I locked the door, I shut all my windows but you creep in like a whisper

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*After exchanging an owl or two with Bellatrix and then the Ministry to dig up who Andromeda Black--Andromeda Tonks, apparently--was married to, and then who he was, and who his muggle parents were, Evan has the address and sends it along. Two minutes to midnight, he appears in a nearby copse of trees, masked and cloaked and ready. Under any other circumstances, he might be thrilled at the prospect of bonding with one of the Dark Lord's favorites over a lovely pile of steaming entrails, but tonight he feels strange.

He had to explain to Amrita this morning how to disable the wards around the flat, and gave her a key to the door. He's never done anything like it before, but it makes sense, and she's spending half her nights there anyway, and the other night he found himself unable to sleep for lack of her weight on the bed next to him. Whatever this thing is, working it through his system is most likely better than trying to play the martyr and shove her off or keep her at a distance. It's rather more fun this way besides. Nevermind the fact that he hasn't so much as looked at the stack of files copied from the Ministry of other city werewolves, and nevermind that he hasn't even tried to bring her hunting despite the current phase of the moon. Next month, or the month after, when there are not other things to attend to like Bellatrix and her fool's errands, maybe he will show her what he picked her for. Nevermind that the idea of picking her seems now less like a calculated part of a plan and more like providence.

Evan has never had occasion to lie to himself before, has always been totally at ease with all of his compulsions and motivations and indulged them or redirected them or stifled them as the need arose. Having to hide from himself now puts him ill at ease. The reason why this murder tonight will function as vengeance is because Andromeda fell in love with someone who she should not have, someone filthy and not worthy of her name or blood. Why it makes him uneasy, he does not want to think.

Still, if there is one thing Evan Rosier is good at, it is serving the Dark Lord and the interests of the other Death Eaters. If there are two things he is good at, it is that and killing. They are both his birthright, passed down from Dearborn. But he is grateful tonight for the mask, for its impervious and smooth surface pressed to his face, for its narrow slits sealed around his eyes. It has been his face when he could not show his own, and now, it hides him both from any authorities who might peer in and also from Bellatrix and himself. Something tells him his own face might betray him in a way his wand will not, and for that, he is thankful that he might hide.*

Comments

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*Just because it's true doesn't mean it's exactly appreciated, and she stops the line of kisses she's been placing along his jawline and draws away from him.*

Yes, well, there's no accounting for taste.

*It's only just the least bit arch, though, and when she turns on her heel to disappear into the bedroom she fails to close the door behind her.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*Evan turns back to the drawer half-hiding his Death Eater mask. The drawer comes out, and is gently re-seated on its track, the mask hidden under a sheaf of parchments, and the drawer slides silently home. This done, he follows her, and leans against the doorjamb of the bedroom.*

You're an insufferable tease.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

I am not.

*It comes out louder than she'd intended--he's hit a sore spot, and she's edgy to begin with--and more than a little petulant. If she were standing she'd probably stamp her foot, but she's already slipped under the covers, so she settles for a projectile. His own crumpled t-shirt lands squarely on his face--to illustrate her vehemence, maybe, or prove her point. Either way, she's well on her way to a sulk.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*He plucks the shirt off his face and drops it in the hamper, followed by the shirt he's wearing. Just on the edge of his collarbone, there's a tiny, dark streak of dried blood--it's from a stray droplet that ran downward after Bella's messier kill, blood that he missed then and doesn't see now, as he moves closer.*

Are too.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*She watches him with helpless interest, the white covers drawn up to her chin, her mouth set in something like a pout. Behind it, she's wondering--what sort of girl is she, exactly? Her parents raised one, Tom and the handsy men at the Leaky see another, and in truth, she isn't sure what she is. A part of her is wishing wholeheartedly for some indication of what she's supposed to be, some clear path for her to follow. But there's none, only Evan, and the jumble of fear and desire that she's made of at the moment, and it's that more than anything that's got her voice so small.*

You're making fun of me.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Lovingly, just a bit, yes.

*He's made it to the bed, shedding the rest of his attire, and makes his way underneath the covers toward her.*

I'm sure you don't mean to be cruel.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*She's slipped easily into his arms, pliant and willing and tracing the same kisses down his jawline and neck, inhaling deeply, and all she can manage is a small and affronted little sound: angry at him, maybe, or herself--any of it. All of it.*

Mmf. Maybe I do.

*But it's half-hearted in the extreme, more of a question than an answer, or a challenge, as her lips find his collarbone. She isn't even aware of what she's tasting on him, but she makes another small noise: hungry and angry and oddly insistent.*

Augh. You don't have to be so horrible.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*And suddenly, he notices the little dark streak, and what it must be, and his heart gives a little leap.*

I'm not horrible. You're just--

*There's no adjective that really encapsulates precisely how the fact that she has human blood in her mouth now makes him feel.*

Very beautiful.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*And it's that, more than anything, that pulls her up short: Amrita is told she's beautiful many, many times a day, invariably by men who want something, whether an extra round or a pinch or a smile or whatever rough tumbles are assumed to be part-and-parcel of her occupation. Either way, her grimace becomes a smirk, the lips on his neck become teeth tracing their not-so-gentle way up to his ear--the pleading in her voice replaced by something else entirely.*

I won't.

We can do the other thing but--no.

*A part of her wants to shy from the word, then, to apologize somehow, to soften it, giggle, laugh it off. But another, cunning part says very clearly, no need; it's the part of her that's smirking at the insistent way he's holding her, that loves what she doesn't even know she's tasting on him, that wouldn't mind biting and biting harder.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Ah.

All right then.

*It's bizarre; any other girl would be long despoiled, but not her, and it doesn't bother him as much as he thought it might.*

Although naturally I would prefer--

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*There's no deliberation, no moment of decision--and quite a bit of pent-up feeling there, not all of it warm and welcoming. Before she even has time to be horrified at herself, she's nipped him, hard, low on his chest. Instead of rushing on and apologizing--and the thought does occur to her, for a strange and teetering moment--she only shoots a glare up at him, a clear warning.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Ow--

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Careful.

You get two for flinching.

*In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. And she even looks like she might be joking.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

You--

*He regards her like one might regard some kind of new discovery, partly bewildered, partly apprehensive, and partly fascinated.*

My apologies.