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landwriter · 1 year

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Sandman prompt: Dreamling roadtrip

"Remind me why I am allowing this," says Dream.

Hob casts a sidelong glance at him. Dream, in his car. Dream, stuck in the crawl of London traffic with him. Imagine that.

He reels off Dream's succession of unfortunate choices with poorly smothered glee. "Because your sister said you should spend more time among us humans, which you mentioned in passing to Matthew yesterday, who suggested a road trip, then had to explain to you that a road trip meant 'Just driving somewhere for a while', and you apparently you said-," Hob pauses to pitch his voice as low and poncy as possible, "'Ah, a pilgrimage, then. A journey for self-knowledge.' And Matthew said 'That's right, boss' and you said you would, in fact, be curious about such an experience."

"False pretenses," says Dream, darkly, under his breath.

"Indeed," says Hob, who thinks he loves false pretenses now. Matthew had shown up at his flat laughing so hard he couldn't even speak. When he finally recounted the conversation (after Hob had gotten very concerned and asked if Matthew needed a human counselor or an animal vet, and Matthew had shaken his head and wheezed 'No, a driver', before falling into fits of laughter again), Hob had immediately agreed.

"And then I canceled my plans for the weekend because I'm the only human you know who has a car, it turns out," (A reliable and bright red Vauxhall Corsa, thank you for asking.) "And because I'm a very good friend," he adds. He still relishes the new-word feel of it. It had only been four months since Dream had shown up at The New Inn. Hob was skiving off marking midterm papers for this, actually.

"Yes," says Dream. Hob realizes he'd skive off the whole term for this.

How could he turn down the prospect? His friend, literally strapped into the Corsa for at least the next several hours. Assuming Dream didn't leap out and flee on foot down the M1 - which seemed so thoroughly undignified for a being of Dream's station that Hob felt utterly assured of his company. It had all rather gone to his head.

"This will be fun," he promises. "Feel the grass under your feet, and that."

Dream looks out the window bitterly as a lorry overtakes them. Hob has never been the fastest of drivers. Never really took to it, to be honest. Bit of the medieval peasant in him, he thinks, can't quite make himself go over fifty miles per hour. But he's very safe. Hardly any accidents. Mostly minor rear-end damage.

"I see no grass," says Dream.

"Surely the Lord of Stories is familiar with figurative speech," says Hob, and glows under the heat of Dream's glare in reply.

"Anyways," he continues, "We're getting to that bit. Literally. In, uh, six hours or so? It's a great spot. But in the mean time, this is part of it too." Hob takes a hand off the wheel to gesture with a flourish at the sea of sensible hatchbacks and work vans around them, swimming like fish in the asphalt rivers of London's outer burbs. "Humanity," he pronounces, and the car drifts a little into the next lane. Humanity honks rudely at him and then accelerates safely out of Hob's radius.

Dream's sulking seems to have pushed him fully into the realm of catatonia, because Hob's passengers are usually more animated when he does exciting little things like that. Hob looks over in concern and this time the car barely follows with him.

"Bit rusty," he offers.

Dream deigns to snort softly at that. "My sister is far worse," he says.

Hob raises his eyebrows. It was hard to imagine Death bad at anything, frankly. Dream must see his look because he clarifies.

"Another sister. Delirium. An official of the carriageway stopped us. He would not have us continue our passage. So she gave him delusion of bugs crawling across his skin. Forever."

"Well, that's one way to get out of a ticket," says Hob, and makes a mental note to ask Death for a complete list of siblings and how to avoid angering them.

"He was being rude," adds Dream. He suddenly sounds very much like an older brother.

"Oh, fair play, then," says Hob affably. He'd had little sisters once. He understood.

They drive in silence for a few minutes. Hob thinks about putting on a playlist, and has just decided that nineties Britpop is perfect for this occasion when they pass a junction sign and he exclaims in recognition.

"The M25! Funny story, I know just the loveliest antiquarian book dealer who says his partner - uh, I'm assuming there, but if you heard the way he talks about him - anyways, his partner designed it. Some kind of high-flying civil engineer, I reckon."

"Really," says Dream. "A...high-flying...civil engineer." He sounds fascinated.

Hob hadn't expected Dream to be interested in road design.

"Something like that, definitely," he says, looking over to see Dream, staring at him, rapt. He looks back and brakes just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of him as it turns off onto the motorway in question. "Sorry. Saw him once in passing, actually. Dresses like you. Very fancy and dark."

"Perhaps you should keep your focus on the road, Hob," says Dream, but he sounds like he's smiling.

"Oh, we're not for a while yet," says Hob. Half truth, half optimism.

"Where are we going?" asks Dream. Hob beams. He's just won a bet with Matthew.

"It's a surprise" he says. "Now, have you heard of this band called Oasis?"

#asks #the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #prompt fill #my writing #road trip fic is a timeless genre #hob is making it up as he goes #hob def has multiple routes in mind depending on how long dream is willing to abscond with him #hey fellas is it gay to want to drive across the country with your best friend #(hey fellas is it gay to hope you'll have to stay the night at a village inn and be mistaken for a couple)

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oflgtfol · 24 days

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anyway, i’m leaving for my upstate eclipse trip on friday morning. gonna be about 8-10 hours in the car all by myself. i desperately need entertainment to occupy me during it. can i PLEASE get some music recommendations so i can check it out during the drive

#preferably entire albums !!#but im planning on making a whole playlist so i guess individual songs are fine too BUT PLEASE ALBUMS #just to fill up more time if nothing else 😭😭#literally please drop any recommendation whatsoever i need fucking 10 hours #nvm the return trip which will be another 8-10 hours #You understand my desperation .#im even thinking of maybe audio books but like idk i really cant do them and i cant guarantee i can pay attention while driving #but if i get truly desperate i might turn to that #brot posts #not only is it 8-10 hours alone in the car but its also fucking upstate ny #aka just nothing but the same mountains ovwr and over again #the same fucking road for hundreds of miles #so its not even just the time thats mind numbing. its also the lack of change of scenery #staring at the same damn thing for 10 hours #SO PLEASE GIVE ME RECSSSS

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junckert · 5 years

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fictionadventurer · 10 months

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How can I be known to history as a charming and witty correspondent if I don't write any letters??? This is a problem!!

#random thought of the day #a trip to the bigger-on-the-inside used bookstore netted me a book filled with letters between presidents and their wives #which neatly marries last summer's interest in epistolary books with this summer's obsession #i've only barely started and am already lamenting the lost art of letter writing #there's a charming bubbly one from a courtship-era abigail adams #a surprisingly sweet love letter from john tyler to his soon-to-be first wife #a witty start to a letter by grant where he teases julia for how long women take to answer letters #between this and the julia sand letters and 84 charing cross road i am in distress #because i have no avenue to send charming letters to people

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atlantis-scribe · 1 year

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one of the things i love most about the atlantis expedition is that they're comprised of extremely brilliant people (experts in their field with crazy cross-training due to the nature of the mission) BUT they're also not the best of the best — can't be because it's likely a one-way trip — so these brilliant people are still, in some capacity and in Earth's perspective, expendable

#stargate atlantis #a found family filled with Earth's second best #no wonder they're so unhinged #these insane people VOLUNTEERED to yeet themselves to another galaxy #why was there only one (1) therapist on board???#truly opposite vibes to voyager's 'average people sent to pick up groceries and accidentally ending up on galaxy's worst road trip'#atlantis people are HIGHLY QUALIFIED and they CHOSE to jump off the cliff #i bet pegasus folks were like 'finally some enrichment to our enclosure'#lost city of the ancients #my post

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akkivee · 4 months

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SOMEBODY NEEDS TO STOP RHYME ANIMA (DONT)

#vee queued to fill the void #hypanispoilers #THIS CONNECTION HAUNTS MY EVERY WAKING MOMENT #LIKE I THINK ABOUT KUUKOUS WANDERING MONK TENDENCIES AND ICHIROS POTENTIAL WANDERLUST ALL THE TIME #AND THEN RHYME ANIMA ACTUALLY WENT AND CONNECTED IT RHYME ANIMA IS SO CRAZY IM NOT SANE ENOUGH FOR THIS #YEARS IN THE FUTURE WHEN EVERYTHING IS CHILL AND THEYVE SETTLED INTO THEIR ROLES IN ADULTHOOD #KUUKOUS GOING TO FILL UP THAT TEMPLE OF HIS WITH MONKS WHO WANT TO FOLLOW HIS TEACHINGS OF THE BUDDHA #AND THERE WILL BE ENOUGH PEOPLE ON DECK FOR KUUKOU TO LEAVE TEMPLE IN SAFE HANDS SO #ICHIROS GOING TO WANT TO EXPERIENCE THE WORLD FOR HIMSELF AND KUUKOUS GOING TO GO WITH HIM #i’m not joking i think about this all the time lmao something kuukou’s said before that i feel is important #but idk if it’s in relation to him or someone else we don’t know this late into the game lol #is that radio answer of his where he says heirs to temples that leave bc they have other things they want to do #usually do come back later in their lives #kuukou is dead set on inheriting the temple so that’s why i’m not sure if he’s answering from his own experience as well #but i just think it’d be really cute if ichiro and kuukou did like a graduation like road trip #where they just go places and experience stuff before really saying goodbye to their youth lol #i love them very much lmao

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password-door-lock · 6 months

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Mystictober Day 26-- Road Trip

“Come on,” Unknown calls, dragging you behind him without hesitation. He has to keep his hands on you anyway, to make sure that you don't escape, and if you're not going to move efficiently, then he's going to move you himself. You had your chance to walk quickly, and you lost it when you decided to stand there staring at him instead. “Get in the car now, cutie.”

“Alright.” You do as he says, at least, sliding into the passenger side of the car. Unknown scowls— this is not how he imagined the interaction playing out. First of all, you should be in the backseat, not the front— as far as he’s concerned, you're cargo, not his driving buddy. Second of all, as cute as it is, he didn't exactly imagine that you would be excited to come with him. Did you lie about the lock on purpose just so he would take you? If that's the case, he's going to need to teach you some manners once you get to Magenta. You confirm his assessment by reaching across the car and slamming your hand down on the horn. “Road trip!” You cheer, honking the horn again.

That, at least, gets Unknown scrambling into the car so that he can pull your hand off of the horn. The last thing he needs is someone hearing it and rushing down here to investigate the commotion. “And what do you think you're doing?” His tone is as measured as he can possibly make it, though he’s already approaching the end of his patience after only a few minutes of your antics.

“Sorry.” You make a big show of placing your hands demurely in your lap, but Unknown isn't fooled. He's going to have to keep an eye on you— just great. How on Earth are you going to serve as a proper assistant if you can't even get into a car without causing trouble? “I'm just excited.”

“What are you excited for, hm?” Unknown can't help but play along. He has mixed feelings about you, about this, about everything, and pressing you for information seems to be the best way to handle the situation. You should never be allowed to hide any information from him, anyway.

“We're going on a road trip,” you explain as he fastens his seat belt and begins backing out of the parking space. “Right? Aren't you taking me someplace far away?”

Unknown considers the question. Three hours is a bit far, he supposes, although he's made the trek out here to spy on you so many times that it doesn't really feel much like an event for him. Still, you spend so much time holed up in your apartment that he could see why this seems like a big deal. “Yes.”

“Great. I could use a vacation,” you beam, smiling at the automated ticket collector guarding the parking structure’s exit as if it is a human. You don’t seem deterred by its refusal to engage with you as it accepts Unknown’s money and spits out a receipt. “Can we get some snacks? It's not really a road trip without snacks.”

As if he's going to stop and let you out of the car before he gets you to Magenta. You could run off and tell somebody about him— not to mention that people would see the two of you together. “No.”

Your shoulders slump, and you pout for a moment before returning to your typical enthusiasm. “Can we listen to music?”

Unknown has seen your metube history and the playlists that you listen to on other streaming apps. Even if he had a way to connect them to his car— it's too old for that, anyway— he wouldn't, and you can’t honestly believe that he would give you back your phone after taking it away. “No.”

“Can we play road trip games?” You ask.

“I don't know what that is.” Maybe it involves sitting quietly and leaving him alone— that's wishful thinking, but after being peppered with questions for the entire duration of the elevator ride down to the basement level where he left the car, Unknown is willing to entertain the thought.

“Oh, there's so many.” Why do you still sound so cheerful? You don't seem to have registered Unknown as the threat that he is, which annoys him. “Um, for bingo we would have to make cards, so we probably can't do that one, but there's a ton of other fun ones. Like, uh... wow, I haven't been on a road trip in a while, let me think of some...”

“Yes,” Unknown sees his opportunity and takes it. “Think of all the road trip games you can remember. Then report back to me about it later.” Hopefully, this tactic will at least give him a little bit of peace and quiet to think of a plan before you start rambling again. Normally, he would be amused by your enthusiasm, but Unknown has only a few hours to come up with an explanation for your presence that will satisfy the Savior when she sees you at Magenta. He doesn't have time for games.

#I just feel like in a prologue bad end situation I would be off the walls with nerves #Like I would need to fill that silence with questions or music or road trip games or whatever #Cannot imagine just sitting in silence in the car with Unknown for hours on the drive back to Magenta #MM_mystictober2023 #mystic messenger #mystic messenger drabble

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writing-good-vibes · 7 months

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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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