#cunningmyers
Note
Bestie! Can I please have number 4 from the steamy prompts for your valentine's day drabbles? I'm thinking an expansion on or a similar scenario to the thing with the waitress in Dirty Domestic Bliss. Definitely a post-Michael!Corey but you can decide if you want it to be cunningmyers!Corey or a distinct iteration. Thank you, happy Valentine's Day! <3
bestie, thank you for the req !! ahh the way i'm kinda kicking my legs, twirling my hair that you brought up dirty domestic bliss 😈 it's not necessary to read that story first, but this is the (un)official sequel. i hope you enjoy because this spiralled !! 💗
WARNING for corey x f!reader, smut, flirting, a tiny little bit of angst because i couldn't resist, and the fact this is technically set in the cunningmyers au (but michael only makes an appearance emotionally lol). 2.5K word count.
🍓very cute divider by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more 🍓
taglist: @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (just let me know if you want to be added or removed !!)
You finish wiping down the counter after a very, very busy night. Valentine's day always brings in more customers, even to the roadside diner you have no hope of leaving anytime soon.
You're on shift for the next four hours alone, but you're thankful that it should be a quieter from now on, with most couples heading back home to relieve their babysitters or to make the most of the rest of their night in the comfort of their own beds. All that remain are stragglers and harmless ne'er-do-wells who have nowhere better to be at this hour.
Around 1 am, you hear the bell over the door jingle and you look up from the counter to see a young man walking in.
If anyone saw the intensity of your doubletake, you would have been mortified.
He sits at a booth towards the back of the diner, but in clear view of the door. He's polite when you go over to take his extensive order -- a coffee with creamer and sugar, a club sandwich, side of fries, a plate of bacon and eggs, with hash browns if you have any -- and thanks you earnestly when you bring out his food.
He keeps to himself, and you'd almost be able to forget he was there while you served the couple of other patrons, if it weren't for how striking he was. Dark hair, tousled but naturally curly, and even darker eyes. Eyes that look almost black even under the harsh halogen lights. He holds his cutlery tightly with broad, bruised hands.
He ate like he was starving; you'd seen plenty of men with eyes bigger than their stomachs, but he seemingly wasn't one of them. All of his plates are cleaned when you take them back to the kitchen.
The reserved atmosphere between you makes you question if this is really the same guy. He has to be, right? The possibility of someone else like him was slim to none, with his curly hair that you desperately want to pull on again, his broad, handsome features that you could stare at forever and never get bored of, and his Levi's jeans that hug him in all the right places.
Returning to his table, you ask, "Can I tempt you with dessert?"
"I think you can. What would you recommend?"
"The cheesecake is my favourite, but I'm biased because I make the strawberry drizzle for it." You lean your hip against his table,
"Strawberry? I normally pick chocolate."
"We have a great chocolate cake too?" you suggest instead.
"No, let's try strawberry. I'll have a slice of cheesecake, please."
"Sure thing," you smile. When you turn back to the counter, you glance over your shoulder, catch him watching you. The sway of your hips is unintentional, should anyone ask.
You draw a few love hearts in strawberry sauce around the edge of the plate. There's something wrong with me, you think, but you don't get a new plate.
He turns the plate slowly once you put it down in front of him, considers each strawberry heart. Then his eyes turn up to you, and it's almost like those strawberry hearts are reflected in his dark, dangerous eyes. "Would you sit with me? Please?"
"I'm working," you smile, but still you linger at his table, waiting for him to convince you.
"I'm sure they won't mind," he says, nodding towards the other weary patrons, nursing steaming coffees, filling in crosswords with blotchy pens, or reading the sports pages.
No one gave you a second glance as you slid into the booth across from him.
You watch while he eats, his pretty pink lips closing around each bite. There's a comfortable silence between one, one that you could get entirely used to, if given the chance.
"It's nice to see you again," he smiles around the food in his mouth. You'd rather get used to his voice though.
Breaking into a grin, "I thought it was you!"
"I've been thinking about you," he half-drawls "Every day since I last saw you."
The last time you saw him was a couple of months ago -- six, maybe? -- sat at what might of been this very same booth. He was just as bruised and timelessly rugged as he is now, and you remembered him being with a another man -- older, more weathered, but rugged in the same sort of way. This guy, your guy, had ordered for the both of them, and seemed relieved to find his companion where he left him after your back alley escapade.
"This is really good," he compliments. "And it's your favourite, right? Have some," He offers you a piece of cheesecake on his fork, smeared with extra strawberry sauce that had dripped down onto the plate.
You open your mouth, lips closing around the fork just where his lips -- his soft, pink lips -- had been, and take the bite from him. You chew slowly. Even without the strawberry sauce you labour over making in the kitchen, the cheesecake really is good.
He watches you closely, and you find that you don't mind at all. He's not like other men, whose stares bore into you because they want to take something from you. No, no he looks at you like he wants you to take something from him.
The palm of his heavy-knuckled hand, the one that isn't still holding his fork, feels rough against your skin when he catches your chin; the pad of his thumb is slightly weathered when he swipes it over the corner of your mouth, catching a stray spot of strawberry drizzle. Pulling his hand back, you watch him -- his eye contact never wavering -- as he sucks his thumb into his mouth, licking it clean.
"When do you get off?" His question catches you off-guard, startling you from your fleeting thoughts of his lips and tongue and hands.
"Um," you try and remember your shift. "4 am." You glance at the clock on the wall and silent curse. Still two hours to go and there's no way he's going to wait for you, why would he? This perfect stranger with his split knuckles and pretty lips and --
"I think you deserve a break, don't you?"
You don't think this is like last time. This won't a quick smoke break endeavour. "I still have --," you're about to gesture at the other customers, but when you turn around, you find the diner empty. You hadn't even noticed them leave, you'd been so caught up with...
Shit. "I don't even know your name."
"Corey," he answers, and his accent swells stronger on his name than you'd noticed during the rest of your conversation.
You give your own name in return, giggling because you can't quite believe any of this is real. Because a beautiful boy walked into your diner and made you fall for him, and you never even thought to tell him your name.
Corey stands from the booth, not quiet as smoothly as you think he might of wanted to because his hip catches on the edge of the table. You're not surprised, he's built like a bull, all broad shoulders, broad hips, broad hands that trailing along the table top as he walks past. Even so, he wanders to the door, flips the open sign to closed and twists the lock.
The backroom is pretty small, the table has been wobbly for as long as you've been working there and no doubt for longer, and you distantly register that you never closed the door behind you, so you have a mostly-clear view into the diner, all the way to the locked front door, but you don't really have time to think about any of that. The only thought your mind can conjure up is please!
Corey is somewhere under your sunshine-yellow skirt, there's a sharp sting at your hip when he snaps the elastic of your panties against your skin, then his teeth biting so gently at the flesh of your thighs that they could be kisses instead. Desperate to see his face, you pull your skirt up to your waist and moan involuntarily at the sight of him, flushed and focused, between your legs.
His eyes glint impossibly dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't stop look at you. Reaching down, you twist your fingers through his tangle of curls, making him moan into your heat.
When he kisses you, he tastes just like you remembered, like cigarettes and something distinctly boyish, but now he has the sweetness of strawberries on his lips, like chapstick, and on his tongue there's the heady taste of your own arousal.
Corey's cock is pretty and pink just like the rest of him. (How can even his cock be pretty?) Grazing your entrance slowly, you angle your hips to encourage him, tightening your legs around his hips to pull him in.
"Is this okay?" he asks, tip pushing just enough to make you clench on him. His rumbling voice right by your ear makes you shiver, with anticipation, with need, with downright desperation.
"I've been thinking about you too," you say in lieu of any other answer. "Every night since I last saw you. Wanting to see you so bad."
Sinking it your wetness, Corey groans, sounding almost surprised. You clench around him to draw out the sound, louder and longer, until he makes himself pull back out, only so he can thrust back into you. The table rocks beneath you precariously, Corey's thrusts making it shudder an inch across the bubbling lino.
Corey's as good as you expected and even better; he's heavy on top of you, covering your torso with his, until there's nothing between you. His smell all around you, and you hope it seeps into your skin, taints you forever with the smell of the storm that he carries with him. His lips pressing wet open-mouthed kisses anywhere he can reach, along the soft line of your jaw and scattered on your neck, trickling down, down, down as he unbuttons your yellow shirt.
And his pretty cock isn't just for show; heavy inside of you, coated in the wet mess between your legs, hitting just the right spot to make you squirm and clench and rock your hips up against Corey's, his auburnish hair providing the most delicious, burning friction on your clit.
The tinny radio in the main diner is barely audible in the break room over the sounds you both make. Every thrust drawing a breath, or a groan, or a moan. Corey starts low in his throat, a rasp of a groan always on his lips, until he gets closer, and high little breaths spill out of him like he's going to cry if he doesn't finish right now.
You pull up your panties and catch Corey following your hands along your curves. He seems... cuter, somehow. Before he was a powerhouse of confidence, every bit the All-American rogue you daydream about walking through your diner doors. But now he's more modest; bashful as he tucks himself away.
The shift in personality brings your confidence back, and as the endorphins hums pleasantly under your skin, you feel like you did back then; taking a chance on hoping a pretty boy might make out you by the dumpsters.
You smile slyly at him as you straighten out your uniform, lip caught between your teeth. There's a string of hickies around your collar, you can feel them already. You want to poke and prod at them to stop them fading.
"I gotta go," he mumbles, doing up his fly and buckling his tarnished-silver belt buckle.
There's a long pause between the two of you. Uncertainty.
"Sure," you say. You chew your lip as you head back out to the diner, with Corey following behind. "So, um... will I see you around again?"
Corey shrugs, seeming genuinely unsure, "Maybe, maybe not. We might have to leave soon or... I'll see."
You decide not to push him on it, and there's too many reasons, too many different situations and scenarios for you to even start speculating on what might make him so skittish about sticking around. The thought forces an ache through your chest anyway.
"Well," you force a smile. "Whenever you come back, I'll be here waiting with a slice of cheesecake for you."
His smile lights up his whole face, tugging up one corner of his mouth and then the other in a dimpled grin.
Corey pays in cash and another kiss, before walking out of your life as if he didn't just ruin it.
You could recognise him anywhere. Anywhere, any place, any time. You'd recognise Corey by the sound of his boots on the lino, or by the smell of his cigarette breath, by the accent that cradles his words, or by the bruises that paint storms across his sunset skin.
He walks through the door, bell jingling cheerily at his arrival, and sits at a booth towards the back of the diner, shrugging his leather jacket off.
It'd be embarrassing how much his reappearance disarms you, if your mind could think of anything other than how you need to keep your promise.
There's a plate in your hand, a slice of cheesecake covered in strawberry drizzle sits pretty in the centre. You hardly remember crossing the diner; Corey's dark eyes watch the way your sunshine-yellow uniform hugs your hips as you walk.
Sliding into his booth, you place the cheesecake in front of him and press a fork into his scarred palm.
Pretty pink lips pull up into a broad grin that he almost bites back before giving in; his smile is glorious on his bruised face. His knuckles are split. His throat is ringed with yellowing bruises that shift when he swallows.
Your hand finds his on the table top. "Welcome back."
He eats slowly, even though you can tell he's hungry. After this, you'll fix him all the food he wants, plates upon plates of it until you're sure he's happy and well-fed.
"You in town for long?" This time, goes unsaid.
Corey's smile falters, his dark eyes reminding you that you probably can't even begin to imagine what it is he does, and where he goes and how he lives his life outside of the witching hours you spend with him in your diner.
"Yeah," he says, boyish smile returning. "I think I am."
on the topic of restaurant sex, you should also read [warnings apply]:
good boy by ghost (@/ghostwriterforghosts). corey and reader go out for dinner and he is very, very fun to tease.
#corey cunningham x reader#💗💌 corey's love letters 💌💗#take a shot every time i mention his lips (the prettiest softest pinkest lips in the world) 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗#or when i describe him as broad 💗💗💗💗💗💗#also listen we all have to agree to suspend our disbelief for the next 2000 words. reader is a perfectly capable waitress *and* chef#and shift buddies don't exist in this universe. neither does cctv 😎😈#corey will never go hungry on my watch and that is a bona fide anna promise#cunningmyers#<< arguably. if you want to interpret it that way#maybe that's where corey has to run off to after your break room tryst. back to michael like always.#if anyone wants to know where i think michael is at the end?? ask box is always open babyyyyyy
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#reposting this cause I love Michael and Corey#Halloween ends#cunningmyers#michael myers#corey cunningham
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corey reaches certified passenger princess status on his and michael's road trip.
#corey cunningham#michael myers#halloween ends#halloween#corey cunningham x michael myers#michael myers x corey cunningham#cunningmyers
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[hell and you // amigo the devil]
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Ask and ye shall receive.
Behold: 2k words of Corey/Michael smut. Because we all know the movie would've been ten times better if they were rawdogging.
#halloween ends#michael myers#corey cunningham#there's no ship name yet :(#cunningmyers? myerham? evil incarnate²?#corey cunningham/michael myers#corey cunningham x michael myers#i'll tag as spoilers if anyone wants me to but honestly who's even watching this movie#spicy#apollo writes
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how i look giggling swinging my legs while looking at cunningmyers 😢😢
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holy water
do i have a weird thing about baths? maybe. another instalment of the road trip, one day i'll add some plot, but for now all i have to say is: he fucked that old man.
WARNING for corey x michael relationship, smut, age difference (not really mentioned but there are details that make it clear), bath sex in a motel, smoking, implied mentions of murder and maybe some very, very light implications of dubcon(?) but it is entirely up to interpretation and i'm really only mentioning it to be extra safe. 1.3k ish words.
taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !!)
Corey groans as he sinks down into the hot water.
It had been a few weeks since they'd stopped at a motel, and Corey was going to make the most of it this time, he swore he'd never take the luxury of a cheap motel for granted ever, ever again. The second they'd settled in their room for the night, Corey started running a bath, stripping off his filthy clothes while he waited for it to fill. He doesn't even bother to add any of the cheap soap, the steaming water being enough on its own to soothe his exceptionally aching bones.
So there he lies, the glass ashtray from the room balanced on the edge of the bath along with his matchbook, and a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. He props one foot on the bath ledge, the other anchors him in place. The water laps up his shoulders and around his neck, and Corey's eyes close on reflex, letting himself be lulled into that empty space between awake and asleep.
The room drips with condensation, steam making the air thick without the aid of a fan to draw out the humidity.
Corey had almost forgotten about Michael, knowing he's perfectly capable of entertaining himself (as far as Michael can ever be entertained) while Corey has his little indulgences, until he soundlessly wanders in. No knocking, no tactful cough to alert him, nothing at all to suggest he's there at all. But even with his own eyes closed, Corey can feel Michael watching, can feel his dark eyes burning his skin like the water in the tub had been.
Now the water is only lukewarm. Corey looks up at Michael, stood in the door way, and his cock twitches beneath the water.
He isn't sure Michael is actually in the mood. Corey's learnt, after having Michael walk in on him more times than he can count at this point, that nakedness does very little for Michael. Years of limited privacy at the hospital have made him indifferent to boundaries like that, was Corey's best guess. And he's mostly right; Michael hadn't taken a bath or shower in 50 years without someone there keeping watch. Corey wonders if that's what Michael's doing to him, keeping watch. Watching him because Corey's emotionally unstable; Corey who can swing from quiet, repressed rage, to screaming hysteria, to childish glee, to heaving violence. Corey who, if Michael doesn't keep him in check, could end up being more trouble than he's worth.
Six months ago, in a motel just like this one, Michael had intruded on Corey while he was in the bath. Unlike so many times before, Corey wasn't pleased to see him. With his knees tucked up to his chin, Corey's face was splotchy with tears rather than the hot water he was wallowing in, and his eyes are wet and wide with some emotion Michael couldn't identify.
"Go away!" he'd wailed, pointing out of the room. Michael went. It didn't matter much to him, in fact he found it rather interesting to witness the ways in which Corey could work himself into a state before he simply snapped. Still, when Michael settled back in the bed, back straight against the headboard, he muted the TV, listening instead to Corey's sobbing pity-party through the plywood door that separated them.
Corey never shouted at Michael so directly; his love for him so strong he'd let him do almost anything to him without complaint. But for once, Corey wasn't in the mood and Michael's intrusion only made him feel vulnerable, made him feel smaller than he already did. He wanted to be alone. He wanted his momma but she was dead.
Two hours later, Corey reappeared, looking pink and tired, but somewhat pacified. There's a look in his eye, distant and pitiful. He'd felt so bad for shouting at Michael that he dropped to his knees on the gritty, once-beige carpet and crawled closer, "M'sorry I yelled, let me make it up to you?"
His fingers were wrinkly from the bath water, and rough against Michael's heavy cock. Corey drooled around him, and any animosity there might have been got drowned out by the sounds he made, lewd and dirty in the quiet sanctuary of their room for the night.
But today Corey is more than happy to shoot his shot, see if Michael is game for it. "Are you just checking on me?" he asks, watching for any of Michael's almost imperceptible tics.
Michael remains totally still. Watching him back.
Corey snubs his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, hand going beneath the water to palm himself. Corey was less subtle, he already had a chub just from the possibility. "Or do you wanna...?"
Michael, leisurely as ever, unzips the fleece he's wearing, then his trousers. As his clothes come off, they get added ontop of the pile Corey's have already made in the corner of the room.
Corey watches ravenously, enraptured by each strong line of Michael's body that gets revealed, from his sinewy biceps to his thick abdomen, down to the V of his hips, he lingers on Michael's cock, unfairly big even when he's soft. Corey's snapped from his reverie when he catches the tremor of Michael's left hand as he drops his boxers onto the clothes pile. Corey jumps up, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as he climbs out, putting a tentative hand on Michael's shoulder, "I'll run a new bath."
They wait in silence while Corey pulls the plug, draining the bleak, tepid water and refills the bath. Steam thickens the air again, ghostly tear tracks mark the mirror as new condensation gathers.
Corey wouldn't dream of helping Michael in -- it'd be too much of an insult to the older man, no matter how stupidly subservient Corey lets himself be -- but he holds his breath as Michael steps over the edge of the tub and lowers himself into the hot water.
Corey sits on the tiled floor and leans his cheek against the panelled side. His cock has slowly been hardening, red and aching against his belly, but he can wait. Let's Michael wash away the grime and sweat of the road. Let's him have this moment of true quiet. He keeps his eyes down, away from Michael's battered body.
Corey's being patient, and Michael knows it. Can see the way Corey squirms as he dutifully waits, like a dog who knows better than to beg but still needs to be close by, in case some scraps might just happen to fall from the table. Slowly, the older man reaches out, wraps a weathered hand around Corey's soft bicep.
The younger man looks up through feathery eyelashes, smiles shyly like he doesn't usually as good as throw himself at Michael every chance he gets. He sinks down between Michael's legs, curled up tight because the tub really isn't big enough for the both of them.
Again, they sit quietly, their breathing loud in the still room. Corey shifts his legs, trying to ease the pressure of his hard-on as his eyes drift lower, to where Michael's cock sits heavy beneath the water. Leaning forward, Corey wraps his hand around Michael's hot skin.
"You do wanna," Corey teases. Want is a funny way of putting it.
It's awkward and uncomfortable, but it's so good; fingers scrabbling for leverage on the wet surfaces and gripping tight onto flesh, knees digging into ribs, water spilling, soaking the tile, gasps and grunts echoing through the dampness.
Corey fumbles with his matchbook, desperately trying to keep his rhythm while he relights his cigarette. On his shuddering exhale, smoke plumes from Corey's nose, replacing the dwindling steam with a cloud of bittersweet smoke.
#corey cunningham#michael myers#corey cunningham x michael myers#cunningmyers#something something you can do anyone but with who can you sit in water ??#not mentioned is corey scrambling to find the ky jelly before he has his sad dog moment. but i want you all to know that happens.#i cant lie im actually kind of proud of this one 🫣
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[to be alone with you // sufjan stevens]
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you know what they say about dead men
ever wondered why corey has daddy issues? look no further. another instalment of the road trip, at last, just in time for the one year ends anniversary !! divider by @/firefly-graphics
WARNINGS for corey cunningham x michael myers relationship, age difference, smut, unsafe kink practices, alcohol consumption, mentions of daddy issues, and mild mentions of unhappy/unstable childhood, implied child abuse and dysfunctional parental relationships.
taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !!)
Wally Cunningham is dead; mangled in a motorcycle crash in 1999, leaving behind a wife and son. Corey had carried that with him since he was old enough to ask why he didn't have a daddy like the kids at school did.
Joan chose the details carefully, spinning a cautionary tale about how dangerous the world was, how his daddy wasn't smart enough to keep out of trouble, how it's so much better for Corey to stay at home, safe and sound, with her. To stay at home where she can look after him. And Corey believed her, for a while anyway. Why wouldn't he?
In a dirty dive bar in Florida, Corey is finishing his fourth beer of the night before ordering another one. Michael sits stoically beside him, his gaze focused impossibly on the mirror behind the bar from beneath the trucker hat pulled low over his eyes.
Beneath the sound of shouts and jeers and idle chatter, the AC unit rattles steadily, keeping only some of the balmy heat at bay. Corey sweats, curls sticking at his temples and an itch working it's way down his nape, but he he doesn't take his cord jacket off.
"Hey, Wally," someone shouts. It's not an uncommon name, especially for men of a certain age. There's probably a handful of Walters and Wallaces in this bar alone, right?
Still, Corey glances over his shoulder, taking a long swig from his new beer.
The man who shouted had just arrived, and in the time it took Corey to turn around, he's snaked his way through the throngs of patrons to a table in the corner. He claps an older man heartily on the shoulder as he sits down.
Corey's jaw drops, and he dribbles some of his beer down himself.
The older man -- and he does look old, these days -- is startlingly familiar. Corey would know him anywhere, he's seen him a thousand times over in his dreams. He still has a beard, though it has long since greyed. He's wearing a bandana tied over long, equally grey hair. A motorcycle jacket is slung over the back of his seat. Of course he has a motorcycle jacket.
Corey wipes the beer from his chin and tells himself to stop staring, but he can't help it. Corey doesn't believe in ghosts, besides the ones that live in his head, but there's no other explanation for what he's seeing. No explanation that he's got the guts to take.
Because Wally Cunningham is dead. He was mangled in a motorcycle accident in 1999, leaving behind his wife and son. Corey has carried that with him every day of his life. He dealt with the school yard teasing and pushed the grief of every empty father's day deep down. He managed just fine when he learnt to tie his own tie and how to shave on his own. He managed just fine when Momma married Ronald and they all played happy families for a while until the precarious honeymoon phase passed. Corey has managed just fine.
So why is Wally Cunningham sat in a dive bar in Florida, laughing and joking, like he hasn't been dead for more than 20 fucking years.
For a split second, something like elation passes through Corey. That's his dad. His dad who was an All-American man. Who fought in Vietnam. Who would of taught Corey how to ride a trike, and then a bike, and then maybe even a motorcycle when he got old enough. Who would have played catch with him in the yard and coached him to join the baseball team. Who would have made Momma loosen her grip. "You can't keep your eyes on him every second, Joan. Let the boy live," his dad would have said. His dad who had loved him and it was just a terrible, tragic accident that tore them apart.
But then those familiar, safe daydreams fade, like smoke on the breeze. Like they'd never existed at all. His dad is alive, and he hasn't seen Corey in over 20 fucking years.
Without thinking, Corey gets up, leaving Michael sat on his own at the bar. In his haste, desperate not to lose sight of the old man at the table in the corner, Corey forgets to put his beer down, and his knuckles clench white against the glass.
"Wally Cunningham?" his voice is pitifully hopefully. It feels like a betrayal.
Wally turns away from his friends, a congregation of similarly aged-looking bikers with bandanas and bruised knuckles, and looks up at Corey, scowling. "Who's asking, kid?"
Corey swallows thickly around the growing grief in his throat, "I'm Corey."
Wally raises an eyebrow. For a long, disgusting moment Corey can see that his name doesn't ring a bell. The dots aren't connecting.
Until they do. "Corey? God, haven't you grown." Wally looks him up and down, taking in the sight before him. Corey wasn't vain, especially not now, but he has to resist the urge to shrink under his father's narrowed eyes. His hair is a little shaggy since he hasn't got around to trimming it lately, his thrift-store jeans are forever the wrong size, and his tarnished silver belt buckle glints just barely under the smoke-hazy bar lights.
"Well, it's been 23 years." 23 years of mourning only to find that the coffin was empty all along.
Wally nods in muted agreement. "What are you doing here?"
Wally's reserved reaction feels like the single spark that starts a bonfire, drawing in oxygen while Corey struggles to breath. "I should be asking you that. Momma told me you were dead, she said that you died."
Wally has the guts to chuckle, "She did? That doesn't surprise me, she always was fucking nuts. Well, boy, I'm still kicking"
His friends laugh along, but otherwise stay out of it. When Corey thinks about this conversation later -- and he will be thinking about it later, turning it over and over obsessively until he does something stupid over it -- he'll wonder how many of them knew Wally had a son at all. If he ever mentioned the life he'd left behind in Illinois, or if he wiped the slate clean with each state line he crossed. Just like Corey did nowadays.
Corey shakes his head as he connects his own dots, "You're not dead. You're not -- you've been alive this whole time."
Wally tries to be warm, but it doesn't suit him, "Not the brightest bulb in the box, are we? I guess you must take after me, son."
Corey's deep scowl says otherwise; Wally can see Corey is very much Joan's boy. He always was. "You left us, me and Momma."
"Son, your mother told me to leave, so I did. That marriage was a mistake, it's a good job I left her when I did, or I don't know how it would have ended, but it'd wouldn't have been good, I can tell you that --"
"You left me!" Corey shouts, cringing when his voice breaks. "You didn't just walk out on Momma, you walked out on me, didn't you?" His fingers tighten even more around the beer bottle, just a little tighter and --
Suddenly, Corey feels a presence behind him. He knows it's Michael, knows his outrage must of have stirred him from his thoughts and led him over, eager -- if Michael could ever be described as eager -- to be close by in case Corey makes a scene.
Michael clamps a hand down on his shoulder, pulling him away from Wally by a couple of paces. The friends sat around his table shift uneasily in Michael's hulking, scarred presence, a fact Corey revels in as he leans back into Michael's touch. His fingers loosen on the beer bottle.
There's a tense moment of silence as the reality of this strange situation settles over them all. It reminds him of the tabloid shows Momma used to watch when he was little, the ones she shooed him out of the room for: Long lost son, meet absent father.
Finally, "This a friend of yours?" Wally gestures.
Friend. Corey's lip curls into a smirk, "He's my --"
What exactly is Michael? Boyfriend sounds too juvenile, and lover too tender. Daddy crosses his mind, as a sick little dig, or my old man. He doesn't think any of those would go down too well here, though. Partner is ambiguous, but too formal. Accomplice is fitting, very fitting, but he can't go around saying things like that in public. Cult leader is what it feels like sometimes, but a bit too grandiose for their current predicament.
"Yeah, this is Michael," Corey settles on. The pause he used to gather his thoughts was loud though, and something like doubt crosses Wally's face. But he was never fucking there, so he can go fuck himself if he thinks his opinion matters now. He can think what he likes, for all Corey cares -- and oh god, he cares, he cares so fucking much it makes him sick. Wally's probably right though, in one way or another.
"So, what are you doing in this neck of the woods? You left Illinois?" Wally tries again.
Illinois is so far behind them in the rear view mirror that it scares him sometimes, but Corey is headed West, and he isn't stopping -- for anything or anyone -- until he reaches the very end of the line. "We're just passing through," Corey shrugs.
They talk for a while, but Corey doesn't sit down at Wally's table. He doesn't accept a drink when someone goes for another round. He sneers instead of laughs when Wally's friends try to crack jokes. He stays stood in front of Michael, leaning just slightly against him when Michael takes his hand off his shoulder. Michael doesn't complain, doesn't move, just listens silently to the faux-casual conversation going on in front of him. Waiting.
Against his already-scarce better judgement, Corey does agree to stay in town for a few days and meet Wally again tomorrow. They have a lot of catching up to do.
Corey doesn't believe in ghosts, but still doesn't shake Wally's hand when he offers it, scared of what it might feel like. So, instead he smirks, a crooked gesture, and turns to leave, taking Michael with him.
The motel room is quiet and dim, the nicotine-stained bedside lamp casting a sickly yellow glow over the pair while the corners of the room stay shrouded in darkness. A safe and secret place to hide away.
Corey talks and talks, half to himself and half to Michael, wanting to purge every little thought in his head until there's nothing left.
"I don't fucking need him, I never needed him! I never needed him. I don't fucking -- oh fuck -- i got by fine, didn't I? That fucking piece of shit, never fucking needed him. I wish he really was dead, dead in the fucking ground. We should -- that's what we should do, I'm gonna -- please -- And who does he think he is? Talking to me like he didn't fucking walk out on me, on his baby. Can you imagine leaving a baby all alone? Leaving me with Momma. And he didn't even care -- he never fucking cared! -- didn't care that she was gonna swallow me whole. And he knew, he fucking knew, how bad M-Momma was and he s-s-still left me. He ne-ever loved me, did he? Because you wouldn't leave someone like that if you loved them. He never... he never... Why didn't he love me?"
Corey's talk turns into tearful babbles even as he keeps rocking his hips down against Michael's upward thrusts, fucking himself past the point of stupid. Rage and grief gnawing such a deep, deep pit in his stomach that he wants it filled immediately. Wants to fill it with the type of pain-pleasure that Michael delivers without even trying. Wants to choke on it, hot and heavy and ruinous.
But who was Corey kidding? The gaping black hole inside him wasn't new, it hadn’t been gouged out by tonight’s revelations. No, no it had been there for as long as he could remember, and it was Wally who had carved it out, taking it with him when he left and leaving Corey wanting.
"Doesn't matter, anyway. I don't care -- I don't -- I don't fucking need anyone. 'Cause I've got you, right? No one ever gave a shit about me, but I'm still here. I - I don't need them. Don't need anyone. I fucking saved myself. No, no, you saved me. And it's just me and you and we're gonna -- it's gonna be -- You'll never leave me, right? Please don't leave me, please don't -- I wanna be with you. I wanna... You wouldn't leave me. No, no, no, not like him, you're not like him -- you're more of a man than he'll ever be, and you're a fucking monster... Oh, god -- FUCK -- Oh, you can keep me forever and ever and ever and --"
Michael pushes him down onto his back. Corey chokes on a gasp as the angle changes and Michael sets a new, more ruthless pace. Ploughing into him -- too hard and too fast and too much -- as Corey's mouth stops working, his grief-stricken rambles melting into moans.
This happens sometimes, Michael losing patience when Corey runs his mouth, but usually Corey has enough sense to know when shut up. Corey's on the edge and he knows that Michael knows that, knows it when a rough, scarred hand closes around his throat, pressing dangerously on either side of his windpipe.
Corey sucks in a breath until he can't anymore.
The motel room is quiet and dark, once Corey reaches over to shut off the lamp.
He's still sniffling quietly, his sweaty skin sticking to Michael's as he arranges the older man's arms around his shoulders. Michael keeps them there limply, silently, as Corey wraps himself around him.
Abandonment feels so much worse than grief ever had. Wally wasn't dead, he just never wanted Corey. Wally wasn't dead, Corey just wasn't good enough.
Corey's fingers clench. There's a knife on the nightstand, and in his duffle, and one tossed onto the floor along with his clothes. His fingers relax. There's a snub-nose .38 revolver in the glove compartment of their truck.
"He'd deserve it, wouldn't he?" Corey mutters, "Just like she did..." He blinks up at Michael through wet lashes.
Michael doesn't say anything.
He agrees, Corey decides, smiling.
#corey cunningham#corey cunningham x michael myers#cunningmyers#🔪🎃 happy ends anniversary 🎃🔪#a little bit proud of this one ??#i think if he gives himself time to think. corey definitely blames joan heavily for driving wally away#but in the moment he's so full of shock. and his whole world view has been destroyed. that he entirely blames wally#it's a tough one. him missing wally has been an open wound his whole life#everything he does comes back to who he is. and he has always been a little boy who misses his daddy.#(but joan's dead. she got what she deserved. wally on the other hand?)#wally cunningham hate club#joan cunningham hate club#hmmm i write corey as such a blabber mouth on this road trip. despite him being the least talkative guy in the world in canon lol#but michael doesn't talk ever. corey needs to fill the space or he's going to start splitting on michael#and he only really does it when he's upset or particularly pleased. so i still defend my dialogue choices as in character lol
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you're awful, i love you
corey and michael have a toxic and problematic relationship? no way! but their toxic ways aren't as clean cut as you might expect. the question is: who is really in control?
WARNINGS for corey cunningham x michael myers, age difference (not specified but inherent), smut, unsafe kink practices (safeword? what's a safeword?), murder, domestic violence (up for interpretation), dubious consent (with suggestions of other consent issues), an implied abusive relationship and a brief reference to child abuse. tagged heavily for safety. dead dove; do not eat.
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 !!)
Corey never says no.
Doing as he’s told is easy. It’s safe. He’s been doing it for as long as he can remember, being good and obedient and unresisting. Sit, stay, behave.
There’s a hand around his throat, crushing and cold, and Corey stops kicking a lot sooner than he would like to admit. Hollow, black eyes bore into his and it hurts. Hurts deep down in his chest and he can feel himself falling, staring straight back into those unforgiving eyes and Corey wants so badly to say no, to make it stop, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
He doesn’t realise that Michael – and that was Michael, wasn’t it? – has let him go until the fresh air almost winds him and the stark morning light burns his eyes.
As he crawls through the scrub, covered in filth, he ignores the ache in the pit of his stomach. He’s had better mornings. He’s had worse ones too.
Corey is covered in blood and not all of it is his.
The corpses, propped neatly in the corner, never saw it coming. How could they? Sound asleep in their motel room; silly them, forgetting to lock the door. The handle was cold in Corey’s grip, he twists it, slowly, listening for movement inside but hearing nothing but their steady, sleeping breaths.
Michael has this down to a fine art, and who is Corey to stop him? No, Corey hasn’t been able to stop Michael, even if he’d wanted too, since that very first time he looked into Michael’s unforgiving eyes.
Corey watches Michael’s knife sink into hot flesh, blood spilling thickly onto the rumpled sheets, and he’s jealous. Fuck, he’s jealous. Because there’s blood on his face and the walls and all over the sheets, and Corey can see Michael’s growing arousal as he draws the knife back, before plunging it in again. Controlled and primal all at once, the way Michael unleashes himself on them. And oh god, Corey wants that, he wants to let Michael tear him apart like that, wants to be at his mercy, wants to be the thing that makes Michael hard and throbbing beneath his clothes. He wants, he wants, he wants.
The blood-soaked sheets dry slowly, sticking to Corey where he’s bent over the end of the bed.
Michael isn’t nice to him, but Corey tells himself he likes it that way. Love and violence always come hand-in-hand, don't they? Michael is rough and fast and unstoppable. Controlled and primal all at once, the way Michael's bloodlust always finds it's way to Corey, willing and waiting to receive it. Corey is just like any other body for Michael to split open with his violence – with his knife, or his cock, or his bare fucking hands – but doing it this way means he can do it over and over again.
Corey is covered in blood and some of it is his. He’s dripping with it, down his thighs and his face, tasting like pennies in his mouth. Corey should know better by now, should know that nothing can stop Michael when he’s riled up, when there’s nothing and no one left to satiate him any other way. Corey bites down on his lip again, breath hitching with every thrust but it’s too big, too fast, too rough for him to even try and brace himself. He wants it so badly that it feels like the most awful betrayal when all he can think about is how much it hurts.
Through gritted teeth, Corey gasps, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” when he comes. Michael grunts, low and hoarse in his throat. Stoic. Or curious. He’s curious, watching Corey feel something he himself has never felt before. Studying the way Corey’s face scrunches, how he whines and pants. Observing how Corey’s shaking hand grips his half-hard cock while he rides out Michael’s violence. Sit, stay, surrender.
In truth, Michael had never touched Corey with anything other than violence, but Corey doesn’t know that. Or maybe he does, and he simply chooses to forgive, because he just doesn’t know any better.
(Violence, violence, violence...)
When it’s over, Corey rolls onto his back, sore and sticky and silent.
They’re not fucking anymore, they’re fighting. And somehow Corey still gets weak-kneed for a hand that feels like home around his throat.
Corey had pushed too far, said the wrong thing, fucked up in some way he could never of predicted. There’s a hand around his throat, heavy and hot. He scrabbles at Michael desperately, short nails digging into weathered skin as Corey tries to pry him off. Just like our first time, Corey thinks, only he tells himself that he can’t quite remember it.
The walls in this place are thin, and their neighbour from the room next door bangs hard, twice, for them to keep it down. Corey can’t help the way his legs kick, the scuff marks his boots leave behind when his feet catch the wood-panelled walls.
A knee lands in Michael's gut, and a sickening second goes by while he processes the blow. Corey's eyes are still wide and wet, but his lip twitches into an almost-smirk.
Underhanded, perhaps, but Corey always fights a little dirty. It's his one defence against Michael's inordinate, brutish strength; a knee in the gut, a bite deep enough to draw blood, a half-hearted gouge at a milky-blind eye, a sharp kick to the knee as he scrambles back, the frantic groping at a rotting latex face.
Corey drops into a heap on the musty carpet, throat burning as he sucks in a breath. Michael stands there, staring, with cruel black eyes. Sit, stay, obey.
Michael doesn’t usually hit him – just chokes and grabs and manhandles – and for that Corey is grateful. It would remind him far too much of Momma.
Doing what he’s told is safe. But it’s even safer to do it before he’s told. Show Michael how good he is for him – how good and obedient and unresisting – before he can even decide that Corey might have been bad at all. And Corey is good, which is probably why he’s always owing so many favours.
“Thanks, I owe you one.”
It was already late when they crossed the state line into New York hours ago, and the next motel they find will definitely have their names on it. But Corey’s starving – he’s always starving – and Michael stops at the Wendy’s drive-thru when Corey asks.
“Please, Michael. I’ll do you a favour?”
They’re driving through Oregon and Corey wants to go camping. At the next general store they pass, they load up on supplies – food, water, maps, sleeping bags – and head off the road into the forest. The night sky is so clear it’s almost scary how many stares watch them as they lie in the bed of the truck.
“I’ll do whatever you want, anything you want.”
Some half-drunk asshole in Nebraska picks a fight with Corey, over something or nothing, while he’s smoking outside a bar. Corey holds his ground, bracing himself against each shove before the guy gets bored and lets his grudge go, but not before spitting at Corey’s feet and ambling off into the night. Later, Corey watches the blood pool at the drunk's feet as Michael draws his knife back.
The only light in their motel room comes from the TV set, out-dated by about 20 years and hanging on just barely to a signal from the crooked aerial. It’s better that way – so no one can see what they do in the dark.
“You want me to do you that favour?” Corey always asks, as though Michael might answer. He pouts, lips parted just slightly, as he looks up at the older man from down on his knees. On his knees like he’s bringing offerings to an altar. And he is, in a way. Offering up his goodness, his obedience, and praying that it’s enough. Enough for what? Sit, stay, beg.
Michael stays still, watching carefully as Corey moves slowly, hesitant in the same way he was when they had come across a deer walking down an empty highway. Corey had made them stop, hopping out of the truck, holding an upturned hand out to the creature. Corey, who had barely so much as petted a dog before, oh so gently led the deer off the road, into the flanking forests. Corey undoes Michael’s fly.
Michael never says no.
#corey cunningham#corey cunningham x michael myers#cunningmyers#🔪🎃 happy ends anniversary 🎃🔪#dubious consent but from who? that is the question.#everyone thank blake for putting the camping trip idea in my brain !! ⛺
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such dirty, domestic bliss
[credits for images with sources: X, X, X, X, X, X]
a collections of vignettes (some which are brand new, some which were ideas that i could never work into longer pieces) about life on the road. a lot of these ideas and images have been workshopped with @/slutforstabbings first, so everyone thank them for taking the bullet and listening to me before any of you lot have to. vignettes are not in chronological order. 3k words.
WARNINGS for corey cunningham x michael myers relationship (not explicit in every vignette), age difference (not always specified but by virtue of the pairing), smut, vomiting, smoking, drinking, infidelity (mentioned in the past and occurring in the present), dysfunctional relationship dynamics, and passing mentions of child abuse.
taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !!)
i. cherries
The wind whistles through the open window as they drive down a mostly deserted by-way. It was a good thing they stopped at the last gas station they saw, already 20 miles back, because Corey really wasn't sure they'd be seeing another one anytime soon.
He shifts his feet on the dashboard, careful not to knock the sack of cherries from his lap. He picks out another one, ripe and shining in the afternoon sun. When he bites down, the cold juice -- far, far sweeter than blood -- trickles out between his teeth, painting them red. Gnawing at the fruit, the flesh comes away and leaves only the hard stone behind on his tongue.
Corey leans over, spits the cherry pit out of the window and picks another from the bag, lapping a stray drop of juice from his bottom lip.
ii. waitress
"Is that everything?" the Waitress smiles, her voice low and drawling.
"Yeah, for now," Corey nods, leaning back in the cracked, red leather seat. Michael, sat opposite him in the booth, looks markedly more on edge, but the set of his shoulders tells Corey he's doing just fine.
The Waitress looks between the two men, tearing their order from her notepad, "You need anything else, just give me a holler, okay?"
Corey watches her walk away, back to the counter where she pins their ticket over the kitchen hatch. She's pretty, with long dark hair and big brown eyes, and the way her sunshine-yellow uniform hugs her hips.
Michael watches him, watching her.
"Don't look at me like that," Corey says when he notices, sinking down in his seat with a stupid smile on his face.
Their food arrives and they dig in. Corey finishes in almost less time than it took to arrive at their table and, just as he sucks the last of the syrup from his fingertips, the Waitress catches his eye over Michael's shoulder.
She nods towards the back and winks at him.
Corey gets the message. "Uh, I'm going for a smoke. Wait here, just for a minute." He prays Michael doesn't think they're going to dine and dash.
He finds her around the side of the diner, flicking the butt of a cigarette into the drain. Her lips taste like smoke and cherry chapstick; she makes him moan when her hands twist in his hair.
iii. bath
He was glad she was dead. He'd do it again (and again and again and again) if he had to, but that didn't stop him from missing her sometimes.
He missed the way she said his name when she was pleased with him. He missed the way she'd kiss his head when he'd been good. He missed the way she'd rock him to sleep when he couldn't stop crying.
He missed his house, a secure fortress where nothing from the outside world could get to him, whether he wanted it too or not. He missed the faded floral couch and curtains and cushions. He missed the way he could find his way around in the pitch black darkness, not like now where he stumbles around their half-lit motel rooms.
Corey sinks beneath the water and holds his breath.
He didn't miss the way she smothered him. He didn't miss the way he was never allowed to lock his door. He didn't miss the way he'd spent so long being unable to trust his own emotions because she was right there telling him that she -- and only she -- knew best. He definitely didn't miss the bruises, or the kisses that followed.
The bath water is cold, and Michael silently waits on the other side of the door.
iv. lake
The campground they find looked abandoned. Abandoned was an understatement, to tell the truth. The signage is weather beaten and rotting, the land untended. There's a crumbling brick structure that might have once been a tiny general store but which now sits empty, it's windows boarded up from the outside.
The ground slopes beneath their feet, all the way down to a lake. Weeping willows hang precariously over the bank, trailing their finger-like branches through the water.
Corey wonders how they could have ever abandoned this place, but he's glad they did. Looking out over the water, he breaths in deeply. Before he realises what he's doing, he's kicking his shoes off, pulling his shirt over his head. His feet sink in the coarse, sandy shore.
It surprises him how cool the water is, even in the afternoon heat. Corey relaxes his body, lets himself float among the lake weeds, the sun warm on his bare skin. In a week, he'll start showing his tan, freckles speckling his shoulders and the high bridge of his nose, and he'll spend another day drifting aimlessly.
He could get used to this.
v. seduction
Corey stretches out each sore muscle as he undresses; standing up on his tiptoes, arms raised, shoulders pulled back as he tries to loosen up after another long, long day of travelling.
Michael sits on the bed, partaking in his own ritual; sheds his coat and his boots, eyes drifting from razor sharp focus to something Corey has decided is "contentment".
Corey looks over his shoulder at him. He turns, hips swaying in a silly pantomime of seduction as he crosses the room. Seduction doesn't work on Michael; if anything, he just wants a warm hole, which Corey can provide without any of the theatrics. But still, Corey laughs when he sinks onto Michael's lap, "See anything you like?"
vi. name
"Name?" the Receptionist asks, her eyes not leaving the computer screen as she chews lazily on a wad of gum.
"Jude Myers."
The Receptionist types quickly, blows a bubble with her gum and pops it. "$40 a night, check-out is at 10 am."
Corey hands her four $10 bills, procured so nicely from a liquor store a few miles back. Corey hoped to procure it again in the morning before they left, if the office just so happened to be left unattended.
She takes the money and stashes it in the till beneath the counter -- a thorough count is hardly needed -- and then turns and picks up a room key from the rack behind her.
Corey takes the key, mutters his thanks and leaves the office. He crosses the lot and taps on the window of an idling station wagon.
Michael turns slowly, his gaze following the direction Corey points towards their room.
vii. motel
A tiny speck in a ruthless universe, that's what Corey realises he is. Out on the motel balcony, he smokes another cigarette, listening absently to the sounds of the night. There's an argument going on a few rooms down from theirs, the highway rumbles just beyond the treeline, music blares every time the door to the bar across the street opens. A dog howls pitifully somewhere in the distance.
Corey shifts his weight from one bare foot to the other, the grated walkway imprinting its criss-cross pattern on his soles. Rust from the railing that he leans on works sticks in the creases of his palms. His jeans slip low on his hips, and the faint breeze ghosting the sweat on his back makes him shiver, even in the humidity.
He turns back to the room and, with a smile creeping over his face, one side and then the other, he repeats his mantra: he is but a tiny speck in a very, very ruthless universe.
viii. sleeping in
Corey's never been very good at waking up in the morning. Sleep doesn't come easy to him, and dragging himself from it is even more difficult. Instead, he buries himself deep in the covers, like a rabbit in a warren, and pretends that the world outside simply does not exist. Sometimes, if Michael is still beside him and feeling uncharacteristically generous, he'll stay in bed for a while, but more often than not, Corey finds himself waking up alone. Maybe that's why he'd much rather sleep in, so he doesn't have to notice Michael's absence.
At 10 am, Michael rips the covers off of him, just like he told him to do. Corey groans, eyes squinting against the stark morning light that blinds him before he can press his face back into the pillow. His skin starts to goosebump at his sudden exposure. He really doesn't want to get up.
An impatient knock at the door is much better at rousing him.
Half-dressed, in jeans and a wife beater, is enough to drop the room key back at the office and cross the lot to the car. Corey's bare feet are caked in dust by the time he slumps in his seat. He tosses his shoes and jacket into the back, "Let's get breakfast."
ix. rabbits
Corey doesn't even realise he'd taken it, slipped the thing into his pocket as he passed down the knick-knacks aisle of the thrift store, until he's already in the parking lot, heading back to where Michael is in the truck with the engine running.
He takes the thing out and turns it over in his hand. A tiny porcelain rabbit, white with baby blue forget-me-not's painted over it's hide. He scowls down at it, like it had somehow followed him, rather than it being his own impulsive gesture to steal it.
By the time Corey has decided he's going to smash the pretty little bunny, he's already hoisting himself up into the passenger seat and sitting back as Michael pulls out of the lot.
Corey scowls again, the rabbit sitting smugly in his scarred palm. He puts it on the dashboard, just for the time being, just until they stop somewhere and he can get rid of it, but he still doesn't like the way it's looking at him. He turns it around, it's bobbly white tail facing him, it's beady glass eyes watching the long road ahead.
x. fortune cookie
"Aren't you going to read your fortune?" Corey asks, stacking his substantial amount of empty take out cartons on the nightstand.
Michael pauses, mulls the idea over in his mind, before snapping the fortune cookie that Corey had handed him. He takes the paper fortune out, holding it out for Corey.
Corey takes it, reads aloud, "Romance awaits you." His face splits into a grin. "Did you hear that? Romance awaits you."
The younger man drops the fortune into one of the empty cartons and rolls over, straddling Michael's hips.
xi. books
The yard sale is full of the usual junk that people try and sell at yard sales. Old furniture, stacks of NatGeo magazines, chipped crockery and cheap kids toys. Corey doesn't expect he'll find anything useful, but he'd just finished reading the last tatty paperback he'd picked up, so he makes Michael pull up to the curb so he can hop out and rummage through a rotten cardboard box full of yellowing books.
He sifts through them, sees a few copies of things he's already read, a few that are in such bad shape he doesn't think they could really qualify as books anymore, and some which even he can tell were destined for a yard sale the minute they were published. He's ready to give up and hold off his search until the next yard sale they drive by, when he finally finds something worth his reading.
Back in the car, he kicks his battered boots back off and stretches his legs up on the dash as Michael eases on the gas and they carry on down the street, the houses starting to thin out as they reach the edge of town.
Corey thumbs the cracked spine of the novel before flipping it open. He turns the radio down, low enough so he can speak comfortably over it, and starts reading.
"I arrived in this world the way most bastard's do -- by surprise..."
xii. drunk
Corey groans as his stomach churns violently. Drool spills over his bottom lip as he heaves, and the sound of his wet retching is obscenely loud, even to his own ears. The hustle and bustle of the bar continues steadily, just around the corner, and Corey distantly hopes that no one comes into the alley for a smoke while he's like this.
Maybe this is his own fault. Sure, he had a tendency to overindulge, but Corey really thought he'd been doing okay. He'd hit a comfortable peak, his words slurring just a little and his limbs feeling light and free, if a little more uncoordinated than usual. But he'd been fine.
He can feel Michael close by, unfazed by the sudden reappearance of Corey's dinner and the copious amount of alcohol he'd been so intent on following it with. Corey's glad for that really, he isn't in the mood for comfort just yet, not when his stomach aches and his head pounds and he's about to start praying to a god he knows doesn't exist just for a little chance of relief.
Bile rises once more, and Corey braces himself against the rain-damp bricks. It takes him a few moments to catch his breath again, his mouth tasting sour as he pulls in a lungful of fresh air. He thinks he's finished for now, and wipes a mixture of saliva and vomit from his chin before he turns to face Michael.
"I'm okay," he assures the older man, despite him having made no movement to suggest he was asking. "We should probably go..." his words still sound slurred, his bodily pyrotechnics being enough to soothe his stomach slightly but not to sober him up.
With an arm wrapped around his middle, Corey tries to walk as straight as he can back to the car. When he stumbles too far towards the curb as they pass the front door of the bar, Michael grabs his elbow harshly, pulling him along past the crowd of jeering men outside.
xiii. laundromat
Midnight. The laundromat was empty except for Corey, slumped in one of the blue plastic chairs facing the washers. Staying up late never bothered him, never one to be tired at any reasonable hour, so running errands was as good a way as any to occupy all the free time on his hands.
The hypnotic swirl of his laundry in the machine was kind of soothing, and with his gaze focused on that, he could drift off into a daydream. He was an expert at daydreaming -- always away with the fairies, Momma used to chide -- and he knew he could keep himself occupied until he had to move his clothes over to the dryer.
His trance is broken early by the sound of the bell above the laundromat door jingling cheerfully.
Corey glances up, sees a girl come in with two laundry bags stuffed full. He moves his feet out of the way so she doesn't trip as she passes him. Her hair is hastily pulled back from her face with a hair tie, and she smells sickly sweet, spritzed with a B&BW spray fragrance.
The girl turns to him, smiles by way of thanks, before opening a washer a little way from Corey. She dumps her clothes in, then the detergent, then a handful of change. Each coin clunking loudly through the mechanism.
Corey's almost back in his daydream by the time the girl starts the washing cycle and sits down beside him. Her hand lands on his jean-clad thigh.
Corey turns sharply to look at her.
"Lonely?"
Corey laughs, surprised.
xiv. hair
Once Corey started growing his hair out again, he'd become so damn precious about it. It felt like his own personal betrayal when it came time for a trim, even when the curls were long enough to droop into his eyeline, or tickled his neck where his collar met his skin.
In order to psyche himself up, he'd taken to offering to cut Michael's hair first. A little act of domesticity to soothe his self-hurt feelings.
Michael's hair was white-grey, wispy over the burn scars on his left side, but thick as it ever was everywhere else. Corey buzzes it for him, with the same razor he'd bought on that first night they left Illinois. The finer patches he cuts with scissors, careful not to aggravate the tender skin.
The first time he'd asked, he'd awaited Michael's reaction with bated breath, braced himself for an inevitable shove or a too-tight grab that meant, Stop getting so comfortable. But it never came. Instead, Michael sat at the chair in front of the cracked motel room vanity and waited for Corey to pick up the scissors.
Michael's willingness -- or automatic conformity to routine, something Corey wondered if he ever missed from the hospital -- put Corey as ease. Cutting his own hair didn't seem so terrible, when Michael so willingly offered himself up first.
xv. blabber mouth
Something about the open roads made Corey loose lipped in a way he never had been in his old life. Or maybe it was Michael's non-judgemental and utterly detached reaction to absolutely everything Corey revealed about himself that made Corey want to spill his guts to the older man.
Either way, he told Michael everything. Things he'd never told anyone. Things he was pretty certain he'd be taking to the grave. Told him about Momma and Daddy, about sneaking out to parties and fooling around in the back of cars, about how college had been his ticket out of town and how he threw it all away, about Mr Allen and marital beds and silly crushes, about the weeks he'd spent barely getting out of bed and the nights he'd woken up screaming, about how when he closed his eyes all he could see was blood and all he could hear was that sick fucking thud, about how he'd never had the guts to let go of that railing and how he'd never been able to swallow enough pills without throwing them back up in a panic, about how good it felt when he first stole a cigarette and how good it felt every time he burnt something, anything to ashes.
While Corey rambled in the passenger seat, Michael's eyes never left the road.
xvi. golden
Corey rocks his hips softly while he sleeps. The steady rhythm, the sweet spot of almost-pleasure, keeps him on the precipice, not quite ready to fall into wakefulness just yet.
Slow and easy, hands on his body and warmth spilling through his veins. Everything the sun touches is golden -- his skin, his hair, the bedsheets -- and he is happy.
Corey wakes with a start, his hips stuttering mid-motion against Michael's hip. Rain patters against the window pane, the air as cold as it looks with a thin grey light slicing through the moth-eaten curtains.
#corey cunningham#corey cunningham x michael myers#cunningmyers#i've never been a long form writer. you all know this.#i'm happy to get these little vignettes out into the world though#it seems a shame to forget about the ideas just because i can't write more#i hope you all enjoy 💗#i've been very soft on them lately#but i promise the next thing i'm writing for them paints them as toxic and obsessive and violent as they truly are 💗
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#aes: dirty domestic bliss#cunningmyers#// shameless tags //#liminal spaces#familiar places#roomcore#abandoned#suburbia#suburban gothic#empty spaces#vintage decor#interiors#small town#liminal aesthetic#aesthetic#70s interior
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you are now leaving illinois
before the weird sex and the american dreams and the realisations that only the open road can bring, there was the beginning (well, almost). or: corey and michael leave illinois for the first time.
WARNING for mentions of shoplifting, carjacking, smoking and very mild angst, but this is actually pretty mellow. idk corey cries a little bit but that's not out of the ordinary for him.
taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !!)
The first stop they make since leaving Haddonfield is at a Walmart about 20 miles from the state line. Corey goes in, hood up and head down, just to grab some essentials for the road.
Bags of chips, cans of soda and bottled water. An armful of cup noodles and a loaf of bread. A half-gallon of chocolate milk. First aid supplies because he knows he's not the powerhouse that Michael is; rolls of bandages and gauze, a bottle of painkillers, antiseptic cream. He grabs the cheapest electric razor they sell.
He thinks about 'lifting his haul, but he doesn't want to draw anymore attention to himself than he has to -- not before they make it over the state line, anyway -- so he pays at the checkout. It'll make a dent in his wallet, but he'd saved enough to last a while, and it's an expense he's willing to spend for now. He's sure Michael won't mind them scrimping a bit in the future. Hopefully.
The checkout lady tries to talk to him, those empty niceties that he was so scared of before now feel maddeningly absurd after the week he's just survived. Even so, he tries to act as normal as possible, giving her a tight smile that has no chance of reaching his eyes.
Michael waits in the car, parked in a dark corner of the lot. He's wearing the mask, of course, he'd put it on as soon as he'd wrestled it back off Corey. He knew he was going to be in big trouble over that one, but Michael would have to wait a while to exact whatever revenge he wants on his new... accomplice? Amid the raging sea of emotion that is churning his gut, Corey feels a sick sort of thrill at that thought, at taking whatever Michael will deal out to him once they're in the clear.
Jogging back to the car, Corey throws the grocery bags in the backseat before sitting up front. Corey slides slightly across the bench when Michael makes a sharp turn out of the lot and back towards the highway.
Darkness surrounds them on both sides again, as they head out of town. Corey reaches back and routes through the bags until he finds the razor. He unboxes it in his lap, finding the charging cord and plugging it into the port on the dashboard.
"They're gonna be looking for us," he says, slumping in his seat and watching the side of the road where their headlights just about reach.
Michael doesn't say anything, but Corey knows he understands. Michael's been on the run before, he should know what he's doing. Although he has no practical experience, Corey had wiled away his adolescence thinking about how he could run away, far enough that Momma would never find him. There are worse people to worry about than Momma now.
At the next gas station they make another stop; a run-down mom-and-pop place, the type that Corey had assumed didn't exist anymore. The type of place he assumes won't have company policies or CCTV that backs up to a cloud.
Corey leaves Michael in the car again and heads into the garage. The burning adrenaline is starting the wear off, and he buys fresh pack of cigarettes to soothe his obliterated nerves, then makes a beeline for the bathroom, a single stall with a toilet and basin.
Corey's hands grip the edge of the sink and he looks at himself in the cracked mirror, the aged silver surface mottled around the edges. He'd never thought much of his looks, never had anyone to impress or any real reason to care, especially after the accident. But now, oh god now he feels like this is the last thread connecting him to his old self to everything he's done and did not do, and it's not as easy to cut as he expected.
He picks up the razor, clicks it on and feels the vibrations through his hand. Watching, eyes fixed on the halo of curls around his head, he brings the razor up, runs it through his hair, just above his ear. A tuft of hair drifts into the sink. He looks down at it, and even as he squeezes his eyes shut, the tears make their way out anyway. Pathetic, he thinks.
The sink fills up, tawny like a birds nest, and when Corey is finally finished, he almost doesn't recognise himself. He looks so different like this. Running a hand over his buzzed hair, Corey steels his gaze.
Corey had never been to Missouri before. In all fairness though, there were a lot of places he'd never been. Michael doesn't seem too affected, as they cross the state line, the Mississippi River raging beneath them. Missouri didn't even seem much different than Illinois, though in the dark of the night, he supposes he can't really tell. He's heard there are more cornfields, maybe, but other than that, the long stretches of highway felt the exact same as back home.
Home. Shit.
He wondered what home even meant anymore. It felt strange to even think they'd never be going back to Illinois, though he was pretty sure at this point they never would. Michael's home was gone, razed to the ground in a bid to wipe him clean off the face of the town that had ruined him; Corey had nothing to go back to either, nothing that hadn't ruined him, nothing he hadn't torn to shreds and set a blaze before leaving behind.
For the first time in his life, the open road seemed like the only real, tangible thing. Not just a pipedream or a childish fantasy anymore. He'd been stagnant, wasting, for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to really move. Corey felt alive and he wasn't going back to the way things were, not ever.
Just on the horizon, Corey can see the watery grey-blue of the sunrise approaching. He doesn't notice that the white-noise rumble of the road beneath them is soothing him to sleep until his head drops to Michael's shoulder. Michael's eyes stay firmly on the road, and Corey decides, like most things about their partnership, that as long as Michael will let him have this indulgence, he's going to make the most of it.
#corey cunningham#michael myers#halloween ends#cunningmyers#(if you squint)#but if your eyes are wide open then it is simply and elderly man and his emotionally unstable sidekick#i want you all to know it pained to me write the chocolate milk#i think it is just a little bit cringy when one food/drink is deified in character canon#but i know he'd fucking buy a gallon of milk because he's a comfort eater and it is comfort food (novel canon. i dont make the rules)#also it fucking *killed* me to make corey cut his hair 😭#his beautiful hair. he doesnt want michael to think he's a wimp but he is so sad over it#new nervous corey tic just dropped: until his hair grows out he starts compulsively running a hand over his buzzcut
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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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"i wanna be with you; no matter where we go or what you do to me. i wanna be with you."
NO TENDERNESS (2023) dir. cunningmyers.
[stills were taken from this video by 4K Relaxation Channel]
#corey cunningham#michael myers#halloween ends#unreality#cunningmyers#corey cunningham x michael myers#aes: no tenderness#[this is corey pov. this is what he sees as they drive along empty roads and sleep in the same bed and rob liquor stores]
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