unforgivable. @cruciatvs - Tumblr Blog

CRUCIATVS, a multimuse, dependent blog featuring bellatrix lestrange & mundungus fletcher. penned by mar (she & they) 🦢

bellatrix. lashes curled for war,onyx armour for eyes.tongue waxing lyrical of both beauty and battle cries. // intro, pins, stats, tag, threads, musings. mundungus. i don’t do anything with my life except romanticize and decay with indecision. // intro, pins, stats, tag, threads, musings.

#pinned.

narcissa and bellatrix.

who: bellatrix lestrange ( @cruciatvs ) when & where: after the event, at the lestranges manor.

EVERY MINUTE WAS EXCRUCIATING.They had to keep appearances, of course, and Narcissa was nothing if not the perfect hostess. It wasn’t her event, of course, Bellatrix was floating around somewhere, putting on the mask that Narcissa wore so well. They shared, these days. Their tricks, their sparkling gowns, their grim smiles. As the event winded down, Narcissa found herself shaking hands and flashing a glittering smile at the way of a few French pure-bloods who were looking to stuff St. Mungo’s pockets. Truthfully, Narcissa had never cared much for the wix who liked to to throw their galleons at a cause they knew nothing about. She, at the very least, picked her events carefully. Her money had the power to go directly to some good, after all. Mostly because they didn’t want Narcissa Malfoy angered if it didn’t.

Usually, these thoughts were enough to keep her mind busy; enough to keep her eyes off the ornate ticking clock in the center of the room. Tonight, though, her mind wouldn’t stop flickering towards getting the hell out. Their friends and family hadn’t been gone long, and as far as she could tell no one was hurt. That didn’t mean that the day had been won. With her whole family in the Death Eaters, Narcissa never expected to get caught. They were far too cautious for that; far too intelligent. Still, the fear that they’d gotten hurt, that she’d lose another sister, was still there. Even as the party filled out, and Bellatrix left to question what Nracissa assumed was hostages, the fear was still in her stomach.

So, instead of going home for the night, Narcissa found her way to the kitchen, and when she was certain no one was around, kicked off her shoes. The house elves were at work, making sure her favorite cuppa was properly warmed. When she heard clicking heels in the silence, Narcissa breathed a gust of air that she didn’t recognize was even trapped in her lungs. With a flick of her wrist, the teapot began to pour a second cup for her sister. “I assume your meeting went according to plan?” she asked, without really looking up from the book in front of her. Really, all she wanted to do was wrap Bellatrix in a hug, but that was not their way. Her heart was still pounding, but at least now she knew. She was safe. She was here. She was within arms reach. That was enough.

The best party is the after party, and tonight, for Bellatrix Lestrange, it comes in the form of questioning their esteemed hostages. Not that she has any interest in finding answers, just yet: no, tonight is simply the first night of an elongated stay at the stables. She goes to unleash hell, to let her inner demons run rampant, to instill the prisoners with a fear of what is to come the next morning. She goes to hear screams rather than incessant gossip and champagne glasses clinking. She goes to paint her gown red with blood. She goes to show them her teeth, the curve of her lip, the shine of her eyes.

And then she returns home, where the house elves work away at cleaning the mess left by tonight’s guests. Let the prisoners lick their wounds as she bathes in expensive bath oils and sleeps in silk sheets, and let tomorrow’s dawn bring more questions. She turns to the kitchen, intending to pop another bottle of champagne of celebration and to fall into a nice state of inebriation, something she can allow now that her home isn’t filled with disgusting little creatures. A surprise, however, awaits her there in the form of her sister and Bellatrix halts for a moment. There is a part of her that does not want her baby sister to see her like this: with her hair disheveled and a look of glory in her eyes, with blood staining her dark purple gown and proverbially dripping from her fingers. There is another part of her that wills Narcissa to see it all. Let it make her afraid, just so she won’t leave as Andromeda had.

“Meeting?” she laughs, head thrown back for a second before she looks at the picture of perfection in front of her. “The guests have left, Cissa. You can drop the bullshit.” She certainly does, no longer playing the somewhat mysterious, alluring hostess but in stead all brutality. “It went marvelously. Regulus did so well, he did the family proud.” And that is what matters, what will always continue to matter: and as Regulus is the last sensible one to bare the Black name ( she having traded her own for another because of some patriarchal nonsense ), he has to do well. “And I got to blow off some steam.” The cup of tea is disregarded as she moves to open the wine cabinet, pulling a bottle of expensive champagne from it. “Want a glass?”

#bellatrix: thread.#bellatrix and narcissa.#bellatrix and narcissa: 001.#thread.#plot drop 001.#bellatrix are u alright lmao x #torture cw

edgar and mundungus.

where: order HQ.

when: the night of the ambush.

with: @warremains

His hands are not made for helping. Mundungus Fletcher is a being built for sneakiness, for shady deals and slipping through the cracks, for disaster and destruction, for fucking up everything he touches. And yet, as he slips up to the room where he’s heard Edgar has been hard at work, he’s hoping to do some good. Perhaps it’s their restless spirit that demands something to feel good about, even this act of kindness made out of selfishness. Maybe there’s genuinely something good in them. He’s got to admit that he hasn’t got a clue which one it is.

He peeks around the corner, knocks, waits two exact seconds and pushes the door further open so his lithe body can move in. “Aye, mate,” he says, giving a signature Dung-smirk, though it’s more a grimace tonight, “Doing the good work, an’ all?” Empty words that are built on an admiration he cannot shake. The Order is filled with people better than him. It puts him to shame on days like these. ( Mundungus can’t blame some of them for thinking he was the rat. ) “Take a break though, yeah? Gotta give that mind a little heal before yer wonder hands do any more healin’.” He extends his flask, which he’s been sharing quite a lot tonight. “Got you a present.”

#love language: sharing alcohol #mundungus and edgar: 001.#mundungus and edgar.#mundungus: thread.#thread.#plot drop 001.

marlene and mundungus.

who: mundungus fletcher ( @cruciatvs ) where: order hq when: the night of the ambush

There was a flush across Marlene’s cheeks, from anger not from alcohol. Not yet, at least. She was warm too, steaming hot and probably a right mess. Her hair had started the night in neat, careful plaits. Out of the way. It tangled around her face now, catching in the thin cut on her forehead she hadn’t given Edgar a chance to look at. The atmosphere in the safehouse was tense, and she could hear distant yelling. Clearly she was not the only one feeling the stress of their disastrous night. Marlene wasn’t sure she could face another screaming match tonight. She needed a drink. To wallow in a corner with a firewhiskey and a scowl on her face.

The corner she chose was already occupied: Mundungus Fletcher. Not really an obstacle to her goals, she supposed, collapsing onto the couch next to him. It made an unhealthy creak under her and she heaved a heavy sigh. “You got anything to share?”

He’s getting drunk. Consistently, semi-quietly, Mundungus Fletcher hides in a corner of the headquarters nipping at his magically enlarged flask, the lukewarm muggle scotch making his stomach a warm pit. They don’t do well with tense situations, with pointed fingers and the threat of losing people they admittedly cared about. And so he dulls his senses, keeps his lips sealed together and hides in the high collar of his coat, half-wishing to slink away and disappear. He doesn’t often take issue with his uselessness, but right now he feels like a fucking waste of space.

And then, someone takes place next to him. Mundungus looks up, eyes glassy, reshifting his weight to make things more comfortable. They weren’t going to send her away. “Yeah, sure,” he says, extending his flask. “Holds more than you might think, so don’t be surprised by the weight of it.” He may not have gotten a NEWT in Charms, but Dung’s resourcefulness knew little bounds when it came to his tendency to overindulge. “It’s scotch.” He frowns a little, lets out a long sigh. “Fucking shit, right?”

#mundungus: thread.#mundungus and marlene.#mundungus and marlene: 001.#thread.#plot drop 001.#u get a gif w the cult leader beard which dung def dos not have #his taste is questionable but not THAT bad

arabella and mundungus.

SHE’S BEEN LIKE A POT SET TO BOIL ALL EVENING, nerves dancing dangerously close to the edge. Arabella can joke her way through the worry or drum her fingers to the beat of her heart along with the rest of them. But the panic mounting from everyone around her is suffocating, and there’s only so much she can take before her own energy spills over, creating a bigger mess.

So she retreats, listens to the steady rise in pitch from her spot on the sofa and passes her own silent judgements on the argument just down the hall. When footsteps approach Arabella doesn’t bother to flick on a light, instead opening one inquisitive eye. She can’t help the shake of her head, alerting Mundungus of her presence through a snort of breath that escapes. Fear, ambiguity—these are feelings Arabella is not well suited to. Bitterness creeps into her tone, accusatory and unfair and undoubtedly a release of whatever tensions have been sitting in her own chest since the night began. ‘ Slipping away when the fingers start pointing, Fletch? ’

He’s not one for high emotion. One for getting high, sure, one for numbing himself to the point where he doesn’t feel like he fucking exists, but this situation is working its way to the core of some of his nerves and he doesn’t like it. The worry, the stress, the uncertainty: these are emotions he prefers to deal with on his own, with a bottle in his right hand and a cigarette in his other.

And so he slips out. It’s not like he’s got anything useful to contribute anyway; he’s not with the Order for the combative part of it, rather a rat in the sewers who overhears and shares. But he cares about these folks, that much is true, and he’s not particularly good at that. The couch is occupied but he hardly cares, folding his legs up as he sits down, digging a flask out of his jean pocket and raising it to his mouth, halting when Arabella speaks, “The fuck’s that supposed to mean, Figgy?” If she wants to be accusatory, he’ll be damn near defensive. Sure, he’s not the most reliable member of the order, but it’s been almost a decade of him being with them and he’s yet to fuck up properly. “Could ask you the same, couldn’t I?”

#mundungus and arabella.#mundungus and arabella: 001.#plot drop 001.#thread.#mundungus: thread.

bob-belcher

#mundungus: muse.#mundungus: with alastor.#'twasn't trying to <3

oksanelle

#seems healthy #bellatrix: muse.

rodolphus and bellatrix.

where: lestrange manor.

when: mid-charity ball.

with: @bxcktoyou

She is bored. These kind of events have never appealed to her much, her soul too restless for the civilised conversation and champagne flutes. Even before Bellatrix had broadened her horizon with bloodshed and cruelty, evenings like this had been dull. As a child, she’d preferred to run through the gardens or explore on upper, forbidden floors, or maliciously pointing out the imperfections of her mother’s guests. But that childish restlessness is nothing compared to the restlessness she feels now: this is more like a barely contained storm. The only thing that placates her is the promise of later tonight, when everything has gone according to plan and she can let the beast she keeps leashed loose.

But for now, she plays nice. She smiles and praises the cause they are raising money for, does not reign her tongue completely as sardonic comments fall from her lips and eyebrows raise. Her husband is the approachable one, darling politician, and it is halfway through proving that she is not approachable that she finds her way to him, hooking an arm with his own as they walk, “Darling husband,” she says, squeezing his upper arm, “I’m going to set something on fire soon.” It’s a comment made in jest, though there’s some truth to it. She lets her free hand fall into her pocket curl around her wand, “Or make a waiter trip, so I can fire him.” Her eyes flick to Rodolphus, then, “Any news?” On the mission, she means, quite agitated that she is missing on the action, that she is playing queen of the castle, though hardly the kind of queen she’d like to be. Tonight she is not a queen like Bloody Mary, but a queen of the people in stead. How nauseating.

#bellatrix: thread.#bellatrix and rodolphus.#bellatrix and rodolphus: 001.#plot drop 001.

regulus and bellatrix.

where: lestrange manor.

when: about an hour before the gala ( and extracurricular activities ) kick off.

with: @frcgmented

“Regulus,” she whispers, hisses, demands, pulling her youngest cousin close, a perfectly manicured finger around his collar. A gesture that turns more soft when he looks at her, a hand on his shoulder. She hopes he realises how lucky he is, to have the opportunity to be at the forefront of the action tonight when she has to play happy host, lovely wife, the pureblood woman her mother had wished her to be. Not that she doesn’t enjoy selling the world a picture of perfection that stands opposite of the brutal truth. How, after all, could the delightful host of a charity gala possibly behind a red trail of blood that haunts the wizarding world? The only thing blood-red about this Bellatrix is her lipstick.

“You look very smart.” The compliment is made with care, not something that comes natural to her ( even when he does, in fact, look quite smart ) and so it almost feels insincere. She straightens his tie a little, gives him a look. “Have some fun for me, will you?” Her smile turns a little, from something almost affectionate to something more demanding. “Make us proud.”