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.
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