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*The Viper's Muse (Male!Cruella DeVilxReader): Part 1*
~Author's Note: Howdy howdy!! Glad to see ya'll reading my work Enjoy! NEXT PART IS UP!!~

~Cruella=Cruelle~

“Muse: somebody who is a source of inspiration for an artist, especially for a poet.”

At the time it seemed like an honest enough job, one that would require you to just sit there and be inspirational, right? Nothing sketchy or compromising in any way; just a model for an artist. That’s all.

You remember repeating those notions to yourself as you drove to the loft of man you had zero clues about.

You had been hired to act as his muse—maybe hired wasn't the right word; more like singled out and handpicked, which sounded a lot more flattering and less…weird—and were given an address, time, and date upon you were to report.

The day this happened, in hindsight, marked the start of something very inexplicable.

There you were: struggling as a first-time Assistant Art Director organizing paintings at the art gallery you were employed by in preparation for the following day’s silent auction. Everything your clients had sent you was complete crap. None of it made sense, nothing was well painted or constructed; it was, simply put, a shit show and you were running out of time to come up with the last display.

To make things worse, your boss had just notified you that a highly distinguished fashion mogul and artist had arrived to browse the gallery for inspirational purposes, and you had begun to hear his heels clattering not too far from where you were.

Your life was so damned great…

You grunted upon tossing yet another swan oil portrait and moved to the next shipment. “Please,” you whined, cupping your forehead. “Just give me one good painting!”

As you shuffled through the pathetic options, one suddenly caught your attention. You pulled it out from the stack and eyed it. There was absolutely nothing detailed about it—nothing that required even a minimal amount of talent to create, nothing abstract, nothing that would make someone gasp in awe of its immense beauty.

And yet you were undeniably drawn to it.

Your dazed state of mind prevented you from hearing the clattering stop a matter of feet behind you as you stood to place the painting on the last remaining space on the wall. You stepped back and cocked your head and stared at the large white canvas strewn with black spots in a haphazard design.

“Marvelous choice.”

You jolted at the voice to see a man standing at your flank and admiring the painting as well. One look and you knew it was the fashion mogul—that, or he was an absolute diva. The long fringe of his studded, dark crimson velvet jacket swayed as he raised a red cigarette holder to his lips, his free hand palming his hip that was fit snuggly into leather pants. Your eyes crawled upward from his button-up and tie-vest combo to his parted hair that was dyed black and white on either side. A pair of rounded sunglasses prevented you from seeing his eyes.

Remembering that he’d complimented your decision, you snapped out of your daze. “You think so?” you asked, returning to the painting.

“Undoubtedly,” he sung. “But it needs more spots.”

The man suddenly looked at you and paused. He made a bemused noise as he brushed your (h/l) (h/c) hair behind your ear and studied your face.

“What’re you—”

You were stopped short when you glanced at him to see his sunglasses were removed to reveal two arctic, powder blue eyes that regarded you greedily. They glinted with devious curiosity that had you frozen to the spot. He leered as if he knew this tantalizing influence of his penetrating gaze, and you fell into a trancelike state as he placed his fingertips on your chest and slowly guided you back against the painting, never breaking eye contact—a viper and its prey.

His dark brows furrowed slightly in concentration while he reached behind your head to pull your hair over your shoulder, letting it fall in waves from his fingers. You shivered at the cold leather glove that slipped beneath the collar of your blouse to expose more of the flushed (s/c) skin of your neck and chest. An intrigued flash crossed his eyes when a gasp escaped you—not that you had the slightest chance to hinder it—as he positioned you with your arms above your head like a model, his hips almost grazing yours. Taking a step back, he tapped the cigarette stick on his pursed lips for a few seconds as his eyes followed every curve of your body up and down. The sharp angles of his face then stretched and settled into a crooked smirk.

“How interesting…” he drew the words out. “You look rather lovely next to those spots, my dear.”

That was the last thing he said before he gave you an onceover, simpered, and pivoted in his crocodile skin boot heels to saunter away. Even when he was gone, you felt pinned to the canvas, unable to move as though you were unsure that just happened. It was only then you registered that you had been holding your breath and exhaled raggedly.

You rested your head on the painting with your hand pressed to your chest. That was not normal, and not because of his actions, but because of the overwhelming, soul-racking intensity of his touch and those—you shivered at the thought—icy blue eyes. You didn’t even know eyes could come in that color, almost as though they were specifically made for him…like he was the one person who was able to handle their irresistible influence.

A few minutes later you were approached by a sharply-dressed woman who handed you a card explaining your new side job as his muse—refusal not allowed. You were in such a state of shock that you missed the chance to ask the woman anything, so you were left with a very disturbing question:

Would you flee to safety, protect the part of you that has just been nearly devoured?

Or would you foolishly and willingly walk head first into the viper’s pit…?

You stared at the card in your hand, face darkening as the answer was painfully clear.

:) (Smile) — Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

*The Viper's Muse (Male!Cruella DeVilxReader): Part 1*
~Author's Note: Howdy howdy!! Glad to see ya'll reading my work Enjoy! NEXT PART IS UP!!~

~Cruella=Cruelle~

“Muse: somebody who is a source of inspiration for an artist, especially for a poet.”

At the time it seemed like an honest enough job, one that would require you to just sit there and be inspirational, right? Nothing sketchy or compromising in any way; just a model for an artist. That’s all.

You remember repeating those notions to yourself as you drove to the loft of man you had zero clues about.

You had been hired to act as his muse—maybe hired wasn't the right word; more like singled out and handpicked, which sounded a lot more flattering and less…weird—and were given an address, time, and date upon you were to report.

The day this happened, in hindsight, marked the start of something very inexplicable.

There you were: struggling as a first-time Assistant Art Director organizing paintings at the art gallery you were employed by in preparation for the following day’s silent auction. Everything your clients had sent you was complete crap. None of it made sense, nothing was well painted or constructed; it was, simply put, a shit show and you were running out of time to come up with the last display.

To make things worse, your boss had just notified you that a highly distinguished fashion mogul and artist had arrived to browse the gallery for inspirational purposes, and you had begun to hear his heels clattering not too far from where you were.

Your life was so damned great…

You grunted upon tossing yet another swan oil portrait and moved to the next shipment. “Please,” you whined, cupping your forehead. “Just give me one good painting!”

As you shuffled through the pathetic options, one suddenly caught your attention. You pulled it out from the stack and eyed it. There was absolutely nothing detailed about it—nothing that required even a minimal amount of talent to create, nothing abstract, nothing that would make someone gasp in awe of its immense beauty.

And yet you were undeniably drawn to it.

Your dazed state of mind prevented you from hearing the clattering stop a matter of feet behind you as you stood to place the painting on the last remaining space on the wall. You stepped back and cocked your head and stared at the large white canvas strewn with black spots in a haphazard design.

“Marvelous choice.”

You jolted at the voice to see a man standing at your flank and admiring the painting as well. One look and you knew it was the fashion mogul—that, or he was an absolute diva. The long fringe of his studded, dark crimson velvet jacket swayed as he raised a red cigarette holder to his lips, his free hand palming his hip that was fit snuggly into leather pants. Your eyes crawled upward from his button-up and tie-vest combo to his parted hair that was dyed black and white on either side. A pair of rounded sunglasses prevented you from seeing his eyes.

Remembering that he’d complimented your decision, you snapped out of your daze. “You think so?” you asked, returning to the painting.

“Undoubtedly,” he sung. “But it needs more spots.”

The man suddenly looked at you and paused. He made a bemused noise as he brushed your (h/l) (h/c) hair behind your ear and studied your face.

“What’re you—”

You were stopped short when you glanced at him to see his sunglasses were removed to reveal two arctic, powder blue eyes that regarded you greedily. They glinted with devious curiosity that had you frozen to the spot. He leered as if he knew this tantalizing influence of his penetrating gaze, and you fell into a trancelike state as he placed his fingertips on your chest and slowly guided you back against the painting, never breaking eye contact—a viper and its prey.

His dark brows furrowed slightly in concentration while he reached behind your head to pull your hair over your shoulder, letting it fall in waves from his fingers. You shivered at the cold leather glove that slipped beneath the collar of your blouse to expose more of the flushed (s/c) skin of your neck and chest. An intrigued flash crossed his eyes when a gasp escaped you—not that you had the slightest chance to hinder it—as he positioned you with your arms above your head like a model, his hips almost grazing yours. Taking a step back, he tapped the cigarette stick on his pursed lips for a few seconds as his eyes followed every curve of your body up and down. The sharp angles of his face then stretched and settled into a crooked smirk.

“How interesting…” he drew the words out. “You look rather lovely next to those spots, my dear.”

That was the last thing he said before he gave you an onceover, simpered, and pivoted in his crocodile skin boot heels to saunter away. Even when he was gone, you felt pinned to the canvas, unable to move as though you were unsure that just happened. It was only then you registered that you had been holding your breath and exhaled raggedly.

You rested your head on the painting with your hand pressed to your chest. That was not normal, and not because of his actions, but because of the overwhelming, soul-racking intensity of his touch and those—you shivered at the thought—icy blue eyes. You didn’t even know eyes could come in that color, almost as though they were specifically made for him…like he was the one person who was able to handle their irresistible influence.

A few minutes later you were approached by a sharply-dressed woman who handed you a card explaining your new side job as his muse—refusal not allowed. You were in such a state of shock that you missed the chance to ask the woman anything, so you were left with a very disturbing question:

Would you flee to safety, protect the part of you that has just been nearly devoured?

Or would you foolishly and willingly walk head first into the viper’s pit…?

You stared at the card in your hand, face darkening as the answer was painfully clear.