt over his head and looks back at Mr Allen, the older man is holding two twenty dollar bills and the second beer bottle out to Corey.

"This weeks pay, plus something extra, for all your hard work," he says. Mr Allen has a roguish sort of smile, it feels misplaced on his clean-cut, white collar face.

Corey smiles softly, his lip quirking up over his teeth. He takes the money but he shakes his head at the beer, "Oh, thank you, really, but I couldn't."

"Ah c'mon, you deserve it. You're a good kid Corey, relax a little." He kicks out one of the chairs for Corey to sit on.

Corey is already 21; Mr Allen isn't doing anything wrong. And, if he chews some gum on the way home, his momma won't even be able to smell the alcohol on his breath.

Nothing actually happens that day. Corey takes the beer and sits on the expensive patio set with Mr Allen. They talk for a while, about Mr Allen's -- "Roger, please," -- job and about Corey's community college work. Corey finishes his beer and Mr Allen walks him to the front door when he leaves, watches him cycle off home to have another unbearable dinner with his momma.

This happens again, a few times. It's almost a routine. Until one day, Mr Allen calls Corey in from the garden before he's even finished trimming back the hedges. Corey comes inside, a nervous tension in his shoulders; he was about to be fired, right?

Roger is sat on the couch in the living room, arm splayed over the back and legs stretched in front of him. He gestures for Corey to come in and he does, follows like a puppy to its master. "Thought you could use a break a little earlier today, it's a scorcher out there"

He wasn't wrong, it'd turn out to be one of the hottest days of that summer, but at the time it was simply an excuse. Like usual, they talk, drink. Mrs Allen and Jeremy are out at a birthday party, Mr Allen says. For some other spoilt rich kid, Corey guesses.

There's a football game on the TV, but neither of them are really watching it. Corey's never been interested in sports, but Ronald watched the NFL. When he'd first started dating Corey's momma, he'd taken Corey to a football game once.

"So, how are things at home?" Mr Allen asks.

The sudden change of topic makes Corey jump, almost worried he'd said something out loud to prompt the question. "They're fine," Corey nods, taking another sip of beer to occupy his mouth.

"You don't talk much about your family," Mr Allen continues, gently. "Do you not get along with them?"

Corey shakes his head, not sure if he's agreeing with or rejecting the idea. "No, well, I mean. My mom can be kind of a lot, and Ronald's nice, he's just not, y'know, my dad."

Mr Allen nods. He takes his car into Prevo Garage, he knows Ronald well enough. "I get it. You know, if you ever want someone to talk to, about your folks -- or about anything else -- you can come to me."

Corey glances over at the older man, "Thanks, Mr Allen."

He's looking intently at Corey, a kindly look on his chiselled face, "Hey, you can just call me Roger, please."

Mrs Allen and Jeremy are out visiting Mrs Allen's parents the next time Corey comes around to do the lawn.

He's still breathing heavily from his cycle over, peddling harder than usual to burn steam off after another interrogation from his momma.

Mr Allen greets him at the door, lets him in and offers him a beer before he's even done any work. "You look like you need to cool off already," he says.

"No, it's okay, I'm just," Corey takes a deep breath in to settle his breathing. "I sort of had an argument with my mom before I came over," he shrugs, then hastily adds, "It was nothing though, just normal stuff."

Mr Allen nods knowingly, guiding them through to the kitchen,, "What did you argue about?" He pops the cap off a beer with a bottle opener and hands it to Corey.

Corey takes the offered beverage but doesn't drink it, "She's just overprotective. She doesn't like me doing yard work, thinks I'll hurt myself."

"That's understandable," Mr Allen says, taking a swig of his own drink, "But you can tell your mother she can rest assured knowing you're safe and sound here, right?"

"Right," Corey holds back a smile. It wasn't great advice, his momma would be having none of it, but it was something. And as silly as he knew it sounded, he kind of did feel safe at the Allen's house, with their soothingly modern décor and gentle demeanours and peaceful, domestic lives.

While he's thinking over this revelation, Corey didn't notice Mr Allen step closer to him. Closer and closer, his breath ghosting Corey's lips. A hand on his waist.

Corey had never, ever been kissed before. He didn't know what to do; with his mouth, his hands, anything at all. Strong, surprisingly soft fingers grip his chin, keeping him steady. Subconsciously Corey leans back, trying to find the counter for some stability, letting Mr Allen crowd him until he's pressed snuggly into the kitchen island. Mr Allen's knee finds it's way between Corey's legs and his hips stutter. He forces himself to stay still, to not rut and show how easily he's getting worked up.

The whole thing is languid and slow, seducing Corey into it until he isn't thinking about how he looks, or what to do with his tongue when his mouth is coaxed open, or about where his hands are meant to be now that they're settled on Mr Allen's shoulders. Corey isn't thinking about anything at all.

And then it's over. Mr Allen pulls away and Corey stands there, trying and failing not to look like the hapless virgin that he is.

The older man smiles, picks Corey's untouched beer off the counter and hands it to him, "Don't work to hard out there."

Corey nods, takes the beer and hurries out to the garden. Standing on the sun-trap patio still feels less stifling that the heat he experienced indoors.

After mowing the lawn and weeding the flowerbeds, Corey is almost out the door before Mr Allen stops him, pulling his wallet out. Of course, Corey's yard-work pay. He takes two twenty dollar bills out, then retrieves an extra ten dollar bill. He folds the small stack and hands it over.

Corey hesitates, "Oh, um, normally it's just $40."

"You're a good kid, Corey. Call it a goodwill pay rise," Mr Allen insists.

2 a.m. rolls around and Corey is listening intently. His momma and Ronald have long since gone to bed, but he waits anyway. Wants to be absolutely sure no one is still awake.

Eventually he plucks up the courage, slips a hand down beneath the cover and over his pyjama pants. He's so hard that even the lightest touch makes him twitch.

Kicking the covers off himself, Corey readjusts, shoves a hand down his briefs and feels just how hot his skin is. There's lotion on his nightstand but he doesn't need it, his cock slick enough with how long he's waited.

Mr Allen kissed him, he thinks. With his strong hands and sharp features. Thinks about the way he laughs and the way he seems so self-assured, so understanding of the world. And he is so nice to him.

It doesn't take long and Corey gasps into the empty darkness when he comes, too soon and too suddenly for him to even cover his mouth.

One kiss turns into two, which turns into every time they found themselves alone. Mrs Allen has a bustling social life.

Today she's at lunch with her friends, and Jeremy has a playdate, and Corey is sat in Mr Allen's lap, face pressed to the older man's neck, with a forgotten football game still playing out on the TV.

Heavy petting is as far as they've gotten in the up to now and Corey is getting used to it, rocking his hips just right to keep a baseline buzz of arousal coursing through him. Feeling the hard bulge of an erection beneath him. He wonders how Mr Allen hasn't got bored yet, isn't dry humping a little juvenile for a man like him?

The firm, commanding hands on Corey's hips slip further down, squeezing the flesh of his ass through his jeans.

Mr Allen turns slightly, to whisper gruffly in Corey's ear, "You've never given head, have you?"

Corey shakes his head, unwilling to leave the safe crevice of Mr Allen's neck, not with his face as flushed as it is.

The grip on his ass loosens and Corey is being guided up, off Mr Allen's lap and back down, lower this time. There's a lavish, short-pile rug in front of the couch that cushions his knees.

Mr Allen grips Corey's chin, strokes a thumb over his cheek. Wide, wet brown eyes stare up at him. Eager to please. Mr Allen chuckles as he pulls himself out of his shorts with his spare hand. It isn't a sound meant to to make Corey feel like he was being laughed at, but the twitch of the younger man's cheek beneath his thumb made him think that might of been the result anyway.

Slowly, Mr Allen's hand drifts to the back of Corey's head, fingers sliding through his curly hair at the roots, before he instils a gentle pressure on the younger man.

Corey lets himself be moved, eyes up the cock in front of him and tries to relax. Mr Allen directs him; tells him to loosen his jaw, to mind his teeth, to let his tongue work the tip when he lets him up for air.

"That's it, good boy," Mr Allen's voice is rougher than normal, but the praise warms Corey from the inside out. "Good boy, Corey, you're such a pretty boy like this."

He tells him when to swallow.

Corey still gets paid his $50, even when he doesn't actually get around to doing any of the yard work he was meant to. If Mr Allen wasn't so nice to him, Corey thinks he should be feeling a little bit exploited. Sometimes he worries Mrs Allen will be upset that her garden is not being kept as spruce as it used to be, but Mr Allen promises she won't even notice.

It's not that Corey didn't feel guilty, because he did, he really did. But if he stopped doing this, then Mr Allen would stop giving him attention, and Corey really, desperately didn't want the attention to stop.

Usually he could push these thoughts away, but sometimes they pervaded. Especially when he graduated from quickies on the couch or bent over the kitchen counter to the luxury of a bed. There was something about doing it in the bedroom that made Corey feel dirty. Lay back on expensive cotton bedsheets, glasses discarded on Mrs Allen's nightstand, hands twisted in the pillow and letting Mr Allen do what he wanted to him. Knowing that in the evening, Mrs. Allen would be sleeping in the very same spot with no idea that her husband had been getting busy with some sweet young thing in their bed.

Corey can smell her perfume, something flowery and expensive, -- though not unlike his momma's -- on the sheets when he turns his heard to try and muffle his noises.

"There's a good boy," Mr Allen whispers, two fingers spreading Corey open. And he is being such a good boy, legs spread and panting. "So easy, that's it. Good boy."

"Pl-ease," the word gets caught in Corey's throat as Mr Allen hits just the right spot. His leg twitches pathetically with his need for more.

"You want it bad, huh?" Mr Allen slows his pace to teasing. His other hand smooths and kneads Corey's stomach, working up to his chest.

Corey nods, a childish pout on his lips.

Mostly they did it missionary, with Corey's legs locked tightly, desperately around Mr Allen's hips. Corey thinks it's because Mr Allen is a traditional, straight-laced man at heart.

Corey's hands curl tightly in the sheets. After a while, when all of his inhibitions are gone, he clings to Mr Allen's toned, tanned back instead, careful to keep his blunt nails from digging too deeply. Mr Allen thinks he doesn't have to be so careful, leaving hickies on his chest and and bruises on his hips that Corey pokes at in the bathroom mirror to keep them tender for longer.

Now and then though, just as Corey is getting stupid with how good it feels, Mr Allen would flip them over and with firm, fatherly hands, he'd grip Corey's hips as he bounces in his lap. Corey knows Mr Allen likes to watch him like this, likes to watch his face scrunch up and the whimpers leave his lips when he finds that spot all by himself. The first few times he was painfully shy about it, trying to keep all his embarrassing noises inside even when he was falling apart, but now he shows off, whines and pants and begs because that's what Roger wants to see.

Later, Corey stares at himself in the vanity mirror in the Allens' en suite. He's a mess, all swollen lips and wet cheeks. He cleans himself up, like he always does before leaving. Swills his mouth and spits into the spotless porcelain sink. Splashes water over his flushed face and scrubs the sweat and sex from his skin. Combs his hair back into some semblance of a style with his fingers. Reminds himself to pick up his yard work money from the table in the entrance hall. He needs to leave soon, momma will throw a fit if he's late for dinner.

#corey cunningham #halloween ends #corey cunningham x roger allen #i'm so genuinely sorry for this one #literally no one asked and for some reason i still took it upon myself to deliver #tw smut #please ignore my terrible sense of tense. it is my writing downfall and always will be #why am i kind of proud of this one though?#cunningallen

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