Sheltered by her Sins

Name:

Full Name: Alice lovehart

Nicknames/Titles: "The Dame of Decorum", "Smiling Doll", "Miss Alice"

Pseudonyms: N/A (she insists on her real name being used—anything else is "common")

Hair:

Color: Dark milk chocolate brown.

Style: Voluminous vintage waves, always perfectly styled. Long and wavy often kept in a ponytail or a low messy bun.

Length: Shoulder-length, with layers that curl inward at the ends

Eyes:

Color: Pale crimson

Special Qualities: Sharp and knowing, often narrowed in amusement; they gleam like glass under low light, always watching

Notable Feature: Her lashes are long and thick, giving her an exaggerated, almost doll-like expression

Features:

Build: Slim but poised, almost statuesque

Skin: Olive, powdered to perfection with a pink flush that adds to her feigning innocent demeanor and appearence

Distinguishing Traits:

Sharp cheekbones and a permanently fixed, wide porcelain smile

Delicate hands always covered in fine leather black gloves

Rumored to have bite marks and faint scars beneath her clothing—self-inflicted or left by others, no one dares to ask (NOT HICKEYS OR LOVE BITES- BITES GIVEN IN SELF DEFENSE BY VICTIMS)

Smells faintly of lavender and metal

Personality:

Surface Traits: Polite, refined, eerily cheerful, poised, witty, asexual

Deeper Traits: Obsessive, controlling, sadistic beneath the charm

Likes:

Old jazz records

Black-and-white films

Elegant manners and refined conversation

Rye whiskey (when the mood strikes)

Dislikes:

Sexual intercourse (Finds it repulsing)

Loud people

Modern slang

Displays of uncontrolled emotion

Anyone who disrupts her carefully curated world

Habits:

Speaks with a crisp transatlantic accent

Uses outdated, whimsical vocabulary ("picture show", "how droll", "you darling little rascal")

Rarely blinks when focused on someone

Smiles constantly—but it never quite touches her eyes

Clothing:

Signature Look:

1930s evening wear, often in deep reds, blacks, and cream tones

Silhouettes with sharp shoulders, nipped waists, and flowing skirts

Velvet gloves, lace chokers, and small veils

Red-tinted glasses with a vintage cat-eye frame

Fashion Taste: Immaculately vintage—she dresses like she's never left the golden age of cinema

Backstory:

A relic of a bygone era, Alice never quite transitioned with the world around her.

It's rumored she died sometime in the 1940s and simply refused to stay gone.

Maintains a lavish home where everything is pristine and decades out of date.

Once had a softer, warmer side—shown only to a few trusted souls.

Was said to be close with Mimzy, who believed Alice's spiral into cruelty began after a devastating betrayal.

Eventually became known for her "corrections"—people who crossed her began to disappear.

The polite world whispered, but no one dared challenge her.

Now lives as both legend and warning—a cannibalistic beauty whose love is a trap few survive.

Notes:

Treats people as dolls or collectibles—she doesn’t fall in love, she claims

Sees her violence as elegant, not monstrous—she’s convinced she’s helping

Has a musical laugh that echoes long after she’s left the room

While capable of vulnerability when heavily intoxicated, she ensures that side of her is almost never seen anymore

Believes grace is power, and control is love Alice is the embodiment of vintage charm steeped in something far more sinister. With a crisp transatlantic accent, whimsical vocabulary, and the flawless poise of an old-Hollywood starlet, she carries herself like a woman plucked from a black-and-white film reel. Her every step is deliberate, her presence magnetic—not through noise or chaos, but through a quiet, eerie elegance that unsettles as much as it captivates.

She is always dressed immaculately, favoring pristine 1930s fashion and timeless silhouettes. Her voice, smooth as radio static and sweet as champagne, often drifts through rooms like a forgotten melody. She peppers her speech with outdated phrases—"the picture show," "a darling little belle"—as if clinging to a lost world she never quite left. Her smile, wide and porcelain-perfect, never falters. But it rarely reaches her eyes.

To outsiders, Alice seems refined—intelligent, polite, unshakably cheerful. But beneath the powdered skin and velvet gloves is a mind laced with obsession, cruelty, and possession. Her affections are not gentle—they are razor-sharp. Once she becomes fixated on someone, her devotion turns singular and inescapable. Her love is controlling, all-consuming, and violently jealous. Anyone who threatens or disrespects the object of her attachment—be it friend, stranger, or former lover—is swiftly and mercilessly removed.

Though she claims to value manners and elegance above all, Alice often breaks her own rules when displeased. Her anger is theatrical, cold, and precise. Behind closed doors, she enforces her standards with chilling calculation. Her love is conditional, her approval rare, and her punishments... unforgettable.

She is, by whispered rumor and blood-stained truth, a known cannibal. The details are unclear—always secondhand, always softened by polite society’s attempts to explain her away—but the stories persist. Tales of her humming as she slices, her gloved fingers tracing the edge of a knife while discussing table etiquette. It’s said she has a particular fondness for silencing those who “ruin the atmosphere.” Those who speak too loudly. Those who don’t know their place.

Alice views emotion—particularly fear, sadness, or rage—as a sign of weakness in others. She herself never lets her smile slip, not even in solitude. Her grin is more than expression—it is a doctrine. A performance of power and control. To her, showing pain is defeat. Crying is for the uncultured. But certain memories—of abandonment, confinement, or rejection—can crack her carefully curated mask. In those rare moments, the smiling doll fractures, and what remains is breathless, raw, and terrifyingly human.

Despite the violence in her nature, Alice sees herself not as cruel, but correct. A woman of taste and refinement trapped in a graceless era. She keeps her circle deliberately small, only admiring those who meet her impossibly high standards of intellect, grace, and restraint. Most are treated as dolls—collectibles, curiosities to be shaped and posed. A rare few, however, are kept. Not loved in the traditional sense, but claimed. Belonging, body and soul, to her.

Though she often claims she "just wants to help," her support is laced with quiet sabotage. She inserts herself into the lives of others under the guise of care, but secretly delights in their failure—so she can pick up the pieces, rebuild them, and shape them into something she can own.

According to her old acquaintance Mimzy, back when she was alive, Alice could be softened with jazz and rye whiskey. After a few glasses, she'd become bashful and affectionate, curled up like a kitten in someone’s lap, giggling like a girl in love. That version of her—vulnerable, warm, and truly open—is long gone.

Replaced by something colder.

Something hungry.

Something that still smiles.