god killer. @lorenzo-aleotti - Tumblr Blog

(giuseppe maggio, he/him + cismale, 26) | well of course you’ve heard of (lorenzo aleotti), right? they are a (grad) student living in (linacre) taking (chemistry) at rye university, and as per the blinds, they are like (a golden crucifix on a thick chain pressed between sinner’s lips, crisp white lab coats marred with a touch of red lipstick smeared at the collar, a gentleman’s agreement over a handful of prescription pills), but that may just be because they know (redacted).

#affluenceintro

#face #is this a regular image post idk how tumblr mobile works sos

afaulkncr:

ever since the man caved in and participated in the school’s valentine’s questionnaire, he always wondered who he would get paired up with. someone soft like safiya, or would it be rhys and their ‘date’ would involve a joint and lack of clothing? never did he expect to be going on such a thing called a date let alone one set up particularly by rye university. it was cool outside, almost to the point you couldn’t see the sun over the creeping dusk that ran over the sights of the sky. all he knew about this night was that all he had to do was look pretty and show up, given that his date was picking him up - what a romantic gesture, he teased himself in his head while stepping into his freshly shined ferragamo shoes that he wore so well. it wasn’t until he heard that alarm go off, the alarm in the sound of a knock on his front door, that he went downstairs to open up the door. an instant smirk landed on his lips, looking the man from the ground up to his eyes. “lorenzo aleotti. what a pleasure.”

.

He curled into the side of the doorframe like a question mark, a greeting substituted for the wordless extension of the rose. “It’s just Enzo,” he corrected with an expression to mirror Avery’s own, that self-assured smugness echoed so familiarly by the upper echelon that attended their shared school. He wore it well, the man who stood before him— though the way the light glinted harshly off the patent leather of his shoes made him swallow back a feral grin— don’t get all dolled up on my accord. “You look nice,” he said, his voice tinged with the ever present cool indifference, and he reached out to tug on Avery’s collar to punctuate the sentiment. They weren’t a perfectly matched pair aesthetically, he noted with disappointment (science letting him down, once again), but ever the gentleman, over the evening’s progression he’d be interested to see if any commonalities did arise. “I’ve made reservations,” Enzo added, already beginning the descent down the steps to his parked car, “It’s not Nobu, but it’s the best the humble town of Rye can offer.”

#avery faulkner

grace-sb:

Grace is not a woman easily impressed, she’s had men swooning at her feet since she was barely a teenager, a beautiful girl that’s come to expect attention from the people she desires it from. His reaction only falls in line with that, a pleasing stroke to her ego that tells her the same thing she’s always known, yet always craves to have acknowledged — that she’s magnificent, that she’s worth it. And yet even so the close proximity, the briefest touch of his mouth against her ear, sends a tingling of excitement down her spine, one she has to suppress from reaching her face. “Grace,” she says, the single word curving around her smile. Ordinarily it’d annoy her, to have to introduce herself to someone, an indignant feeling settled in Grace’s chest that she should be known. Maybe it’s the cadence of his tone, the feeling that burns through her, as if she’s the by far the most bewitching person at Birdie’s, the only one worth his attention that soothes her otherwise. “Grace Saeli-Bancroft. And yours?” She takes a sip of the drink he offers, giving him a coy look behind the glass. “A man of good taste,” she hums lightly in her approval, before setting it back down.

.

He considered pulling her close to reply, to press a word to the expanse of her fine boned neck, alongside a tendon that jutted when she spoke her name. Grace— a pretty, delicate name. Suited for someone else, he imagined, a diminutive girl with a head bowed and a gaze that rarely met another. No, she outshined her own name, all pale flame and soot black, a proud chin and clever, bright eyes. He swallowed down more of his drink rather than tell her she was beautiful— the way she carried herself told him enough, which was that she knew. “It’s Enzo,” he replied, lacking the rhythmic addition of the entirety of his name, in the fashion that she supplied. He said it like the rest was implied, as if what little notoriety he had developed in the shadow would have managed to eclipse into her life, enough so that two sallow syllables would be enough to illicit some kind of recognition. “I’ve never been accused of anything less, Grace.” He tested her name on his tongue, the weight and feel of it. “What’s a girl like you doing in a mess like this?” Enzo asked, motioning towards the crowd, struck suddenly by the disorder of the rest of the dancers, the lack of charm and feral beauty that his current companion gave off like light.

#grace saeli bancroft

astoriamelborne:

she is a dangerous thing, bred from wicked beginnings and born from terrible acts. she is a shell, a husk that is carrying around darkness where her soul should be. he makes a comment about her being a lost thing, it was obvious in his dark eyes that he’s trying to inflict cruelty. a careless & casual way of spreading harm, she is aware she means nothing to him and for that she wants to burn him alive. there is power in being feral, strange & lost. she lives without consequence and her dark entity is just desperate to feel anything, even if it’s rejection. it means she wanted, it means that something pierced through her numb way of being. on one hand, the way he controls the masses and spreads evil through the drugs he’s brought to rye is very attractive to her, power and desire are interchangeable. on the other hand, she wishes to see his empire topple, for him to be nothing but left in ruins and ashes, to be made into nothing and she wants him to know that she is capable of leaving him in that state. she inhales on her smoke, watches the ember burn and waits for it to fill her lungs. “Why have you found your way here then? Did you spot a sign somewhere that said devils are being summoned to the conservatory?” her tone is ice but eyes have alit as if they are wildfire and she will burn them both down before he can be free of her. a chuckle without mirth falls from her red lips. “careful enzo, it sounds almost as if you’re capable of caring.” she flicks the ash off from her cigarette and wraps an arm around her torso, the elements don’t scare her and all it would take was a match to set a path of destruction.

.

He watches her, painted in light and dark, eyes like old embers burned down to black coal. Enzo smiled, but barely so, the slight curve of his lips in amusement at the mention that he was something akin to the devil— his Catholic grandmother’s fingers, thick with arthritis at the knuckles, muttering prayers for him for each bead on her rosary came to mind. He wasn’t something good, he knew that, but evil? A devil? Maybe it was the candles lit in his name, burning low and casting long shadows in a country-side church in Italy that saved his soul, for he knew he was making no moves himself to preserve it. Finally, he gave in to recognition. “I didn’t think you’d believe I’m the kind of devil that can just be summoned.” He hadn’t been kind to her, he can hear the pang of that lost thing in her voice. He wasn’t kind to many, but he’d strung her along long enough, knowing that eventually it would all come together or inevitably fall apart. Enzo’s hands sought the warmth of his deep pockets, and he shoved them inside, a brow raised at another accusation. “It’d be a shame for Rye to lose such a beautiful bit of architecture like this.” It’s spoken sarcastically, the beauty in the place is different now than what it once might’ve been, lovely in the way Astoria was, fragile in places, but wild. “Shall I leave you to it, then?” He asked casually, shifting back to leave, his footsteps soundless in the dry leaves, “If the place burns, I’ll be sure to tell everyone that the witch’s bones they find inside belong to you.”

#astoria melbourne #this is not my best work but you've been waiting for ever and ever!!! and i am so sorry

voirlvmer

“your hunger hurts you awake. The sin is not the wanting, it’s the wanting more.”

— Traci Brimhall, from “Chthonic Lullaby”, Come the Slumberless to the Land of Nod

#inspire

ramiropalacios:

He prided himself in being someone calm— he was a still lake on a clear day, something that could be trapped in a bottle without a single walked upon the surface. Patience and understanding was deep rooted in Ramiro’s veins, but as he worked, brows drawn in to a furrow in the center of his forehead and his jaw tightening: it felt more like a rot, a cavity that he hadn’t dealt with, something now that had turned to an infection of the blood. Patience and understanding was as much of a strength as it was a weakness, it could make someone foolish: he hated to feel stupid. It had taken most of the day to decide what to do, though it became clear as his fingers finally closed around the cool metal of the door knob that he still wasn’t sure what it was he wished to say. Anger was a fire, it blotted everything out, one could only focus on its heat. The comment felt like another needle as he looked down at Enzo, he was so unbothered, as if nothing had gone wrong, as if he was someone who had no need for guilt, nor sins or crimes under his sleeve. If anything, it made him more irate. “You didn’t tell me.” His voice didn’t raise, it was gravelled and heavy: a ten tonne burden dropped in front of the other man. “They’re my brothers, and you didn’t say a fucking thing.”

.

There, an indiscernible twitch of his upper lip, the only tell that dared betray him. He didn’t lie— Enzo rarely did, under the strict rule that omission was not a sin. “Given this tense response, I doubt anyone would blame me.” It was a flippant comment, and unworthy of Ramiro, who he’d come to know as someone so unlike himself, a soul of a certain purity that he could never aspire to. He shifted in his seat, leaning back against the creaking backrest, meeting his friend’s eyes. He was like a father to his brothers, that much he knew, and the inflection in his words echoed disappointment, a pit stop on the way to something more familiar, a slow burn before rage. The twins had worked for him over the summer, an arrangement made not at his hand but once he’d learned of the truth he hadn’t stopped it— they were good at what they did, two stubborn streaks that talked fast and moved quickly. It’d been profitable for everyone, and in the end, no one got hurt. “Don’t play the beguiled maiden Ramiro, it doesn’t suit you. Did you think those two were out bagging groceries or delivering lunches? There was nothing to tell that you didn’t already know.”

#ramiro palacios

ottobuch:

He wondered briefly, what Enzo thought of him. They were alike— in many ways, but where Enzo had turned cruel and sharp, Otto had instead stayed keen and lithe: one was a blade, the other something venomous, a snake. Both had their ways about death, a slit throat had a sort of brutality that the elegance of poison didn’t compare to. They were alike, yes, but it was in this way that they were different. “You misunderstand my market,” he tutted, glancing out at the crowd that had gathered. There were a select few who would readily consume pills, fewer that would be appreciative of his inability to explain exactly what it was he was peddling. Sweetened words and the promise of a warm evening, of swallowing down the feeling of love: at Rye, that was almost a greater pursuit than being high. “You know, there was a time where everyone wanted to have a star named after them, but this?” His smile hitched up crookedly, “Getting a drug named after you? That’s real romance. Are we flirting, Enzo?” He glanced over at the mess in the ring, the viscera and the stupid freshmen who pummelled at each other until they were nothing more than pulp. There was only entertainment to be found when it was Rhys in the ring, and even then, it was scarce. “You know the answer to that,” he volleyed back. They both disliked getting their hands dirty, having blood stain their wrists as their knuckles were coated in blood. “Your gladiator ring doesn’t need me in it,” Otto said, squinting at the next bulky student who started to step up, “Not when you have such a starring line up of meat heads.”

.

“If I was flirting with you, you wouldn’t have to ask,” he tossed back easily, attention following Otto’s to the pit. Enzo’s upper lip crawled as the fighters crawled out of it, panting and spitting, glistening under the harsh light like something half-chewed. His tone was easy when he spoke with the other man, it had to be, when he had a tendency to spook at the first sign of things being difficult, but the hard line of his shoulders, the stiff angle at which he held them revealed more truth in the dark, hollow belly of the sinner’s den than his mouth did. “Every once in a while, you have to throw something soft into the centre,” he replied, watching the next two fighters squaring off, looking too clean for the brutality about to take place. They were young, and both believed themselves to be winners, you could see it in stubborn tilt of their square chins. “An easy fight. A massacre.” A bell’s tone sounded, and the fight began. They didn’t bother with strategy or circling like jungle cats, but collided like wet bags of heavy sand. “Sometimes it’s not about a crowning a winner, but how much the stones can soak up blood. They want to see it, how bad things can get.” He turned his gaze to Otto then, the dark of his eyes boring deep into golden ones— something horrible beneath the stilled surface before his mouth split into a smile. Enzo motioned at the plastic bag tucked into Otto’s palm. “Go on Buch, work needs doing. You’re right, you’re of more use out here."

#otto buch

xxcalista:

she looks for it in his gaze– that recognition, a change in his demeanor as eyes set of her brown eyes and pretty smile. she’s used to it, the attention… come days living for it, reaching for it, holding on for dear life: minha princesa, the voice of her father rings. ‘is he playing cool or…?’ a sigh might as well have escaped her lips, though she masks her exasperation well. a lady should never ever ever let the world get a glimpse of the work behind the scenes, the mental battles and boards of black and white. instead, calista tucks a strand of shiny brown hair behind a jeweled ear, “that’s a shame, I could’ve made it up to you”. again, that search in his gaze.

.

She was accustomed to easy adoration, like all these spoiled, beautiful things. He could feel her disappointment when she found him empty of it, hollowed out like the shell of an oyster, shucked of both meat and pearl. Enzo’s expression reveals nothing save for a slight tightening, the curtains drawing closer over his true thoughts and feelings. “I’m certain you’ll find a way to survive,” he delivered cordially, a chill dipping into the syllables as he gave a passing student a nod of recognition, a courtesy that wasn’t afforded to Calista. “Is there anything else I could assist you with, or?” He asked it impatiently, already angled as if to make a swift exit.

#calista reyes

rhysrhcdes:

Beneath ground, in a place of split flesh and horror, Rhys Rhodes is divine terror: his mouth is split to the sneer of a hell hound, ivory canines bared and marred by the slick of sanguine that curves down his chin, and with each blow he is near salivation - oh, how marrow sings at the psalm of sufferance. He looks something nightmarish as he steps from the ring, sweat a beaded gleam to copper flesh and coiled sinew within the warmth of low light, droplets of blood trailing in his wake - he is not a wounded animal, but the beast that tore out its throat.

Pupils dilated to the obsidian of lechery sweep the broad length of Lorenzo Aleotti on approach, an eclipsed vision that would lead seraphim to sacrilege, lambs to slaughter. Rhys returns to the ring routinely for the desolation that unravels - how digits carve control from bone to be birthed anew, something vicious, something with teeth. That, and for him: the godling from the blaze of hell, a vision that elicits heat to stir beneath a naval, that multiplies the delirium of bloodshed that coaxes Rhys dizzy. It’s palpable: the recoil, the disgust. Ichor sings at the taste, something acrid in the back of his throat; a fist would slip beneath a waistband that night, surely. “And what would you be without your dogs?” the carve of a chest heaves with each breath, a lean and they’d touch, “nothing,” he parrots, a grin peeling back a full mouth, blood wedged between teeth; a split lip had already begun to swell. “Join me in the pit, Lorenzo,” a chin tilts, and his syllables are barbed honey: “I’ll be gentle.”

.

In the pit, a boy cried. He was still a boy, though his fist had grown thick and heavy as he grew into a man’s body, but his cries were a pitiful, truthful thing. A child’s mewling, all vibrato, that only quieted as he was dragged out of sight, a limb cradled close to his body. It was broken, Enzo was certain, a bone break is a sound you don’t forget— a wet sort of crack that sends a ripple down the spine, signalling the instant the violence is over. Rhys Rhodes evaded his control, and he knew the crowd worshipped him in the same way that they loved superhero movies and the impossible power of villains. There’s something alluring about all that darkness, all that bad, brutal power. They pressed into it, digging fingers into the darkness of a bone bruise and coming out broken, twisted birds at the end of it. This was dangerous, letting a gladiator sun in this much glory.

Join me in the pit, Lorenzo. He’d even considered it for a half-beat, indulging in the ugliness he hated to feel the heat of the low lights on his bare skin as he faced Rhys in the ring in the belly of the earth. It wouldn’t be so uneven of a match, his body was carved lean but not hungry, a little bulkier than the frame of the taut wolf who paced a breaths width from him. It could be so simple, just strength against strength, a dance so ancient and primal it was natural as breathing. He could fight, he’d won them before, the skin on his knuckles had torn and bled just like the rest of them. It wasn’t easy to build what he had, to gain the respect of the men who watched now, waiting for a reply. No, there would be no fight. Not the kind that Rhys was good at, nothing so familiar. For now, there was a challenge that required answering.

“I’m grateful to my dogs,” he replied, his voice carrying loudly, stepping forward, dragging his gaze from the cold blue of Rhys’ eyes, his arms opening and extending out to the crowd. “Don’t I treat you well?” Enzo asked, eyeing a few of the more loyal members, old alliances, forged in something that now felt ancient. His smile split the seriousness of his features, a wicked sort of grin, all showmanship, the expression of the ringmaster before the crack of his whip. “This world is hard, and I keep you all fed.” The crowd rippled with laughter, unsure as it was, as if they weren’t sure if the joke was for them or about them.

He turned back to where Rhys stood, his eyes so dark there is no end to them, no light, tracing the track of sweat mixed with blood that ran down a split at his temple. His words were said quietly, privately, as the space between them once again narrowed, and he could feel the fighter’s hot breath on his skin, the traces of old blood drying on the fabric of his pants. One could almost mistake the exchange for something intimate, if it weren’t for the cruel tilt of Enzo’s head, the injection of venom into his low voice. “In another life, we would fight in that pit. In that life and every life, you do not leave it.” The blood stained teeth, that horrible, cursed smile. His nostrils flare with an anger so carefully contained, a storm that brews beneath the surface of his skin. There are words for what Rhy is, barbaric, brutal— everything untidy and uncivilized that Enzo recognized in himself and despised.

#rhys rhodes #violence tw #gore tw #uhhhh what else #this is so long and like #for what

grace-sb:

location: daddy’s who: @lorenzo-aleotti

Grace loves Daddy’s. The atmosphere is what she craves when seeking a night out on the town, and more importantly, great for updating her Instagram story. She records a small video of herself in the changing lights, just enough for a taste of her nightly activities, before uploading it and putting her phone back into her purse. The dancefloor is where Grace gravitates, vibing to the rhythm as her hips sway and she fervently ignores anyone’s attempts to catch her attention. It’s only when she pauses in momentary reprieve to seek a drink at the bar that she finds someone interesting — and pretty — enough to catch her attention. She slides into the bar stool with a poise that lives up to her name, hands gently clearing dark hair out of her face by tossing it casually over her shoulder. “Are you going to buy me a drink?”

.

If he’s surprised at the sudden companionship, Enzo’s expression never betrays him. He nodded at the bartender, a thin, reedy looking man who sold for him on the side when nights were slow. It was a transaction that required no words, which was perfect for Enzo, who preferred to speak as little as possible in places like this, where language was precious and had to spoken delicately into an ear or shouted at an unseemly volume to be understand. A cocktail appeared on the top of the bar in record time, and he slid it towards her with the lazy languidity of a jungle cat, his hungry, near-black eyes taking in her entire form. Many of the girls who came to Daddy’s to dance were beautiful, but he’d be lying if he denied that he’d been watching her, those long limbs stretching towards the lights, dark hair that twisted and tumbled down her shoulders. Up close she was dazzling, large, doll-like eyes blinking at him with un-tested confidence, a smiling red mouth. Enzo leaned forward, speaking towards the delicate shell of her ear, “I’d buy you a dozen drinks to know your name.”

#grace saeli bancroft #late is better than never!!!

astoriamelborne:

who: @lorenzo-aleotti where: conservatory

She’s smoking, ash hitting broken concrete. she’s recovering from a bender, not a sober day since the party at the house on the hill. life intoxicates her and she knows little about consequence or responsibilities, trying to be numb and drink away all the sorrow that she won’t allow to touch her soul. people live life without attachments, she knows she’ll never be anything to anyone and she’s learned to laugh in the face of that loneliness. she enjoys the sex and organisming so she has little to complain about and wouldn’t waste her breath. her serotonin is depleted from a bender from constant indulgence, booze and drugs so she feels hollow. a waif who is trying to shake off the empty feeling. she hears a crackle of a leaf under foot and when her eyes slide to connect with lorenzo, there’s a twist in her gut and she wants him. “fancy seeing you here, do you come here often?” her mouth is pulled into her simper, trying to pull a move from casablanca. of all the rooms in the world, he walks into mine.

.

Enzo was rarely alone anymore, not completely. It came with running his business, of being who he was— people have come to rely on him, on his presence, on the steadfast will of which he uses to captain the ship. It’s nothing he didn’t ask for— didn’t demand, but still, from time to time he craved a certain type of isolation. A moment without distraction. Short of walking directly in the Wyvern and letting the icy water dull his senses into nothing, a brisk, destination-less walk into the woods would have to suffice. His shoes were not made for hiking the unkempt trails, fresh snow over them concealing patches of black ice, the expensive Italian leather letting in melt water between the seams. By the time he reached the conservatory he was near ready to head back, done with solitude and content with his fill of nature for the next week or so. Still, something intrigued him about the old building, the memories he had of the ancient, rotted place. Pulling open the door, he stepped inside. Near silent, its the rustle of dry material underfoot that gives him away, and the girl who sits there alone turns her gaze to him, hollow-eyed like some creature of the forest. His expression twists from interest to a cruel default— that nothingness, the cold lack of recognition. “Of course not,” Enzo replied, brushing at the spotless sleeve of his dark wool coat. “This is a place for strange, feral creatures. Lost things.” His gaze dragged from the way the beams that supported the ceiling sagged, to the windows with long cracks running through like lightning-paths, finally resting on Astoria Melbourne. A girl he once knew. “You look moments from freezing to death or setting this entire shit house on fire.” The observation lacked his own opinion, though he didn’t need to verbalize how pathetic he found it all, his tone did the work of it for him, the hard glint of his coal-black eyes the punctuation.

#me making this much longer for no good reason #anyways sorry for how late this is #much love from julie #astoria melbourne

location: avery’s house

for: @afaulkncr

His car was a black stain along the quiet streets of Linacre, quiet and proud, rolling along like a cat moments from springing. It was an unnecessary indulgence and one of the few he allowed himself, beyond the fine, tailored clothes and suits he preferred. A sports car like this was not uncommon in the gated community, but Enzo’s two-seater had something wicked about it, no modded muffler or loud, screaming engine. Near silent, the black gloss shone like an oil slick under the wide pool of light from the street lamps. Reservations had been made at one of the finer restaurants in Rye, but the whole thing felt like such a cold and unfeeling affair. There was a sense of duty to the pairings— for the sake of science and research, all things he stoutly believe in and championed for, but there was that other nagging annoyance at the idea of his fragile, self-constructed peace being broken. Still, no one could say Enzo was a bad date, groomed and well-mannered, the thorns shorn from the long-stemmed deep red rose he held in one hand, the other rapping a consistent and firm rhythm on the door belonging to Avery Faulkner.

#avery faulkner #if this is too ugly pls let me know privately and I’ll delete all my blogs thank u

sharmans

Giuseppe Maggio as Fiore in 2x01 “#justagame”

#face #my favourite gif set i could watch it like a movie for hours

location: rye grad student lounge

for: @ramiropalacios

Maybe by this time next year he’d have the department convinced to switch to electronic copies, he thought, as his tired eyes scanned another poorly formatted lab, ink smeared and dubious stains crowding the bottom of the page. He did like the methodology of it, the big marks of red pen circling incorrect sections, his neat handwriting in the margins, but he tired of it after a few hours, night creeping up on the campus as afternoon sunlight faded from the high window he sat under. The grad student lounge was quiet at this time, when classes were still just barely in session, and TAs were running to finish their own assignments. He could only really ever count on one other body to be in the room at this hour, a silent companion typing away at his own laptop, or matching the scratching of his pen on hundreds of papers. Enzo didn’t concern himself with looking up when the door opened and shut quietly, and a shadow fell across his work as the seat across from him found itself occupied. He spoke first, typing a grade into a spreadsheet as well as a comment that a professor would later take credit for. “You’ll have to get your team to watch the Azzurri practice tapes, Ramiro. Defence was looking a little lack lustre last scrimmage.”

#ramiropalacios

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞.

#affluencevalentines

xxcalista:

closed for @bambi-norcross / @lorenzo-aleotti

many would not guess it being so, but calista appreciates a routine. what most find rather dull and mind-numbing, she’s just found rather comforting. the repetition, the consistency, the little nuances one’s able to notice day after day, serving as enough entertainment. she steps out of the classroom, things still hanging by her chair and resting on her bench and quickly makes her way to the fancy vending machine that pulls up a bar to set the product and lets it down gently instead of just dumping her glass-bottled pink lemonade into the machine’s opening. it’s the simple things, the ones that bring up that soft smile on her lips– the one she wears as she presses a couple of buttons and… oh, “do you have any spare change? i can give you a… twenty if you have 5 in coins”. she turns, eyes meet the other and her lips immediately swap the smile to a fine line– lips pressed together, too late to back down now, isn’t it?

.

The grad student lounge was an oasis that Enzo picked his way towards, weaving through crowds of students hurrying to their next classes or making their way home. There were a few who insisted on stopping him, plying him with what they thought passed as intriguing questions, likely looking to gain some secret favouritism from him. He was patient, he’d always been, smiling and nodding along at the right moments, the ghost of a scowl appearing in place of that fictitious charm as soon as their backs were turned. A voice calling out caused him to pause once more, shrugging on that persona like an ill-fitting suit by this time, it slipped and sagged in places. Enzo looked down at her, recognition flickering but never registering on that cold, impassive face. “I don’t carry cash,” he replied sharply.

#calista reyes

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god killer.