illshowyourhurricanes

[illshowyourhurricanes]

sienna miller ✶✶

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Reblogging this so hard.

When a disabled person says that they can’t do something, we don’t mean that we just don’t want to. We also don’t mean maybe. We mean that we physically cannot do it or that we could, but it could really harm us. We have to pay consequences. You don’t.

[illshowyourhurricanes]

if anyone is looking for something to read… check out my master list!

[illshowyourhurricanes]

if anyone is looking for something to read… check out my master list!

[illshowyourhurricanes]

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.

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Growing Pains

It’s the return of Ryan Brenner, and it will be quite a journey! It’s also the introduction of Gracie, our main OC in this story. I’m super excited to share part one of a one-shot turned series I’ve been writing for months now. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy so far!

Word count: 2525 

Rating: PG

Tag list:  @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @gollyderek @yannii04 @carlaangel86 @vetseras @maydayfigment @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @delos-destinations @tenhargreeves @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @witchygagirl @fific7 @everything-lost-and-unsaid @pheedraws @my-rosegold-soul @commanderlola @leeanncodes @citrusmun @bisexual-space-slut @bendro-pascarnes @torresbarnes 

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me and ask or DM!

A loud whoop made her jump where she sat, and page 43 of the book she was attempting to read— The Giver by Lois Lowry— was sprayed with water. Laughter, louder than the whoop that startled her in the first place, erupted from the mouths of the four boys that were chest-deep in the lake as water lapped at their skin. 

“Thought you were gonna jump out yer skin and end up a pile’a bones,” her brother, Jonathan, called out to her as he laughed. Jonathan was 3 years her elder, and his mission at thirteen years old was to torture his baby sister Gracie. Jonathan’s friends from school, Steven and Ryan, usually joined in, not with the teasing as much as the laughing. And Ryan’s cousin Eric had tagged along that day as well— an extra gross boy to laugh at Jonathan’s stupid jokes. Gracie had decided she didn’t care for Eric. He was the whooper.

“Shut your mouth, Jonathan. I’m trynna read!” Not that she was really all that able to see with water splashed over half of page 43– she could swear the ink was beginning to run.  

“Maybe you shouldn’t be such a nerd and bring a dumb book to the lake!”

Still grinning, Ryan swam a few strokes closer to the lake coast, though he was still a yard or so from her. If she had to pick between one of her brother’s stupid friends, it would be Ryan, but only because Steven was just like Jonathan, and one Jonathan was enough. 

“Whatcha readin’?” Ryan asked, squinting over at the girl. Gracie squinted back, regarding Ryan, and then held up the paperback.

“The Giver,” she told Ryan. She put the book down over her right knee, cover side up. “Until someone splashed water all over page 43.” She averted her eyes to glare at Eric, who was farther out in the lake joking with Jonathan and Steven. Gracie wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Why do you hang out with them, anyway?”

Instead of answering right away, Ryan just swam closer until he was there on the shore, towering over Gracie and dripping wet. “Why don’t you, li’l bit?” 

Gracie just glowered up at him. She may choose Ryan out first out of the four boys, but it didn’t mean she liked him. “Name is Gracie, Ryan Brenner. And don’t drip on The Giver.”

                                             *     *      *     *

All Gracie had asked to receive for her eleventh birthday was permission to go to the lake without Jonathan as a chaperone. Her mother was reluctant, but after several instances of begging and a conversation  with Gracie’s father, her birthday wish was granted— with the understanding that she’d be home before sundown. The lake wasn’t far from home— about a quarter of a mile— and the rural Virginia town where Gracie lived was safe, and she was responsible for her age. 

There were still a few small gifts to open and cake and ice cream to be had, but she had two free hours until then  Gracie wanted to spend them at her favorite place, alone, soaking up the sun and diving into Anne of Green Gables— the first of two gifts she’d opened. The second was a watch, insurance that she’d be back home in time to sing Happy Birthday. 

Book in hand, she ran almost the whole way to the lake, book in hand. The sun was warm and bright, but there was a lazy breeze rustling the leaves on the clusters of towering trees she passed on the way. It was a perfect day for some quiet reading, the only sounds surrounding her that of the breeze, the quiet rippling of the water, and the turning of pages. 

Slowing down, her chest heaving at the effort to catch her breath, Gracie froze in place. Did she hear music? No, it was impossible— just her imagination. Shaking her head, she made her way to the lake and stumbled upon the source of the music. 

“No.” She made a beeline for Ryan, stopping a yard away from the old wooden swing that hung from a low, looming tree branch. “No way. Get outta here with that noise, Ryan.” 

He had stopped strumming long enough to squint up at Gracie, the sunlight casting an ethereal glow around her form. He could barely see the exasperated and annoyed expression on her face due to the sun's rays. She had a book crooked in her arm and cradled against her chest— as always. 

“C’mon, Lil Bit. I ain’t gonna bother you.” He looked back down to his old guitar, placing three fingers side by side on three of the six steel strings. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Gracie’s brows rose in slight surprise. He’d remembered. Relaxing her stance, she continued to look down at him for a moment. “Thanks.” Turning and taking a few steps back, she tucked her book under her arm and grabbed the two fraying ropes that held the old, wooden swing from a thick, sturdy tree branch. The ropes were fraying and rough in her hands, the material  weathered like the seat she gingerly perched herself on. That old  swing had been hanging there as long as she could remember, and it creaked under her weight. “Are you coming to eat cake?” 

“It looks beat up, Gracie,” Ryan warned as she sat. The creaking made her feel a bit wary, but the old swing seemed sturdy enough to hold her weight if she kept mostly still. He watched her for a moment after she sat, and she shrugged her shoulders, offering him a satisfied smile. “Don’t fall, Li’l Bit.” 

“Nobody’s fallin’. And I told you— my name is Gracie.” She paused for a moment, unopened book still perched on her lap. Ryan just winked in response and turned back to his guitar. Before he could strum, Gracie spoke up again. “You can’t call me Li’l Bit forever, you know. I’m eleven.” 

Eleven years old, Gracie thought, was much more mature than ten. Ten year olds were just kids. She’d been eleven for half a day now, and felt much more grown up than she felt the day prior. 

She heard Ryan chuckle, and she knitted her brow. “Eleven? I apologize, ma’am. Miss L’il Bit.” 

Gracie’s jaw dropped in surprise, but she couldn’t help the laughing that followed. “You must not want any cake,” she said in mock indignance, narrowing her eyes. “Just play your guitar, Ryan Brenner.” With that, she finally  cracked open her book, flipping past the first few pages and stopping at Chapter 1. If someone else had to be at the lake, Gracie guessed she’d choose Ryan over any of the other boys. 

                                              *     *      *     *

Gracie didn’t know what was up with Ryan. It was mid-July, so steaming hot outside it was almost hard to breathe, and Ryan had been sleeping over at her house for over two weeks straight— as a matter of fact, had been staying over with Jonathan so long that Gracie’s mother was threatening to give him chores. She was laughing, Jonathan was chiding his friend, and Gracie was going stir-crazy. It was miserably hot, but maybe she’d go for a swim. The water would be warm, but a nice reprieve from not only the sun, but also Ryan and her brother. 

She was perched on the countertop, legs folded. Gracie had initially come into the kitchen for an ice cream sandwich, only to find an empty box in the freezer. Jonathan— and her new housemate, it seemed— had gone through the entire box in less than a week, not counting the single ice cream sandwich Gracie had snagged just after coming home from grocery shopping with her mother. 

She didn’t loathe Ryan like she did her brother, but he had cut into her ice cream quota. Her distaste for the guy was slowly rising. 

“What do you think, Gracie?” Her mother’s voice directed at her had caught her attention; all the chattering between her and the two boys, she had drowned out. She had no idea what her mother was asking. What do I think about what? Two fifteen year old boys under one roof? A lot of things I’d get grounded for saying. 

“I think there are too many boys here and not enough ice cream.” Instead of looking at the two boys, she made a point of not looking at them, and hopped off the counter, making a beeline for her room. Quick as lightning, she stripped off her clothes, changed into her swimsuit, and redressed. On her way out, she stuffed a towel and a copy of The Outsiders into an oversized tote. 

Back in the kitchen, Gracie slid her feet into a pair of cheap flip flops that she’d discarded when she’d walked into the door. “I’m going to the lake and I really don’t want company.” Before Jonathan could reply with some stupid remark, Gracie was our the door and in her way. 

It had been roughly two minutes when she heard footsteps hitting the concrete behind her. She refused to look back. Continuing on her way, she quickened her pace. The footsteps were still behind her. 

“Hey, Little Bit, wait up!”

Only one person called her Little Bit. “Go home, Ryan.” He caught up to her, matching her pace. Gracie ignored him. 

“Listen… I have—“

She stopped short and turned to glare at Ryan. Maybe she was acting childish, pouting like she was. She didn’t care. “I said I don’t want company! Go home.”

“Gracie…”

Gracie. The indignant expression she wore faltered for a short beat of time. Ryan never called her by her name. She surveyed him, from his face, down to his feet and back up again. Without another word, she turned away and continued her trek to the lake. She heard Ryan’s steps on the concrete behind her, and then there he was, walking beside her. She kept her eyes focused straight ahead. 

“Got ourselves a scorcher today.” Looking sideways at Ryan, she didn’t answer. He wasn’t following her uninvited to talk about the unrelenting heat.  “Know what would really hit the spot?”

She narrowed her eyes and made a sharp turn, walking on grass instead of concrete. If Ryan was insinuating ice cream and not just a swim in the lake, she would throttle him… or hit him, at least. He was fourteen, and tall, and maybe she was eleven years old–she lifted her chin in indignance– but she knew a hit from her wouldn’t even hurt Ryan, and wasting the energy would be foolish. She sped up her steps, but Ryan’s strides were longer than Gracie’s, and he caught up to her quickly.

“Can’t you take a hint, Ryan? Leave me–”

“A dip in the lake.” 

Gracie paused her authoratative walk long enough to give Ryan a suspicious look. Why had he seemed desperate to catch up with her and not go away like she clearly wanted him to? Surely, not for a swim in the lake on a hot day when all she was craving was ice cream while reading her book– alone. She didn’t know what Ryan’s aim was, but he could swim while she read because what she thought was small talk was as pleasant on nails down a chalkboard. 

She began walking again, her pace slower as a slight breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees. Weaving between two ancient oaks, she’d be at the lake in two minutes using the shortcut she always did to get there. As she and Ryan approached the water, he stripped his shirt off, tossing it to the side as he ran for the lake and jumped in. Gracie wasn’t close enough to get wet, but an overabundance of water splashed as the result of his jump, and she couldn’t help herself. Dropping her tote onto the ground and stepping out of her flip-flops and shorts, she ran for the lake as Ryan surfaced, shaking water out of his dark hair. She let out a little shriek as she jumped into the water, her body going under the gentle current of the lake before she swam to the surface. She had droplets of water running over her face, cutting the heavy heat in the air by a long shot, and she laughed as she rang out her hair. 

“Thought you were readin’ and wanted to be left alone,” Ryan teased in jest. His voice held no connotation of any type of bullying, not at all mean-spirited, but almost gentle. Gracie narrowed her eyes as she treaded water, just a yard away from Ryan. 

“That was the plan,” she responded, fighting a smile and losing the battle. “I’ve read The Outsiders before. It’s one of my favorites.” She slipped under again, swimming past Ryan and popping up to breathe behind him. “I don’t usually pass on readin’ for anything but since you refuse to leave me alone…”

Ryan chucked as she trailed off, and a glint of mischief set his eyes alight. “Hey, Lil Bit, you know what would really hit the spot?”

“Ryan Brenner, if you say–”

“Ice cream,” he interjected, lips spreading into a grin and showcasing his dimples. “Cold and creamy, melting over your fingers and makin’ ‘em sticky… I got money. I mowed the lawn for old Miss Butler, cleaned up the yard for Mr. Elliot next door while he was in New Orleans, stuff like that.”

Gracie went from preparing herself to yell at him for mentioning ice cream, squaring her shoulders and all, only to wilt as Ryan continued to talk. He had money. Had his motive in following her been buying her ice cream? 

She looked down at the water, her shadow being distorted by the rippling surface of the lake. “It was mostly Jonathan hogging the ice cream,” she said, her brow furrowed. Her older brother was becoming more insufferable by the day and he wasn’t the type one could simply ignore. He was loud and obnoxious and unaware of anything that didn’t have to do with himself, and Gracie could never understand for the life of her why Ryan was his friend. Jonathan would never offer to buy her ice cream, unless he did it begrudgingly because her Mama made him. 

“I had at least four of those ice cream sandwiches,” he confessed with a smile. “Over the course of a few days, one by one. I didn’t stuff four at a time down my throat like Jonathan did.” Turning his back to Gracie, he began trudging through the water toward the land. “C’mon, let’s go to TCBY.”

She stayed in the lake, suspiciously eyeing Ryan’s back as he made it to shore. She slowly and somewhat reluctantly began following suit, heading for the shore as Ryan made his way onto the sand. His shorts and hair were dripping with water, and he raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair, slicking it back and out of his eyes. “C’mon,” he urged Gracie again, offering her a smile. Maybe she’d been acting like a petulant brat, but really, Ryan wasn’t a bad guy– and Gracie still really wanted ice cream.

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Attention:Ryan Brenner is coming very soon!

And it’s another new incarnation of Ryan. It’s not involved with “you”— it’s a story with multiple OCs. And while I wanted it to be a one-shot, it has to be broken into chapters, and readers will see why! I’ll post part 1 today. I’m excited about this one.

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Why do I love you was savage lmao wow😂😂 Wonderful writing once again though. You paint a picture beautifully I can picture your stories in my head like a movie

I was actually anxious in posting it, because it took me about 10 minutes to write at most, and I’m very not used to being short-winded, but I’m so happy you liked the savagery! 😂

Thank you so much for your lovely compliments, and if you’re able to see my imagery play out in your mind, then my goal has been met! You’ve made my day, thank you again!

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Promts yayy. Why do I love you and Billy Russo. (I'm still on Valentine day mood apparently 😍) It's so good to see you back.

Thank you so much, for the kind words and the request! It can be found here! I hope you like what I did with it. 

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Five-word prompt drabble

(Prompt: “Why do you love me?” for Billy Russo X reader)

Word count: 371

Rating: mentions of weapons, war, scarring

Thank you so much to @snowkestrel for the request!

Tag list: @the-blind-assassin-12 @obscurilicious @something-tofightfor @logans-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @gollyderek @yannii04 @carlaangel86 @maydayfigment @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @tenhargreeves @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @witchygagirl @fific7 @everything-lost-and-unsaid @pheedraws @my-rosegold-soul @commanderlola @leeanncodes @citrusmun @bisexual-space-slut

If you would like to be added to/removed from my tag list, just send me an ask. As always, thank you for reading!

Billy’s hands rose to his face and he pressed a finger over each of his closed eyelids. He stayed that way for long enough for you to notice that his fingernails were no longer pristine and perfectly manicured. His hands almost looked foreign, the hands of a stranger who had been battered and broken; hands that shook as they held an M40 rifle, deafened by the atrocities of war; hands that had, at one time, ran over every inch of your body and resulted in you screaming his name. Those hands rubbed down his scar-ridden cheeks, one falling to his thigh as the other ran over his mouth and chin, bringing your attention to his goatee. Your brows furrowed as the realization hit you— he was unable to grow a beard, not with those deep, puckered wounds that disfigured his face.

He claimed to remember nothing, to be void of any memory over a span of years; Billy thought he was still a Marine, which meant Billy would remember you. You’d known him before his first tour. Just before he left for training, you told him you loved him for the first time of many. He’d never once said it back. Now he was begging for answers, for any shard of information he could grasp onto in hopes he could remember something— anything.

And there you stood, his voice thick with an accent you hadn’t heard so pronounced since before echoing in your head: “Why do you love me?”

You sank down into the chair across from Billy and searched for any remnants of his former face. Even his eyes were completely different. They were haunted, yet hungry with the desperation of hope.

“Why do I love you?” You echoed his question and shrugged your shoulders. “I recanted those words when I learned what you did to Frank and his family. You don’t remember, but I do.” You stood back up again, walking to the door. You opened it to let him out. “Why do I love you?” There was a hint of a smile tugging at your lips though you tried to keep it at bay. “I don’t.” You gestured to the door. “Take care, Billy.”

[illshowyourhurricanes]

It has been a minute. Send me an ask with a character (who I write for are in the tags) and a prompt and we’ll see what comes of it!

five word prompts

[inspired by this]

“actually… i just miss you.”

“alright, i’ll leave you alone.”

“and slowly… i was forgotten.”

“and then everything just disappears.”

“and where do i go?”

“anyone could tell from here.”

“are you finishing that or…?”

“are you stupid or stupid?”

“anything, just call me, okay?”

“bitch better have my money.”

“bro… that’s so… not cool…”

“but did you do it?”

“call me now. it’s urgent.”

"can’t you listen to me?”

“cross that. don’t answer that.”

“don’t even think about it.”

“don’t you dare walk away.”

“do it. i dare you.”

“did you think i forgot?”

“eventually… you just move on.”

“even if you still do.”

“everything will fall into place.”

“fight me, you attractive stranger.”

“for once, i need you.”

“for once… i was right.”

“for once… i was wrong.”

“forget i even asked you.”

“forget it. you fucking suck.”

“fuck’s sake, what’s your problem?”

“fuck off. i mean it.”

“give and take. that’s life.”

“great. perfect. nice. fuck this.”

“have you lost your mind?”

“hello? it’s me. i was-”

“hey… that wasn’t so nice.”

“here’s a glass of whatever.”

“how about a hug, hm?”

“how about you make me?”

“i haven’t forgot you yet.”

“i can’t be around you.”

“i don’t need you, really.”

“i don’t need this now.”

“is this your first time?”

“it’s just a cut, really.”

“it wasn’t me, i swear!”

“i said i love you.”

“just don’t fuck it up.”

"just… come back alive, okay?”

“just make sure you’ve eaten.”

“kick his ass for me.”

“killed him? wait, what, literally?”

“life really sucks. feel better.”

“letting go hurts… a lot.”

“let me live, will you?”

“no, i don’t need you.”

“nothing can hurt me now.”

“nothing matters anymore to me.”

“okay it was me… so?”

“people lie all the time.”

“pipe the fuck down, asshole.”

“please, you can’t die now.”

“please don’t leave me alone.”

“quiet. they can hear us.”

“quick! give me your phone!”

“quicker, you freaking piece of-”

“quit it or i’ll bite.”

“quit staring! they’ll notice us!”

"really? do i look stupid?”

“real smooth, tripping over air.”

“rise and shine, sweet thing.”

“rise and fucking shine, motherfucker.”

“seriously? give me a break.”

“so… what are we now?”

“so… did you miss me?”

“so… can we go eat?”

“so… when’s the next flight?”

“so… how did everything go?”

“sometimes, i wish you died.”

“so what? you did it.”

“time passes slower without you.”

“then what do you suggest?”

“the fuck? who are you?”

“then you tell me why.”

“this is not working out.”

“this isn’t what i wanted.”

“this is all a fucking disaster.”

“when did it all happen?”

“who knew you’d be here?”

“why do i even bother?”

“why do i love you?”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

“you’re just… so, so stupid.”

“you can’t be here now.”

“you look like an accident.”

“you really need to go.”

“you know who to call.”

"zero fucks given. next please.”

[illshowyourhurricanes]

@dangerouspursepeachbear Thanks so much for the reblog!

Collision Course

This was requested by @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes for the prompt “Your ass is going to be seven different shades of red after that little stunt with Billy Russo. 

Rating: PG-13 to R-ish due to language and some zest.

Word count: 1050

Tag list: @dylanobrusso @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @ms-delos @something-tofightfor @madamrogers @lexxierave @benbarnestongue @yannii04 @maydayfigment

If you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just ask!

Enjoy!

Keep reading

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Snapshots

I’m trying something new with our love Billy Russo here. His broken mind does eventually wake up to memories, flashbacks, random moments and experiences in his life. This series of one-shots, drabbles, etc-- most likely unrelated-- is going to basically give insight into some of those re-encountered memories. 

Rating: PG-13: language, mentions of sex

Word count: 910

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logans-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @gollyderek @yannii04 @carlaangel86 @vetseras @maydayfigment @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @tenhargreeves @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @witchygagirl @fific7 @everything-lost-and-unsaid @pheedraws @my-rosegold-soul @commanderlola @leeanncodes @citrusmun @bisexual-space-slut

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, please send me an ask.

Thanks for reading!

 (1)

"Lieutenant William Russo."

Her voice was thick with disgust; her expression no more than a sneer. 

Billy waited. He waited for her eyes-- those intoxicating eyes-- to focus on his face, for her mind-- her brilliant mind-- to register what she was seeing.  

“How unfortunate."

She stayed there, standing in the threshold of the entrance to her penthouse suite, and as the seconds ticked by, her sneer turned into a gratified smirk. Billy Russo was hideous; he was ruined. His face had been mangled. He’d been shot and cut and the evidence of that was all over his once flawless face. It used to make her heart race, back before the mere thought of him made her stomach turn. 

But now… now his face wasn’t so perfect. In fact, it was marred with scars— thick, pink, evident scars, the tissue that had been stitched together puckering in jagged lines. She focused on one in particular, high up on his forehead and dangerously close to his hairline. He was wearing a beanie, but she suspected his always styled hair was something else he’d lost. 

The satisfaction she felt was impossible to hide. What had happened to Billy wasn’t just fitting, but sadistically amusing. “What a shame, you used to be so pretty.” 

Billy’s nostrils flared. He stood to his full height— no more slumping of his shoulders, no more averting his eyes— and his gaze went straight to hers. He was staring her down just like she was him, and she saw his jaw flex. What really jarred her, if just for two seconds, was the look in his eyes. He could play angry, but she knew that look because she'd become quite acquainted with it from looking in the mirror. It was shame. And never had she seen Billy Russo with shame in his eyes. She found herself pushing back from the threshold of the door, turning away and walking inside. Whatever he wanted, he wasn’t getting.

Standing outside the door was enough for Billy. It was darker there, and though he had his hoodie pulled up over his head, he preferred standing in the shadows. It reminded him of being in combat, staying hidden from the enemy, a phantom until they rounded a corner. Then, he was the face of death. Now, the shadows hid part of his ugliness. 

Even so, he stepped inside after lingering outside for a few moments, squinting as his eyes got acclimated to the light inside. The kitchen was alight, and the open floor plan allowed Billy to see through the penthouse to the living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows presenting the celebrated New York City skyline to any onlooker inside. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he seemed almost transfixed by his surroundings. Eyes narrowed, his eyes darted around his surroundings, an eerie familiarity settling over him like a foggy morning mist. 

She saw his expression out of her periphery and smirked. She felt a soar of satisfaction in her chest and retrieved her wine glass from the counter where she'd placed it when she got the door. 

“I made some changes,” she said, turning around to admire the view for herself. “Just a few— new furniture, those couches you had were too dark. They were doing the lighting a disservice.” Turning her head to look at him, her attention strayed, focused at the scarring on his cheek. He’d been so carelessly and messily stitched. “I always hated those couches. I’m not one to hide my distaste.”

Finally, he blinked and turned to look at her head on. Reaching upward, he pushed the hoodie from his head and ran a palm over his scalp. Shrugging his left shoulder— it ached— he settled his gaze on her own. She'd told him why this place gave him that odd feeling; she'd connected the dots without Billy saying a word. This penthouse— her penthouse— had once been his. 

He remembered fragments of stories he’d been told: a company, Anvil, one he’d built from the ground up with money he’d sold himself for. A CEO, filthy rich and powerful witt his tailor-made designer suits, ridiculously expensive cars, woman after woman after woman… his penthouse. 

She saw something new in his eyes, an amalgamation of emotions all built into one look. She saw regret. She saw shame. And she caught something all too familiar, so strikingly Billy, she felt chill bumps pop up over her spine— she saw a flash of anger. 

“This place is mine.” Billy spoke through clenched teeth. His eyes never wavered from hers. He’d looked around his surroundings enough, noticed some things unchanged that incited a recognition so strong, it was visceral. He may not remember how it became his—he supposed it had something to do with this Anvil operation he was told about—but the semantics of how meant nothing to Billy then. For months, how and why had been all he cared about. 

“Was yours, Lieutenant.” Her voice was smooth, cool. She enjoyed taunting him; she found pleasure in it. “A lot of things were yours.” Her eyes were ice cold, but beyond that, they held a haughty look of pride. “Look at you now.” Boldly, she reached for his face, and with one fingertip, traced the crooked, puckered scar over his left cheek. Billy Russo was destroyed. And nothing had given her as much pleasure—except, perhaps, the countless nights they’d spent tangled in sheets and in one another. It had been a lifetime ago. 

[illshowyourhurricanes]

It’s been awhile.

I fully realize this and I do apologize. I have gained a significant amount of new followers in the last year (I think its been that long, give or take, with the exception of 2 one-shots) and I have noticed the reblogs, the likes, and the notes, especially lately. The great, positive feedback, as well as big personal changes, have kicked up my desire to start writing again. My inspiration is there. Thank you all for continuing to read, to follow, and keep up with my little writing blog. (If anyone would like to be added to or removed from my tag list, please shoot an ask my way. And, as always, requests are open!)

[illshowyourhurricanes]

'Castles Made of Sand' was just WONDERFUL and so touching!!!

This makes me so happy to hear because this was, by far, the most difficult story for me to write out of all of those I’ve posted! I love Benjamin as a character, and especially wanted this one to come out well because it was a request. Thank you so much for reading and for your thoughtful and kind words!

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Trying desperately to get back into the swing of things, so why not?

WiP Wednesday!

Leave a word in my inbox and I’ll tell you which of my WiPs it is most relevant to, and share a piece of that pie. 🥧

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Payphone

Here, finally, months later is my first fulfilled request from my 200 followers event. 2020 was a shitshow, and my writing fell off the radar, but one of my goals for this year is to get back on track. @the-blind-assassin-12 requested season 1 Billy Russo and image 3 and I hope you all like what I did with it!

Rating: R

Trigger warnings: mentions of weapons and violence

Word count: 972

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @gollyderek @yannii04 @carlaangel86 @vetseras @maydayfigment @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @delos-destinations @tenhargreeves @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @witchygagirl @fific7 @everything-lost-and-unsaid @pheedraws @my-rosegold-soul @commanderlola @leeanncodes @citrusmun @bisexual-space-slut

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, please send me an ask.

Thanks for reading!

The phone rings, and it’s the last person you expect… the last person you expect, but a voice you’ll never forget. 

“Get out now.”

His voice is hushed but firm, and you can tell he’s speaking through gritted teeth, his jaw flexing. Your heartbeat becomes erratic, and you aren’t sure if it’s a response to hearing his voice or the message he was delivering. 

“Billy?” 

His voice becomes lower and his New York accent grows stronger in his irritation. his urgency. He speaks your name. “I’m not fuckin’ around here. Get out now. Don’t bring anything with you. There’s a car waitin’.”

With one click, the phone line goes dead.

******

Billy Russo knew the ins and outs of New York City. He knew his way around every borough, the glitz of midtown and the gritty, hidden back alleys of Hell’s Kitchen and Dumbo. He knew where to find a lone pay phone still in working order, desolate and abandoned in areas tucked into shadows, waiting like the bums with hallowed eyes and blood-stained blades. Waiting for the next high, for the bitter, copper taste of blood, conditioned to the unmistakable stench of death. For the adrenaline rush and the power that came with a knife sinking into flesh. 

Dressed in all black, he was on Ninth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen. Many people knew of William Russo, founder and CEO—successful, filthy rich, surrounded by women— one of New York’s elite. What they didn’t know was what was stealthily obscured behind that facade. Billy was a dangerous man, one to be feared. His hands were stained with blood, no matter how scrubbed clean they may be, no matter how perfectly manicured. He was an ex-Marine who was still just as lethal on homeland soil. He was impossible to spot, silent, cat-like, always looking, attacking silently, like a feral animal in the night. 

Hyper aware of his surroundings, he strode with an air of confidence and sense of purpose, only stepping onto the filthy sidewalk when he spotted the payphone he was aiming for. Would it be easier to use his personal smartphone? Absolutely. But Billy Russo knew the kind of man William Rawlins was, and the man would have his line tapped. His orders were not to be ignored. 

Billy was in hot shit, and so were you. You were the reason He was where he was at this point, standing in front of a payphone in a shitty part of the city—but only halfway. The other half is the reason that Rawlins wanted your head, and Billy refused to kill you. 

You knew too much. Soldiers you’d worked with had ties to Anvil. It was through his company that you’d met Billy Russo. You learned too much about what went on behind the scenes, from those who were hand-picked by Billy for reasons quite different than simply contracting private military affairs. You knew things others didn’t, and the bottom line was that you and Billy had formed an alliance. You carefully chose the men he’d need for unofficial business. Billy paid you generously, with money and no-strings-attached sex. And someone had found out and snitched. 

By the time he made it to the pay phone, Billy was wide eyed with adrenaline, his chilled jaw clenched with determination.  His demeanor was cool and calm; he’d perfected the art of never showing outwardly that he felt unsure, if something may be in jeopardy. One hand reaching for his pocket, he palmed two coins, sliding one after the other into the slot above the receiver. The dial tone blared into his ear. He made the call. And just after his message was delivered and the call was done, a shot rang out.

The deafening sound was followed by a quick flick of Billy’s wrist, the soft clicking of a blade almost discernible in the wake of a bullet’s explosion. He could smell gunpowder. It reminded him of war, both back in Kandahar and here at home, in the streets of New York. 

Billy tuned from the payphone, eyes darting around his surroundings. He knew he wasn’t alone, but he also knew he had multiple weapons on his person. He knew he had the advantage of military experience. He knew how to duck into shadows, flatten himself against a building, move quickly and silently.  

No, Billy wasn’t alone, but you were. He walked the block and turned right, long legs carrying him swiftly as he walked east, heading for the location he’d chosen for safety. 

When he walked inside, you couldn’t believe Billy’s cool demeanor. He exuded confidence and calm, total control and authority, but there was an air of exhilaration about him. His dark eyes met yours for a brief moment. Reaching into the back of his jeans, he pulled out a handgun, setting it down on the one small table in the room. Rolling his neck, tilted his head side-to-side and shrugged his right shoulder. It ached. 

He said your name, sank down onto the hard, straight-backed chair across from yours. A trace of a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “Which one of your men is the snitch?” His eyes were burning into yours. “I’ve got an arsenal of weaponry, the choice is yours.”

Your smirk matched his as you leaned back in your chair. “A snitch should be silenced, Russo.” 

He chuckled in response. The irony was rich. Not only had Rawlins instructed Billy to kill you, but suggested he slit your throat. Flicking his wrist again, he examined the gleaming blade front and back. He had a job to take care of, and on his own terms. Tonight, however, had been taken care of, successfully so, and with one more movement of his wrist, the blade was gone.