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peacefulwriter88 · 6 years

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Dust to Dust

Chris (The Destroyer) X Curvy WoC

Warnings: M for Mature (SMUT), angst, mentions of violence

Prompt – “A woman’s sexuality is a moving target”

A/N: So…..Seb once again took me off guard after The Destroyer trailer. Like yea he’s trashy…..but does he want to help remedy my ruined panties because I’m ruined. So here this is.

This is also for my girl Saran’s writing challenge – hope you all enjoy!

I may or may not make this a series based off The Civil Wars last studio album.

His hands are sweaty. The moisture falls between the dry, thick callouses that are littered over his palms, and he constantly rubs it on the rough surface of his jeans, trying to calm himself. 250 miles. Six hours. Caked up bloods that’s littered on the right side of his body, the iron taste still lingering on his tongue as he turns down to your house, slowing to find a parking spot on the busy street.

Posh townhomes and houses slowly light up as he drives by with the illusion of a better life.

Your townhome is dark.

He knew it would be. When he texted you earlier, you had said that you had last minute decided to meet up with friends for drinks after your workout but could happily cancel and he had indulged the idea for twenty seconds. But then the ache on the left side of his forehead reminded him that he couldn’t, not in the state he was in so he had said that he’d use the spare time to get in and wait up for you – that you deserved to have a good time with friends. He didn’t need you seeing him like this – wanted to keep up the illusion of all the things he wasn’t. Needed to let the dim autumn twilight fall on the comfortable city suburb, to ignore him as another passerbyer as he tried to make himself human again.

Needed to become the person who wanted to make you proud.

He finds a spot a few yards down from 2278 Quail Lane, the modern townhome that stood like a castle – what had slowly become his refuge over the past few months. This life had always seemed like an illusion to him – how the small patch of green in the front of the yard now covered with oak leaves clashed perfectly with clean brick. There were still people in the street despite the hour, people getting off work and walking their dogs or running in the blistery evening. He hoped they would ignore him. Needed them to ignore him.

He was already risking too much by coming here, by coming to you.

But he needed the safety of your arms. It was the only way to make himself whole again.

He takes a huge breath, sighing before he turns off the engine of the ‘97 Ford white van. It’s not his, it’s stolen, he’d deal with it in the morning – doubt anyone would miss it until then. It might throw you off – he typically drove a 2009 Ram Truck, but he was also a mechanic and it wasn’t rare that from time to time he’d have a new vehicle, ensuring its safety before returning it to its rightful owner. He hopes you don’t notice, hope he wouldn’t have to add it to the list of lies that he’d have to pile on tonight.

He hated lying to you but it was a means to an end if it meant your safety.

He grabs the large, black duffel bag that’s been sitting by his side from the 250 mile stretch and debates bringing it in. Makes it more dangerous if he does. But he can’t trust it out here, won’t get the sleep he needs if he does. He’ll push it under the bed, he decides, along with the 9 mm that being sitting like an airless weight tucked in the back of his jeans and he sighs as he pulls the key out of the ignition.

Just a night.

It was the first thing he had said when you had invited him over for dinner for the first time, drinking really expensive Italian wine that he was to prideful to admit he enjoyed as you coaxed him up to your room. ‘Just stay the night? Please?’ you had whispered in his arms hours later, both of you wrapped up in post coitus bliss and he had swallowed quickly, not wanting to. Knowing it was already risky being here in the first place. Then you had looked up at him with those tender eyes of yours, that look of ample devotion – two months in and he was dizzy from your spell – and had whispered back ‘A’lright da’rling. Just a night.’

One night had become hundreds.

He wanted hundreds more.

The van door is creaky as he exits the older vehicle, makes his presence known as the sound splices through the air, blending in with city traffic as he throws the bag over the side of his shoulder that is littered with the evidence of his crime.

Can’t think about it now. Just gotta push it down.

He makes it to your stoop easily, making a quick note of the leaves in the gutter. Knows you probably won’t take care of it and doesn’t want it affecting you in the winter and makes a note to make sure to clean it this weekend, maybe Saturday morning after breakfast. He smiles, allowing himself to relax for the first time all day as he digs in his pocket, looking for his keys. The idea of having you make some fancy form of pancakes in nothing but panties and his T-shirt, humming to yourself while he takes care of a simple house task you’d otherwise wave off. He loves knowing that the memory is special just to him, that it’s part of the gift of being in the relationship with you and with the cold, silver key ring finally found, he inserts it into your heavy duty locks, first the top dead bolt, then the second before finally the door. He had them installed the minute he officially asked you to be his girl – wanted to make sure you were safe. That’s all that mattered to him,

He moves in swiftly like a panther, locking the door behind him before leaning against the thick wood, allowing the heavy breath he’s been holding to finally escape.

Step one complete.

He closes his eyes, inhales the way the smell of cinnamon and spices mingle in the air. Those damn air fresheners you get from that fancy store that reminds him of safety and home, an autumn smell you lifted to his nose three Saturdays back as you smiled up at him, beautiful bold eyes drinking him in as you asked for his opinion. He remembers feeling insecure, out of place next to you in the small boutique, feeling the heat of patron eyes on the both of you, the odd couple that you were. You were so clean – make up perfectly molded to your skin, hair pulled up on top of your head in a messy bun. You were wearing jeans and a leather jacket and boots and looked like Abercrombie fall perfection. He still didn’t understand the woman you saw in the mirror when you criticized all those beautiful edges and curves that made you a woman when you didn’t think he noticed. You were beautiful and the memory makes him feel better, the way you had pressed your lips to his unabashedly as you pulled away and murmured you were going to get the scent anyways because you knew he secretly liked it and was too ashamed to admit it.

He takes three deep breaths before he pushes himself of off the door. Time to work. Happy hour with you always lingered longer and you’d probably be hungry when you got home. He’d order something wholesome, pizza or that Thai noodle stuff that he had an affinity for. Yea. He’d do that after he cleaned his fucking mess up.

First is the duffle bag, straight to the second guest bedroom that was never used, only barely when your folks were in town. It was your storage area, where you hid your extra clothes and other random supplies and he could keep it safe here for a while. So he opens the bag, pulls the black gun from out of his of his jeans, evidence of his damaged soul, the few rounds stilling jiggling in his pocket with his change. Pushes it to the bottom of the brittle bills, crisp and pristine and clean before zipping the rest up.

This would take care of the shop. This would take care of you.

His next move is the laundry – he needs to get cleaned, to rid himself of the evidence. The tan, thick hide jacket with the faux fur that hasn’t been brandished with blood is pristine but he knows he needs to clean it, if for his safety of mind. So he throws it aside, for now, he’d take it to the laundry in the morning with your other things. The least he can do. His boots feel heavy and he realizes he left a trail of mud up to the second floor, littering your hard wood floors and fuck he’d need to clean it because that’s not what he wants you to come home to. Next are his jeans, blanketed with more mud, and blood and sweat, and he pulls out his wallet and phone, throws it aside. Grateful it was hidden from the earlier scenes of the day. The thin black jacket comes next, he knows it’s dirty as it’s still wet with Tommy’s blood, and he stuffs it in along with his grey shirt. He throws some of your stuff in, he knows you hate laundry and it’ll be an excuse of why he’s washed a load before finally he takes off his boxers and he’s left butt ass naked throwing a tide pod into the modern machine. It whistles up, he selects a cycle and the water washes the sins away.

Now he needed to wash himself off it.

He finds his phone, on top of his wallet and sends a simple text your way,

Thai or Pizza luv bug? Gonna treat you to dinner and a nice massage tonight

Before he finds the other phone, the one you can never know about and pulls out the sim card, smashes it in. Throws it in the trash he’ll make sure to take out in the morning as the modern one buzzes beside him with your response.

Aren’t I a lucky girl Thai please! Shrimp and medium hot. So excitd to see you, I’ve miissssseeedd yu….

You’re tipsy he can tell, he can guess that fairy like daze that’s on your face as you respond in whatever bar you’re in and he can’t wait to wrap his arms around you, to inhale you, to kiss the vodka and lime off your tongue, to swap it for the bitter taste of copper that’s still infiltrated his taste buds.

He needs the safety of your love.

He makes the call to the restaurant easy, figures it’ll take them thirty minutes to get here and that with any luck, you’ll be home a lot sooner than that. The he does his final cleansing – the one part that he hates after hits like this.

Where he’d have to face the truth.

It’s in the form of a shower, the water spraying hot over his skin, over the years of scars and his buzzed hair and face. Washing the blood away from his body, from the scar in which the bullet grazed his forehead. Washing the regret from the bank. He wants to be human again. But he knows what that will require, it will require to think back to 11 a.m. this morning. To Tommy laying limply in his lap as Terri drives away, the sound of gunshots ringing over the buzz of an alarm. To watch the light flash out of Tommy’s eyes because it was a set up, they were fucking framed, again and it feels oddly familiar and scary. He allows thick, salty tears to fall down his face like a waterfall, to not hold back choking up the pain that’s creeped down into his bones. Tommy was one of the few people he had left from the old days.

And now he was dead.

For a few thousand dollars he was fucking dead.

And it was because he was trying so desperately to get out. To be a good man. To be a good man for you.

He’s in there far longer than planned, but by the time he departs he feels better. Able to kick of the way his body has been shaking, clean soap consuming his nostrils, his skin no longer sweaty or sticky from the hours of digging up a hole to place Tommy in. Has a plan to let Tommy’s ma know what happened, knows how to square things off with his crew and to sniff out the fucking mole that he knows keeps jeopardizing them. Jeopardizing his plan to get out for good and to start his life with you.

He wanted to be a whole man for you. To validate all the selfish things he wanted from you, like marriage and a family. And he could only do that if he got clean.

By the time he’s clothed, the cheap sweats he bought off a Walmart rack paired with a simple black t-shirt the doors clicking open and your voice infiltrates the space, high pitched and excited. You’re talking to someone, at first he thinks on the phone but as he listens to your ruffling, your overwhelmed feeling he can tell it’s the delivery boy with dinner. He comes down the stairs just as you sign the receipt, forging his signature and thanking the young boy who’s taking the opportunity to check you out, the way your work dress clings to your breast, the curve of your hips. ‘A woman’s sexuality is a moving target’ he remembered one of his mama’s boyfriends telling him as a child, ‘the right one will always keep you aiming’ and the memory takes him off guard, rippling against his brain as he drinks you in You’re wearing that emerald blue color that pops against your skin, that makes him dizzy and takes pleasure in the delivery boy taking you in, before bashfully turning away as you close and lock the door.

You nearly jump out of your bones when you turn, surprised to see him as he nears but he can see the shift in you, the way your smile widens as you watch him endearingly. You could have any man, any man in the goddamn world, and for some reason the world has granted him to be that man.

“Baby! You’re home early. I thought I’d get the jump on you.”

You smell like honey and vodka, like the first time you both met in a sketchy dark bar and he reveals in the way your hands wrap around him, the aggressive way your lips press against his own. He loves you like this, when you are soft and vulnerable, putting down the tough façade you put up for the world and allow yourself to be you. That you felt safe enough to be who you are with him.

“Wanted to surprise you so I went in early to get home before you.”

He pulls you back with him, one hand firmly on your waist as the other holds the bag of food, both forgotten by the both of you. Instead it’s your velvet lips on top of his own, dominating his as you follow him, your hands running through his hair as you moan into his mouth.

“Thought you were hungry.”

His back hits the open concept kitchen island where he gets rid of this bag on the island, his other hand happily grabbing at your ass. You moan out his name and he pushes his erection into you as you kiss him deeper.

“I’m hungry for you.”

You pull away far enough for to look into your eyes, your irises diluted with lust and that something else that tugs at the back of his heart, reminds him that he’s worthy of more than this piss shit trailer home he grew up in 90 miles south from here.

It’s been three days, the first time since your relationship you’d gone without seeing the other and the tension is palpable in the air between you. It makes him snap as he leans back down into you, mouth dominating your own. You’re both hasty as your hands move to his T-shirt, pulling it over his head as he kisses you deeper, maneuvering to your couch because the bed seems too far away. You fall back on the large, plush cushions before your hands dragging his sweats down, groaning at the site of his erection before your inserting his cock into your mouth. There’s no warning as your nails dig into his ass cheeks, taking him by surprise as your tongue moves up the large vein of his cock slowly and you moan deep and sultry around the hard flesh. He nearly chokes, feels small spurts of pre-cum come up as he looks down at you, at how dirty you look, your bun coming undone as your lashes tickle your cheeks. He doesn’t want to be selfish but it feels good to feel loved by you, to hear your content sounds hum around him and he closes his eyes and throws his head back, erasing the memories of earlier to replace them with this.

Every tainted memory he wants to be full of you.

His leg stiffens, can feel his stomach knot up and he pulls away because he wants to satisfy you, wants to be buried in you and pulls away, causing you to mewl as you pout your lips. He smiles as he bends down and kisses you, deeper, savoring his salty taste mingled with your sweetness, crouching until he’s able to yank you up, causing you to squeal as he takes a seat. You take his cue, neither of you caring that the window blinds were a bit open and that if the neighbors squinted hard enough they could see him spread his legs, watch the way you pull your panties down before straddling him, watching him with those lust filled eyes. Could see the way you slowly fall on top of his cock, mewling as he firmly plants his hands on either side of your hips, carefully helping you until your both full of each other, trembling from the overwhelming sensation. You both look at each other with that same dangerous look of love, he falls into the way your fingers caress over the bullet graze, cup his chin and scratch the gruff of his beard. Falling for you had changed everything for him, wrong to right for the first time in his world and he couldn’t push you away like he planned because of this selfish feeling that was consuming you both.

You deserved better.

“I love you.” he chokes it out, the emotion taking him off guard and he’s blinking back tears he hasn’t realized were captive in his eyes as you smile down at him, leaning into him and kissing him softly.

“I know. I love you too.”

He wasn’t worthy of it but hearing those words nestled him in safety, made him feel complete. You rise high enough to shift before his hips are snapping back into you and you’re moaning his name, head thrown back as your hips take over. He likes the way you look when you ride his cock, not thinking about all the petty insecurities the world has thrown on you but focusing on your pleasure, drinking in your beauty as your body takes him. Your soft and hard and edgy in all the ways he needs and his name is a reverent song on your lips and he has to lean into you as he fucks you harder, his hands sloppily searching for that small bundle of nerves that causes you to scream, he knows letting your neighbors know the power he has over you.

And in between each pass, each look are those promised eight letters, three words that have him unwinding, falling in between that place of who he was and who he is and he feels the tears take over. All the regret of his life, the things he’s always thought he lost that now live within the both of you.

You cum furiously, your arms wrapped around him tightly before he follows, his hips stuttering as he whispers his praises for you. And then there’s the comfortable silence, drinking in each other’s breath as he finds his center again. He doesn’t measure how long you have been in the comfort of each other, instead he focuses on your breath measuring out, the way your hands softly rake through his fine hair – down his exposed back. The soft words you whisper against his scalp, your devotion and love and gratitude that he’s in your life.

These were the moments his mama always told him to capture. The moments he allowed to slip by until it felt too late.

Moments he wanted to keep with you.

Eventually, you both pull away, you insistent on peeing as you pull out of him and you both groan before your giggling about how his cum trails down your legs. He sits in his nakedness, allowing the dark night sky to consume his skin, before he takes a deep breath and pulls his sweats back up, finds his discarded T-shirt. The Thai is still sitting on the island and while you change into something more comfortable, your movement betrayed by the wooden creaks above his heads he pulls out two bowls, dishes out the meal. When you come down its in sweats that mirror his own, an oversized T-shirt that he’s gotten used to you stealing from him as it clings to your body’s curves and a smile as you lean up and kiss him again.

“I love you beautiful.” He whispers when you pull away and you smile and nuzzle his nose.

“I love you too. But I’d love you more if you cleaned up all that mud you caked in!” you tease him as you give his butt a swap before grabbing his bowl and making your way into the living room. It was October and you were on a horror kick and the movie for the evening was a classic – The Shining. He curses himself about the mud, he forgot all about it and follows you to the couch as you turn on the TV.

“I’m sorry honey…..I’ll clean it up when were done. I completely forgot.”

He knows you’re kidding and don’t really care about the mud being tracked into the house as you fall into his side, searching for the movie in your Netflix library as you cuddle into his side. The guilt still lives in his chest though, causes him to tense up and you maneuver enough to look up at him, the teasing glimmer in your eyes now gone. Replaced with the look of love.

“I know baby, I’m just kidding. Relax. It’s your home too and I know you will.”

You always knew the right words to say, always knew how to calm him down. Your hand trails up his thigh, falling into his hardened stomach from years of hard work as you nuzzle your face into his chest. He feels himself relax, to stop the rigid frame he’s in as he wraps an arm around you, places a kiss in your hair, inhaling the lingering smell from the shampoo as he tightens his hold around you.

“You always say that…..but I want to respect what you work so hard for.”

“Baby,” your voice is sterner, giving him that look you always do and he knows the lecture that’s going to come next. “This can be your home too. You spend most nights over here anyways. Most of your things are over here and it’s been a little over a year...”

He wants to peel away because of course he wanted to live with you. But if the people he worked with knew about you, knew about the small piece of heaven he’d cut out for himself where he was no longer Chris the piece of shit from the wrong side of the tracks but Chris your lover, the man that helped fix up around your place and took corny photos with you at arcades and went on romantic picnics with they tried to toughen him up.

By hurting you.

Slicing out all the parts of you that reminded him that humanity wasn’t an illusion.

So he kisses you on your forehead and mumbles,

“I know honey….one day.”

He feels you falling into him as you sigh,

“You say that all the time, but Chris I….I love you. I want you to move in. I don’t know…I like it when you’re here. I feel safe. Makes the place feel like home.”

He closes his eyes, his throat tightening. He knew that. Home was just a metaphor for the safety and warm and nostalgic memories of building a foundation in and that was how he felt about this one. He wanted to continue to build more with you here, wanted to capture you from this moment until you were both old and dying.

But he wasn’t good enough for you.

It was too dangerous.

He was buying time for something he didn’t really think he’d ever own, not long term.

“Me too darling. But…you….I just…”

He can’t find the words and you nod as you kiss his clothed chest, sitting up a bit before you return your attention to the TV, knowing that he’d get defensive, close up all over again if you pushed too hard. So you eat, silently, keeping your eyes focused on the movie. Focusing on dinner. He hated when you closed up like this, and he hated that he was the cause of it. But better this, silent arguments that would dissipate with the morning rays than to never have the pleasure of being in yours arms again.

Still doesn’t break his heart when he sees two tears fall down your face, salty reminders of the selfish man he continued to allow himself to be.

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