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toxicanonymity · 1 year

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Corey from the yard 2: killing the band kids

Words: 5k | Corey Cunningham x You (Fem!Reader)

Smut → Beefcake Action → Smut. You hook up with meowmeow!Corey AND dark!Corey

You have never seen anything hotter than Corey Cunningham’s hefty, imposing figure in a form-fitting jumpsuit, standing feet spread, collar erect, holding Michael’s mask against a beefy thigh. The jumpsuit accentuates the natural bulge of his crotch, too. His gaze is almost seductive, an effect enhanced by his wicked half-smirk.

This picks up where Corey from the Yard pt. 1 left off, but you can read it as a one-shot. @cordelium and @ethanhoewke ordered extra beef with this bloodbath.

18+ Explicit Sexual Content. Canon-Typical (and Canon) Violence

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You sleep hard and wake up disoriented. There’s a shape pressing into your thigh. It’s a familiar shape, but you can’t place it right away. Warm and firm. Organic. You know it’s a shape you like a lot but hadn’t felt in a very long time. It swells into you. You begin to throb between your legs.

Oh.

There’s a weight draped across your waist, and a soft and steady breath on your throat, and a head of curly hair in the hollow of your neck, and it’s all coming back to you. It's really been that long for you. You didn’t recognize the silhouette of a nice, hard cock.

Corey’s wood, clad in your own flannel PJs, feels even more solid than it looked last night. You still haven’t touched it or even seen him touch it. He came anyway.

You bring your nose to his hair and inhale his musk and your shampoo. There’s something about feeling your own clothes on his beefy body, smelling your own fragrance in his curls. It's sexy, and in a way, you feel like you're already becoming one with him.

You can still feel your nipples puckering against his hulkish back, and later, his face diving hungrily between your legs. You're getting wet. But then, rudely, the less pleasant details come back to you, and your heart breaks for him. He had such a rough night, you feel like you should let him sleep forever. He’ll wake up in a strange bed, in your PJs, with no phone, and likely a lot of physical pain. Emotional, too.

You pull your head back to admire him. The cut on his nose accentuates its perfect shape. If you had to custom order a pair of lips to please you, nothing you imagined could have come close. He's devastatingly hot. You wonder if you ever would have known the true extent of it if not for last night. You'd like to think it was only going to be a matter of time before you'd wake up one morning like this. Your thoughts return to the bath, then drying his hair.

You’re turned all the way on. You push your ass down into your bed as hard as you can, and your cunt clenches around nothing. He stirs and grinds himself into you, then blinks awake. His brow furrows and his body tenses. His long eyelashes squint. Then, he looks up at you. His lips barely move, but you see his eyes smile. His head gently but heavily lands on your shoulder and his chin reaches to softly bring his lips to your neck.

You should say something, you think. You should ask him how he's feeling. No, you decide, it can wait. Preserving this moment might be more valuable to both of you. It might be the only nice moment he has for the rest of the day or week. You want to make it your business to change that.

You stroke his curls and feel his cock pulse against you. He doesn't move his hips. Maybe he's shy. You turn onto your side, interlacing your fingers with the thick digits still draped across your waist. You push your ass into him, and he instantly pushes back with his warm, stiff manhood. Your core stirs with butterflies.

There he is.

Your underwear has ridden up, and you already feel a spot of wet, soft flannel against your bare skin. Your cunt rapidly moistens as desire floods your core. Your hand, still laced with his meaty fingers, moves your breast. He traces it lightly with his expansive palm, feeling your nipple harden against his calloused skin. He thrusts his arousal against you. His palm flattens your breast against your chest and his thick fingers gently press into your plush flesh.

Grinding his clothed arousal into your crack, his hips become rhythmic but slow, and he kisses the nape of your neck. You ache with a maddening desire to be filled by him. You want to tell him, but not out loud. You lightly trace your thumb down your side and bring your panties with it, lifting your top knee to slip one leg out, then the other. You feel the wetness of your panties against your inner thighs as you slide them off.

You push your soft, bare ass into him. His breath becomes ragged and his wood hardens even more under the flannel. He slowly grinds into you, massages your breasts wantingly, and raises his head to kiss and suck the side of your neck. You can't stand it anymore. You touch yourself.

His large hand lightly drags from your breast down your stomach. You slightly part your knees, making way for several meaty digits to disappear between your legs. His thick wrist brushes against yours as you withdraw your hand. You're so wet, you can feel your slick against your inner thighs.

You're both breathing heavily. His slick fingers gently rub you, a bit hesitant at first, then with dedication. Your hand reaches behind you and claws needily at his, your, flannel waistband. He abides and hastily pulls down the PJs. The hard velvet of his shaft and head hit the top of your crack, pointing up toward your back.

You want him elsewhere. You arch your back, tilting your hips so your cunt is more accessible from the back. His large, sculpted hand follows your cunt back between your legs. You briefly move your ass slightly away from him, releasing his hard cock forward so its head meets your wet, warm inner thighs. You push your ass back into his groin and his rock-hard member slides against your wet folds until the swollen head meets your sensitive bud, where two thick fingers are waiting.

You roll your hips to maximize contact between his cock and the apex of your folds as he thrusts against you, gradually harder and faster. His cock and fingers slide against you from both directions in an overwhelming, alternating pattern. You feel your climax coming and reach back to hold his curly head. He responds by softly biting your neck and planting a wet kiss. He shudders and his breath cools the saliva, sending a chill down your spine and hardening your nipples.

This is the hottest, wettest "dry" sex you've ever had. His hard cock sliding against your slickness feels better than you could have imagined. The pleasure in your core begins to flow into your entire body, then explode. With each burst of your climax, your ass juts into him hard.

His breath quickens and his cock flinches, then he begins to erupt against you, slowing his rhythm. Each emphatic pump sends hot cum between your legs, coating your inner thighs and folds as his cockhead slowly rubs it into every crevice.

"Sorry," he says. You hate that he would sell himself short after the orchestral performance you just experienced.

"Are you kidding?" You rotate so you can make eye contact. "That was incredible."

He flushes and smiles, averting his gaze then meeting yours again. Facing him, you hook your leg over his and pull his body closer. You search each other's eyes as you catch your breath. His massive hand caresses your back and he kisses you on the lips tenderly. You play with his hair.

Both of you quietly bask in the afterglow. You kiss him softly and sweetly on the cheek, then on the nose. He doesn't exactly smile a lot, but his eyes are filled with affection. He sighs and nuzzles his soft hair into your neck.

As you twirl his hair loosely around your fingers you ask, "How do you feel this morning?" He brings his head back to look at you. A thick, dark ringlet of hair hangs in the middle of his forehead and he searches your eyes.

"Perfect," he laughs silently and his Adam's apple moves. He kisses your neck sweetly.

“Mmm,” you smile. "All around?"

After a moment of silence you pull back to look him in the eyes again. Something has changed. He's pensive. "Yeah. . . I’m okay." He asks what time it is. You don't want to know. You don't want it to end.

But, it's after 9 a.m. and Corey is late for work. You don't have any pants to offer him, but he has his jumpsuit and a few things in his locker at Prevo. He just needs to borrow a dry shirt if possible for the walk across the scrapyard. His figure is so hulking that you really don’t have anything warm that would fit him, other than an ugly Christmas sweater that you wear as a dress with leggings. It’s an actual ugly sweater from a thrift store. Probably made in the 90s. Not an intentionally tacky one from Spencer’s.

He happily puts it on and tells you he can bring it back during lunch. You ask for his number, and he blushes and grins. You give him a long kiss goodbye.

You’re late to work too and have to skip lunch. You text Corey to let him know, and he responds “no worries. later 😘” Your heart flutters.

You know Prevo doesn’t close until 8 because you can hear the gate close from your bedroom when your window is open. These are some of the last days to enjoy the brisk weather before it turns bitter in Illinois. You meet a friend for dinner and crack your car windows on the way there. You’re almost late - The stoplight nearest to Prevo always takes forever.

You don’t tell your friend about Corey just yet. You know how it sounds. Hot exonerated killer sketchily shows up at your door at 3 AM with his face and clothes all fucked up and makes you come twice. Your mind keeps drifting to the band kids. You must protect Corey at all costs.

You make sure you leave in time to get home before Prevo closes. The light takes forever, and you keep looking at your clock. As you’re waiting for it to turn green, you notice a convertible full of obnoxious teenagers excitedly talking, then arguing about something.

You do a double take. One of them is wearing a band uniform and another is twirling a drumstick. Your heart jumps. You crack your window. The one in the uniform says, “D’UH not here, not when they’re fucking open. God, Margot.”

“Truth,” the one with the drumstick says. The light turns green. “Let’s blow out of here.”

You’re certain these are the kids who threw Corey off the bridge. Your breath is fast and heavy. You suck your upper lip under your bottom teeth and bite down as you think. You want to follow these losers and do something, but you don’t know what, and there are four of them.

You know it’s a bad idea, but your body takes over. Your body feels a lot of things for Corey, and one of them is protectiveness. You can’t stop yourself from following the band kids. They go to a diner full of people. You sit in the parking lot for a few minutes thinking about what you could possibly do, then you look at the clock. Shit.

When you get home, the sweater is laid neatly on the back of one of your plastic patio chairs. You check your phone and see a missed call. His text says. “Sorry, I’ve gotta run home. Thanks again.” Your heart drops. You almost feel like you’re going to cry.

Your response is irrational. You don’t know what you expected. Why does he have to run home, you wonder. You wonder if he’s going to ghost you. It couldn't be possible. He was so vulnerable with you last night, and this morning was so special. You couldn’t have been imagining it. You pray it’s not post-nut clarity.

You wonder if it’s one of those things where someone realizes they were too vulnerable and feel exposed and back off a bit, but they really just need a little more reassurance that you’re a safe person. You text him back “So sorry I missed you [frown][heartbreak]. See you in the yard tomorrow?”

Three dots hop on the chat screen and stop and start for what feels like five minutes but is probably less than one. He responds, “Yes, definitely.” No emoji, but you feel relieved. He adds, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.” Your heart swells.

You ask how he’s feeling, and he claims he’s not even sore.

Later, you’re lying in bed in yoga pants and an old t-shirt scrolling Tumblr and hear some commotion coming from Prevo. They closed hours ago. This seems bad. You open your window and wrap your blanket tighter as the cool air rushes in. You hear teenage voices but can’t make out the words until you hear his name : “COOORRREEY. COOORREEEY!”

A pit forms in your stomach. You throw on a jacket and boots. It’s too cold to be wearing no bra, but you don’t have time. You try to slow your heart rate as you briskly exit your backyard through a hole in the Prevo fence. You can't. You jog past the rows of old, undriveable cars. There’s a heavy fog in the air.

As you approach the garage, you hear “Billy, get the car!” Followed by the loud clicking and clinking of a large chain unrolling.

In the floodlight you see the convertible from a distance. A skinny guy with a mullet, presumably Billy, is about to get in. Closer to the garage, a brawny shape stands still and watches. You would recognize that beef anywhere. You get butterflies. His thighs and bulked up ass, the way his strong core is framed by thick arms and shoulders, and that thick, strong neck.

That neck. There’s actually something off about his neck. As your eyes move upward, you notice the collar is fully upturned. That’s hot, but also, is his head longer? No curly hair? Is this seriously not Corey? How could two bodies this perfect possibly exist in Haddonfield?

“Corey?” you whisper. He doesn’t respond or face you at first. If he heard you, he seems to want to leave you out of it. He rotates just enough for you to see Michael Myers’s mask. What is going on? He turns and walks away from the light, toward the parked cars. The gait confirms it is in fact Corey, wearing Michael’s mask. You can’t help but admire the way his jumpsuit hugs him as he walks. He’s wound up. His back is hulking. He disappears into the shadows.

The kids bicker with each other. One of them is in the convertible and the others are waiting near the garage. Seemingly out of thin air, Corey approaches the convertible. You hurry to get a better view. Billy doesn’t see him coming. Corey's back muscles stretch his jumpsuit as he leans over Billy. His expansive palm comes behind Billy's head, and his other hand engulfs the kid's fist, which is holding a drumstick. With a swift burst of muscle, Corey makes Billy impale himself in the eyeball. His head droops onto the steering wheel.

“Billy, move the car!” the ringleader says. He waits for a moment, then jogs toward the car.

Your hand floats up to cover your mouth. Corey has disappeared back into the shadows. You turn around looking for him, and–you gasp–he’s right behind you, sturdy as ever, holding a shotgun. Your heart is in your throat. Michael’s mask is pulled up over his face. Dark curls peek out from his hairline. His muscular neck fills almost the entire breadth of the upturned collar.

“BILLY IS DEAD!” the ringleader says in the distance.

You don’t have any words for Corey. Or even thoughts, for that matter, beyond the incoherently impure ones simmering in your core. “Wait here,” he says in a low and husky voice, eyeing the Prevo tow truck. “They’re not getting out of here,” he declares under his breath. His biceps stretch his sleeves as he hands you the long gun.

You put the strap across your chest without hesitation and adjust to the unexpected weight of the shotgun. You watch him climb into the Prevo tow truck, and somehow your only thought is, damn, the cake on that man.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you. You just saw someone get murdered. You correct yourself: You just saw a shitty menace to society get taken out.

The ringleader bangs on the office door, then goes inside. Corey starts the truck and the headlights reveal two panicked girls. The brake lights illuminate you in red, and you walk out from behind it. Your heart is racing. You must protect Corey at all costs. It’s been less than 24 hours since he showed up at your door, and it already feels like you’re a part of him, and he’s a part of you.

“Hey! Hey, you!” One of the girls yells at you. “Help!!!! HELP US!” The tow truck starts moving and they both run for the fence.

The ringleader rushes past you, stumbling, heading for the truck with a long gun. “Come on,” he says. In his eyes, it’s everyone against Michael, as usual in Haddonfield. You follow behind him.

Corey plows the truck through the locked exit, then screeches to a halt, pinning one of the girls to the ground under the fencing. The other girl screams, “MARGOT!” Margot is stuck under a mess of broken chain link and barbed wire.

In the driver's seat, Corey’s massive hand obscures the front of Michael’s mask as he pulls it over his face ceremoniously. He steps down off the truck and his large boot crunches the gravel with a thud. He has a huge wrench that looks standard-sized in his enormous, masculine hand. My god, his knuckles. You hear metal slide against calloused skin as he lets gravity ready the weapon.

The girl who isn’t trapped says “Terry! Margot is stuck!”

Terry answers, “Stacey, NO! Behind you!” She starts to turn.

Behind Stacey, Corey flexes his sculpted forearm, and with little apparent effort, swings the weighty wrench, striking her across the face, knocking her out cold to the ground. When he crouches down, you hear another impact: the squish of skin and crack of bone. With Billy dead, Margot trapped, and Stacey unconscious at best, he starts walking around to your side of the truck to face Terry, the ringleader, the master of puppets. Corey's huge boots land heavily on the ground with every step.

He stops and stands in the headlights of the truck, looking at Terry and you. He removes Michael’s mask so Terry will know who did it. You have never seen anything hotter than Corey Cunningham’s hefty, imposing figure in a form-fitting jumpsuit, standing feet spread, collar erect, holding Michael’s mask against a beefy thigh. The jumpsuit accentuates the natural bulge of his crotch, too. His eyes sparkle in the headlights. His gaze is almost seductive, an effect enhanced by his wicked half-smirk. Arousal stirs angrily in your core. You’re twitching with want.

You’re not sure what Corey’s plan is. He’s not holding a weapon. That wild curl you love hangs in the middle of his forehead. You feel utterly feral with need for him. You stand behind Terry as he nervously raises his shotgun.

As soon as Terry aims at Corey, finger on the trigger, you raise your shotgun butt-down, to take him out with a blow to the temple. On his way to the ground, Terry pulls the trigger. You hear the bullet hit flesh and your heart drops. You look immediately at Corey. He isn't hurt, that’s all that matters. Under the truck, blood pools around Stacey.

You pound Terry again for good measure, then train the barrel on him as Corey walks toward you. Corey stops and looks at Margot. She screams and thrashes under the fence. “Stacey! Please!” She seems to think there’s hope for her friend.

“Nice work,” Corey says, checking you out. His deep, gruff voice has never sounded hotter. You could swear he’s aroused. You know the tone. You want to jump his bones. He adds, “I’ve got him. Go check Stacey.”

You jog around the end of the collapsed fence toward Stacey. As you round the corner, a ragged piece of wire scrapes against your quad, then somehow catches on your inner thigh, ripping the fabric of your foolish yoga pants. Your skin feels hot under the sharp metal, but you don’t stop until you reach Stacey. She’s dead beyond a shadow of a doubt. The night air is cold against your inner thigh, and you look down. Irregular drops of blood have begun to bead in a dotted line.

Corey puts the masks back on and steps onto the bed of the truck to grab a large canister with a hose. “All good,” you confirm. He adjusts the crotch of his jumpsuit and his weight drops from the truck to the ground, landing with a loud thud and crunch of gravel.

Under the truck, you see one of Terry’s arms stir, and you begin jogging back to Terry, holding the shotgun like you’re ready to shoot. Terry blinks awake to the barrel of your shotgun staring him right between the eyes. He coughs weakly. Corey arrives and meets Terry on the ground, setting the canister down with a clink.

Corey sits back on his haunches, and his jumpsuit tightens over his thick knees and quads. He spreads his knees and lands all his weight on Terry's stomach and upper thighs. Terry groans as the considerable weight digs into him.

Corey twists two squeaky knobs on the canister and the valve begins to hiss with gas. He holds the hose in one large hand, and the nozzle with another. He looks up at you and you watch the bulge in his jumpsuit move ever so slightly. He pulls the hose hard against his crotch. He leans into Terry and aims a tapered nozzle at his stupid face, readying his girthy fingers on the metal trigger handle. He tightens his strong fist around the metal trigger, setting Terry’s face ablaze. You watch the horror of Terry’s flaming face for a moment, unaffected. Your gaze quickly returns to Corey’s wide, sculpted hands holding the hose against his lap. You want those hands all over you.

Margot cries. Corey releases the trigger handle and drops the hose. His expansive hands brace himself on his knees as he stands up. You shamelessly watch his glutes flex and stretch the fabric of his jumpsuit. You have never felt this level of visceral, physical longing. You must have him as soon as possible.

Corey’s whole body pumps as he raises a giant, heavy boot above Margot’s face. He holds the boot in the air and you admire his bulging hamstrings. Margo yells through the fence that he’s just a psycho and Terry was right. He brings his boot down hard against the fence. The fencing cross-hatches the plush of her face like a waffle iron.

Corey looks at Margot. You hear him breathe. It's like he's thinking about what she said. Without a word, he walks back to the driver’s side of the truck and gets in. Your heart sinks. You can’t believe he’s leaving. Panic sets in.

“Corey, wait!” you plead. He floors the gas and you chase after him, “COREY!” You shrug off the jacket as you run.

The truck accelerates violently to run Margot over, then stops. A wave of relief washes over you as you catch up. You get it: I'll show you "psycho." You don’t care what he’s going to do, you want to do it with him.

Corey opens the truck door and your hand grabs the doorframe, stopping him in his tracks. He's still wearing Michael's mask and is about to get out of the extra large, worn leather seat. You take one huge step into the truck, and before Corey can stand, you’re straddling him, face to face with Michael's mask.

Looking into Corey’s darkened eyes, you feel like you’re in Michael's lap, too, which is hot. But Corey is who you desperately need right now. You reach into his stiff, upturned collar to caress his thick neck and lift the bottom rubber edge. Then, his large hand removes the mask by the face. He shakes his hair. Two wild curls bounce down, damp with sweat, and his eyes hungrily search your face. His masculine features glisten with humidity. His collar is still up.

"Hey," he says lowly. "Come here."

He pulls you close and your crotch meets the ample hardness of his jumpsuit. Both of you inhale deeply through the nose as your lips meet passionately and he drops the mask to feel you with both palms. The satisfaction of finally touching each other again is exceeded only by the desperation to be even closer. Your hips grind needily into Corey and his large hands find your thighs.

His thumb catches on the torn fabric of your pants and his face pulls back. He looks from your eyes to your thigh and back, scanning your whole form. You must be a vision. His thumb drags along your scrape, smearing what's left of the red beads. He takes it between his lips and sucks your blood off his calloused skin. Next, he reaches inside the hole of the fabric with both thumbs and rips it open across the crotch. Cool air hits your skin, but heat is building in your core.

With your wet mess of a cunt exposed, his large hands immediately pull you into him, and the girth of his jumpsuit swells against your clit. Your head falls back with a soft moan, and his lips and teeth latch onto your neck. You frantically unzip him. Even before the jumpsuit is fully open, your other hand reaches in to grab his stiff, swollen member.

When the zipper is down, he yanks your body closer, abruptly, like a reflex. He shudders as your wet, pleading cunt presses hard against his naked shaft. Your clit throbs and your hips buck all on their own. You put your hands around his neck, resting your arms on his plough-horse shoulders. His large hands move your body, rubbing your cunt against his cock. The motion of his wet, rock-hard shaft against your throbbing clit brings you to the brink of climax.

He lifts you up just slightly higher so the swollen, weeping head of his cock slides down from the apex of your folds. You tilt your hips to catch it with your cunt.

His cockhead is nestled against your entrance. You are so close to being complete. It's quite a stretch as it begins to part your folds.

You badly need him inside you, but you’re so close to coming that your cunt is too clenched to take all of him right away. You bob up and down in short pulses on the head of his cock, desperate to take more. His face looks pained, like you’re edging him. He can’t stop his hips from rising to meet you. You take more of his shaft with each pulse.

He tilts his head all the way back, jutting his slutty Adam’s apple into the air. He brings a large thumb to your throbbing clit and has you seeing stars within seconds. Your cunt clenches desperately around the fat head of his cock, and you come, sliding a little more down his cock between every pulsation, the intensity of the pleasure overriding any pain from the girth.

Your walls strangle his cock with every wave. He gasps, moans, and marvels at you with dark, glassy eyes as you finish and your body yields to him entirely. Finally his whole cock is inside you. Half a centimeter more in either direction would have been too much.

Your aftershocks squeeze his stiff member and he lightly rocks his hips into yours. His pupils have overtaken his irises. A large palm comes to your breast. Your nipples are rock hard against your worn out t-shirt.

He feels so good. You want him inside you forever. He seems to look at you like he wants that, too. He hungrily presses his lips into yours, followed by his tongue. His hands are all over you. He devours your mouth, then your neck, then your chest. Your faces come together again and you kiss ferally as the rhythm gradually accelerates and his cock thrusts harder into you. His arms wrap around you tightly.

“Fuck,” he says gruffly. He’s close. His body consumes yours desperately. His brows furrow. He sighs loudly and his cock pulsates. He pulls you down hard and you feel him erupt inside you as he moans your name.

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Corey,” you moan and start to come again. Another burst from him coats your walls. “Oh, god, Corey.” Your cunt clenches around his cock for dear life as it empties.

Your eyelids are heavy, and your body is in another dimension where it’s just you and Corey. You breathe and moan into each other’s mouths. It's overwhelming. You’re on the verge of tears as you both finish.

You rest your foreheads together and breathe.

“Come with me,” he pants, pulling his head back to look into your eyes. He's still inside you.

“Where,” you ask, even though the answer is yes regardless.

His eyes search yours. “Everywhere,” he says.

You nod. Your thumb brushes his sopping wet forehead and nudges that wild curl. It bounces back. He kisses you deeply.

After a long moment, you slide off him and his cock springs out, enrobed in a white frothy blend. Your pants are a wet, sticky mess. The crotch is totally destroyed. It’s pretty hot, but you're also glad your house is close.

“Hey, we should probably get out of here,” he says, looking around and starting to zip himself up, but not all the way.

To be fair, you’re sitting in a murder weapon that’s parked on a crime scene.

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I don't tend to write condoms into grisly dick but please have safe sex.

my other Halloween smut

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