[identity profile] trickymirror.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] bait_backup

Reynard Timadorez lives a threadbare life, and that's how he likes it.

The flat is an old one, with water stains from the leaky pipes above and mould under the carpet. The previous tennet was a muggle junkie, so nobody has noticed or cared about his absence. Nothing illegal was done, it was all very neat - a simple case of morphing into the landlord and evicting the bastard.

Three objects occupy the room, and they are all he needs. A mattress, broken on the floor, with no bedding except one blanket, a box, and a mirror. The box is a mess of tangled clothes and random accessories, but it's the mirror that has Timadorez's attention.

Over the years, he has collected faces. Faces and bodies and personas. They form a collage all around the mirror, some barely hanging on, leaving only a tiny space in the middle for any practical use. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Timadorez is adding the last touch of mascara to some very well done make up.

He's wearing one of his favourite faces. A woman from Malta that he met ten years before, she has been one of the easiest bodies to manipulate. She can be the Madonna, she can be the whore, and she can be what he needs tonight - the chaste slut.

Some information has trickled down, but he has no real stake in it. None of the politics of the situation matter to him, only the game it allows him. And the Dark Lord has conscripted his nature into tricking some Auror into taking him home.

Timadorez sighs, standing up to view himself properly. The black dress is rather conservatively cut, but its tightness shows the tits, the ass, and the legs off. Turning to the side, Timadorez looks down at his rack. It's all proportional, but tonight really isn't about being well measured. His chest naturally pushes out as he makes it grow. When he stops, the bra is a little uncomfortable, but he'll deal.

Grabbing a handbag from the box, he doesn't even bother with money. He certainly won't be paying for anything tonight, with or without the Auror. Not with these melons and in these heels.

He Apparates to a pub near the Ministry, a haunt of this bloke. Timadorez tailed him for a few days with a different face to be sure of where to find him, and this was easily the best place to meet. With a little sway in his walk, he goes in to sit at the bar.

Date: 2011-09-28 03:32 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] rathercareless.livejournal.com
*Fabian's already there. Gid is out with Hestia and Frank is home with Neville, who's apparently engaging in all manner of unholy toddler-illness-related behaviors involving snot and projectile vomiting, so he's flying solo tonight.

The result is colorful. Things have been so tense waiting for the other shoe to drop at work with the fact that neither he nor his brother have registered their wands, and then working on their project for Xeno Lovegood, that Fabian had really fancied blowing off some steam with his two best mates. Instead, left to his own devices, he seems to have been trying three times as hard to make up for their absence. By the time the lovely lady in the black dress slinks in the door he's deep in his cups, perched on a bar stool and regaling three other men with a story about an arrest involving a pet troll and exploding cobblestones. It's only when one of them whistles lowly that Fabian breaks off mid-saga, going still as he's miming the troll's part of the story. His mouth falls open for just a second before he gets himself together, but the story is altogether forgotten.*

...Well, hello.


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