Bellatrix is poison. i Sticky-sweet /i she seeps from shadows—pressing her fingers into the cracks and lines. Prying open weaknesses and petty fears and transforming them into gaping wounds, tarnishing her pretty victims and reveling in the new found flaws.
Wielding her beauty like a sword, she sets upon her lovely prey with a shameful fervor. Dark eyes and fluid lines, her effortless grace seduces yet another pretty young thing to bare their breast for the blade.
She lounges quietly ( i deceptively /i ) in decadent silks and furs. A string of pearls cuts a graceful arc across her neck as she presses nimble fingers in the yielding skin of another soft white shoulder.
Lily is the long stemmed marguerite ( i how ironic /i ), the object of affections, the hunted. She is lovely and entirely unsure of what to do with herself—out of place and, it would seem, desired by many. She thrums with a fire that makes itself known in a defiant chin—a strong jaw. She rushes in to save the day—eyes alight and hair swinging around her.
She is stoic in the face of temptation, brows drawn together as she eyes the corner of the table. She struggles quietly to be strong willed, but her vulnerability shows through nonetheless. Her hair ( i a severe braid today, for strength /i ) falls over the back of her chair, a splash of color against the i grey-white-pale /i of her uniform.
She is the scrape of fingernails against the tabletop—pulling away before the kiss.