Caught in the Butterfly's Web (Hazbin Hotel x (y/n)

The Seamstress

The morning started like any other. She was always first to the boutique, switching on lights, sprucing up mannequins, she took a white power out of her pocket with a grin and wet out back where work rooms for the seamstress's laid.
She poured the powder into a tin of white make up. She made sure no trace of her was left and hid her remaining powder in another seamstress' work station drawer.

She then sat down at her own work station, turning the radio on.

"[Sound of crackling radio static]

"Good morning , folks! This is Alastor, your radio host, bringing you the latest from the bayou. Down here in Louisiana, the weather's as unpredictable as a jazz riff. One moment, it's clear skies and sunshine, the next, a thunderstorm's rolling in faster than a riverboat on the Mississippi. So whether you're planning a picnic or a stroll down Bourbon Street, be sure to keep an eye on those clouds. Stay tuned for more updates on the weather and all things Louisiana, right here on your favorite station."

She pulled out her sketch book and began to draw. She heard the door open and close with the jingling of the bell, followed by chatter other three voices, (Y/n) rolled her eyes.

She yelped as something cold was dumped on her, splashing across her sketch book. She scowled as she turned around to glare at the trio of catty girls.

Evelyn, the matriarch of the trio, cuts a regal figure with her poised demeanor and impeccably coiffed hair, streaked with strands of silver that frame her face like delicate filigree. Her sharp, steel-gray eyes glint with intelligence, and her tailored suits exude an air of timeless elegance, with every seam meticulously pressed to perfection.

Clara, the spirited ingénue, boasts a mane of fiery red curls that cascade down her back in wild abandon, a stark contrast to the prim and proper bun favored by her elder counterpart. Her wardrobe is a riot of color and pattern, with flowing skirts and bold accessories that reflect her vivacious personality.

Margaret, the quiet and unassuming member of the trio, is a study in understated elegance, with her soft-spoken voice and gentle demeanor belying a steely resolve. Her slender frame is draped in muted hues and simple silhouettes, her dark hair pulled back into a neat chignon that showcases her delicate features and piercing blue eyes.

Despite their differences in appearance and temperament, the three women share a bond forged by their shared passion for I their craft and their ruthless ambition to succeed at any cost.

Their favourite pastime? Sabotage (Y/n) as much as possible, their boss wasn't exactly of accepting of mishaps and mistakes. "Fuck you Evelyn," she snarled as she stood nose to nose with the bitch.

"Kitten's got claws today, eh girls?" Evelyn jeered.

The other two snorted as (Y/n) as they walked on by to their work stations.

(Y/n) grinned to herself. Evelyn was nothing without her posse, sooner or later, the fragile things Evelyn held dear would shatter and her talents would finally be recognised.

The door to the atelier swung open with a creak, admitting a blast of cold rain-soaked air into the warm, cozy space and (Y/n) braced herself for what was to come. In strode Madame Delacroix, the formidable boss of the seamstresses and the owners of Delacroix's fashion, her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floorboards. With a disdainful sniff, she surveyed the room, her steely gaze landing on (Y/n) sitting in her station, dripping wet and clutching a soaked sketchbook to their chest.

"What is the meaning of this?" Madame Delacroix barked, her voice slicing through the air like a whip. "Are you trying to ruin my reputation, (Y/n)?" She snatched the sketchbook from (Y/n) and scowled at the soaked designs.