Easy
Just a short and not-so sweet drabble (less than 500 words?) about one Billy Russo. Hope you enjoy!
My tags are not working, so I apologize to those on my tag list!
Things had never been easy for William Russo. He’d struggled through childhood, abandoned and alone. He’d struggled through adolescence, through abuse and rage and pain.
But then, he trained to become a Marine, a scout sniper, and nothing had been easier to Billy Russo than war. Nothing had been so effortless as his dark eyes sweeping through the scope of his weapon, waiting silently and honing in on the enemy until it was time to pull the trigger. He would hit his target wherever Billy had imagined the bullseye to be. A head. A heart.
Sex was almost too easy for Billy Russo, filthy rich, flawlessly handsome, and owning more power than he knew what to do with. His name tumbled through the lips of women, wanton, caught between begging for more or begging him to stop, to let them cum— in his mouth, around his cock, spilling over his fingers. However he wanted them, whenever he wanted them, wherever he wanted them always went his way, literally falling into his lap as he licked his lips as his gaze darkened. Some women would dare to drag their lips and tongues along the lengths of his battle scars as they rocked their hips, tight around his cock, and all Billy could do was smirk, feel the confidence and power swell in his chest as his thrusts grew faster and deeper. The two things that were easiest for Billy—sex and war— would crash into one another for as long as a woman doted on those scars, and somewhere in that short stretch of time, Billy would cum. He’d bury himself deep inside whomever he was with, force growing stronger as that immeasurable power grew inside him like a cancer.
The third thing that became easy for Billy crept into his life over time, but it settled there, taking root alongside sex and war: killing. The only thing that was different when it came to a kill was the sense of apathy and emptiness that always followed. As he cleaned himself up afterward, Billy would make sure the blood that stained his hands was something only he could see. He’d step over the body he left in his wake without even realizing it had belonged to a living human being when he’d encountered them. When he left them, they were someone else’s mess to clean.
But his hands were always soiled. After the crimson red blood was scrubbed away– or the gunpowder, perhaps the smell of sex– his hands weren’t clean. In appearance, yes; perfectly manicured, long fingers and soft palms, it was all an illusion, a manipulation of sorts. His hands were filthy from the dirt of money, the skin of a woman, and the lives of those that he’d taken away. But Billy Russo was an illusion, a manipulated man. His hands were merely an accessory.