friendly reminder that my ask box is always open โก
come talk to me whether it's questions, thoughts, screaming, character discussions, headcannons, requests, brainrot, comments, theories, or just something you wanted to share, feel free to drop by! i love reading people's thoughts and i promise i don't bite.
though i can't promise i'll have anything intelligent to say in response, but i will have thoughts.
what you'll find here โโ โโน
โฆ yandere themes
โฆ psychological horror
โฆ dark romance
โฆ obsession
โฆ unhealthy relationships
โฆ manipulation
โฆ character studies
โฆ tragedy
โฆ gothic themes
โฆ horror
โฆ angst
โฆ emotional tension
โฆ bittersweet endings
โฆ the occasional comedy
expect:
โฆ morally questionable characters
โฆ bad decisions
โฆ increasingly concerning character analysis
โฆ fictional people being examined under a microscope
don't expect:
โฆ healthy communication
โฆ emotional stability
โฆ anybody making good choices
while i can write fluff, it'll probably be accompanied by at least three underlying problems.
i write:
โฆ sfw
โฆ suggestive content/ nsfw
โฆ romance
โฆ horror
โฆ darker themes
i won't write:
โฆ character x character / oc
โฆ real people
โฆ minors
โฆ incest
โฆ any from of polyamory
โฆ anything i'm personally uncomfortable with
Fandoms & characters โโ โโน
current interests include: (reminder that this isn't all I write for!)
โฆ Hazbin Hotel
โฆJJK
โฆ Witch Hat Atelier
โฆ Genshin Impact
โฆ Honkai: Star Rail
โฆ Death Note
โฆ Blue Lock
โฆ Ghibli
โฆ Hunter x Hunter
characters i'm most likely to write for:
โฆ Alastor (my heart, my mind, my soulโ)
โฆ Vox
โฆ Quifrey
โฆ Gojo Satoru
โฆ Scaramouche
โฆ and whatever unfortunate fictional man has currently captured my attention.
(I could go on for hours, this list is not exhaustive. it is merely a warning.)
โโโโโโโโ
I reserve the right to stare at your request for two weeks and then suddenly become possessed by inspiration at 3am.
thank you for enabling my increasingly nonsensical interests โก
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Qualityโ Free Actions
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
(Recovered tucked between commission invoices. Folded only once. The paper has yellowed with age; the handwriting remains immaculate. No evidence suggests it was ever intended for anyone besides its recipient.)
My Dear,
Circumstances require my attention elsewhere.
Consequently, my return shall be delayed.
Do not concern yourself with my whereabouts.
Were the matter one requiring your concern, you would already possess it.
Barring unforeseen interruptions, you may expect my return within the fortnight.
Until then, I trust you will refrain from adopting any additional strays, peculiar acquaintances, or catastrophically misguided endeavors.
Experience has demonstrated that such descriptions possess a regrettable tendency toward understatement.
Should absolute disaster become unavoidable, do try to ensure the house remains standing until my return.
Your Husband,
Alastor A.
Credit to @cillmequick for the very nice dividers!
>Warnings: Yandere themes, dark elements, phycological manipulation, twisted logic, unhealthy relationship dynamics, brief mention of blood, maybe some editing and grammar mistakes, y'all know the drill by now, it's Alastor.
>Word Count: 2k+
There exists a widespread misconception that Alastor is incapable of being caught off guard.
This conclusion generally originates from individuals who have misinterpreted composure for immunity.
This distinction is significant.
One merely requires the proper subject.
The trouble with this, Alastor had long ago concluded, was that it possessed an unfortunate tendency to mistake confidence for insight.
Every few decades, some individual discovers a concept humanity had been discussing for centuries, assigned it an unnecessarily optimistic title, and proceeded to explain it at considerable length as if they invented it.
The results were rarely heartening, this conviction had served him well for the better part of a century.
It was therefore mildly irksome to discover a volume that provoked his curiosity before it provoked his contempt.
It all began, with the rain.
Nothing so miraculous.
The streets remained crowded with sinners whose moral shortcomings had long since ceased to surprise one another.
Crimson neon bled across the slick cobblestones in wavering reflections, while gutters carried away equal measures of rainwater and whatever unfortunate substance happened to have occupied the street beforehand.
Rain encouraged people indoors, and discouraged unnecessary conversation.
Most importantly, it persuaded the chronically impatient to hurry along without stopping to occupy his attention.
Alastor preferred it this way.
He walked without a particular destination, the route itself mattered very little.
Hell rewarded aimlessness surprisingly often, provided one possessed the patience to notice what others overlooked.
The bookshop appeared almost by accident.
In retrospect, Alastor would later identify several opportunities during which the entire affair might have been prevented.
He would have ignored the weather altogether, continuing toward home rather than taking the longer route through Cannibal Town.
He might have entered any number of establishments offering shelter from the downpour.
The establishment occupied the narrow corner between an aging tailor and a florist whose display had already lost an ongoing battle against the weather.
Several potted plants leaned precariously beneath, their leaves dripping steadily into buckets that had long since surrendered any hope of remaining empty.
Alastor stepped beneath the striped awning just as another wave of rain swept across the street.
The bookshop itself possessed a quiet sort of dignity, its sign had faded enough to suggest longevity rather than neglect.
Golden lettering, worn thin around the edges still announced,
Blackwood & Sons.
Despite the rather obvious absence of any sons.
The display window held no bestsellers, no colorful advertisements, nor any handwritten promises of limited-time discounts.
A proper bookstore, the sort rapidly disappearing from the modern world.
Alastor approved of this.
The bell above the entrance protested his arrival with a tired metallic chime before settling once more into silence.
The interior had the familiar scent of leather bindings, yellowed paper, polished wood, and a trace of cedar lingering stubbornly beneath decades of dust.
Leather-bound volumes rested comfortably beside cracked atlases, forgotten hymnals, and enough neglected poetry to convince even the most cynical observer that the proprietor valued affection over profit.
An elderly gentleman whose spectacles appeared engaged in a prolonged disagreement with gravity, offered a courteous nod before returning to the newspaper spread across the counter.
Any bookseller who understood that silence constituted excellent customer service deserved, at the very least, the opportunity to continue existing.
He wandered without purpose.
History.
Theatre.
Cookery.
Poetry.
A regrettably sentimental collection of memoirs, he believes.
His fingertips drifted idly across cracked leather bindings until something entirely out of place interrupted the rhythm.
The cover was rather repulsively bright, it possessed neither dignity nor subtlety.
A smiling couple occupied the center with the unmistakable countenance of people who had never encountered genuine hardship in their lives.
Above them, in cheerful lettering that bordered upon aggressive optimism, appeared the title.
How To Be a Green Flag And Build A Healthy Relationship!
โฆ
At first, he simply stared at the cover.
There existed remarkably few subjects upon which Alastor considered himself unqualified to speak.
Human behavior certainly wasn't among them.
Millenniums of observing mankind had left him with what he regarded as a comfortably complete understanding of its habits, contradictions, and recurring disappointments.
Consequently, the notion that someone might attempt to teach him the mechanics of courtship struck him as faintly insulting.
The matter had always appeared refreshingly straightforward.
One conducted oneself with dignity.
One dressed appropriately.
One spoke well.
One demonstrated consistency of character.
One refrained from behaving like an imbecile.
Should the arrangement prove mutually agreeable, splendid.
Should it failโฆ
One accepted the disappointment with whatever grace one possessed and continued living.
Simple as that.
He lifted the book between two fingers with the careful restraint generally afforded to objects of questionable sanitation.
The paper felt new, the binding had not yet been properly broken.
Someone, somewhere, had purchased this recently.
This realization proved considerably more fascinating than the book itself, he opened to a random page.
Remember details that matter to them.
Their favorite flower.
How they take their tea.
The story they've only told you once.
The things that frighten them.
The dreams they rarely speak aloud.
An odd recommendation, surely one ought to remember details regardless.
โ...Ridiculous.โ
He already knows everything worth knowing.
He turns to another page,
Listen because you wish to understand. Not because you're waiting to speak.
"Surely no one requires written instructions for this.โ
The author appears convinced these observations require deliberate effort.
One might as well advise breathing.
He has never understood how people forget such things.
Kindness unacknowledged serves no practical purpose. Genuinely complement one another.
What an unnecessarily dramatic choice of vocabulary.
He compliments people constantly.
Usually, after they've earned it.
Love cannot survive where choice has been removed.
Control may create obedience.
It cannot create devotion.
If you must convince someone to stay, you've already received your answer.
His brows lifted ever so slightly,
Well.
That was certainly an opinion.
The remainder of the book would almost undoubtedly consist of similarly flawed conclusions assembled atop similarly fragile premises.
He ought to put it back, he knew this.
The sensible course of action would be to return the volume to its shelf, locate something written by a considerably more intelligent individual, and continue enjoying what remained of the afternoon.
Insteadโ
He turned the page, more from idle curiosity than expectation.
Purely, he assured himself, to determine how much worse it became.
Love is measured less by what you are willing to do for someone than by what you are willing to let them choose.
Patience is not waiting until they agree with you.
Patience is accepting that they may never do so.
To care unconditionally is not to love without expectation.
It is to continue wishing for their happiness, even when it no longer includes you.
...
An unusual emphasis.
This one appeared preoccupied with what one ought to surrender.
The previous chapters had proven disappointingly ordinary.
A great deal of earnest optimism wrapped in modern terminology, each argument resting upon the generous assumption that people generally possessed both good intentions and sound judgment.
How impractical.
His attention drifted lower, the next chapter bore a single heading.
Rejection.
Do not attempt to persuade someone into loving you.
Genuine affection flourishes only where freedom remains untouched.
Love offered freely is precious.
Love obtained through persistence, guilt, fear, obligation, manipulation, or exhaustion is not love at all.
It is merely compliance wearing affection's clothing.
The page did not turn.
His eyes remained upon the parchment, rain whispered steadily against the windows.
The corners of his mouth curved almost imperceptibly.
Without invitation, another thought attempted to intrude.
A pair of eyes regarding him with that peculiar mixture of caution and quiet defiance they had never quite abandoned.
He dismissed it almost immediately, entirely irrelevant.
The discussion concerned philosophy.
He found himself considering the question with greater seriousness than the author had likely intended.
The bookseller reached for his mug, the silence stretched between each small sound.
Somewhere near the back of the shop, old timbers settled with a quiet groan.
His gaze settled upon the final sentence.
Compliance.
Such an unusually specific choice.
The author had not written obedience, nor submission.
Certainly not devotion.
Compliance.
Temporary.
Performative.
Hollow.
A convincing imitation, perhapsโbut an imitation nonetheless.
He found himself wondering whether the distinction truly existed, because it implied a discrepancy he had never considered necessary.
If only for a passing moment, where precisely that had been drawn out.
Obedience could certainly resemble devotion.
Habit resembled comfort.
Routine resembled contentment.
Long enough, at least.
People had mistaken considerably stranger things for love.
...
Hadn't they?
Of course they had.
One might imitate affection convincingly enough to deceive everyone present.
...
Everyone, that is, except the people involved.
His expression remained unchanged.
Then, almost irritably, he turned the question over in his thoughts.
What, precisely, separated devotion from compliance?
Duration?
Willingness?
Enthusiasm?
The author neglected to explain, an unfortunate oversight.
Alastor read the passage again, not because he had misunderstood it.
Because surelyโ
Surely, the author had omitted a qualification somewhere.
There wasn't one.
The author appeared completely sincere, there was no indication of satire, nor any signs of exaggerated language, and no attempts at humor.
No acknowledgment that people were, by their very nature, profoundly unreliable creatures.
They declined opportunities they later regretted.
They fled from happiness because it arrived wearing unfamiliar clothing, confused fear with instinct often enough that the two had become nearly inseparable.
Left entirely to their own devices, people displayed a remarkable talent for choosing immediate comfort over lasting satisfaction.
They mistook fear for wisdom, comfort for happiness, habit for contentment.
One hardly entrusted important decisions to first instincts.
Why, then, should matters of affection prove uniquely exempt?
Curious.
The author seemed entirely convinced that the first answer deserved to remain the final one.
What an astonishingly passive philosophy.
It seemed the author and he had not merely disagreed upon conduct, they disagreed upon the meaning of love itself.
He had encountered foolish people before, many of them.
Most possessed the decency to disguise it, this one had chosen to publish it.
He closed the book.
His fingers lingered against the cover, the rain continued.
He found himself, rather against his better judgment, considering the argument.
Not the sentiment.
Sentiment rarely interested him.
The premise.
If every refusal was to be accepted immediatelyโฆ
If every hesitation was to remain unquestioned...
If every frightened instinct was to be treated as immutable truth...
Then persuasion itself became an act of cruelty, an revolutionary conclusion.
Civilizations had been built upon persuasion, wars concluded through it, fortunes amassed because of it, and entire lives redirected by a sufficiently compelling argument.
People persuaded one another every hour of every day.
And yet none of those examples involved love.
To suggest that affection alone existed beyond influence struck him asโ
He paused.
Romantic.
The word settled unpleasantly in his thoughts.
Hopelessly, almost offensively, romantic.
What extraordinary people they must have been, to possess such effortless confidence in another person's judgment.
To encounter someone they loved standing upon the edge of a terrible mistake.
And simply walk away.
His gaze drifted once more to the paragraph, the certainty of it irritated him far more than the sentiment itself.
The author had offered no evidence, only verdict.
And verdict, in Alastor's experience, deserved examination before it deserved respect.
It had become increasingly apparent that the author had committed a remarkably common mistake.
They had confused freedom with wisdom.
If someone walked willingly into a burning house, no decent person would admire their autonomy.
Why, then, should love demand less courage than fire?
One did not cease caring for someone simply because they failed to recognize what would bring them happiness.
Quite the opposite.
Love, if it deserved the name at all, demanded perseverance precisely when the other person proved incapable of seeing clearly.
To surrender them to their own fear was not compassion.
It was negligence.
Children refused medicine.
Patients resisted treatment.
The frightened mistook safety for imprisonment often enough that history had learned not to indulge every fearful instinct.
According to the author, one ought to abandon the person they loved at the first sincere refusal.
Leave them to whatever fear, confusion, or misunderstanding had inspired it.
Dress that abandonment in the language of respect.
Call it virtue.
No.
If one's affection could be defeated by a single refusalโ
It had never been particularly profound to begin with.
He found that considerably crueler than persistence.
He slid the book neatly back into its place upon the shelf.
It remained there.
He regarded the spine thoughtfully, with the faint expression of a man who had discovered a chess opponent after several disappointingly easy matches.
The old bookseller remained behind the counter, rain continued against the windows.
Nothing whatsoever had changed.
It had become strangely important that the author be wrong.
Nothing urged him to reach for it again.
Nothing, save the increasingly disagreeable suspicion that someone had written an argument deserving a proper rebuttal.
One could hardly reject an argument before understanding it completely.
That, more than anything else, simply would not do.
The thought settled with quiet satisfaction, not because the book had convinced him.
Quite the opposite.
It had finally presented him with a question worth answering.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Qualityโ Free Actions
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
You have been selected for the prestigious position for Executive Companion Status.
This distinction grants access to a variety of privileges, accommodations, and opportunities unavailable to the general public.
Please review the following information carefully to ensure a smooth transition into your new role.
We, VoxTek Industries is committed to ensuring a positive and rewarding experience as possible.
Introduction
The Executive Companion Program was established to facilitate meaningful interpersonal engagement, improve quality of life outcomes, and support the continued wellbeing of Executive Personnel.
You have been granted direct access to one of Hell's most successful, influential entrepreneurs, innovators, visionaries, media moguls, and a generally impressive individual.
Please review all policies carefully.
Page I. Executive Overview:
VoxTek Industries remains committed to excellence. Our reputation has been built upon innovation, dedication, and consistency.
I am VoxTek Industries is proud of its accomplishments.
>Your boss is:
โ Strikingly good looking.
โ Successful.
โ Influential.
โ Generous.
โ Highly intelligent.
โ Exceptionally hardworking.
โ Right approximately 97% of the time.
The Executive has demonstrated exceptional competency in the following areas:
Leadership
Innovation
Strategic Planning
Public Relations
Conflict Resolution
Personal Presentation
Brand Development
Independent evaluations indicate above-average performance across all listed categories.
>Executive Developmental Areas:
VoxTek Industries remains committed to continuous professional growth at every level of leadership.
At this time, no recommendations have been submitted.
Page. II Expectations:
As a high-profile public figure, your Executive maintains an unusually demanding schedule.
Please understand that occasional schedule adjustments may occur without notice.
As such, flexibility, discretion, professionalism, and loyalty throughout the duration of this circumstance is strongly encouraged.
Your Executive's time is valuable, fortunately, so are you.
Additional responsibilities may arise as situations require.
Participation in the program constitutes acknowledgment and acceptance of these conditions.
Page. III Communication Policy:
The Executive places considerable value on open and consistent communication.
Companions are encouraged to respond to correspondence in a timely manner whenever possible.
>Response Standards
Recommended response times are as follows:
>Text Communication: Within fifteen (15) minutes.
>Voice Communication: As soon as reasonably possible.
Extended periods of unexplained absence may result in questioning from Executive Personnel.
To avoid unnecessary concern, you are encouraged to notify your Executive regarding:
Travel plans
Unexpected delays
Schedule changes
Overnight accommodations
New acquaintances
Significant conversations
Failure to do so may result in follow-up contact.
Page. IV Privacy and Security:
At VoxTek, transparency is important.
We respect the privacy of all program participants. Trust is essential.
Your Executive has placed considerable trust in you, it is expected that this trust will be reciprocated.
>Risk Prevention:
VoxTek Industries takes a proactive approach toward participant safety.
To ensure your wellbeing, VoxTek Industries maintains a variety of security measures designed to identify potential risks before they become problems.
These measures may include, but are not limited to:
Location services.
Communication monitoring.
Behavioral trends.
Threat assessment.
Routine environmental observation.
Emergency intervention protocols.
Sleep patterns.
Potential concerns may be identified before the participant themself becomes aware of them.
Page. V External Relations:
>Public Conduct
Companions are free to engage in social activities at their discretion.
Due to ongoing operational considerations, interactions with designated Restricted Parties are forbidden.
>Clarification
This designation should not be interpreted as personal animosity, insecurity, competitiveness, jealousy, pettiness, obsession, fixation, or any related allegation.
It is a matter of operational efficiency.
Page. VI Executiveโs Wellbeing:
The Executive performs optimally in environments characterized by positive reinforcement and constructive feedback.
>Recommended phrases include:
โ "That was impressive."
โ "You handled that well."
โ "You were right."
โ "You look good today."
โ "I can see why you're successful."
An advanced user may utilize:
โ "No one else could've done that.โ
>Warning: Improper praise may be rejected.
The Boss can detect insincerity with alarming accuracy.
You are encouraged to sound believable.
>Stress Recognition
The Executive maintains a demanding professional schedule.
As such, employees and companions may occasionally witness what the company classifies as an:
Executive Emotional Eventโข
Please note: Executive Emotional Eventsโข are not considered workplace incidents and therefore cannot be reported as such.
Stop asking.
Participants may occasionally observe signs of elevated stress, including:
Increased volume.
Increased sarcasm.
Noticeable decline in diplomatic responses.
Extended work hours.
Minor property damage.
Diminished willingness to entertain nonsense.
Excessive foul language.
In such situations, participant is encouraged to:
Remain calm.
Avoid escalation.
Allow the Executive adequate time to decompress.
Avoid sudden movements.
Agree that the situation is, in fact, frustrating.
Nod occasionally.
Allow him to finish speaking.
You are strongly advised not to compare him to certain individuals.
The resulting property damage can be substantial.
>Regarding Personal Conflicts
Should you become the source of the Boss's frustration:
Well done. This is significantly worse.
Page. VII Companion Benefits & Incentives
>Program Benefits
Participation in the Executive Companion Program includes, but is not limited to:
Priority accommodations.
Exclusive event access.
Executive-level gifts.
Bonus pay.
Enhanced security measures.
Increased opportunities for private Executive engagement.
Direct access to the Executive.
Expanded after-hours companionship.
Additional benefits as determined by the Executive.
>Gift Acceptance
Participants may occasionally receive gifts.
The Executive is very good at providing gifts. These gifts may vary in size, value, and frequency.
Acceptance is encouraged, repeated refusal may be interpreted as ungratefulness.
Page. VIII Common Misconceptions
>โThe Executive is controlling.โ
Reality: The Executive simply prefers to remain informed regarding circumstances that may affect your wellbeing.
To facilitate this, your devices may occasionally be synced across approved VoxTek platforms.
This ensures a seamless experience for everyone involved.
>โThe Executive is possessive.โ
Reality: The Executive demonstrates a strong commitment to long-term companion retention.
>โThe Executive is jealous.โ
Reality: The Executive values loyalty, consistency, and proper prioritization.
>โDoes the Executive care about me?โ
Reality: The Executive does not concern himself with matters so childish.
>โThen why is this handbook 102 pages long?โ
Please remain on topic.
Final Notes:
Congratulations on completing the Executive Companion Orientation Guide.
VoxTek Industries appreciates your cooperation and looks forward to a productive future together.
The Executive is not an easy individual to know.
Please consult the appropriate sections of this handbook before contacting the Executive Personnel.
If you ever find yourself questioning the Executive's intentions, please remember:
The Executive has better things to do than concern himself with trivial matters.
Try not to waste his time.
Thank you for your participation, VoxTek Industries wishes you every success.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Qualityโ Free Actions
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
>Warnings: Not much yet, violence, unsettling themes, depictions of Hell, cannibalism.
>Word Count: 5k.
The Catalog
Act. I
Hell was not how you imagined it to be.
This realization came to you, not during your descent into damnation, nor when your body first struck the scorched realm below with enough force to fracture bone.
It did not settle upon your shoulders while witnessing monstrous creatures tearing one another apart in the streets like starved animals brawling over scraps. While the damned screamed themselves hoarse beneath blood-red skies.
You had expected endless suffering upon your arrival, constant violence and lasting misery.
No, the revelation came much later. Only in hindsight did certain things begin to resemble a pattern.
As if the world had not been brutal on its own, it offered you a brief and carefully constructed mercy.
Convincing enough that you never questioned whether it had been doomed from the beginning. Looking back now, you think some deeply pathetic part of you wanted Hell to be just that simple. If not pleasant, then at least doable in ways that did not demand unremitting suffering.
You carved out little routines for yourself and foolishly convinced your heart that eternity might pass quietly if you kept your head low enough.
What a humiliating thing that belief turned out to be.
The barbarity here was not confined to carnage, that would have been simpler to understand. Hellโs true depravity lived in the more unsuspectable things. In how easily affection became leverage. How safety always arrived with hidden conditions attached. Love, power, protection, and companionship; every meaningful thing eventually twisted into something edged to cut you from the inside.
Most of the time, you failed to realize you were being devoured until there was barely anything left worth saving.
Back then, however, you knew none of this.
Cannibal Town fit you the way a doll suited a dollhouse. Grotesque, perhaps, but it possessed a peculiar sort of community beneath all its sharpened teeth and bloodshed.You had settled there not long after arriving in Hell, drawn less by intention and more by circumstance.
The districtโs strange civility made it easier to stomach than the harsher parts of Pentagram City. Cannibal Town somewhat had rules, etiquette. And the cannibals, while unsettling, with time, eventually came around. Perhaps because you provided something novel to the town.
Or perhaps, Rosie herself had taken a liking to you early on, in which Cannibal Town functioned as both social approval and protection all at once.
You quietly built a life for yourself. Wave politely at passing townsfolk, avoid asking what was being served at community gatherings, and never stare too long at the butcher windows. In time, the place became familiar.
While other sinners clawed desperately toward power, you found yourself shrinking from it instead. Overlords amassed territory, built empires from violence and fear, names became brands here, whispered either in reverence or terror depending on who spoke them.
Every sinner in Hell seemed consumed by the same insatiable hunger to dominate something, someone, somewhere.You did not understand it, conceivably that made you foolish. Or you simply lacked whatever monstrous instinct that others possessed so naturally.
You wanted no throne, no influence, no grand ambitions carved into the skyline of Pentagram City.
You only wished to be left alone with your creations. So you built Dollybell Boutique, instead of an empire. You spent your evenings sewing lace rather than spilling blood. You learned the names of your customers, instead of gathering souls beneath your heel.
Little by little, you carved something resembling peace from the carcass of damnation. The bell above the boutique door chimed softly.
โCute place.โ
You barely glanced up at first, too focused on tying a satin ribbon neatly around the neck of a half finished doll resting in your lap. Post meridiem light spilled through the storefront windows, bathing the shop in rosy gold. Dust particles drifted through the air, somewhere deeper in the shop, tiny footsteps pattered faintly across wooden floorboards.
Dollybell Boutique had first been born from necessity, you needed money. A way to survive without indebting yourself to Overlords, and opportunists lurking behind every corner of Pentagram City. Selling your craftsmanship made sense. It became your answer to all of it, or perhaps distraction was the more honest word.
You look up, momentarily putting down the ribbon on your hands aside.
โOh, welcome!โ
What once began merely as a means of sustaining yourself gradually became something far more. You buried yourself into creation with near embarrassing devotion, as though keeping your hands busy might somehow prevent your mind from wandering toward uglier truths.
The boutique gave you structure, a rhythm. Something gentle enough to return to when the rest of Hell became too raucous, too heinous, too unbearable to last for long periods of time.
The sinner lingering at the entrance looked briefly caught off guard by your enthusiasm. Tall, broad shouldered, vaguely reptilian. Golden eyes scanned the boutique, the numerous dolls lined up on shelves stared back at him silently. โ...Huh.โ
Needle through fabric, thread pulled taut, button eyes sewn carefully, you had to admit there was comfort in predictability. In creating things that behaved as intended when so little else ever did. You loved the process almost selfishly.
The smell of fresh fabric, the cluttered warmth of your workshop, sketches littering every available surface because ideas arrived faster than you could bring them into existence. Some creations came to you while parading around town, accomplishing errands. Others emerged spontaneously in the middle of conversations, forcing you to excuse yourself abruptly just to scribble concepts onto nearby paper before they vanished from your head entirely.
Creation soothed you. Perhaps because it had always come easier to you than destruction.
The sinner narrowed his eyes at a doll perched near the register. Its rounded head tilted toward him with an uncanny motion.
โThe fuck? That thing just moved!โ he gestured wildly toward the doll seated atop the desk dressed in frilly pink satin.
โThis place is creepy as shit.โ
You furrowed your eyebrows. Cannibal Town hosted weekly dinner parties where guests politely complimented one another's seasoning preferences while eating severed limbs off of fine china. The butcher down the street occasionally hung torsos outside his storefront like decorative wreaths during holidays.
Yet somehow your dolls were what unsettled people? You never really understood why.
You stifled a laugh beneath your breath before setting aside your sewing supplies,
โOh don't mind them,โ you answered lightly, โthey get curious around new people.โ
โGeez, this townโs really full of freaks.โ He muttered, beneath his breath.
The sinner's attention drifted around the shop after that, towards the racks of frilly clothing. The button eyed dolls, posed eerily atop velvet cushions. Tiny handcrafted accessories displayed beneath warm amber lighting.
โYou make all this yourself?โ
You stood from your chair, nearly tripping over a pile of fabric in the process.
โMhm,โ You nodded, โthe dresses too, design the fabrics, oh and the music boxes!โ
โI guess, it'sโฆ not as shitty as it could've been.โ
Your expression brightened, you always liked hearing that. Most people assumed craftsmanship came easy simply because you made it look effortless. They didnโt see the sleepless nights spent reworking patterns. The dozens of ruined prototypes hidden beneath worktables.
The cramped fingers from hours of hand stitching delicate lace into microscopic seams.
The sinner continued inspecting the doll probing it with his pointy finger before glancing toward you again.
โ... So whatโs with the alive thing anyway?โ
โWellโฆ they aren't really alive per se.โ You hesitated briefly, โsome customers just like companionship. Others use them for protection, surveillance, and uhโฆ other uses.โ
The sinner raised an eyebrow.
You moved toward another shelf and carefully lifted a small doll dressed in black velvet.
You pointed giddily, โshe can fit through vents.โ
โThis one is very good with handling firearms.โ
Your voice lowered conspiratorially, โOh, and this little fella, helped somebody catch their business partner skimming money.โ
โHmm, Go on.โ
Eventually, the sinner left with one of your dolls tucked awkwardly beneath his arm despite his earlier complaints.
โPleasure doing business with you, come again!โ
You considered that a success.
While waving the doll goodbye, the others gathered, watching him through the boutique window with quiet scrutiny until his figure disappeared into the winding streets of Cannibal Town. In the distance, gunfire cracked, followed shortly by, irritated shouting.
Normal afternoon activities.
You return to tidying up the shop absentmindedly, smoothing crooked ribbons, and reorganizing displaced fabric rolls while the phonograph crackled softly somewhere near the back room.
Poppet was discovered attempting to pry open the cash register again.
โWhat did I say about touching things that aren't yours?โ you scolded mildly, clicking your tongue.
The bear crossed his tiny arms in visible annoyance.
โYouโre just mad I caught you.โ You plucked him unceremoniously from the counter and set him back atop a shelf.
โYou don't even use money.โ Honestly, you wonder how he formed such peculiar habits.
In due time, you made a place for yourself within Cannibal Town.
Mornings opening the boutique, long afternoons tangled in thread and fabric. Sinners began recognizing the soft jingle of the boutique bell whenever customers entered your shop. Customers wander in with blood still drying on their sleeves while asking whether certain dolls can be armed. Elderly cannibals stopped by simply to gossip about town happenings or complain theatrically about relatives they were considering eating.
Rosie, especially, took to you quickly.
At first, her visits seemed harmlessly neighborly. A prominent figure welcoming a newer resident into Cannibal Townโs odd community. She purchased dolls occasionally, complimenting your storefront displays, and lingered longer with each passing visit. Conversations drifted beyond shallow pleasantries into something warmer.
You found yourself beginning to expect her visits. She listened attentively, asking thoughtful questions, remembering small details youโd long forgotten mentioning yourself. Speaking with Rosie felt natural, you would even find yourself rambling to her sometimes, discussing sewing techniques and design concepts while she listened with genuine intrigue rather than polite obligation.
You genuinely enjoyed her company, which perhaps should have concerned you more considering the woman routinely discussed cannibalism with the same relaxed cadence you'd usually find while engaging in small talk.
Some afternoons were spent beneath parasols in the town plaza while she entertained you with stories, observations, local scandals, and charming critiques of Pride Ringโs more tasteless residents.
Cannibal Town respected Rosie.
Admired her, even.
And perhaps that should have warned you on how deeply influential she truly was.
โSugar?โ
โTwo, please.โ
โSweetheart,โ Rosie sighed fondly, โat this point youโre simply drinking melted candy.โ
โIt balances the bitterness.โ
Rosieโs abode had a distinct atmosphere, everything smelled faintly of floral, tea, and rotten flesh.
You try not to think too hard about the last one.
Jazz drifted smoothly from the radio nearby while she sat poised across from you, delicately stirring cream into her tea.
โAnywho,โ Rosie sighed, โI told her, who hasn't thought about eating their first husband at least once? I mean I certainly would if he didn't taste so bad!โ
She bursts into laughter, leaning back against the loveseat, her gloved hand lifting to her eyes to wipe away faux tears.
Spread neatly between the two of you sat an assortment of Cannibal Townโs delicacies displayed atop pristine porcelain trays. Pinkie sandwiches, strawberry tarts, and tea cakes dusted with powdered sugar. Neatly baked flakey pastry spirals beside what looked suspiciously like candied knuckles.
You laughed despite yourself, lifting your teacup to conceal the smile tugging at your lips.
โI still think eating your spouse should probably be grounds for concern.โ
Rosie waved a dismissive hand.
โOh, pish posh, after a certain age, every long-lasting relationship becomes a matter of restraint.โ
โThatโs not very romantic.โ
"Perhaps not. Though I've found expectations are usually the first thing people ought to lower.โ
The conversation dissolved into light laughter after that. The sound filled the room easily, warm and infectious that you found yourself joining in despite the topic at hand.
You had long since stopped trying to determine which of Rosie's stories were true and which had simply become more entertaining in the retelling.
The answer was rarely clear, and Rosie seemed to prefer it that way.
Rosie reached for a tea cake, delicately breaking off a piece between gloved fingers.
โSpeaking of unfortunate unions,โ she began, dabbing a stray crumb from her glove, โdid you hear about the Beaumont estate?โ
You groaned immediately.
The Beaumonts.
There was never a shortage of scandals surrounding the Beaumonts.
โWhich scandal is this one?โ
โThe current one.โ
โThat doesn't narrow it down.โ
Rosie smiled into her teacup. โOld Mr. Beaumont finally perished.โ
โWait, wasn't he already dead?โ
โWell, yes.โ She lowered her cup. โBut now he's properly dead.โ
You stared, โuh-huh.โ
โMy dear,โ she sighed patiently, โwe're in Hell. There are layers to these things.โ
That was somehow a reasonable explanation by local standards, you decided not to question it further.
โAnyhow, he left behind a rather substantial fortune, several properties, and an absolutely scandalous collection of antique bone china.โRosie leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice as though preparing to share state secrets.
โNow two of his children are fighting over the inheritance.โ
You snorted.
โThey've been fighting for months now though?โ
โPrecisely!โ Rosie exclaimed, delighted that you were keeping up. โWhich makes it all the more impressive that they've finally escalated to poisoning one another.โ
Your teacup froze halfway to your lips.
โBoth of them?โ
โBoth of them.โ
The answer came far too quickly.
A small pause followed, you narrowed your eyes.
โDid it work?โ
Rosie simply smiled, that told you everything you needed to know.
You buried your face in your hands.
โCannibal Town is ridiculous.โ
โAnd yet you've grown quite fond of it.โ
The words drew a reluctant smile from your lips, you opened your mouth to argue before realizing she was entirely correct.
Somewhere along the way, the Town's oddities had become familiar.
Its strange customs, the bizarre devotion to manners while simultaneously discussing questionable recipes for one another. The residents who tipped their hats politely before dragging corpses down the street.
It had ceased feeling temporary. The realization settled strangely in your chest.
Home was perhaps too generous a word. But it was close enough.
Rosie watched the thought cross your face, her smile softened. โYou've done well for yourself, you know.โ
You looked up.
โWhat?โ
โThe boutique.โ She gestured vaguely with her teacup. โYour little dolls, your customers. You've settled beautifully sweetheart.โ
โIt's not that impressive.โ
โNow, that's simply untrue.โ
You lowered your gaze to the tea swirling inside the porcelain. Praise had always sat awkwardly upon your shoulders, especially when it was genuine.
โWhen I first got here,โ you admitted, โI didn't think any of this would last.โ
Rosie tilted her head, โthe boutique?โ
You shook your head.
โAny of it.โ
Your hand made a vague gesture toward the window.
Toward the town, toward the life you'd built here. The words felt sappy spoken aloud.
โI remember.โ
The simple statement drew your attention back to her.
โYou were much jumpier when you first arrived,โ Rosie started, amusement evident in her tone.
โYou spent three weeks convinced everyone intended to eat you. Though, I can't blame you.โ
Heat immediately flooded your face, you rarely reflected on those early days.
The uncertainty, the constant feeling that one wrong turn would result in becoming someone's dinner.
You remembered wandering uncharted streets with white knuckled caution. Sleeping with furniture pushed against your front door, flinching whenever strangers addressed you.
As though the smallest mistake would shatter whatever little stability you'd managed to scrape together.
You whined, your hands flew up to cover your face.
โYou looked exhausted those first few weeks. Every time I saw you, it was as though you were waiting for something dreadful to happen.โ
โI suppose I was nervous.โ
Your gaze drifted toward the window.
Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across Cannibal Town's cobblestone streets. Through the window, you could just make out a pair of townsfolk chatting animatedly beside a flower cart. One was carrying what appeared to be a human femur tucked beneath their arm.
You felt a strange sense of normalcy within you. At least, by Hellโs standards.
Rosie hummed. โNervous is one way of putting it.โ
She leaned back into her chair.
โI remember wondering how long it would take.โ
You tilted your head,โhow long would what take?โ
โBefore somebody tried to take advantage of you.โ
The words were spoken lightly, but the comment landed strangely. Not because it was particularly alarming, Hell was full of opportunists. That much had never been in question.
Nonetheless, something in Rosie's tone caught your attention. It was barely noticeable, yet it was enough to make you pause.
You frowned into your napkin.
Why was she being weird all of a sudden?
The conversation had been perfectly pleasant moments ago.
Now she was speaking as though she'd been expecting some unseen catastrophe all along.
For an instant, Rosie looked older. Not physically, something else. The warmth remained, the smile remained.
Yet you were reminded that Rosie did not merely live in Cannibal Town. She ruled it. People listened when she spoke, sinners vanished when she wished it.
You had seen enough of Hell to understand that a position like hers was not won through kindness alone. The realization surfaced only briefly before vanishing beneath another pleasant smile.
You couldn't tell whether she was warning you about something specific or merely indulging one of her occasional philosophical moods.
With Rosie, either was equally possible.
โYou know,โ you shifted awkwardly on your seat, โyouโre making me sound awfully helpless.โ
Rosie merely watched you over the rim of her teacup, and said nothing.
The silence stretched, not necessarily uncomfortable. Just long enough for you to wonder whether she'd meant something by it.
_ _ _ _ _ โน เฃช ห
The boutique has been busy lately.
A handful of custom commissions, several repairs, three wedding dolls, and one surveillance doll. As well as a particularly demanding client who insisted upon seventeen separate wardrobe changes for a doll barely larger than a loaf of bread.
You were still irritated about that one.
Despite yourself, you couldn't suppress the small flicker of pride that surfaced.
The boutique had come a long way.
What had once begun as a cramped little storefront furnished with secondhand shelves and stubborn optimism now occupied nearly the entire building.
Bolts of fabric crowded the walls in precarious towers of velvet, lace, and brocade. Shelves overflowed with dolls in varying stages of completion.
Some sat fully dressed and watching from their perches. Others remained scattered across worktables in pieces, waiting patiently for arms, eyes, or wardrobes.
Sketches hung from corkboards, pinned atop older sketches which had long since disappeared beneath layers of newer ideas. Dress concepts overlapped weapon designs. Fabric samples were tucked into corners. Entire sections had become illegible beneath hastily scribbled notes written during moments of inspiration.
Every misplaced spool of thread. Every abandoned sketchbook, every pair of sewing scissors forgotten in increasingly ridiculous locations.
At least until you needed to find it again, which was precisely the problem.
You stared at the empty space upon your worktable, then at the surrounding clutter.
The scissors had been there ten minutes ago, you were certain of it.
Slowly, your eyes narrowed, โPoppet.โ
A faint rustle came from the fabric shelves.
You turned, Nothing.
Your gaze lingered suspiciously, still nothing.
โ...Poppet.โ
The bear froze. Half of his form concealed behind an avalanche of folded velvet, Poppet sat perfectly motionless, large button eyes stared forward with all the innocence of a child caught standing over a cookie jar late into the night.
The little bear was one of your oldest creations.
Dark oak-brown fur covered his round, slightly pudgy body that had softened with age, and by years of repairs and adjustments. A black button served as his left eye, while a caramel-colored one occupied the right, leaving him permanently lopsided.
You had originally intended to replace the mismatched pair.
Eventually, you'd grown fond of them.
A small waistcoat sat snugly around his middle, several pockets lined the front.
A terrible decision, in hindsight.
Poppet treated every pocket as a personal treasure vault.
Lost buttons, thimbles, ribbon scraps, coins, sewing needles. Once, inexplicably, an entire door handle. You had never discovered where he'd gotten that.
Around his neck sat a cream colored ribbon that had long since lost its original color. You had straightened it countless times, it never remained straight for long.Several careful repairs traced across his seams.
Reinforced stitching beneath one arm, a patch hidden beneath his little waistcoat. Tiny imperfections accumulated over the years, marking every adventure he'd managed to stumble into.
At some point, you had considered remaking him entirely.
The thought lasted less than five minutes. Poppet simply wouldn't have looked like himself otherwise.
Presently, those mismatched button eyes stared back at you with profound innocence.
The missing scissors rested neatly beside him.
Needless to say you were not fooled.
โI can see it, you know that right?โ
A pause.
Then, with visible reluctance, he nudged the scissors forward.
โThat isn't shiny enough for you,โ you reached, โdon't lower your standards.โ
Eventually, the scissors found their way back to the worktable.
A rare victory.
You spent the remainder of the afternoon buried beneath commissions.
Customers came and went in a steady procession of peculiar requests and stranger explanations.
By closing time, your shoulders ached.
The dolls, meanwhile, appeared entirely unaffected by labor. Poppet had somehow acquired three bottlecaps, a silver cufflink, and what looked suspiciously like somebody's pocket watch chain.
Before you knew it, the sun had begun its slow descent.
The streets had begun settling into their evening rhythm, the shopkeepers swept their storefronts, lamps flickered to life one by one casting pools of amber light across the cobblestones.
A gentleman across the lane tipped his hat politely as he passed, his pointy teeth glistened against the warmth of the lamp post.
You returned the gesture automatically.
Only after he'd continued on his way did you notice a sinner's corpse trailing behind him, the body disappeared into a nearby alley with a soft scraping sound.
You knew better by now not to investigate, experience had taught you that curiosity rarely improved a situation.
The evening air had begun cooling by the time you were locking the boutique doors.
A familiar voice called out before you could make it halfway down the steps.
โDarling!โ
You turned over to your shoulder. Mrs. Weatherby stood, a wicker basket hung from one arm and a carving knife peeked out from the inside.The blade looked recently sharpened.
โLovely evening, Mrs. Weatherby,โ you pleasantly smiled.
The elderly cannibal beamed, โLovely it is, business good?โ
You chuckled, โdefinitely busy.โ
โWonderful. Nothing worse than an empty shop!โ
Considering where you lived, you suspected there were several things worse than an empty shop.
โHaving guests tonight?โ
โOh yes, yes,โ she adjusted the basket. โi've been marinating since yesterday.โ
You nodded politely, โthat sounds nice.โ
Then paused.
โ...The food, right?โ
โOf course the food.โ Mrs. Weatherby blinked, โwhy on earth would I marinate the guests?โ
You laughed awkwardly. โRightโฆ Silly question.โ
She shook her head with warm hearted disappointment. โNow then, if you don't have plans, you're welcome to join us.โ
Her smile widened, โwe're expecting enough for seconds.โ
You glanced briefly at the cleaver, then back at her.
โI think I'll pass for now.โ
โSuit yourself.โ She shrugged, โmore for the rest of us.โ
Mrs. Weatherby eventually wandered off, leaving you to continue home. Which, admittedly, wasn't very far.
The apartment above the boutique occupied the entire second floor. The staircase leading up was narrow and slightly crooked, hidden behind a velvet curtain near the rear of the shop. The steps creaked beneath your weight in familiar places. After all these years, you've long since memorized which boards complain the loudest.
The apartment itself had never looked particularly impressive.
Most visitors would probably call it cluttered, but you preferred the word lived in.
The sofa was salvaged years ago, your paint stained dining table occupied one corner, buried beneath sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and unfinished ideas.
A few mismatched lamps crowded the sitting room, each seemingly purchased from a completely different decade. Books competed with sewing supplies for shelf space. Half-finished projects littered wherever you had last abandoned them.
Nothing really matched, but everything was where it belonged.
The towering windows were your favorite part. Truthfully, they were the reason you'd chosen the apartment in the first place.
From here, Cannibal Town looked different. Less like a district populated by cannibals and more like a collection of glowing windows and chimneys curling lazy trails of smoke.
You could overlook rooftops layered one atop another, laundry lines strung between neighboring buildings.
Golden lanternlight filtered through lace curtains, turning the apartment into a glowing little pocket above the town.
More often than not, you found yourself sitting beside those windows with a sketchbook balanced upon your knee long after you'd intended to sleep.
On particularly quiet nights, you could pretend it was ordinary. It could almost pass for the real thing.
Almost.
Somewhere in the distance, you could see the town square. During festivals, parasols were scattered through the streets like vibrantly colored flowers. During less festive occasions, public executions were occasionally held in the very same location.
Those, too, could be observed from the comfort of your armchair. Cannibal Town had always possessed a remarkable ability to treat both events with identical enthusiasm.
By the time you pushed open the apartment door, Bonbon was already waiting.
The black cat doll sat atop the sofa's backrest, motionless except for the slow lazy swish of his tail.
Unlike Poppet, Bonbon rarely felt the need to announce his presence.
Bonbon resembled a cat only in the broadest sense.
His body was slender and long-limbed, stitched from midnight black velvet that swallowed light rather than reflected it.
Unlike Poppet's softened seams and well-loved patches, Bonbon remained almost unnervingly pristine.
Dust rarely seemed to settle upon him. You had stitched every seam yourself, selected every scrap of velvet, fastened every button by hand.
Yet of all your creations, he was the one that felt the least decipherable.
His ears were tall and sharply pointed, giving him a perpetually attentive silhouette. A narrow tail trailed behind him, often curling neatly around his paws wherever he chose somewhere to observe.
And Bonbon did a great deal of observing.
Two deep navy button eyes sat upon his face. At a glance they would appear pitch black, yet when sunlight struck them just right, traces of its color surfaced beneath the shadows.
A silver ribbon sat loosely around his neck, threaded through a tiny bell that never seemed to ring no matter how much he moved. You'd tested it before, repeatedly.
The bell worked fine, Bonbon simply refused to make noise with it.
At times, the sensation struck with startling clarity. You had fashioned him from cloth and stuffing. Measured his proportions, chosen his fabrics. Given shape to every inch of him with your own hands.
Yet Bonbon occasionally regarded the world with such quiet scrutiny that you found yourself wondering whether you had truly created him at all. Or merely provided something unknown with a body to inhabit.
Now that you think about it, the name had turned out to be wildly inaccurate. You've called him Bonbon shortly after finishing him.
At the time, it had felt fitting. All oversized ears and velvet fur. Something sweet, something soft.
Like candy.
Years later, the name remained, the personality however did not.
Bonbon possessed all the warmth of an unpaid tax collector.
The apartment settled around you with familiar creaks and sighs. Downstairs, the boutique had finally gone quiet.
The silence that followed closing time always felt larger than it ought to.
You shed your coat onto the back of a chair, Bonbon's gaze followed your movement.
โGood evening to you too.โ
Bonbon regarded you in silence. The navy buttons reflected a faint sliver of lanternlight.
As usual, they revealed absolutely nothing. You reached down and smoothed a hand between his ears, the velvet was cool beneath your fingertips.
He remained perfectly still throughout the gesture, maintaining the same air of detached dignity he approached most things with.
โThere you are.โ
Your thumb brushed over one pointed ear before you withdrew.
You chose to interpret that as affection. After all, he hadn't bitten you. That alone placed you higher on his list of preferred company than most people.
Leaving him to his vigil, you crossed toward the kitchenette.
A kettle soon found its place upon the stove, while Bonbon abandoned the backrest in favor of the windowsill.
The kettle began to whistle shortly afterward. Steam hissed from the spout as you lifted it from the stove and poured water into a waiting teacup, the familiar aroma of chamomile circulating all throughout the loft.
Bonbon had already claimed his customary position, which was propped up by cushions, the time you returned.
You settled into your usual armchair near the windows, balancing the sketchbook across your lap. Steam curled from your teacup as you tucked your legs beneath you.
The cat sat soundlessly upon the sill, button eyes fixed upon the town below. Beyond the glass, Cannibal Town glittered beneath the encroaching dusk.
The scene possessed an almost deceptive tranquility.
If one ignored the occasional scream.
Or the gentleman currently dragging what appeared to be a severed lower body across an intersection.
Or the frenzy of cannibals unfolding near an alley, mauling the corpse of a sinner tearing apart its intestines and slurping it as if it was a bowl of spaghetti.
Huh.
They seem to be enjoying their evening.
The thought arrived so effortlessly that it gave you pause, your fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain cup.
Once upon a time, nothing about this place screamed normalcy. The anxieties, the constant anticipation of disaster, every stranger you deemed dangerous, and every conversation felt like a trap waiting to spring shut.
It had been a year since then.
The number seemed absurd when held beside the memory of your arrival.
Not because the number itself was remarkable. By Hell's standards, a year was practically nothing. Sinners spoke for decades here, entire feuds lasted longer than mortal lifetimes.
Still.
A year ago you had arrived expecting to be swallowed.
Both metaphorically, and literally.
You had expected survival to be measured in days. Weeks, if fortune proved unusually generous.
The first week had been spent assuming every conversation concealed some ulterior motive. The second, held conviction that every stranger possessed a knife hidden somewhere on their person. By the third, you had convinced yourself that the relative calm could not possibly last.
In hindsight, perhaps that had been the correct response.
Fear was difficult to sustain indefinitely, but you certainly hadn't expected this.
The apartment.
The Boutique.
The Town.
Companions.
Before long, your life accumulated routines.
The illusion disturbed you, you knew enough about Hell now to understand how unusual your circumstances truly were. Not everyone found a place for themselves here.
Some sinners spent eons clawing despondently toward stability and never reached it. Others attached themselves to powerful figures for protection, only to discover the arrangement came with concealed conditions.
Some vanished entirely, conformed by carnality, bad decisions, savagery, or simply the wrong person noticing them at the wrong time.
You had somehow avoided all of it. No opponents, no debts worth mentioning, no overlord breathing down your neck.
The absurdity of it wasn't lost on you.
You traced the rim of your teacup absentmindedly, your gaze slipped toward the windowpane.
Surely there had been a moment, a specific day. A specific conversation.
Some invisible threshold crossed without notice.
Yet the harder you searched for it, the less certain you became.
The fear had not disappeared, something ever-present until the moment you consciously listened for it.
You listened now, and found only silence.
That wasn't right. Hell was not supposed to become comfortable, you knew that. Everyone knew that.
Comfort implied predictability.
Predictability implied safety.
And safetyโ
You knew better than that...
โฆ Didn't you?
You had simply gotten lucky, there was no other explanation otherwise.
The realization should have felt comforting. Instead, it felt oddly fragile.
Because when you stripped everything else away, there was one unavoidable conclusion.
The longer you examined your circumstances, the conclusion arrived with unpleasant clarity.
You hadn't conquered Hell. If anything, Hell had barely acknowledged your existence.
You hadn't outsmarted it, nor beaten impossible odds through some hidden cleverness. You had simply been overlooked, there were sinners far stronger than you.
Far smarter.
Far experienced.
Far more ruthless.
Wicked in ways you couldnโt even fathom.
Yet, some of them still ended up owned.
Some became cautionary tales whispered over drinks.
And somehow you remained here.
Why?
The question surfaced before you could stop it.
Why you?
What else had stopped bothering you?
How many compromises had accumulated without notice?
How many terrible things had gradually become ordinary?
You didnโt yield some immense power, you werenโt particularly dangerous. You made dolls, for goodness sakes. You drank tea, and spent entirely too much money on fabric.
There was no reason you should have survived this long beyond blind, staggering fortune.
And luck was a deeply frightening thing to build a future upon, because luck implied randomness. Luck implied chance. Luck implied that all it would take was one wrong day.
One wrong decision.
One wrong person.
Your attention shifted toward Bonbon, the cat remained placidly upon the sill.
Watching.
You frowned, had you always trusted the dolls this much?
The question arrived so abruptly that it startled you, of course you trusted them.
You had made them.
The chamomile had begun cooling. The warmth of the teacup suddenly felt insufficient, you stared into the dark reflection staring back from the window.
For the first time in months, perhaps longer, something felt profoundly wrong.
Not because disaster had arrived, but because it hadn't. The absence itself had begun to feel suspicious.
You had spent so long expecting catastrophe that its failure to appear now seemed far stranger than its arrival ever would have.
The thought coiled itself around your ribs.
The life you'd built felt disturbingly delicate, as though it existed only because something had not yet reached out and crushed it.
An entire year had passed.
Not a week. Not a fortunate month.
A year.
Twelve uninterrupted months in which nobody had chosen you. Nobody had taken an interest, nor decided you belonged to them.
It should have felt reassuring. Instead, it left you wondering how many people had once believed themselves safe.
How many had looked out their windows and imagined they understood the shape of their lives. How many had mistaken a reprieve for permanence.
The town gleamed beneath the evening lights.
A pleasant sight, nearly picturesque.
You took a shaky sip of tea.
And found yourself wondering just how far mere luck could take a person.
Note: brooo alas it's finally done! This is the first chapter of my very first series, Idee Fixe. I hope it wasn't too shitty lmao, Nonetheless, I have lots in store for this fic. Can't wait to show you guys!! ๐ฉท
>Warnings: Cannibalism, references to violence, psychological manipulation, unsettling social dynamics, dark themes, Cannibal Town being Cannibal Town, Rosie lol, spelling and editing mistakes.
>Word Count: 6k(?).
The Catalog
Act. II
The following morning arrived far earlier than you would have liked.
A persistent knocking reverberated throughout the apartment, it arrived long before consciousness did.
At first, it worked itself into the remnants of a dream. Something distant and indistinct, a sound that belonged elsewhere.
Somewhere beyond the warmth of blankets and the comfortable weight of slumber pressing against your limbs.
There were no signs of hostility, nor urgency to its end. Simply determined, the sort of knocking that implied the person on the other side had no intention of leaving.
You buried your face deeper into the pillow, ignoring it.
A sensible response, you felt.
The knocking insisted.
You pulled the blanket higher, considering several possibilities with none involved opening the door.
You closed your eyes, a brief fantasy surfaced.
Perhaps if you remained perfectly still, whoever stood on the other side of the door would eventually lose interest and wander away.
Unfortunately, the person standing outside appeared equally committed.
โDear.โ
You groaned faintly into the pillow, the voice carried easily through the apartment.Bright, pleasant, and utterly inescapable.
โSweetheart, if you're dead, kindly say so. Iโd hate to waste such a enjoyable morning.โ
The muffled words reached you through layers of blankets, walls, and stubborn denial.
You stared at the ceiling, to your demise it offered no solutions.
Bonbon lifted his head from the foot of the bed. The cat stretched languidly before hopping down onto the floor, apparently deciding the situation no longer concerned him. Judging by his expression, or lack thereofโhe had simply chosen not to warn you.
That traitorous little creature.
Clearly he had been awake the entire time.
A glance toward the clock informed you that the morning had only recently begun.
By the time you finally surrendered, exhaustion and irritation had fused together, you dragged yourself toward the door and pulled it open.
Rosie stood waiting on the opposite side. Perfectly poised, not a single aspect of her appearance suggested she'd spent the last several minutes harassing someone at the midst of dawn.
โGood morning, dear.โ
โ... Do you know what time it is?โ
Rosie smiled, โa delightful morning, if I do say so myself.โ
โThat isn't a time.โ
โWhat a dreadful attitude.โ
You briefly considered closing the door, as if on cue, she seemed to recognize the thought right away.
Rosie placed one gloved hand against the frame before you could act.
โNow, now.โ
The standoff lasted approximately three seconds.
She smiled sweetly, you had known Rosie long enough to recognize the warning signs.
The smile itself wasn't one of them, she smiled at nearly everything.
Flowers, funerals, neighborhood disputes, and exceptionally impressive pies. Smiling was her natural state of being.
None, it was simply the way she would abruptly stay quiet. Rosie peered past your shoulder, then it remained there.
Before you could protest, she slipped past you and stepped dead center into the apartment.
โRosieโโ
The tenement looked exactly as it had yesterday, and the day before that.
And the week before that.
The room seemed larger in the morning light. It poured through the lofty windows in great golden shafts, illuminating every suspended speck of dust.
It spilled across faded rugs and polished wood. What appeared charming in the evenings looked considerably more incriminating in daylight.
It carried the faint scent of chamomile, fabric, old books, and something sweet she couldn't quite place.
Vanilla, perhaps.
A quilt had been abandoned over the sofa, left behind with the confidence of something that would be needed again later.
The unfortunate piece of furniture had not been sat upon in weeks, currently serving as a display stand for three unfinished bodices, a length of lace, and what appeared to be half a sleeve pinned directly into its shoulder.
The farther she wandered, the worse things became.
A trail of fabric scraps wound all over the floorboards like breadcrumbs, as though they had migrated independently throughout the apartment and established territory.
Stacks of books had been tucked beside the armchair, framed notes and memos, pinned wherever space had been found for them.
Together, they appeared engaged in a mutual agreement not to collapse if neither party made any sudden movements.Rosie continued her slow circuit through the apartment, the kitchenette offered no refuge.
The dining table had vanished entirely beneath layers of creative ambition, sketches overlapped with fabric swatches, fabric swatches overlapped with pattern pieces, and pattern pieces overlapped teacup rings.
It was a mountain of entirely reasonable clutter accumulated by a perfectly reasonable person.
โMy word,โ Rosie on the other hand, begged to differ. โYouโve spent far too much time up here, one could think you might have gone feral.โ
โI beg your pardon?โ
Rosie's expression grew increasingly sympathetic, the sort of sympathy generally reserved for terminal illnesses.
โWhen was the last time you spent a morning doing absolutely nothing productive?โ
โUhโฆ I don't know?โ
Rosie shook her head, the expression suggested she was once again appealing to higher powers for patience.
Unfortunately, given the current location, there was only so much assistance available.
โGet dressed.โ
โWhat?โ
โWe're going for a stroll.โ
โAnd since when did I agree?โ
โYou will.โ
โWhat if I don't?โ
โThen we'll discuss it while you're putting your shoes on.โ
You rolled your eyes instead, she continued as though she hadn't noticed.
โSewing yourself into every waking hour may be admirable,โ Rosie extended her arm.
โBut it is also terribly boring.โ
You told yourself the commissions would still be waiting when you returned, the sketches weren't going anywhere, neither were the fabric swatches. Or the dolls, or the endless list of things demanding your attention.
With a long-suffering sigh, you rubbed a hand over your face.
โFine.โ
Rosie's smile brightened triumphantly, the way a cat might brighten upon spotting a bird with a broken wing.
โAn hour. Perhaps two if we find something interesting,โ you pointed a warning finger at her.
And somehow, despite knowing you'd been manipulated from the very beginningโ
You found yourself bidding farewell to your dolls and heading toward the front door anyway.
_ _ _ _ _ โน เฃช ห
The staircase protested every step of your descent, after several years in the building, you had developed a firm belief that the stairs were structurally sound and simply enjoyed complaining.
Rosie, meanwhile, descended with effortless grace, she linked her arm through yours before you could retreat back inside.
โThere now.โ
You sighed, โI still maintain this was coercion.โ
โMy dear, if I intended coercion, you would know.โ
The streets grew steadily busier the farther Rosie guided you from the boutique.
Morning had settled comfortably over Cannibal Town.
Storefronts stood open to the sunlight, polished brass gleaming beneath striped awnings. Window displays competed for attention along the main thoroughfare. Tailors displayed freshly pressed suits upon mannequins.
Milliners arranged extravagant hats adorned with ribbons, lace, and occasionally teeth. Florists filled buckets with peonies and roses so vibrant they almost distracted from the butcher shop directly beside them.
You passed a bakery displaying fresh pastries behind polished glass.
Rosie hummed, a woman emerged carrying a carefully wrapped parcel beneath one arm.
The paper split, and something disturbingly human-shaped tumbled free. Without missing a beat, she grumbled, picked it up, brushed imaginary dust from its surface, and continued on her merry way.
Neither seemed particularly concerned by the discrepancy.
Further ahead, two gentlemen occupied a table inside a diner, engaged in what appeared to be a spirited political disagreement.
One punctuated his argument by gesturing with a rib bone, his companion eventually snatched it from his hand.
โFor pityโs sake, You're making a mess of the marrow!โ
Rosie waved cheerfully as she passed them, both immediately tipped their hats.
The square beyond bustled with activity, vendors occupied nearly every available corner.
One stall specialized entirely in preserves, another sold handmade parasols. A third offered what appeared to be artisan carving knives displayed with the same pride most jewelers reserved for diamonds.
Several shoppers examined the merchandise with great interest.
One woman held a blade toward the light and asked whether it would remain sharp through prolonged family gatherings, the merchant assured her it would.
The stroll quickly revealed itself to be less of a stroll and more of a prolonged social engagement.
Rosie could not seem to walk ten feet without being intercepted by somebody eager to speak with her.
A florist emerged from her shop carrying armfuls of carnations before Rosie had even reached the display. An elderly gentleman waved enthusiastically from across the street. Two women seated outside a cafรฉ interrupted their breakfast solely to compliment her hat.
Rosie accepted every greeting with effortless warmth.
She asked after relatives, remembered birthdays, inquired about businesses. And offered congratulations for achievements.
The effect was faintly unnerving, not because people liked her.
That part made perfect sense. Rosie possessed the sort of charisma that could convince someone they had been friends for years after a five minute conversation.
What unsettled you was the consistency, every resident seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
The realization followed you through several more conversations before curiosity finally overcame restraint.
โDo you know everyone in Cannibal Town?โ
Rosie glanced toward you. โGoodness, no.โ
The answer arrived with such immediate confidence that you instantly distrusted it.
โThats hard to believe.โ
โMy dear, Cannibal Town contains hundreds of residents.โ A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, โalthough, community is important.โ
โIs that what we're calling this?โ
โAm I wrong?โ
She adjusted one glove before continuing. โPeople have a tendency to believe survival is an individual endeavor. It isn't. Never has been.โ
The morning sunlight caught against her jewelry as she spoke. โEven the most self-sufficient among us depend upon others far more than we'd like to admit.โ
You had just begun wondering whether Rosie intended to walk in circles indefinitely when someone called out.
The voice rose above the steady murmur of morning traffic.
โOh, my.โ The woman waved enthusiastically. โRosie!โ
โWhy, Marjorie!โ
Rosie brightened in return.
A stout woman detached herself from the crowd surrounding one of the stalls and began making her way toward Rosie. The vendor behind her protested as she nearly knocked over an entire display of preserves in her haste. The woman offered an apology over her shoulder without slowing down, you stepped aside as she approached.
Marjorie wore a cream colored dress trimmed with lace and an enormous feathered hat that seemed determined to eclipse half the street. Several bright blue plumes bobbed whenever she moved.
โMy goodness, you look wonderful.โ
Rosie accepted both of the woman's hands. โAnd you remain a shameless liar.โ
Marjorie laughed, the sort that was reserved for old friends. As though this conversation had occurred a hundred times before.
โMy dear, it truly is lovely to see you.โ Rosie squeezed her hands. โHow is your daughter recovering?โ
The laughter remained, but it settled.
โMuch better thanks to you,โ something softened in Marjorie's expression, relief touched the words, relief of an old wound that no longer hurt quite so badly.
โEleanor asks about you everyday.โ
โDoes she?โ Rosie laughed warmly. โWell then, you tell that sweet girl that if she continues improving, I'll bring those lemon cakes myself.โ
โOh, she'll hold you to that.โ Marjorie looked absurdly pleased, the expression lasted before it slowly transformed into something heavier. Her smile wavered just, the change was subtle enough that you might have missed it had you not been watching. You watched Marjorie's fingers tighten around Rosie's gloved hands.
Her eyes dropped to the ground, โI-I still don't know how to thank you.โ
Rosie sighed, the sound carried all the weariness of someone forced to listen to the same words for decades. โDear.โ
โNo, truly.โ
Marjorie pressed on, the words tumbling over themselves now.
โIf you hadn't intervenedโโ
Rosie waved a hand, dismissing it.
โOh, nonsense.โ
The woman looked certifiably distressed by the interruption. โWe couldn't have done it without you.โ
โYouโll make me sound terribly self important.โ
The effect should have been comforting, it was anything but. You found yourself watching Marjorie, the woman seemed almost desperate for Rosie to understand something, for Rosie to acknowledge it.
To accept the gratitude being offered. And you slowly figured out, this wasn't happening for Rosie's benefit, it was happening for Marjorie's.
The gratitude wasn't being given, it was being presented. Like an offering, a debt repeatedly paid despite no longer being owed.
Rosie seemed to catch on as well, her expression carried one of recognition.
The way one might look upon a loyal dog sitting patiently beside the dinner table.
โMy dear.โ Rosie's voice lowered, honeyed. โYou've thanked me a hundred times.โ
โYou deserved more.โ
โNo, darling.โ
For the briefest moment, the words moved beneath the sweetness. A glimpse of iron beneath velvet.
โYou did exactly what I asked of you.โ
Majorie perked up, the alleviation was startling. Instantaneous, like she had been holding her breath for the duration of the interaction.
โReally?โ
โOf course.โ
Marjorie visibly relaxed, similar to a prisoner hearing a pardon.
You didnโt know why your stomach couldnโt help but tighten.
Rosie had not threatened her, had not demanded anything, had not even raised her voice.
Per contra, a single sentence from her seemed capable of erasing weeks of worry.
Or caused them.
Marjorie eventually departed after another round of assurances that Eleanor was healthy, thriving, eating properly, and very much looking forward to those promised lemon cakes.
She left glowing with obvious relief.
You found yourself looking toward the crowd where Marjorie had vanished, trying to determine why the conversation had left such an unpleasant feeling behind.
You couldn't find an answer. Rosie had been benevolent enough, Marjorie had been grateful.
That should have been the end of it. Instead, the entire thing sunk inside your throat like a swallowed stone.
โShe's been worrying about that for two years.โ
Her words knocked you out of your stupor, โtwo years?โ
Rosie hummed in agreement, her smile remained.
The image of Marjorieโs expression refused to leave your mind. Not when Rosie first appeared, that part made sense.
People were always delighted to see Rosie.
No. It was the look afterward.
The moment Rosie had told her she'd done exactly what was asked, the immediate, overwhelming consolation. You'd seen relief before, this had felt different. Some invisible weight had been lifted from the woman's shoulders, a weight you hadn't even known was there.
โWhat exactly did she think would happen?โ
The conundrum escaped before you intended it to.
Rosie glanced sideways, โWho?โ
โMarjorie.โ
โMy dear, people worry.โ Rosie chuckled, โConsciences are fascinating little things.โ
Her response made sense, except, you couldn't shake the sensation that Marjorie had been seeking something.
Approval.
Validation.
Absolution.
And Rosie had granted it with a handful of words, the ease of it disturbed you. You thought about Mrs. Weatherby, about the shopkeepers, the customers, the neighbors. The dozens of residents who greeted Rosie every time she stepped outside.
Had they all looked at her that way?
You weren't sure, the possibility alone made you uncomfortable.
For the first time since meeting Rosie, you found yourself examining the woman beside you differently.
Not out of fear, or suspicion.
Simplyโฆ
Carefully.
Rosie chatted easily with a passing resident, remembering the name of his grandson, asked after his wife's health, accepted his thanks for some favor long forgotten.
The interaction lasted less than a minute, nonetheless by the end of it the man looked almost proud. Like receiving her attention had improved his entire day.
Rosie returned to your side shortly afterward, completely unaware of the storm she'd created. Or perhaps, entirely aware.
You still couldn't pinpoint anything she'd done wrong. If anything, Rosie was one of the kindest people you'd met in Hell. Yet watching her felt strangely similar to standing near the ocean.
Serene, beautiful even.
Seemingly harmless at first glance, until you remembered how many things could disappear beneath the surface.
_ _ _ _ โน เฃช ห
The morning was merry as ever, ahemโat least, Rosie appeared determined to believe it did.
You, meanwhile, had begun noticing a pattern.
At first, you hadn't thought much of it. Rosie paused at a flower stall to compliment a bouquet she had no intention of purchasing. Moments later she stopped to greet a baker removing fresh trays from his window display, then stopped by a newspaper stand, and then a dressmaker's window.
Each of them just had enough time for greetings, a brief exchange. Maybe a question, and a promise to attend some future event.
Nothing remarkable in isolation. Yet after the seventh interruption, you began to suspect something.
By the tenth, you were certain.
The streets changed gradually as you walked. The bustling market district gave way to quieter lanes, decorative iron balconies curved overhead, linen curtains fluttered behind polished windows. To no one's surprise, everywhere Rosie went, people greeted her.
You could no longer look at these interactions quite the same way.
A woman carrying a basket nearly twice her size called from across the street.
โRosie!โ
โAgnes, dear!โ Rosie returned her enthusiasm โIs that the strawberry preserve?โ
โIt turned out perfectly!โ
โI knew it would.โ
Agnes practically glowed beneath the praise. The exchange lasted less than thirty seconds before both women continued on their way.
Rosie had that effect on people. But after Marjorie, after the debt, after watching a grown woman thank Rosie with tears in her eyes for a favor she would likely spend decades repayingโ
The warmth felt different, not false.
Rosie knew exactly where she was going.
The initial novelty had long since worn off.
You had been walking for nearly an hour, perhaps longer. Time became difficult to judge when one was being escorted through Cannibal Town under circumstances that increasingly resembled a guided abduction.
Your shoes pinched, a forming blister was beginning to make itself known somewhere near your heel.
The pleasant morning Rosie had insisted upon was becoming considerably less from your perspective.
โRosie, my feet hurt.โ You were not above complaining, particularly when your suffering was both genuine and entirely somebody else's fault.
Head hung low, you staggered across the sidewalk. โWhere exactly are we going?โ
โWhy, wherever the morning takes us dear.โ
You stared at her as she continued down the street.
... Right. Of course.
The answer floated between you for several seconds before you heavily sighed and resumed following.
Rosie seemed to notice your prolonged silence, โMy dear, must you interrogate every pleasant outing?โ
You narrowed your eyes, you didn't believe her.
Your awareness of this was gradual, simply accumulating over the past twenty minutes. Rosie never seemed surprised by who she encountered, didnโt think before turning down a street, hasnโt even paused to consider where she might go next.
Whatever this was, it wasn't wandering.
โThere may be one or two small matters I wished to check on.โ
โAha!โ You pointed at her with righteous indignation, the accusation arrived with far more triumph than the situation warranted.
โI knew it!โ
Several pedestrians glanced over to you, perhaps that was a little louder than necessary.
Rosie's eyebrows lifted, โAh, you've uncovered some grand conspiracy.โ
โThis isn't a walk, you have errands,โ one could think youโve discovered a revelation that would shake the world in its very foundation. โYou tricked me!โ
โI merely encouraged you.โ Rosie placed a hand over her chest, โDarling, the way you're carrying on, you would think I'd been leading a double life.โ
โYou tricked me.โ
Rosie reached over and patted your arm, the gesture carried all the sincerity of a woman who would absolutely do it once more.
โSemantics.โ
You made a face at her retreating back.
Rosie continued onward, the road narrowed as the two of you progressed deeper into town.
The sprightly disorder of the market district gradually faded behind you, merchants became less frequent, the crowds thinned. Decorative flourishes became less extravagant, the paint lacked the usual vibrancy. The buildings seemed older here, it became increasingly decrepit.
The structures stood closer together, pressing shoulder to shoulder, to one another.Many of the storefronts catered to highly specific trades.
A watchmaker sat bent over a magnifying lens near one window, tiny gears scattered across a velvet cloth before him. Next door, a woman embroidered silver thread into a funeral veil so elaborate it appeared capable of haunting someone on its own.
Rosie didn't comment.
Your pace slowed, for reasons you couldn't quite explain.
You watched as her form continued farther, having spent almost an entire year becoming accustomed to Rosie.
You wondered why you had not seen this all before, today it seemed to reveal a whole other layer to the woman.
โCome along, dear.โ
Rosie resumed walking before you could object.
The road curved as it carried the two of you deeper into town, brick buildings crowded closer together here, rising several stories overhead. Wrought-iron balconies stretched between neighboring facades, their shadows cutting dark lines across the cobblestones below.
A pair of residents standing outside a tobacconist lowered their voices as Rosie approached. Whatever conversation had occupied them moments ago disappeared.
Both offered polite greetings, Rosie returned them with curt. Only after the two of you had passed did the conversation resume.
You found yourself looking back, not of fear, more out of awareness.
Though distinction did little to quell you.
You had spent most of the morning convinced she'd tricked you into accompanying her on errands.
Now you were beginning to suspect you'd only uncovered part of the truth.
The realization soured your earlier victory, suddenly this trip of hers felt less amusing.
Ahead, Rosie slowed.
Your gaze followed hers.
House Finch Atelier.
The entire storefront possessed the uneasy appearance of a task interrupted.
The gold lettering remained elegant despite its age, though one of the painted flourishes had begun peeling from the sign.
A mannequin stood in the display window wearing only half a jacket, another remained draped in loose fabric, pins still embedded along the seams. A measuring tape had been abandoned across the display stand. Several chalk markings remained visible on a sleeve awaiting alteration.
Rosie stopped before the entrance, her expression remained one of sweetness. You had begun learning that this meant very little.The bell above the door chimed lightly as she pushed it open, the air drafted outward carrying the scent of pressed wool, steam, and chalk dust.
For a period of time, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. However, you'd prove to be mistaken.
A heavy clatter inside the shop came the unmistakable sound of something falling over,
โAh, shitโ!โ
You exchanged a glance with Rosie, to which she appeared unsurprised.
Hurried footsteps approached, the curtain separating the showroom from the workroom nearly tore from its rod.
The poor man took one glance at Rosie and visibly deflated. Not all at once, but enough that you could watch the hope leave him in real time.
โMiss Rosie!โ
Mr. Finch nearly stumbled over his own feet reaching the front counter, he caught himself at the last second.
Albeit you couldn't say the same for his dignity, if survived the maneuver.
The tailor was a narrow man with silver threaded through dark, unruly hair, round spectacles perched precariously upon the bridge of his nose. Chalk dust clung stubbornly to his sleeves, while several tiny pins remained stuck in one cuff entirely unnoticed.
โMiss Rosie,โ he repeated breathlessly. โWhat a pleasant surprise!โ
You had never heard the word sound so thoroughly unconvincing.
โMr. Finch.โ
Finch swallowed. โHad I known you were coming,โ he laughed weakly, โI would have prepared refreshments.โ
โIf you had known I was coming, then it wouldn't have been a surprise at all.โ
The tailorโs laugh followed, it sounded brittle enough to shatter, an uncomfortable silence settled.
Finch rushed to fill it, words poured from him in a frantic stream. โBusiness has been keeping me terribly busy.โ
โI'm sure.โ
โThe wedding season has been particularly demanding this year.โ He strained. โThree ceremonies this month alone.โ
โMy.โ
โAnd two funerals.โ
โOnly two?โ
Finch snickered despite the fact she had not actually made a joke.
His explanation had begun somewhere around fabric shortages and gradually deteriorated into suppliers, delays, deadlines, unfortunate timing, and circumstances that were apparently determined to ruin him.
You had lost track several excuses ago.Rosie, meanwhile, listened with unwavering attentiveness. The sort reserved for condemned prisoners.
At no point did she interrupt him.Nor correct him.
Nor mention whatever she'd actually come here to discuss.
If anything, Rosie even seemed to regard him with mirth.
Watching it unfold felt oddly haunting. Like watching a rabbit exhaust itself running circles around a fox that hadn't yet bothered to pounce.
She wandered farther into the shop before Mr. Finch could gather himself enough to continue speaking.
Rosie paused beside a mannequin positioned near the front, her gloved fingertips brushed lightly upon the unfinished frock coat.
โYour stitching is exquisite as always.โ
Finchโs justifications died down, then stopped entirely. The silence that ensued landed thick. The garment truly was phenomenal, tiny, intricate stitches marched precisely along the seam, every line sat exactly where it ought to.
It was the work of a craftsman who cared.
She continued to trace along the lapel. โYou've always had exceptional hands.โ
Rosie delayed.
โThat's a rare thing.โ
โT-thank you, Miss Rosie.โ
The tailor visibly lightened, his reaction was instantaneous. Discomfiting in its sincerity, as though praise occupied the same category as oxygen.
Rosie finally looked away from the mannequin and toward him. Her smile remained exactly where it had always been.
โWhich is why I was so surprised.โ
Something in Finch's expression collapsed, the approval he had been basking in only moments ago disappeared with startling speed. It reminded you of someone who had snuffed out a candle.
One second it existed, the next, there was only the faint memory of warmth.
The color drained gradually from his face, whatever relief Rosie's earlier praise had offered him evaporated so quickly, it had scarcely finished settling before he realized it had never been the point.
Rosie's attention deviated beyond the tailor, and instead roamed the shop. The disarray became impossible to ignore once she started looking.
Numerous suits remained pinned to the dress forms, one side remained immaculate. The other, existed primarily as ambition.
Rows of alterations awaited beside the fitting mirror, each tagged, measured, and abandoned at a different stage of creation. The stack of order forms protruding from beneath a ledger, each accompanied by a note promising they would be finished before long.
Soon.
Nearly finished.
Just another day.
The promises accumulated faster than the attires.
Everywhere you looked, there seemed to be evidence of something abandoned midway through completion.
Rosie lifted one of the order slips, her eyes moved across the page. Then another, and another.
Her eyes skimmed each page with patient familiarity.
โAh.โ
She paused before a certain commission, it was for a black mourning coat.
The paper tag attached to the sleeve fluttered slightly as she lifted it. โThis was for Mrs. Magdeline, wasn't it?โ
Rosie's voice remained subdued, there was not even a trace of the slightest accusation in it. โI recommended her personally, if memory serves me right.โ
Mr. Finch visibly stiffened, his shoulders having already begun sinking toward the floor. Now they seemed intent on continuing.
โPoor thing.โ
Rosie returned the tag to its place. โLosing a husband is devastating enough.โ
The paper fluttered softly against the sleeve. โAttending the funeral in borrowed clothing seems rather excessive.โ
โMiss Rosie I can explainโโ
She interrupted, โYou simply made a mistake.โ
Rosie's expression softened, the same expression she used when comforting nervous clients. The same expression she used when speaking to children.
โEvery one of us does.โ Her tone remained conversational. โHell would be a much emptier place otherwise.โ
Finch lowered his eyes.
โWhat matters is what happens afterward.โ
The atelier had grown agonizingly silent, even the ticking wall clock seemed reluctant to interrupt.
โA week becomes two.โ
The manโs hands tightened against the edge of the counter.
โTwo becomes three.โ
His attention fixed itself upon the floorboards, merely because looking anywhere else seemed considerably harder.
โAnd eventually, you've invested so much effort into evasion that actually having the conversation feels so utterly humiliating for you.โ
Rosie cackled, the sound circulated throughout the shop. Bright, musical, and entirely at odds with the expression on Finch's face.
A knot coiled inside your stomach.
โThough I suppose after a certain point one becomes committed to avoidance.โ
You felt Rosie's amusement crept in, she sounded comfortable even.
Entirely at ease.
The thought lodged itself inside of you, it wasn't what Rosie was saying. It was everything she wasn't.
This perturbed you more than anger would have.
Unlike many of the sinners you'd encountered since arriving in Hell, Rosie seemed entirely uninterested in reminding people she could hurt them.
There were no threats hidden beneath her words, no displays of force, no promises of consequences waiting somewhere down the line.
She hadn't even raised her voice.
Yet Mr. Finch stood before her looking as though judgment had already been passed and he simply hadn't been informed of the sentence.
Most powerful people demanded obedience, compliance. Rosie expected it.
The distinction felt insignificant, until you witnessed it.Then it felt enormous.
A delayed commission, an embarrassed tailor, that should have been all it was.
Nevertheless, you had the underlying sensation that everyone in the room understood something you didn't.
The exchange left you feeling like an outsider peering through a window.
You had heard every word, understood every sentence. The conversation seemed to rest upon foundations laid long before your arrival, and everyone involved appeared perfectly aware of them except you.
Rosie regarded him for a moment longer before releasing a soft sigh.
โOh, for goodness sake.โ
The tension dissipated so abruptly it left you momentarily disoriented.
โYou look as though I'm about to execute you.โ
A strained laugh escaped Mr. Finch. It bore far more resemblance to apprehension than amusement.
โI wasn't entirely certain.โ
โMy dear.โ Rosie pressed a gloved hand against her chest, sounding scandalized. โWhat an awful thing to think of me.โ
The tailor offered a wan smile, neither of you appeared particularly persuaded.
โFortunately, this is still a conversation.โ
Rosie's attention drifted back toward the unfinished garments.
โI should hate for it to become a pattern.โ
For a brief moment, silence settled over the atelier once more.
Rosie glanced toward you, the smile returned so naturally that you found yourself questioning whether it had ever vanished at all.
Nothing in her expression suggested she'd spent the last several minutes dissecting a man alive.
โNow then!โ She beamed, clasping her hands together. โI believe Mr. Finch and I have thoroughly bored our guest.โ
โI wouldn't sayโโ
โYou absolutely would.โ Rosie patted your shoulder before you could object. โWhy don't you be a dear and wait outside for a few minutes?โ
You stared blankly at her, โYou're dismissing me?โ
โWhat a foul way of phrasing that.โ Rosie looked genuinely affronted. She steered you gently toward the door. โI can assure you that nothing terribly exciting is about to happen.โ
That statement failed to reassure you, Mr. Finch appeared similarly unconvinced.
โHonestly.โ She laughed. โThe pair of you look as though I'm about to drag Mr. Finch behind the shop and shoot him.โ
No one said anything.
The tailor made a small sound that suggested he felt this was an unfair characterization only because it wasn't technically accurate.
โWhich is frankly a little insulting.โ
โRosieโโ
Before you could resume the argument, she rested a hand upon your shoulder and steered you gently toward the door. โRun along.โ
The motion was not forceful, not optional, either.
The bell chimed softly overhead. By the time you realized you had, in fact, been removed from the conversation, the door had already closed behind you.
Rosie had not so much asked you to leave as she had passively removed you from the premises.
Truthfully, you weren't even sure why she had sent you outside.
For a minute, you remained exactly where Rosie had left you. You folded your arms, staring at the storefront.
The display window reflected the street behind you in warped fragments. The occasional passing townsfolk roaved through the glass like ghosts while bolts of fabric obscured most of the interior.
Nothing useful ever followed, you narrowed your eyes.
The temptation to press your ear against the door presented itself almost immediately, you resisted it for nearly a whopping twenty seconds.
Quite the record, if you say so yourself.
Perhaps there was no harm in standing a little closer. Your gaze lingered upon the door, a sensible person would have respected her request.
You were not a particularly nosy person. Generally, this simply happened to be an exception.
You found yourself taking several casual steps back toward the entrance, fully innocent steps. By accident, naturally.
The sort taken by individuals who absolutely were not attempting to eavesdrop.
You leaned ever so slightly,
Nothing.
A muffled voice tarried through the wood.
You pressed your head against the door harder.
Still nothing.
The walls of House Finch Atelier appeared constructed specifically to thwart curiosity. A deeply inconsiderate design choice.
Abandoning all dignity, you retreated from the storefront before anyone could catch you eavesdropping.
With a quiet sigh, you left behind the effort and seated yourself on one of the steps. If Rosie wished to keep secrets, she would keep them. No amount of hovering near the entrance was likely to change that.
How disappointing.
You shifted your weight.
Surely the conversation couldn't take that long, Rosie had made it sound as though she merely needed a few minutes. In your experience, that generally implied something measurable.
The problem with being removed from a conversation was that it left you alone with your thoughts.
Your thoughts, unfortunately, were proving less entertaining than expected.
The street stretched unfamiliar before you, offering little consolation.
A woman passed carrying several hatboxes, a gentleman reading a newspaper, a delivery cart rattled by.
You watched all of it.
Then resumed staring at the atelier, the situation rapidly lost its charm.
Rosie was undoubtedly doing this on purpose. Somewhere inside, she was probably having a perfectly joyful conversation while you slowly deteriorated from dullness outside.
The thought felt entirely plausible.
You rarely found yourself this deep within the district.
Most of your days revolved around the boutique, the plaza, Rosie's parlor, the more bustling parts of Cannibal Town, and the handful of streets connecting them together.
You had never actually spent much time in this part of town. Everything beyond that existed in the vague category of places you would eventually visit.
You glanced once more toward the atelier.
Honestly, if Rosie intended to resort to kicking you out, she could at least have the decency to make it interesting.
Your boredom deepened, the feeling had always possessed an unfortunate tendency to make decisions on your behalf.
You began walking, not far, just enough to alleviate the monotony.
You wandered past a watchmaker's shop, businesses seemed narrower here. More specialized.
Farther down the road, a woman sat embroidering silver thread into a mourning veil, a man selling decorative coffin handles.
You weren't entirely certain there existed enough demand to support an entire business devoted to coffin handles.
Yet Hell continued finding ways to surprise you.
The more you traipsed, the less attention you paid to where you were going.
Your thoughts drifted back toward Rosie, Marjorie, and Mr. Finch. The uneasy feeling from earlier refused to leave, you found yourself replaying fragments of the exchange.
The way Finch had looked when Rosie praised his work. The gratitude, the way his shoulders had loosened as though someone had finally granted him permission to breathe.
Then the moment afterward, when she had mentioned the delayed orders.How quickly that assurance had dissolved, you frowned.
That part bothered you.
Hell made sense when people were openly terrible, what made you skeptical were the people who never needed to be.
The longer you thought about it, the less certain you became.
Your mind went back to Marjorie, the memory arrived uninvited. You could still picture the woman's face. You remembered how tightly she'd held Rosie's hands, how desperately she'd needed Rosie to tell her she'd done enough.
And Rosie had, just like that. The strange thing was that Rosie hadn't seemed surprised by any of it, almost as though she'd encountered the situation countless times before.
Your gaze lowered to the cobblestones, maybe that was what truly bothered you.
People looked at Rosie as though her opinion mattered more than their own.
You liked Rosie, genuinely.
You enjoyed her company. Trusted her.
Probably more than most people, which made the entire ordeal difficult to examine objectively. It felt vaguely disloyal.
Like discovering there was an unfamiliar room inside a house you'd lived in for years. The structure remained the same, though you couldn't stop thinking about what might be behind the locked door.
What if Rosie happens to be just like thโ
Your foot caught, and you lurched forward.
โOhโ!โ
One foot stumbled after the other in a desperate attempt to recover.
Lost within the thought, you failed to notice the uneven stone protruding from the roadway.
The stumble arrived so abruptly that your body reacted before your mind managed to catch up, an entirely undignified sound escaped you.
For a brief moment, all of your concentration became devoted to the deeply important task of not falling on your face. Success arrived minimally.
You winced, pain shot through your ankle as your second foot landed incorrectly. Momentum carried you another step before giving you up altogether.
The cobblestones rushed upward, for one horrible second you simply remained there. Stunned.
The impact itself hadn't been particularly devastating, your pride, however, had sustained catastrophic injuries.
A hiss escaped through your teeth as you pushed yourself upright, the heel of your palm stung.
โFuck, that hurt.โ
You muttered the word beneath your breath, exactly the sort of graceful public display one hoped to be remembered for. Whatever remained of your dignity perished alongside them.
A shadow stretched across the stones before you. You grumbled, you were certain the street had been clear a second ago.
The first thing that entered your line of sight were a pair of polished black shoes. The leather was polished to a mirror sheen, meticulously maintained.
The afternoon sunlight glanced across the surface, catching along the rounded toe. A deep crimson panel covered the front portion, the color rich enough to resemble fresh lacquer. They looked absurdly expensive, not a scruff marred the surface.
Nor a speck of dust, an impressive feat considering the state of Cannibal Town's streets.
Your gaze climbed higher.
Dark trousers followed, pressed into crisp lines that remained utterly undisturbed by reality. They hung neatly over narrow ankles, disappearing beneath the hem of a coat that looked as though it belonged to another decade entirely.
A cane rested beside him.
The shaft was dark wood, smooth from years of handling. The head had been carved into something decorative, though from your angle it was difficult to determine precisely what.
The suit followed, red. Well, mostly. Thin crimson pinstripes threaded through the material from collar to cuff, every seam appeared precise, every fold intentional.
Nothing about him looked accidental.
Because apparently the universe had decided that if you were going to publicly humiliate yourself, it might as well occur in front of the best dressed man in Cannibal Town.
And finallyโ
The smile.
It was the first thing you truly noticed about him. Not because it looked joyful, quite the opposite. It simply refused to behave like a normal smile ought to.
Most expressions shifted naturally. They appeared and disappeared with conversation, reacting to thoughts, emotions, and circumstances. This one seemed permanently affixed, wide and unwavering.
Like someone had drawn it there and forgotten to erase it afterward, for one baffling moment, you found yourself wondering whether his face hurt.
Surely maintaining that expression for extended periods of time required effort.
The thought struck you as completely reasonable.
โMy,โ he tapped his cane lightly against the ground. โWhat rotten luck.โ
Heat immediately crawled into your face, the stranger's smile widened.
โWe're moving rather quickly, aren't we?โ The man tipped his head slightly, โMost acquaintances wait until after exchanging names before throwing themselves at my feet.โ
The words were delivered with such effortless cheer that it took you a moment to process them, then another moment to realize he was making fun of you.
>Warnings: Not much yet, violence, unsettling themes, depictions of Hell, cannibalism.
>Word Count: 5k.
The Catalog
Act. I
Hell was not how you imagined it to be.
This realization came to you, not during your descent into damnation, nor when your body first struck the scorched realm below with enough force to fracture bone.
It did not settle upon your shoulders while witnessing monstrous creatures tearing one another apart in the streets like starved animals brawling over scraps. While the damned screamed themselves hoarse beneath blood-red skies.
You had expected endless suffering upon your arrival, constant violence and lasting misery.
No, the revelation came much later. Only in hindsight did certain things begin to resemble a pattern.
As if the world had not been brutal on its own, it offered you a brief and carefully constructed mercy.
Convincing enough that you never questioned whether it had been doomed from the beginning. Looking back now, you think some deeply pathetic part of you wanted Hell to be just that simple. If not pleasant, then at least doable in ways that did not demand unremitting suffering.
You carved out little routines for yourself and foolishly convinced your heart that eternity might pass quietly if you kept your head low enough.
What a humiliating thing that belief turned out to be.
The barbarity here was not confined to carnage, that would have been simpler to understand. Hellโs true depravity lived in the more unsuspectable things. In how easily affection became leverage. How safety always arrived with hidden conditions attached. Love, power, protection, and companionship; every meaningful thing eventually twisted into something edged to cut you from the inside.
Most of the time, you failed to realize you were being devoured until there was barely anything left worth saving.
Back then, however, you knew none of this.
Cannibal Town fit you the way a doll suited a dollhouse. Grotesque, perhaps, but it possessed a peculiar sort of community beneath all its sharpened teeth and bloodshed.You had settled there not long after arriving in Hell, drawn less by intention and more by circumstance.
The districtโs strange civility made it easier to stomach than the harsher parts of Pentagram City. Cannibal Town somewhat had rules, etiquette. And the cannibals, while unsettling, with time, eventually came around. Perhaps because you provided something novel to the town.
Or perhaps, Rosie herself had taken a liking to you early on, in which Cannibal Town functioned as both social approval and protection all at once.
You quietly built a life for yourself. Wave politely at passing townsfolk, avoid asking what was being served at community gatherings, and never stare too long at the butcher windows. In time, the place became familiar.
While other sinners clawed desperately toward power, you found yourself shrinking from it instead. Overlords amassed territory, built empires from violence and fear, names became brands here, whispered either in reverence or terror depending on who spoke them.
Every sinner in Hell seemed consumed by the same insatiable hunger to dominate something, someone, somewhere.You did not understand it, conceivably that made you foolish. Or you simply lacked whatever monstrous instinct that others possessed so naturally.
You wanted no throne, no influence, no grand ambitions carved into the skyline of Pentagram City.
You only wished to be left alone with your creations. So you built Dollybell Boutique, instead of an empire. You spent your evenings sewing lace rather than spilling blood. You learned the names of your customers, instead of gathering souls beneath your heel.
Little by little, you carved something resembling peace from the carcass of damnation. The bell above the boutique door chimed softly.
โCute place.โ
You barely glanced up at first, too focused on tying a satin ribbon neatly around the neck of a half finished doll resting in your lap. Post meridiem light spilled through the storefront windows, bathing the shop in rosy gold. Dust particles drifted through the air, somewhere deeper in the shop, tiny footsteps pattered faintly across wooden floorboards.
Dollybell Boutique had first been born from necessity, you needed money. A way to survive without indebting yourself to Overlords, and opportunists lurking behind every corner of Pentagram City. Selling your craftsmanship made sense. It became your answer to all of it, or perhaps distraction was the more honest word.
You look up, momentarily putting down the ribbon on your hands aside.
โOh, welcome!โ
What once began merely as a means of sustaining yourself gradually became something far more. You buried yourself into creation with near embarrassing devotion, as though keeping your hands busy might somehow prevent your mind from wandering toward uglier truths.
The boutique gave you structure, a rhythm. Something gentle enough to return to when the rest of Hell became too raucous, too heinous, too unbearable to last for long periods of time.
The sinner lingering at the entrance looked briefly caught off guard by your enthusiasm. Tall, broad shouldered, vaguely reptilian. Golden eyes scanned the boutique, the numerous dolls lined up on shelves stared back at him silently. โ...Huh.โ
Needle through fabric, thread pulled taut, button eyes sewn carefully, you had to admit there was comfort in predictability. In creating things that behaved as intended when so little else ever did. You loved the process almost selfishly.
The smell of fresh fabric, the cluttered warmth of your workshop, sketches littering every available surface because ideas arrived faster than you could bring them into existence. Some creations came to you while parading around town, accomplishing errands. Others emerged spontaneously in the middle of conversations, forcing you to excuse yourself abruptly just to scribble concepts onto nearby paper before they vanished from your head entirely.
Creation soothed you. Perhaps because it had always come easier to you than destruction.
The sinner narrowed his eyes at a doll perched near the register. Its rounded head tilted toward him with an uncanny motion.
โThe fuck? That thing just moved!โ he gestured wildly toward the doll seated atop the desk dressed in frilly pink satin.
โThis place is creepy as shit.โ
You furrowed your eyebrows. Cannibal Town hosted weekly dinner parties where guests politely complimented one another's seasoning preferences while eating severed limbs off of fine china. The butcher down the street occasionally hung torsos outside his storefront like decorative wreaths during holidays.
Yet somehow your dolls were what unsettled people? You never really understood why.
You stifled a laugh beneath your breath before setting aside your sewing supplies,
โOh don't mind them,โ you answered lightly, โthey get curious around new people.โ
โGeez, this townโs really full of freaks.โ He muttered, beneath his breath.
The sinner's attention drifted around the shop after that, towards the racks of frilly clothing. The button eyed dolls, posed eerily atop velvet cushions. Tiny handcrafted accessories displayed beneath warm amber lighting.
โYou make all this yourself?โ
You stood from your chair, nearly tripping over a pile of fabric in the process.
โMhm,โ You nodded, โthe dresses too, design the fabrics, oh and the music boxes!โ
โI guess, it'sโฆ not as shitty as it could've been.โ
Your expression brightened, you always liked hearing that. Most people assumed craftsmanship came easy simply because you made it look effortless. They didnโt see the sleepless nights spent reworking patterns. The dozens of ruined prototypes hidden beneath worktables.
The cramped fingers from hours of hand stitching delicate lace into microscopic seams.
The sinner continued inspecting the doll probing it with his pointy finger before glancing toward you again.
โ... So whatโs with the alive thing anyway?โ
โWellโฆ they aren't really alive per se.โ You hesitated briefly, โsome customers just like companionship. Others use them for protection, surveillance, and uhโฆ other uses.โ
The sinner raised an eyebrow.
You moved toward another shelf and carefully lifted a small doll dressed in black velvet.
You pointed giddily, โshe can fit through vents.โ
โThis one is very good with handling firearms.โ
Your voice lowered conspiratorially, โOh, and this little fella, helped somebody catch their business partner skimming money.โ
โHmm, Go on.โ
Eventually, the sinner left with one of your dolls tucked awkwardly beneath his arm despite his earlier complaints.
โPleasure doing business with you, come again!โ
You considered that a success.
While waving the doll goodbye, the others gathered, watching him through the boutique window with quiet scrutiny until his figure disappeared into the winding streets of Cannibal Town. In the distance, gunfire cracked, followed shortly by, irritated shouting.
Normal afternoon activities.
You return to tidying up the shop absentmindedly, smoothing crooked ribbons, and reorganizing displaced fabric rolls while the phonograph crackled softly somewhere near the back room.
Poppet was discovered attempting to pry open the cash register again.
โWhat did I say about touching things that aren't yours?โ you scolded mildly, clicking your tongue.
The bear crossed his tiny arms in visible annoyance.
โYouโre just mad I caught you.โ You plucked him unceremoniously from the counter and set him back atop a shelf.
โYou don't even use money.โ Honestly, you wonder how he formed such peculiar habits.
In due time, you made a place for yourself within Cannibal Town.
Mornings opening the boutique, long afternoons tangled in thread and fabric. Sinners began recognizing the soft jingle of the boutique bell whenever customers entered your shop. Customers wander in with blood still drying on their sleeves while asking whether certain dolls can be armed. Elderly cannibals stopped by simply to gossip about town happenings or complain theatrically about relatives they were considering eating.
Rosie, especially, took to you quickly.
At first, her visits seemed harmlessly neighborly. A prominent figure welcoming a newer resident into Cannibal Townโs odd community. She purchased dolls occasionally, complimenting your storefront displays, and lingered longer with each passing visit. Conversations drifted beyond shallow pleasantries into something warmer.
You found yourself beginning to expect her visits. She listened attentively, asking thoughtful questions, remembering small details youโd long forgotten mentioning yourself. Speaking with Rosie felt natural, you would even find yourself rambling to her sometimes, discussing sewing techniques and design concepts while she listened with genuine intrigue rather than polite obligation.
You genuinely enjoyed her company, which perhaps should have concerned you more considering the woman routinely discussed cannibalism with the same relaxed cadence you'd usually find while engaging in small talk.
Some afternoons were spent beneath parasols in the town plaza while she entertained you with stories, observations, local scandals, and charming critiques of Pride Ringโs more tasteless residents.
Cannibal Town respected Rosie.
Admired her, even.
And perhaps that should have warned you on how deeply influential she truly was.
โSugar?โ
โTwo, please.โ
โSweetheart,โ Rosie sighed fondly, โat this point youโre simply drinking melted candy.โ
โIt balances the bitterness.โ
Rosieโs abode had a distinct atmosphere, everything smelled faintly of floral, tea, and rotten flesh.
You try not to think too hard about the last one.
Jazz drifted smoothly from the radio nearby while she sat poised across from you, delicately stirring cream into her tea.
โAnywho,โ Rosie sighed, โI told her, who hasn't thought about eating their first husband at least once? I mean I certainly would if he didn't taste so bad!โ
She bursts into laughter, leaning back against the loveseat, her gloved hand lifting to her eyes to wipe away faux tears.
Spread neatly between the two of you sat an assortment of Cannibal Townโs delicacies displayed atop pristine porcelain trays. Pinkie sandwiches, strawberry tarts, and tea cakes dusted with powdered sugar. Neatly baked flakey pastry spirals beside what looked suspiciously like candied knuckles.
You laughed despite yourself, lifting your teacup to conceal the smile tugging at your lips.
โI still think eating your spouse should probably be grounds for concern.โ
Rosie waved a dismissive hand.
โOh, pish posh, after a certain age, every long-lasting relationship becomes a matter of restraint.โ
โThatโs not very romantic.โ
"Perhaps not. Though I've found expectations are usually the first thing people ought to lower.โ
The conversation dissolved into light laughter after that. The sound filled the room easily, warm and infectious that you found yourself joining in despite the topic at hand.
You had long since stopped trying to determine which of Rosie's stories were true and which had simply become more entertaining in the retelling.
The answer was rarely clear, and Rosie seemed to prefer it that way.
Rosie reached for a tea cake, delicately breaking off a piece between gloved fingers.
โSpeaking of unfortunate unions,โ she began, dabbing a stray crumb from her glove, โdid you hear about the Beaumont estate?โ
You groaned immediately.
The Beaumonts.
There was never a shortage of scandals surrounding the Beaumonts.
โWhich scandal is this one?โ
โThe current one.โ
โThat doesn't narrow it down.โ
Rosie smiled into her teacup. โOld Mr. Beaumont finally perished.โ
โWait, wasn't he already dead?โ
โWell, yes.โ She lowered her cup. โBut now he's properly dead.โ
You stared, โuh-huh.โ
โMy dear,โ she sighed patiently, โwe're in Hell. There are layers to these things.โ
That was somehow a reasonable explanation by local standards, you decided not to question it further.
โAnyhow, he left behind a rather substantial fortune, several properties, and an absolutely scandalous collection of antique bone china.โRosie leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice as though preparing to share state secrets.
โNow two of his children are fighting over the inheritance.โ
You snorted.
โThey've been fighting for months now though?โ
โPrecisely!โ Rosie exclaimed, delighted that you were keeping up. โWhich makes it all the more impressive that they've finally escalated to poisoning one another.โ
Your teacup froze halfway to your lips.
โBoth of them?โ
โBoth of them.โ
The answer came far too quickly.
A small pause followed, you narrowed your eyes.
โDid it work?โ
Rosie simply smiled, that told you everything you needed to know.
You buried your face in your hands.
โCannibal Town is ridiculous.โ
โAnd yet you've grown quite fond of it.โ
The words drew a reluctant smile from your lips, you opened your mouth to argue before realizing she was entirely correct.
Somewhere along the way, the Town's oddities had become familiar.
Its strange customs, the bizarre devotion to manners while simultaneously discussing questionable recipes for one another. The residents who tipped their hats politely before dragging corpses down the street.
It had ceased feeling temporary. The realization settled strangely in your chest.
Home was perhaps too generous a word. But it was close enough.
Rosie watched the thought cross your face, her smile softened. โYou've done well for yourself, you know.โ
You looked up.
โWhat?โ
โThe boutique.โ She gestured vaguely with her teacup. โYour little dolls, your customers. You've settled beautifully sweetheart.โ
โIt's not that impressive.โ
โNow, that's simply untrue.โ
You lowered your gaze to the tea swirling inside the porcelain. Praise had always sat awkwardly upon your shoulders, especially when it was genuine.
โWhen I first got here,โ you admitted, โI didn't think any of this would last.โ
Rosie tilted her head, โthe boutique?โ
You shook your head.
โAny of it.โ
Your hand made a vague gesture toward the window.
Toward the town, toward the life you'd built here. The words felt sappy spoken aloud.
โI remember.โ
The simple statement drew your attention back to her.
โYou were much jumpier when you first arrived,โ Rosie started, amusement evident in her tone.
โYou spent three weeks convinced everyone intended to eat you. Though, I can't blame you.โ
Heat immediately flooded your face, you rarely reflected on those early days.
The uncertainty, the constant feeling that one wrong turn would result in becoming someone's dinner.
You remembered wandering uncharted streets with white knuckled caution. Sleeping with furniture pushed against your front door, flinching whenever strangers addressed you.
As though the smallest mistake would shatter whatever little stability you'd managed to scrape together.
You whined, your hands flew up to cover your face.
โYou looked exhausted those first few weeks. Every time I saw you, it was as though you were waiting for something dreadful to happen.โ
โI suppose I was nervous.โ
Your gaze drifted toward the window.
Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across Cannibal Town's cobblestone streets. Through the window, you could just make out a pair of townsfolk chatting animatedly beside a flower cart. One was carrying what appeared to be a human femur tucked beneath their arm.
You felt a strange sense of normalcy within you. At least, by Hellโs standards.
Rosie hummed. โNervous is one way of putting it.โ
She leaned back into her chair.
โI remember wondering how long it would take.โ
You tilted your head,โhow long would what take?โ
โBefore somebody tried to take advantage of you.โ
The words were spoken lightly, but the comment landed strangely. Not because it was particularly alarming, Hell was full of opportunists. That much had never been in question.
Nonetheless, something in Rosie's tone caught your attention. It was barely noticeable, yet it was enough to make you pause.
You frowned into your napkin.
Why was she being weird all of a sudden?
The conversation had been perfectly pleasant moments ago.
Now she was speaking as though she'd been expecting some unseen catastrophe all along.
For an instant, Rosie looked older. Not physically, something else. The warmth remained, the smile remained.
Yet you were reminded that Rosie did not merely live in Cannibal Town. She ruled it. People listened when she spoke, sinners vanished when she wished it.
You had seen enough of Hell to understand that a position like hers was not won through kindness alone. The realization surfaced only briefly before vanishing beneath another pleasant smile.
You couldn't tell whether she was warning you about something specific or merely indulging one of her occasional philosophical moods.
With Rosie, either was equally possible.
โYou know,โ you shifted awkwardly on your seat, โyouโre making me sound awfully helpless.โ
Rosie merely watched you over the rim of her teacup, and said nothing.
The silence stretched, not necessarily uncomfortable. Just long enough for you to wonder whether she'd meant something by it.
_ _ _ _ _ โน เฃช ห
The boutique has been busy lately.
A handful of custom commissions, several repairs, three wedding dolls, and one surveillance doll. As well as a particularly demanding client who insisted upon seventeen separate wardrobe changes for a doll barely larger than a loaf of bread.
You were still irritated about that one.
Despite yourself, you couldn't suppress the small flicker of pride that surfaced.
The boutique had come a long way.
What had once begun as a cramped little storefront furnished with secondhand shelves and stubborn optimism now occupied nearly the entire building.
Bolts of fabric crowded the walls in precarious towers of velvet, lace, and brocade. Shelves overflowed with dolls in varying stages of completion.
Some sat fully dressed and watching from their perches. Others remained scattered across worktables in pieces, waiting patiently for arms, eyes, or wardrobes.
Sketches hung from corkboards, pinned atop older sketches which had long since disappeared beneath layers of newer ideas. Dress concepts overlapped weapon designs. Fabric samples were tucked into corners. Entire sections had become illegible beneath hastily scribbled notes written during moments of inspiration.
Every misplaced spool of thread. Every abandoned sketchbook, every pair of sewing scissors forgotten in increasingly ridiculous locations.
At least until you needed to find it again, which was precisely the problem.
You stared at the empty space upon your worktable, then at the surrounding clutter.
The scissors had been there ten minutes ago, you were certain of it.
Slowly, your eyes narrowed, โPoppet.โ
A faint rustle came from the fabric shelves.
You turned, Nothing.
Your gaze lingered suspiciously, still nothing.
โ...Poppet.โ
The bear froze. Half of his form concealed behind an avalanche of folded velvet, Poppet sat perfectly motionless, large button eyes stared forward with all the innocence of a child caught standing over a cookie jar late into the night.
The little bear was one of your oldest creations.
Dark oak-brown fur covered his round, slightly pudgy body that had softened with age, and by years of repairs and adjustments. A black button served as his left eye, while a caramel-colored one occupied the right, leaving him permanently lopsided.
You had originally intended to replace the mismatched pair.
Eventually, you'd grown fond of them.
A small waistcoat sat snugly around his middle, several pockets lined the front.
A terrible decision, in hindsight.
Poppet treated every pocket as a personal treasure vault.
Lost buttons, thimbles, ribbon scraps, coins, sewing needles. Once, inexplicably, an entire door handle. You had never discovered where he'd gotten that.
Around his neck sat a cream colored ribbon that had long since lost its original color. You had straightened it countless times, it never remained straight for long.Several careful repairs traced across his seams.
Reinforced stitching beneath one arm, a patch hidden beneath his little waistcoat. Tiny imperfections accumulated over the years, marking every adventure he'd managed to stumble into.
At some point, you had considered remaking him entirely.
The thought lasted less than five minutes. Poppet simply wouldn't have looked like himself otherwise.
Presently, those mismatched button eyes stared back at you with profound innocence.
The missing scissors rested neatly beside him.
Needless to say you were not fooled.
โI can see it, you know that right?โ
A pause.
Then, with visible reluctance, he nudged the scissors forward.
โThat isn't shiny enough for you,โ you reached, โdon't lower your standards.โ
Eventually, the scissors found their way back to the worktable.
A rare victory.
You spent the remainder of the afternoon buried beneath commissions.
Customers came and went in a steady procession of peculiar requests and stranger explanations.
By closing time, your shoulders ached.
The dolls, meanwhile, appeared entirely unaffected by labor. Poppet had somehow acquired three bottlecaps, a silver cufflink, and what looked suspiciously like somebody's pocket watch chain.
Before you knew it, the sun had begun its slow descent.
The streets had begun settling into their evening rhythm, the shopkeepers swept their storefronts, lamps flickered to life one by one casting pools of amber light across the cobblestones.
A gentleman across the lane tipped his hat politely as he passed, his pointy teeth glistened against the warmth of the lamp post.
You returned the gesture automatically.
Only after he'd continued on his way did you notice a sinner's corpse trailing behind him, the body disappeared into a nearby alley with a soft scraping sound.
You knew better by now not to investigate, experience had taught you that curiosity rarely improved a situation.
The evening air had begun cooling by the time you were locking the boutique doors.
A familiar voice called out before you could make it halfway down the steps.
โDarling!โ
You turned over to your shoulder. Mrs. Weatherby stood, a wicker basket hung from one arm and a carving knife peeked out from the inside.The blade looked recently sharpened.
โLovely evening, Mrs. Weatherby,โ you pleasantly smiled.
The elderly cannibal beamed, โLovely it is, business good?โ
You chuckled, โdefinitely busy.โ
โWonderful. Nothing worse than an empty shop!โ
Considering where you lived, you suspected there were several things worse than an empty shop.
โHaving guests tonight?โ
โOh yes, yes,โ she adjusted the basket. โi've been marinating since yesterday.โ
You nodded politely, โthat sounds nice.โ
Then paused.
โ...The food, right?โ
โOf course the food.โ Mrs. Weatherby blinked, โwhy on earth would I marinate the guests?โ
You laughed awkwardly. โRightโฆ Silly question.โ
She shook her head with warm hearted disappointment. โNow then, if you don't have plans, you're welcome to join us.โ
Her smile widened, โwe're expecting enough for seconds.โ
You glanced briefly at the cleaver, then back at her.
โI think I'll pass for now.โ
โSuit yourself.โ She shrugged, โmore for the rest of us.โ
Mrs. Weatherby eventually wandered off, leaving you to continue home. Which, admittedly, wasn't very far.
The apartment above the boutique occupied the entire second floor. The staircase leading up was narrow and slightly crooked, hidden behind a velvet curtain near the rear of the shop. The steps creaked beneath your weight in familiar places. After all these years, you've long since memorized which boards complain the loudest.
The apartment itself had never looked particularly impressive.
Most visitors would probably call it cluttered, but you preferred the word lived in.
The sofa was salvaged years ago, your paint stained dining table occupied one corner, buried beneath sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and unfinished ideas.
A few mismatched lamps crowded the sitting room, each seemingly purchased from a completely different decade. Books competed with sewing supplies for shelf space. Half-finished projects littered wherever you had last abandoned them.
Nothing really matched, but everything was where it belonged.
The towering windows were your favorite part. Truthfully, they were the reason you'd chosen the apartment in the first place.
From here, Cannibal Town looked different. Less like a district populated by cannibals and more like a collection of glowing windows and chimneys curling lazy trails of smoke.
You could overlook rooftops layered one atop another, laundry lines strung between neighboring buildings.
Golden lanternlight filtered through lace curtains, turning the apartment into a glowing little pocket above the town.
More often than not, you found yourself sitting beside those windows with a sketchbook balanced upon your knee long after you'd intended to sleep.
On particularly quiet nights, you could pretend it was ordinary. It could almost pass for the real thing.
Almost.
Somewhere in the distance, you could see the town square. During festivals, parasols were scattered through the streets like vibrantly colored flowers. During less festive occasions, public executions were occasionally held in the very same location.
Those, too, could be observed from the comfort of your armchair. Cannibal Town had always possessed a remarkable ability to treat both events with identical enthusiasm.
By the time you pushed open the apartment door, Bonbon was already waiting.
The black cat doll sat atop the sofa's backrest, motionless except for the slow lazy swish of his tail.
Unlike Poppet, Bonbon rarely felt the need to announce his presence.
Bonbon resembled a cat only in the broadest sense.
His body was slender and long-limbed, stitched from midnight black velvet that swallowed light rather than reflected it.
Unlike Poppet's softened seams and well-loved patches, Bonbon remained almost unnervingly pristine.
Dust rarely seemed to settle upon him. You had stitched every seam yourself, selected every scrap of velvet, fastened every button by hand.
Yet of all your creations, he was the one that felt the least decipherable.
His ears were tall and sharply pointed, giving him a perpetually attentive silhouette. A narrow tail trailed behind him, often curling neatly around his paws wherever he chose somewhere to observe.
And Bonbon did a great deal of observing.
Two deep navy button eyes sat upon his face. At a glance they would appear pitch black, yet when sunlight struck them just right, traces of its color surfaced beneath the shadows.
A silver ribbon sat loosely around his neck, threaded through a tiny bell that never seemed to ring no matter how much he moved. You'd tested it before, repeatedly.
The bell worked fine, Bonbon simply refused to make noise with it.
At times, the sensation struck with startling clarity. You had fashioned him from cloth and stuffing. Measured his proportions, chosen his fabrics. Given shape to every inch of him with your own hands.
Yet Bonbon occasionally regarded the world with such quiet scrutiny that you found yourself wondering whether you had truly created him at all. Or merely provided something unknown with a body to inhabit.
Now that you think about it, the name had turned out to be wildly inaccurate. You've called him Bonbon shortly after finishing him.
At the time, it had felt fitting. All oversized ears and velvet fur. Something sweet, something soft.
Like candy.
Years later, the name remained, the personality however did not.
Bonbon possessed all the warmth of an unpaid tax collector.
The apartment settled around you with familiar creaks and sighs. Downstairs, the boutique had finally gone quiet.
The silence that followed closing time always felt larger than it ought to.
You shed your coat onto the back of a chair, Bonbon's gaze followed your movement.
โGood evening to you too.โ
Bonbon regarded you in silence. The navy buttons reflected a faint sliver of lanternlight.
As usual, they revealed absolutely nothing. You reached down and smoothed a hand between his ears, the velvet was cool beneath your fingertips.
He remained perfectly still throughout the gesture, maintaining the same air of detached dignity he approached most things with.
โThere you are.โ
Your thumb brushed over one pointed ear before you withdrew.
You chose to interpret that as affection. After all, he hadn't bitten you. That alone placed you higher on his list of preferred company than most people.
Leaving him to his vigil, you crossed toward the kitchenette.
A kettle soon found its place upon the stove, while Bonbon abandoned the backrest in favor of the windowsill.
The kettle began to whistle shortly afterward. Steam hissed from the spout as you lifted it from the stove and poured water into a waiting teacup, the familiar aroma of chamomile circulating all throughout the loft.
Bonbon had already claimed his customary position, which was propped up by cushions, the time you returned.
You settled into your usual armchair near the windows, balancing the sketchbook across your lap. Steam curled from your teacup as you tucked your legs beneath you.
The cat sat soundlessly upon the sill, button eyes fixed upon the town below. Beyond the glass, Cannibal Town glittered beneath the encroaching dusk.
The scene possessed an almost deceptive tranquility.
If one ignored the occasional scream.
Or the gentleman currently dragging what appeared to be a severed lower body across an intersection.
Or the frenzy of cannibals unfolding near an alley, mauling the corpse of a sinner tearing apart its intestines and slurping it as if it was a bowl of spaghetti.
Huh.
They seem to be enjoying their evening.
The thought arrived so effortlessly that it gave you pause, your fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain cup.
Once upon a time, nothing about this place screamed normalcy. The anxieties, the constant anticipation of disaster, every stranger you deemed dangerous, and every conversation felt like a trap waiting to spring shut.
It had been a year since then.
The number seemed absurd when held beside the memory of your arrival.
Not because the number itself was remarkable. By Hell's standards, a year was practically nothing. Sinners spoke for decades here, entire feuds lasted longer than mortal lifetimes.
Still.
A year ago you had arrived expecting to be swallowed.
Both metaphorically, and literally.
You had expected survival to be measured in days. Weeks, if fortune proved unusually generous.
The first week had been spent assuming every conversation concealed some ulterior motive. The second, held conviction that every stranger possessed a knife hidden somewhere on their person. By the third, you had convinced yourself that the relative calm could not possibly last.
In hindsight, perhaps that had been the correct response.
Fear was difficult to sustain indefinitely, but you certainly hadn't expected this.
The apartment.
The Boutique.
The Town.
Companions.
Before long, your life accumulated routines.
The illusion disturbed you, you knew enough about Hell now to understand how unusual your circumstances truly were. Not everyone found a place for themselves here.
Some sinners spent eons clawing despondently toward stability and never reached it. Others attached themselves to powerful figures for protection, only to discover the arrangement came with concealed conditions.
Some vanished entirely, conformed by carnality, bad decisions, savagery, or simply the wrong person noticing them at the wrong time.
You had somehow avoided all of it. No opponents, no debts worth mentioning, no overlord breathing down your neck.
The absurdity of it wasn't lost on you.
You traced the rim of your teacup absentmindedly, your gaze slipped toward the windowpane.
Surely there had been a moment, a specific day. A specific conversation.
Some invisible threshold crossed without notice.
Yet the harder you searched for it, the less certain you became.
The fear had not disappeared, something ever-present until the moment you consciously listened for it.
You listened now, and found only silence.
That wasn't right. Hell was not supposed to become comfortable, you knew that. Everyone knew that.
Comfort implied predictability.
Predictability implied safety.
And safetyโ
You knew better than that...
โฆ Didn't you?
You had simply gotten lucky, there was no other explanation otherwise.
The realization should have felt comforting. Instead, it felt oddly fragile.
Because when you stripped everything else away, there was one unavoidable conclusion.
The longer you examined your circumstances, the conclusion arrived with unpleasant clarity.
You hadn't conquered Hell. If anything, Hell had barely acknowledged your existence.
You hadn't outsmarted it, nor beaten impossible odds through some hidden cleverness. You had simply been overlooked, there were sinners far stronger than you.
Far smarter.
Far experienced.
Far more ruthless.
Wicked in ways you couldnโt even fathom.
Yet, some of them still ended up owned.
Some became cautionary tales whispered over drinks.
And somehow you remained here.
Why?
The question surfaced before you could stop it.
Why you?
What else had stopped bothering you?
How many compromises had accumulated without notice?
How many terrible things had gradually become ordinary?
You didnโt yield some immense power, you werenโt particularly dangerous. You made dolls, for goodness sakes. You drank tea, and spent entirely too much money on fabric.
There was no reason you should have survived this long beyond blind, staggering fortune.
And luck was a deeply frightening thing to build a future upon, because luck implied randomness. Luck implied chance. Luck implied that all it would take was one wrong day.
One wrong decision.
One wrong person.
Your attention shifted toward Bonbon, the cat remained placidly upon the sill.
Watching.
You frowned, had you always trusted the dolls this much?
The question arrived so abruptly that it startled you, of course you trusted them.
You had made them.
The chamomile had begun cooling. The warmth of the teacup suddenly felt insufficient, you stared into the dark reflection staring back from the window.
For the first time in months, perhaps longer, something felt profoundly wrong.
Not because disaster had arrived, but because it hadn't. The absence itself had begun to feel suspicious.
You had spent so long expecting catastrophe that its failure to appear now seemed far stranger than its arrival ever would have.
The thought coiled itself around your ribs.
The life you'd built felt disturbingly delicate, as though it existed only because something had not yet reached out and crushed it.
An entire year had passed.
Not a week. Not a fortunate month.
A year.
Twelve uninterrupted months in which nobody had chosen you. Nobody had taken an interest, nor decided you belonged to them.
It should have felt reassuring. Instead, it left you wondering how many people had once believed themselves safe.
How many had looked out their windows and imagined they understood the shape of their lives. How many had mistaken a reprieve for permanence.
The town gleamed beneath the evening lights.
A pleasant sight, nearly picturesque.
You took a shaky sip of tea.
And found yourself wondering just how far mere luck could take a person.
Note: brooo alas it's finally done! This is the first chapter of my very first series, Idee Fixe. I hope it wasn't too shitty lmao, Nonetheless, I have lots in store for this fic. Can't wait to show you guys!! ๐ฉท
If you asked Rosie, she'd probably tell you everything happened because you were inherently foolish.
If you asked Alastor, he'd insist it was fate.
Personally, you blame the tailor.
>Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Yandere Themes, Dark Content, Manipulation, Mature themes, Explicit Material, Mind Games, Power Imbalances, Non Consensual Themes, Violence, Typical Hazbin Hotel Content, Eventual Smut, Slow burn-ish? Alastor, really, really sucks.
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